State We're In (30 page)

He responded to the compliment in his usual way; he smiled charmingly, not touched. ‘Thank you.'

‘Wow.' Jo looked startled. ‘You're, like, totally overwhelmed.' Her fake American accent dripped with sarcasm, which was not something Dean had found her to be before. The way he accepted the compliment told Jo that he'd heard it too often. Dean was almost ashamed of his good looks, certainly indifferent to them. Yes, of course they had helped him to bed countless women, but he didn't value them. Jo made the leap. ‘So, do you look like your dad?'

‘I thought we agreed we weren't going to talk about my dad.'

‘I never agreed. You suggested it and assumed I'd gone along with your suggestion. You do have a way of being, I don't know, slightly supercilious.'

‘Or maybe I assumed you would concede because you have a way of being submissive.'

‘Ouch, that's not nice. You shouldn't confuse submissive with polite.' Jo waved her finger like a teacher telling off a pupil. Dean assumed her alcohol consumption was responsible for the fact that the banter had suddenly taken on a somewhat dangerous, volatile, even flirtatious tone. ‘It's a good job you're clever too, hey? So you don't have to rely on the good looks that obviously irritate you,' she added.

‘Sharp.'

‘Yeah, I'm often underestimated.'

‘Whose fault is that?'

‘Are you always this rude?'

‘I'm not rude. I'm probing.'

‘Come with me!' she implored. ‘It's plus one and they are no doubt going to serve something delicious. Even if it is chicken, it will probably be posh chicken. You know, chicken supreme filled with brie and apple, probably wrapped in bacon in a white wine sauce.'

‘But if your plan works, there isn't going to be a wedding, let alone a wedding reception,' Dean pointed out.

‘Oh yes, of course. Stupid me.' For an instant Jo looked flattened; the colour drained from her face and she vanished against the marble walls in the reception. Had the weight of the reality of what she was planning to do finally crushed her? Was she really capable of ruining another woman's wedding day? Another woman's marriage. This wasn't just about Martin. Of course not. Dean sighed. She was a conundrum, was Jo. Totally insane. Really quite irritating on many levels, certainly exasperating, and yet he felt for her. Despite being the diametrical opposite of what she was, he could not deny that he felt some sympathy. She was a thirty-something woman desperate to be married and deluded by the whole circus known as romance. He was also thirty-something but he was deeply, darkly cynical about the ongoing propaganda that sold false hope (wrapped up in a bow and labelled ‘happily ever after'). It simply did not exist; it was a pity she was wasting her entire life relentlessly pursuing it. If she told people she was hunting down leprechauns or pots of gold at the end of the rainbow, they'd have her committed. She was delusional.

And yet he understood her. She was lonely. She wanted a family. He got it.

‘No.' He shook his head with genuine regret that he couldn't help her with this. ‘I'm sorry, Jo, but I just can't watch you do this to yourself. It's going to be a train crash.'

Jo nodded, the tiniest fraction of a movement. He knew she was being brave, hiding the fact that disappointment ripped at her guts. ‘Of course not, why would you want to get involved in my mess?'

‘Why would you even want me to?'

‘I shouldn't have asked. I can do this alone.'

‘Yes, you can, if you must.'

‘I must, if I can.' Jo forced herself to grin broadly and declared, ‘Martin will be pleased to see me. Delighted. He wants me to rescue him. That was why he sent the invite.'

‘If you say so.'

‘And I want to rescue Martin.'

‘
That
you have certainly said.'

‘It's Martin I want.'

Dean nodded his head. He felt suddenly overwhelmed with weariness. He leant close to her ear to ensure that the receptionist couldn't hear any more of their conversation, ‘Jo, you know you are going to get rejected, don't you.' He hoped his warning would convey his regret and his sympathy, but most of all he wanted to convey his certainty.

‘I don't know any such thing. He sent me an invite for a reason.'

‘Yes, to rub your nose in it. He's happy, you're not.'

‘He's not that sort,' she insisted. Dean drew away and shrugged. He was certain that she was wrong. ‘Dean, the wedding is at six p.m. at the Luxar, East Walton. Have you heard of it?'

‘Yes. It's quite a prestigious hotel.'

Jo shrugged; she didn't look exactly thrilled to hear this. Dean was glad that he hadn't elaborated and explained that it was the sort of hotel that boasted large but elegant rooms and suites, gracious service and stunning interior features, including hospitable fireplaces in the winter and expansive terraces in the summer. He'd had sex there at least twice. ‘Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,' she added.

‘Jo, go to the Museum of Contemporary Art instead.' He leant a fraction closer; it was time to say good night and goodbye. He'd decided against going for the two air kisses that were customary, opting instead for one thoughtful kiss. It rested lightly on her forehead. His lips burnt.

‘This is goodbye, right?'

‘Yes, Jo. Take care.'

‘Will you wish me luck?'

He thought about it. He didn't much believe in luck. But she did. ‘Yeah. Be lucky.' Then he walked swiftly out of the lobby, refusing to look back over his shoulder.

I
hoped that when I woke up the weather would offer me some sort of omen as to how things might pan out, or at the very least a dramatic backdrop while the action was taking place. Back in the UK, the night before my flight, I had plenty of time to think through how I imagined today would be. In my imaginings I saw a blazing hot day, I pictured myself wearing a pretty full-skirted dress (probably in a sherbet colour – pink or lemon) and I saw myself scampering through the streets of Chicago in heels until I found the church. This fantasy didn't budge even when I carefully reread the invite and realised the wedding wasn't actually taking place in a church. The vows were to be exchanged at the hotel, but I couldn't quite adjust my fantasy to accommodate that. Martin would be standing outside, handsome in his morning suit. He'd be flanked by two or three distinguished but slightly less handsome groomsmen; as I approached, they'd all notice me and gape in open awe, impressed by my
joie de vivre
, my self-assurance and my stunning good looks.

In my fantasy I looked a lot like Reese Witherspoon, which was odd because I'm not even blonde.

But I'm not unrealistic. Even in my fantasies I allowed for the fact that this reconciliation was to take place in Chicago, and so, because it's late April, blazing sunshine's not guaranteed. I constructed an alternative fantasy with less clement weather. In the second version of events, I imagined that the sky would be full of powerful bruise-coloured clouds. I'd be wearing a vampy black number, practically spray-on and with a plunging neckline. When I arrived at the church, thunder would clap and lightning would flash. It would be extremely gothic and passionate. Martin would still be flanked by two or three handsome groomsmen, all of whom would be mesmerised by my sultry good looks and sexy determination. Think Angelina Jolie. My best fantasies rarely feature me as me.

Disappointingly, when I pull back the curtains, I am greeted by a mostly grey, overcast sky that holds just the smallest suggestion that it might turn an insipid blue later on in the day, but basically the outlook is flat and bland, bordering on the dreary. I almost feel sorry for Martin's fiancée. This isn't the sort of weather any bride imagines for her wedding day. Not that this is going to be her wedding day, I remind myself.

I was surprised when I woke up to discover that it was already three in the afternoon. Jet-lagged, I didn't know whether to eat breakfast or lunch, and then I decided I was too excited (or nervous) to stomach either. I tried to make myself a coffee, but the coffee-making machine defeated me by having a huge variety of buttons and choices, so I settled for a glass of tap water and seriously wished I'd eaten more yesterday. Perhaps I should have drunk less too. I expected (and deserved!) a massive hangover today, but thankfully the sleep-in soothed the worst of my symptoms away.

I carefully pull my outfit from the stiff cardboard bag. I really ought to have hung it up last night but I was too beat. Still, I'm lucky it isn't the sort of fabric that creases too badly. We selected a poppy-coloured sleeveless classic Calvin Klein dress. Neat. Understated, but somehow all the more sexy for that fact. Dean steered me away from the girlie frocks – ‘Too mumsie, too sweetie pie; if you are going to do this, you need to be taken seriously' – and vetoed the more obviously seductive numbers too: ‘Jesus, you'll give the vicar a heart attack.' His voice rings around my head. It was determined and manly most of the time, but when I emerged in the poppy-coloured Calvin Klein dress, it turned to treacle and I had to lean close to him to hear him properly: ‘Knockout.' I hope he's right, as knocking out the competition is exactly what I have to do today. We bought some suede, killer-heel, nude sandals too. They have a strap around the ankle which gives a hint of the vixen. If ever there was a moment to hint at the inner vixen, this is it.

I shower using the hotel's sensuous shower gels. Then I apply about a dozen moisturisers, it's been five years since I last saw Martin. Not especially kind years. My skin has decided to embrace the inevitability of science and has started to accept gravity; my mind is less willing, which is why I continue to apply moisturisers and hope. Will Martin think I've aged terribly? I stare in the mirror and am surprised not to see the jet-lagged hag I was expecting; instead I find that I'm glowing. I smile at myself and my cheekbones spring out to greet me like the long-lost friends they are. I practise another smile; this one is less playful, more hesitant. My eyes sparkle. I continue to play this game as I put on my make-up; I'm surprised to find that I look, well, good enough. It's easy. Whenever I smile, I think of Dean: Dean's face when I spilt my drink on him, exasperated, firm but not unkind; Dean waiting for me by the taxi rank; Dean biting into his hot dog. I wonder what he's up to today. He mentioned that he usually spends a couple of hours in the gym on Saturdays, or sometimes goes to the park with mates to play a casual game of baseball or shoot some hoops. He's very active. I'm not saying it's not worth it; I mean obviously he looks good – I think some of his muscles have muscles – but he's exhausting to just think about. Exhausting and exciting. I wonder what he is up to at this exact moment. Probably reaching for his phone and whizzing through the names of his various not-too-serious girlfriends. He isn't likely to want to spend a Saturday evening alone. I imagine some redhead or blonde picking up her mobile, seeing his name flash up on her screen and her face splitting with the most enormous grin; any woman would be thrilled to receive his call.

It is a good thing I've learnt that raw sexual attraction is never,
ever
linked to something more meaningful. I've accepted that fancying someone is virtually inversely proportional to being happy with them. Martin is my best chance. That said, when my phone beeps, my first thought is that I hope it is Dean texting. This is stupid on a number of counts, not least the fact that we didn't do anything conventional like swap numbers. I pick up the phone and see from caller ID that it's my sister; the disappointment that it's not Dean is as unaccountable as it is overwhelming. I apathetically let it go through to voicemail.

OK, I'm all ready. One last check in the mirror. Pretty good, even if I say so myself, and I have to say so myself because – as ever – there's no one else here to say it.

S
he stayed all afternoon. I didn't expect that. In my experience, lovers expect too much of one another and it's a trap I've always tried to avoid. Only falling into it once. With her, of course. Just the once. Fact is, I thought she was in the bag. Back then. All that time ago. I thought she would leave her husband for me; I never doubted it. Yesterday when I said as much, she asked about the kids.

‘But Eddie, what about the children? How could you have expected me to leave my children?'

‘I never thought about it, Clara.' I had to be honest. With her, like my son; there was no point in starting to lie to them now. She sighed, disappointed. I find it boring when people try to express their disappointment in me. I see it as their fault, not mine, and I think they are hopeless not to know as much. She wouldn't be disappointed in me if she didn't expect things of me. Expect better. Why would she do that? I never was better. Never pretended to be.

‘Shall we do the crossword now?' she asked, as she always had when she wanted to change the subject. She bent forward to reach into her handbag that lay on the floor and unintentionally treated me to a view of her cleavage. The cleavage hasn't weathered as well as her face – she's spent too much time in the sun; plenty of foreign holidays no doubt – and the curve of her tits put me in mind of prunes rather than peaches now. Still, her collar bone made me gasp; it was still as beautiful. For a moment I forgot the pain in my body and I just felt pleasure. It was a treat after the hospital sheets, bed baths, needle pricks, blood transfusions, chemo and stuff to just feel something that men are supposed to feel.

Most of our past was secret moments and snatched minutes, glued together to add up to a something that might have passed as a relationship, but if we ever had time to languish we would smoke a cigarette together and complete the broadsheet crossword. She was very good at the anagrams and fair at the cryptic clues. I was better at both.