State We're In (38 page)

‘R
ight, I am starving. We
are
going to have to send out for something now,' said Dean

‘I'm still OK with the biscuits and sweets, if there are any left. I think I can indulge, we must have burnt loads of calories!' I giggle. Flashbacks to last night sear my memory and I inwardly blush with total delight and unembarrassed excitement.

‘You mean all that dancing?' Dean snuggles into my neck and gently nibbles my ear. As he tugs, something low in my belly responds.

‘I really enjoyed the dancing,' I laugh, although that wasn't what I meant and I think Dean knows as much. We've made love three times now. Three! After the first frenzied and fabulous time, we did it again, carefully and gently; the third was slower still, but I suspect that was biology rather than anything else. Dean kissed and caressed me with real tenderness. His touch restored me and reassured me, lit me up and excited me with a passion I didn't know I was capable of. The sheets smell of our hot bodies and I can feel his breath on my forehead as I am curled up under his arm; it's raw and intimate and blissful. It's different. I know,
I know
I've made mistakes in the past. I'm famed for my misjudgements, my hasty judgements and my downright lack of judgement, but all that said, I can't help but believe that this
is
different. Not just because of how he makes me feel, but because of the effect
I'm
having on
him
. I'm pretty certain that for once, this exciting, sexy, unobtainable, damaged man is taking notice of me.

‘How did last night's salsa club compare to those you usually go to in London?'

‘I've never been to a club in London,' I confess.

‘But you said you took lessons.'

‘I do, but I've never danced Latin anywhere except inside the dusty town hall where the lessons are held.'

Dean pulls away a little, to stare at me with disbelief. I force myself to meet his gaze. Without having to spell it out, I know he understands why I haven't had the confidence and opportunity to take my dancing out of the town hall. Gently he murmurs, ‘Jo, you have to stop living a half-life.'

By which we both know he means a life where I only take up hobbies if I think they will lead to finding a boyfriend, a life where I only travel if I'm travelling with some guy, ditto going to hot and sweaty nightclubs and visiting interesting and improving galleries or even fun shops and shows.

‘I know, I see that. I'm trying. I've started.' Dean doesn't look reassured, but I
have
started to live a whole life. I got on the plane to Chicago, which was a brave and impetuous thing to do. OK, so my motivation may not have been one hundred per cent admirable, but the outcome has been thrilling and wonderful. I know I've spent a disproportionate amount of my time looking for love, but right now, snuggled under Dean's heavy, muscular arm, it's hard to think that it has been a bad plan.

‘Because you really can't pin your happiness on someone else,' he adds.

I inwardly pause. Falter. My nerves contract an infinitesimal amount, because that sounds a little bit like a warning to me. I've heard enough warnings in my time to recognise them in whatever form they come. The morning-after distancing is something I'm far too familiar with. ‘I'm a bit too tied up this week to make any firm plans', ‘I'm working towards a promotion and I'm not sure I can do a relationship justice right now', or the worst one of all, the one where he doesn't hand over his phone number but takes mine and says, ‘I'll call you.' He doesn't.

I don't have Dean's number.

He hasn't even asked for mine. I freeze. It's interesting that I've listened to dozens of morning-after excuses in my time, but this is the first time I've actually
heard
one. Perhaps, since I discovered that my parents' marriage hasn't been exactly a bed of roses, I've woken up a little and become a touch more realistic.

I glance at Dean; he's smiling at me. It's a broad, open beam that envelops his face and makes it all the way to his eyes, the ultimate test. The momentary panic, fear and doubt recede once again. Yes, I can hear his caution and reserve, but I can also understand it. This man has lived his entire life keeping his distance because no one can stab, slash or cut you from afar. He's not creating morning-after distance because he's a prick; he's creating morning-after distance because he's conditioned to protect himself, because he's afraid. Yet despite the audible caution and possible distancing, I also recognise and value that he has opened up to me, trusted and confided in me. That
has
to count for something, that
has
to mean something.

I can take control. I can draw him in and teach him to trust. I know I can. I have enough optimism for the two of us. I don't mean that I want to chase, conquer and have him through some misguided blindness or due to a faulty stubbornness, as I might have done in the past, but I want to draw him closer with an acceptance that this man has reason to be doubtful and cautious; he's never expected much from love, but I can change that.

‘I guess your mum's biggest mistake was pinning her happiness on your dad, right?'

‘You could say that.' I pause, and don't rush to fill the silence that sits in the room. I'm rewarded when Dean adds, ‘She let this void develop, a void between the life she led and the life she once thought she'd lead, and it grew to such an enormous cavern that it destroyed her …' He broke off. ‘Look, I'm just saying that I think we should all be responsible for our own happiness, and it doesn't make sense to me that you take salsa lessons but won't go to a club unless someone asks you to. Sorry about the lecture. But I care.'

I kiss him. Leisurely. Gently (but taking care to push my naked nipples up against him, so it's not too chastely). He cares! He's scared. Cautious. But he cares. It's enough. For now. I'm more realistic, he's more trusting; perhaps we can meet in the middle somewhere and make this work. I sense that he needs me to change the subject for a while. Slowly, slowly catch the monkey, as my dad says. I mustn't rush in at this like a bull in a china shop.

‘Thanks,' I say when I eventually pull away. I suppose I can see why Dean might be preaching to me about the importance of taking responsibility for my own happiness. My parents have separated, my dad's just been shoved out of the closet, I'm homeless, jobless, one step away from a soup kitchen and I have a collection of invites to other people's weddings that is so hefty my postman might sue me for his chiropractic fees. I probably should be worried. However, this morning I can't help thinking that maybe what I have in front of me is not a great big fat turd of a life but an opportunity for change. There's something about Dean that makes me believe that things can get better. That they will do. He's proof positive that we are in charge of our own destinies. ‘OK, let's make a list,' I say brightly.

‘A shopping list? Well, we need pretty much everything. Eggs, juice, bacon …'

‘No, a bucket list. Things I have to do before I die.'

Dean looks surprised, but grins. ‘Good idea.' He reaches over me (briefly kissing me en route) and delves around in the bedside cabinet. In among the loose coins, odd cufflink and the Durex box, he eventually finds a pen. ‘I need something we can scribble on.' It's obvious that he doesn't want to get out of bed to find paper. I'm glad; I like to feel him folded around me and I like it that he wants it too. ‘I'll write on the Durex instruction leaflet,' he suggests.

‘Is there room?'

‘I'll write small, there's a border.' We lie on our sides facing each other, the instruction leaflet between us. Dean holds the pen poised. Our feet are still entwined. ‘OK, fire.' He stares at me with eager expectancy.

I don't want to disappoint him, although I probably will as my mind is blank. What do I enjoy? What do I want to do with myself for the next forty-odd years? I look at Dean, hoping he'll help. ‘Any ideas?'

‘Would you like to learn to ski?' I shake my head. ‘Or go wakeboarding or zorbing? Now that's hysterical,' he suggests.

‘Do they
have
to be so active?' I surprise myself by not wasting time pretending to like his hobbies.

‘No, no, I suppose not. Not if you don't want them to be,' says Dean.

I rack my brains and then almost yell, ‘I know, I'd like to stay in bed all day and eat junk food. An entire day.'

Dean looks sceptical. ‘That's not exactly a to-do, is it? It's more of an avoid-doing.' However, he writes
Jo's To-Do List
in the margin of the leaflet, alongside the warning to check the expiry date on the condom wrapper before you use it, and adds:
1. Lie in bed all day and eat junk food.

‘I'd like to try jellied eels. Well, I wouldn't actually
like
to, but I sort of think I should,' I offer. ‘People are always saying they're an East End delicacy, aren't they? And I'm a Londoner, so I feel almost obliged …'

‘Go on, then, you can have that.'

‘I'd like to drink cherry milkshake.'

‘Are all your ambitions going to be about food?'

‘Possibly.'

‘Then you should be specific. How about you go to the award-laden Fosselman's, in the LA suburb of Alhambra? They serve amazing milkshakes.'

‘How do you even know that?'

‘I know stuff. I make it my business to know stuff. The double-chocolate malt is one of my favourite treats ever, up there with eating macaroons at Ladurée in Paris.'

‘What? Where?'

‘This guy, Monsieur Ladurée, opened his bakery on the rue Royale in 1862; later his grandson invented the double-decker macaroon. Two shells of meringue-like pastry held together by creamy ganache filling. Superb.' Dean smacks his lips together to suggest how delicious these cakes are.

‘I'd like to try those. Add that to my list.'

‘Nope.'

‘What?'

‘No. You have to think of your own, Jo. You're just saying what you think I want you to say.' I scowl but accept he has a point. I must have my own ambitions, my own desires. Ones that are not to do with food. I just must have.

After what seems to be about two and a half years I excitedly pronounce, ‘I know. I'd like to be an extra in a film. A proper film. Something directed by Scorsese or Spielberg or someone.'

‘Good one.' Dean scribbles it down.

‘I'd like to plant a tree.'

‘What sort?'

‘Cherry blossom.'

‘Where?'

‘In my garden.'

‘So you'd like a garden?'

‘Yes, yes, I would. I'd like a home of my own.'

More scribbling. ‘Now you are getting it,' encourages Dean. I take his comment to mean that he thinks I'm getting the hang of writing a bucket list, rather than that I'm getting more sex, although that would be lovely. ‘Where?'

‘Where what?'

‘Where would you like your home to be?' Dean keeps his eyes on the leaflet, and although I'm really trying not to be too like my old self, the self that projects as far as the birth of our second child even before we've shared a packet of cereal, I can't help thinking that his question is a little loaded.

‘I'm not sure. In a city. I like London, but I could go further afield, I suppose. Sydney, New York, maybe here,' I add, elated at the thought of the trains that criss-cross the city, endlessly taking busy and useful people to exciting and important places. Thinking about the stunning skyline that I can see – even now – from Dean's bed because his room benefits from an enormous window, I can imagine making Chicago my home. So far my experience has been that this city is awash with sparkly lights and dazzling smiles.

‘What do you like about Chicago particularly?' asks Dean with a cough.

Him. And, ‘It strikes me as an energetic, electrifying and ambitious city. I like the look of Lake Michigan; it must be great to be somewhere urban that also benefits from miles of beach. Besides, everyone speaks English. Hey, don't worry, I'm not suggesting I move in. Well not straight away. Joke. I'm just talking about what might work for me. It's a coincidence that it works for you too.' I glance shyly at Dean to see if he looks totally and utterly horrified. He doesn't. He doesn't even look fazed. ‘I'd like to milk a cow,' I add. Dean nods and jots that down too. ‘I'd like to stay in the Ice Hotel in Sweden. It's made entirely of ice, can you believe that? The walls, the beds, the plates, the loos! Have you heard of it?' Dean nods. ‘Have you stayed there?' Dean hesitates but decides not to lie to me; he nods again. I can see he's worried that he's stealing my thunder, but he's not. I'm impressed. ‘Wow, you really have packed a lot in.'

‘I told you, I had a slow start, but I've been catching up ever since.'

‘I'd like to gallop a horse along a beach. That's a stretch, because I can't ride a horse and I'm not that confident around water.'

Dean laughs. ‘In which case, that one is perfect.'

‘Maybe I should think about travel journalism. I need a break from tiered cakes and posies.'

It takes nearly two hours but the list has forty-one entries by the time we are scribbling around the small print that explains how each batch of latex is tested and certified at the plantation. Dean says he'd have liked a neat fifty points because he likes round numbers, and he really doubts whether peel an apple keeping the skin in one long string is worthy of the list, but all in all he seems satisfied with my ambitions and I'm thrilled by them. Just the process of writing them down is exciting. I can't wait to get cracking. Although one of the reasons why compiling the list might have seemed such fun was that Dean kept kissing me and playing with my breasts as he wrote.

‘What about you?' I ask. ‘Do you have a list?'