Straight Talking (12 page)

“So will he come?” asks Andy.

“Who?”

“Andrew, who else?”

“I don’t know,” I try to shrug nonchalantly. “I left a message so if he comes, he comes.”

“So what do you think, will you go for it?”

“I don’t know, Andy. In the beginning it would have been fine, it would have been, you know, just a fuck, but now I like him.”

“Yeah but if he comes on to you again, surely you won’t say no.”

“Probably not. God knows, willpower has never been my strong point. Heartbreak, here I come again.”

Within an hour the garden has filled up with friends from the different walks of Andy’s life, not to mention mine. There are her work colleagues, her old school friends, her friends from her courses, and us. Adam can’t make it, he has to drive to the country for a family gathering, but the rest of my inner circle is here.

Emma and Richard are standing together, Emma looking stunning in a long white floaty number, with one hand protectively around Richard’s waist as they talk to Andy.

Andy is doing her Hollywood hostess film star bit, big tortoiseshell sunglasses, a tight lime green shirt with an A-line miniskirt and high, high strappy heels that are slowly sinking into the grass as I watch.

Pathetic, I think, eyeing my own flat black mules, pathetic that on a sunny summer’s day Andy still has to go over the top, but perhaps I’m a little envious of the looks she’s attracting . . .

The doorbell keeps ringing and people keep striding out of the kitchen with cans of beer, plates of meat, marinated chicken breasts, lamb skewered onto metal sticks. I’m talking to Mel, trying to ignore Daniel dick-for-brains eyeing me up and down lasciviously, but one corner of my eye is constantly on the kitchen doorway, checking to see when he’ll arrive. Whether he’ll arrive.

“You’re not with us, are you?” says Mel as Daniel wanders off. She follows my quick look at a nondescript couple of men who have just walked in.

“Sorry, Mel, I just can’t believe how nervous I am.”

“What, because of Andrew?”

“Well, yeah. I know it’s stupid but I haven’t had a crush on someone for ages, and I know that’s what it is, a crush, but I can’t help it. I’m going to be so bloody pissed off if he doesn’t turn up.”

A crush. The very word brings up memories of teenage years. Of going to parties praying for the object of your crush to be there. Of treasuring his every sentence, every look, every touch. Of lying awake at night daydreaming about what the two of you could do together.

But crushes rarely come off, do they, at least not in my experience. The relationships that you have creep up on you, take you unawares. The relationships you have are not with men who provide fodder for your dreams. They are the men who pursue you, and you, through a process of flattery, insecurity, and need, grow to love them in return.

The crushes never amount to anything other than a few weeks of dizzy excitement, followed by the pain of disappointment.

“I don’t know, Tash, I still think he’s dangerous.”

“But since when was danger not allowed?” I smile.

We both turn as we notice a male presence hovering, and Mel beams her sunshine smile and introduces herself.

“I’m Martin.” An average-looking bloke with a shy smile shakes both our hands, only shooting me a cursory glance before fixing his attention on Mel. “I hear you’re a therapist too?”

“Too? You’re a therapist as well? God, how amazing, I never seem to meet other therapists at my friends’ parties.” Mel, being Mel, is as bright and friendly to this stranger as she is to everyone. I watch him instantly relax, and soon the two of them are chattering away together, and Mel is making him throw his head back with laughter.

This is good for Mel, I think, as I look around to see where Daniel is and spot him through the kitchen window, leering animatedly at Annie, a slim, exotic beauty who, at this very moment, is smiling blankly and answering Daniel’s inquisition with monosyllables, obviously desperate to get away.

“Excuse me,” I say to Mel and Martin—now there’s a good couple in the making—as I back off, leaving the two of them to get on with their conversation, and I honestly don’t think either of them notices, they’re so taken with each other.

“Who’s Martin?” I whisper in Andy’s ear as she’s standing next to the barbecue turning the sausages.

“Who?” she says, a hint of excitement at there being an available man at her party who she doesn’t know.

“Martin. The guy talking to Mel.”

“I don’t know,” she says, looking at him, her face falling with lack of interest as she quickly assesses the fact that he is not her type. “He came with Tom.” She turns to me in horror. “You can’t be interested in him, surely? He’s the sort of man who eats quiche for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. Not
your
type at all.”

So what, you’re probably asking yourself, but I can see her point. I mean, whoever coined the phrase that real men don’t eat quiche was definitely onto something, and this guy, pleasant though he seemed, wasn’t nearly enough of a bastard for me.

Yes, I’d like a nice guy, wouldn’t we all, but put me in a room with ninety-nine quiche-eaters and one rare steak kind of a guy and who do you think I’ll choose? Exactly.

“Andy, just because I ask who someone is doesn’t mean I want to rip their trousers off, for Christ’s sake. He seems to be getting on with Mel, that’s all, and he seems like a nice guy.”

“Hmm. I think they’re ready, do you want a sausage? SAUSAGE ANYONE?” she shouts out, holding a charred black sausage on the end of a fork.

Funny how drink seems to affect you more during the day. By six there are some seriously shit-faced people at the barbecue. The music’s been turned up, and as the sun starts losing its luster you can see it’s going to be a long night.

It would also be a bloody good one if Andrew was here, but, and don’t tell me you’re not surprised, the bastard hasn’t turned up.

I’ve avoided drinking too much all day because I know what I’m like with a bit too much alcohol. My mascara will run, my eyes will be bloodshot and I’ll turn a rather unattractive shade of flushed red. But Jesus, if the only man I fancy isn’t coming, I may as well drown those sorrows somehow.

Andy’s running around flapping that there isn’t enough food, Emma’s entwined with Richard at one end of the garden and Mel, well, Mel isn’t anywhere to be seen. Neither is Martin.

Daniel’s worked his way through all the women at the party, and, deciding there are no conquests to be made, he’s talking football with some of the other guys. I watch them for a while, contemplating whether or not to join them because one of them is rather nice, but just as I’m about to walk over I see that Andy has the same idea.

There she is, shaking their hands, throwing her head back with laughter, flirting outrageously with the man I had my eye on. If I wasn’t waiting for Andrew I might have been pissed off, but she’s welcome to him. Tonight.

I grab the Pimms, pour myself what would surely constitute a triple in any decent bar, and head for the bathroom to check my hair and makeup. Just in case. The strangest thing happens as I’m coming out of the bathroom. I hear Mel’s familiar peal of laughter coming from a bedroom with a closed door.

Jesus, she wouldn’t. Would she? No. Can’t be. I hover for a few minutes outside the door, debating whether or not to knock but actually I’m listening for some heavy breathing or groans. I don’t hear anything other than soft voices, two, Mel and, presumably, Martin, so eventually I knock. The voices stop abruptly, and then footsteps.

The door is wrenched open and a guilty-looking Mel breathes a huge sigh of relief as she sees me. “Oh God, I thought it was Daniel.”

“What are you two up to?” I ask with a sly sideways look at Mel, as I jump on the bed and lean back against the pillows.

“As if,” says Mel with a grin. “You have such a one-track mind.”

Oh excuse me, reader, but wouldn’t you have jumped to the same conclusion? I thought so.

“Well?” I push. “Shooting the breeze or shooting something else?”

Martin looks embarrassed but Mel just laughs. “Ignore her,” she says, giving me a shove. “We’re just talking. It turns out we both studied at the same place.”

“No!” I exclaim in surprise, which unfortunately comes out sounding ever so slightly sarcastic. I rectify matters by asking politely, “Did you know each other?”

“I was there a few years before actually,” says Martin.

“Which would make you, hmm? Let’s see, thirty-six?”

“Stop it,” warns Mel, laughing.

“Stop what? So, Martin, are you married?”

“Nope.”

“When was your last relationship?”

“A year ago.”

“Why did you break up?”

“We just grew apart.”

“So you don’t have a fear of commitment, then, Martin?”

“Are you sure you’re not a therapist too?”

“Evasion. Answer the question.”

We’re all laughing as he shakes his head, “No, I don’t have a fear of commitment.”

“Children?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Where do you live?”

“Hampstead-ish.”

“—ish?”

“South End Green.”

“Hampstead-ish. Yes, you pass the test, Martin whatever-your-surname is, welcome to our lives.”

Martin’s grinning broadly and he leans over and gives me a huge kiss on the cheek. “That was the most unusual welcome I’ve ever had.”

“Sorry,” says Mel, “but we love her anyway. God, Tash, I’m surprised you didn’t ask Martin his annual income.”

“Damn.” I slap my leg. “I knew I’d forgotten something.”

Martin stands up and says he’s going to get a drink. I’m fine with my Pimms, and Mel asks for a mineral water.

“So, tell me, tell me, tell me.”

“Tell you what, Tasha? That I’ve been having a very interesting chat with a very nice guy?”

“Yeah, but that’s not all it is, I can tell, I’ve known you long enough.”

“Tasha, Martin’s lovely, but I’m already in a relationship. When are you going to stop pairing me up with people. I’m very happy.”

But there’s doubt in her eyes and I can’t stop myself mumbling, “With Daniel the asshole? I think not.”

“So where’s the hunk then? Has he turned up?”

“No, he bloody hasn’t.” But then I think, shit, he might be here, he might have arrived while I was up here and someone else, someone in a lime green shirt and A-line skirt might have her claws in him already.

But just then the door opens and Andy runs in. “God, I’ve met the most amazing man,” she says, as Mel and I start to laugh. “Did you see him, Tash? The one talking to Daniel?” I nod. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” I nod again, smiling, relieved that just this once, she’s not competition.

“He said he’d stay later if I wanted and help me clear up. Wish me luck!” she says with a wink, and she’s gone.

Mel and I stand up and I turn to her with a quizzical look. “Aren’t you going to stay here and wait for the lovely Martin?”

Mel smooths down the front of her tunic-dress thing. “No, I’ll come with you, I’ve been up here ages, Daniel will be wondering where I am.”

At two o’clock in the morning my doorbell rings. Fast asleep, a bell seems to be ringing in my dreams, and finally, after the third time I wake up. What the fuck is going on?

Stumbling into a dressing gown, my head still groggy with alcohol, I shout out, “Hello? Who is it?”

Nothing. I put the chain on the door and open it to see Mel, hair all over the place, red-rimmed eyes and cardigan done up with all the buttons in the wrong buttonholes, looking, in other words, bloody terrible.

“Mel? What’s the matter?” I undo the chain and put my arms around her just as her face starts to collapse and tears start pouring from her eyes.

“He, he he . . .” She can’t talk, her sobs are growing stronger and she’s fighting to talk. “He’s left me. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”

Fear of abandonment is a phrase bandied about by everyone I know who’s ever been in therapy, or into pop psychology. We sit there and discuss the reasons behind it for hours, with very serious looks on our faces as we each try to outdo one another with the pain of our abandonment.

But the odd thing is that even when we’re terrified of being left, when we decide we’ve had enough of the fuckers, when we decide we want to go it alone, we can handle it. We can cope with the pain because it’s our decision, and in a strange way we take strength from that.

But heaven forbid it should be their decision. No matter how unhappy we are, how low our self-esteem has sunk, when they turn around, out of the blue and tell us they’re leaving, they’ve had enough, we collapse, turning into heartbroken children all over again.

So I lead Mel into the living room and sit her down on the sofa, not removing my arm from around her shoulders, and I let her lean her head against my body and cry until she manages to compose herself.

“What am I going to do?” she keeps repeating. “What am I going to do?”

Eventually the story comes out. Daniel ignored her for the rest of the party, and on the way home started his usual litany of how she could improve herself.

“He told me I was ridiculous, that I was flirting with Martin who would never be interested in me because I was in such a state. He told me I’d put on weight, that I looked dowdy, frumpy, and ugly. He said he was only with me out of habit, and it was a good job because if he wasn’t I’d never find another man.”