Straight Talking (4 page)

“Can I see you again?” he said, when we finally pulled apart, and we arranged another date, a week later. I went to his flat this time, legs shining like a newborn baby’s bottom, and black lace underwear hidden beneath my suede trousers. I knew I was going to sleep with him, and I also knew it would never be anything more. I brought condoms with me, and then he said he was allergic to rubber, that this whole AIDS thing was a myth, that he’d never used one.

You don’t have to tell me that I should have got out of there faster than my legs could carry me but I was too far down the line. By that time I didn’t even want to sleep with him, but I’d talked myself into a situation, and I felt I needed to see it through.

“We can just play though, and not have sex,” he said, when I told him no glove, no love. So we played, or rather I played with him. The fucker had about an hour of foreplay, complete with a full massage with baby oil that just happened to be on his bedside table. I had about a minute of clumsy fumbling at my crotch. And then he climbed on top of me, pinned my arms down and started thrusting between my legs.

I twisted and turned, terrified he was going to enter me, and when I looked into his eyes I saw nothing, just an empty space. I don’t know how I managed to stop him, but I did, and I cried all the way home. I trusted him because I liked his friend. I thought he was safe and I nearly got raped. How do you know? You only know as much as they want you to know.

And then the last to arrive is Andy, long straight blond hair hanging down her back, big Jackie O sunglasses, a shining open smile.

However much Andy pisses me off, and she does, frequently, when it’s just the girls, I love her. I love her excitement at life, her humor, her willingness to see the funny side in everything. I love the fact that she’s single and she genuinely loves it. She sees all men as being adventures, and every fling as being an experience, something she has to learn from, that there’s a lesson in everything that happens to us.

“Oh my God, I’ve met the most amazing man,” are the first words she says, the first words she usually says. “Go on,” we all sigh in unison, although we’re smiling, and Mel adds, “Who is it this time?”

“He’s a client of mine, and we’ve been flirting on the phone for weeks, and then yesterday he rang and said we ought to go out for a drink, and why didn’t we meet later on.” Andy works in advertising sales, and flirts with all her clients on the phone. Even the women.

“I walked into Kettners in Soho and there was this gorgeous man at the bar. I thought, it couldn’t be, but it was, and he was amazing, he looked like a model.”

A ghost of a smile brushes over my and Mel’s faces as we catch one another’s eye across the table. All the men Andy meets look like models. Until the rare occasions we meet them, when they look like mechanics.

“I know what you’re thinking, that he wasn’t that good-looking, but I swear, he was divine. Tall—well, maybe five feet, ten inches—black hair and bright green eyes. He looked like Pierce Brosnan. We got on so well, we didn’t stop talking all night and he’s asked to see me again.”

“Did you shag him?” Sorry for being so crude but I couldn’t help myself.

“No!” she says in horror. “He dropped me off and we kissed in the car. He’s the best kisser, I was so tempted but I’d really like something to happen here. I’m going to wait. This feels really different, I can’t explain it but this feels good. This could be it.”

Yeah really, Andy, even I’m not that naive. Men aren’t as stupid as we give them credit for. They know it doesn’t take much to get a woman into bed. “I love you” may not work as well as it used to, but tell a woman she’s beautiful, special, or different, that you’ve been waiting for years to meet her, and she’s putty in your hands.

“I’m seeing him tomorrow,” says Andy, “and,” she smiles a Madonna smile, “and, I’ve just treated myself to new underwear.”

“Show us, show us,” a clamor of voices, and then we all ooh and aah over the peach and pink lace creation she pulls out of a bag.

“La Perla? You must be crazy. How much was this?” I shout, while Andy looks at me sheepishly. “Look, Tasha, every woman needs at least one item of really good sexy beautiful feminine underwear in her drawer, and white cotton Sloggis, even if they’re new, don’t count.”

“Go on, how much?”

“A hundred eighty for the bra and one twenty for the knickers.” She’s wincing as she tells us and all our jaws fall open and practically hit the table.

“You’re nuts,” says Mel, but she’s smiling. “I could never spend that money on underwear.” Most of us couldn’t, let’s face it. Could you?

“But don’t you feel more sexy when you know you’ve got gorgeous underwear underneath?” asks Emma, who’s looking so confused you just bloody know her whole underwear drawer is La Perla.

“Yeah, but you can be just as sexy in a black lace thong from a department store,” I offer, slightly jealous that Andy can be so reckless with her money, “and anyway, it’s not exactly on for long, you just need to give them a decent first impression.”

“Exactly,” shouts Andy triumphantly. “He’s gonna get the best first impression he’s ever seen.”

The menus come and we order pretty much the same thing we order every week. No lettuce leaves and mineral waters for us. Remember we’re the ladettes and not only can we drink men under the table, we can eat them under the floorboards.

Mammoth plates of pan-fried tuna, lamb and mint burgers, aubergine layered with oozing mozzarella arrive, garnished with mountains of thin deadly chips and a smidgen of salad for decoration. We wash them down with Bloody Marys to begin with, before hitting cool white wine.

“Oh my God, oh my God, I’ve just remembered I’ve got something to tell you all.” The girls sit around waiting for me to reveal all. “Yesterday we did a phone-in on betrayal. Simon phoned the show, the shit called in and I was right. The bastard did sleep with her after all.”

4

Those early days with Simon were the happiest days of my whole life. I had done it, I was in a couple and for the first time I felt like a whole person. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe in two halves coming together and all that shit, I do believe one and one make two, but it was so, I don’t know, fulfilling.

I ended up staying with Simon practically all the time. He phoned when he said he was going to, he made space for me in his life, he wanted to be with me. All the time.

I’d be in the office, briefing a researcher and being Miss TV Producer, when the phone would ring and I’d hear his voice, “I’d like to speak to Fantasmagorical Harris, please,” or if he was feeling particularly affectionate, “Fanny.”

Yeah, he stopped calling me Anastasia, shortened it to Fanny because he said it was one of my most redeeming features. And I’d break off my chat, turn away while covering the mouthpiece and say, “I miss you, Pudding,” because somehow, naff as it was, that became my nickname for him.

So we’d sit and whisper on the phone, testing each other to see who loved the other more.

“I love you this much,” he’d say.

“I love you more.”

“How much more?” his ego would reply, although I was so in love by this stage I didn’t care.

“As much as my house.”

“Well, I love you as much as my road.”

“Well, I love you as much as the whole of Belsize Park.”

And so on and so on, encompassing London, England, the World, the Universe, and finally Infinity. Funny how I always won that one, or not so funny, when you look back at what happened.

We became the gruesome twosome. The pair that everyone wanted at parties because we were so entertaining together. Always high on life, on each other.

I used to feel like we were in a film, driving around London together in his lovely old Citroën, hanging out with his friends, who, if I’m honest, weren’t entirely my cup of Earl Grey, but who cares, I certainly didn’t, I was floating through life on a cloud of love.

It was me and Simon and occasionally Adam too, against the rest of the world. Oh I’m sorry, I haven’t told you about Adam, have I? Adam was Simon’s best friend, his blood brother, his bosom buddy, if men have such things. And Adam was brilliant, I loved Adam almost as much as I loved Simon, but I didn’t want to sleep with him. Honestly.

Adam was as different from Simon as chalk and cheese. Where Simon was thin, dark, and intense, Adam was big and bearlike, blond and constantly smiling. They were a perfect team, Adam’s subtle humor versus Simon’s sparkling and often cruel wit. When Simon used to stamp on people’s toes, Adam was the one who picked up their feet and rubbed them better. And he was single. Had never, to Simon’s knowledge, had a proper girlfriend.

“You know, Ad,” he said one night when we had all kicked off our shoes and were lying around smoking a joint while waiting for a pizza to arrive, “you could do with a woman like Fanny. She’d look after you, tidy up that shithole of yours you call a flat, cook delicious meals for you. What do you reckon, Fanny?”

“I think Ad’s perfectly happy as he is, aren’t you, Ad?”

Adam smiled his big warm smile and reached an arm out to stroke my hair. “If I had a woman like Tasha,” he said affectionately, “she’d
need
to tidy the flat. I’d never bloody go out, it would be even messier than it is now.”

I laughed and kissed Adam on the cheek, it was that kind of flirtatious friendship. The kind you know will never go any further, where you don’t have to worry about platonic kisses on the cheek because you know the teasing is just that, platonic.

Adam used to call me on evenings when Simon was working late, when the magazine was coming up to deadline and he had to stay in the office until the early hours of the morning.

“Just checking in to make sure you haven’t run off with some big brawny bloke.”

“If I wanted to do that I wouldn’t have to look far, would I, Ad?”

“Oooh, is the lady making me an offer I couldn’t refuse?”

“In your dreams, mate.”

“Tash, you’d do a lot more than make me an offer in my dreams. Want to hear about them?”

“I don’t think so thank you,” I laughed. “Not unless you want my baby to come over and kick your head in.”

“What’s his is mine and what’s mine is mine, Tash, you know that,” he’d say, breaking into roars of laughter.

Sometimes I would think that Adam wasn’t joking, that there was a smidgen of truth behind the laughter, that stranger things have happened. But he never made a move, he’d never dare. One look at me and you could see Simon was the man for me.

And then one night Simon phoned at nine and said, “I’m sorry, my love. I’ve been trying to get everything done, but one of the features has to be completely rewritten by tomorrow and there’s no one else here. It’s not my damn job to do it, but if it’s not done there’ll be serious shit. I’m going to be hours, so don’t wait up. Do you mind, have you prepared anything?”

“Don’t worry, darling, it’s fine. I made some goulash but it’s better if it’s not eaten for a day or so. I’ll leave some in the oven so you can eat when you get back. Don’t work too hard, all right, darling? I love you.” I waited for the I-love-you-more scenario but there was a pause and he said, “Yeah, me too. Bye.”

I put the phone down, puzzled, but hey, he was busy. I suppose
you
would have known instantly that something was up, wouldn’t you, but when something extraordinary happens, something out of the ordinary, you don’t question it because you don’t want to believe that anything could rock your safe, secure world. But you always know. It’s a woman’s sixth instinct, she can smell infidelity from miles away, but it’s only ever afterward that she’ll tell you. When she’s phoning you saying he’s out all the time you know she knows but she’ll never admit it. Put the thought in her mind and she’ll dismiss it in fury.

But afterward, when the tears have been shed and the accusations defended, afterward she’ll tell you that she knew. The minute the thought of infidelity crossed his mind, she knew.

At 10:30 the phone rang again. I leaped on it, knowing it was Simon saying, “I’m just leaving,” but it wasn’t. It was another friend of Simon’s, wanting to know if he was coming to the football. It could have waited until morning but I wanted to hear Simon’s voice so I offered to call Simon and then ring him back.

The phone rang and rang and rang. He’s probably gone to the loo, I thought, or popped out to grab a beer. But even as I thought it a little nugget of sickness inched its way into my stomach. I rang again at eleven, and twelve and one and two. Like I need to tell you the rest of the story. Yes, I started panicking, and by three I was convinced he’d been run over. Maybe he’s at Adam’s, yes that’s it, he didn’t want to wake me so he’s gone to stay at Adam’s.

Talk about irrational, but you only know what they want you to know. So what did I, the madwoman, do? I put Simon’s duffle coat over my men’s striped pajamas and climbed into his lovely blue Citroën that I wasn’t supposed to drive, and drove to Adam’s in Maida Vale.

I sat outside Adam’s flat for ages, because I couldn’t see any lights, and I tried to calm myself down. He’s definitely in there, I told myself, they’re probably sitting up talking and getting stoned.

Eventually I was calm, for a madwoman anyway, and I walked up the steps to the front door. This was crazy, it was 3:30 in the morning and I was looking for my boyfriend, disturbing his best friend in the middle of the night. I didn’t want to take those steps, part of me didn’t want to know whether he was there or not. Maybe if I turned round now and drove home, maybe it would all be all right, maybe he would be lying in bed waiting for me, half asleep, exhausted from his work. But I had to go on, didn’t I? Had to ring on the doorbell and ring and ring and ring, until finally Adam, poor bastard, opened the door.

The minute the door opened I knew I’d made a mistake, a really big one, and I wished to God I’d never come. “Oh Christ, I’m so sorry, Ad. I don’t know where Simon is. He told me he was working late but he’s not in the office and I don’t know what’s happened to him. I’m so worried, maybe he’s been in an accident.” I actually said that! Can you believe it, like something out of a sitcom, isn’t it? “I thought maybe he’d be here with you. Shit. I’m sorry. I’ll go. Go back to bed, I’m really sorry.”

“For God’s sake, Tash,” Adam said, rubbing his eyes with one hand and reaching out to pull me inside with his other. “What the hell are you going on about?”

Adam made me a cup of tea, bless him. He had to look in every cupboard to find the teabags, and when he made the tea he smelled the milk before pouring it. Good job because it was about a year out of date. Stunk the place out. But he put sugar in and it was hot and sweet and soothing.

I couldn’t keep still. Sitting there trying to sip the scalding tea while tapping one leg furiously against the floor, Adam phoned my home, our home, saying, “He’ll be home by now, I’m sure of it.”

But naturally the bastard wasn’t, and Adam pulled his chair up very close to mine and held my hand. “He loves you,” he said, “and he wouldn’t hurt you. I know what you’re thinking but it just isn’t Simon. He doesn’t look at other women when he’s with you. Trust me, he’s working. Maybe he had to go out to meet someone, maybe he went round to a journalist’s house. Whatever. He isn’t doing what you think he’s doing.

“Do you want to stay here? You can, but I think Simon will be home very soon, and he’ll want to know where you are.”

I finished my tea, took some deep breaths, and stood up feeling much better, trying to ignore those little niggly fears right at the bottom of my stomach. “Don’t tell him I was here. Please. I feel so stupid.” He wouldn’t, he said, unless of course Simon was already home, in which case he’d want to know where the hell was I.

“Thank you, Adam,” I said as I reached up and hugged him very tightly. The sort of hug that says I’m in way too deep and I’m not sure I’m going to make it. The sort of hug that says please don’t let anything happen to me.

Adam hugged me back, and I knew what he was saying. I knew those big warm circles he was making on my back with his hand meant everything’s going to be OK. Trust me. Everything’s going to be OK.

But of course everything’s not going to be OK, is it, you know that as well as I do. When the seeds have been sown, it doesn’t take long for them to grow into a big, strong, vibrant affair. All you need is that one tiny seed, and so many of them are blowing around in the wind, you’d have to be bloody holy not to catch one, wouldn’t you? At least, if you’re a man. Bastards.

I went home then, and as I took off Simon’s coat and pulled my trainers off, the front door opened and then Simon was in the doorway.

“I’m so sorry, Fanny. What a nightmare,” he said, as he started unbuttoning his shirt.

I wanted to shout, to scream, to lose control. What I should have said was, WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN? WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN DOING? But I didn’t. I said, “You could have called me, I was worried. I thought something had happened to you.”

It came out sounding like a whine and it was not what I had meant to say at all. I don’t know whether this has ever happened to you but when I’m lucky enough to have found what I’m looking for, I’m terrified I’m going to lose it again.

So instead of being Tasha the slasher, Tasha the strong fearsome woman, I’m Tasha the little girl, desperate for approval, frightened to fight, frightened to shout, just in case they don’t like me anymore.

So when Simon turned round and said, “Don’t give me a hard time, Anastasia”—which is naturally what he called me when he was angry. Or guilty—I retreated back into my hole and started apologizing.

“I’ve worked like a demon tonight, but we finished it, thank Christ,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at me. He couldn’t meet my eyes. “I’m never commissioning that pillock again. He can’t write to save his life.”

I know what I should have said next, I should have asked him straight out, “Were you in the office?” but I didn’t want to trick him, I wanted to give him a chance to escape, to prove me wrong.

“I called you and you didn’t pick up the phone. Why not?”

“Jesus Christ, woman, it’s four
A
.
M
. and you’re quizzing me like I’m guilty of something, although heaven knows what. I heard the phone ringing but I didn’t pick it up because I was working to deadline. You of all people know what it’s like when you’re too busy to chat, and I knew it was you and it would just distract me.”

Actually I don’t know what it’s like, because I’ve always thought that people make time for things they want to do. When someone says sorry I haven’t called, I’ve been too busy, it’s bollocks. Who hasn’t got time to pick up the phone and say a quick hello, a sorry-I-can’t-chat-right-now-but-I’m-thinking-of-you kind of call?

Too busy to chat is crap, but I agreed with him, I bloody agreed with him and told him it was OK, but “Next time you should be a bit more considerate. I
was
worried.”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time,” he said, and he climbed into bed and rolled over, giving me a perfunctory peck on the lips as he did so. I lay awake for hours trying to figure out what he meant.