Straight Talking (5 page)

I cooked for Simon, I cleaned for Simon, I took care of Simon. I took his clothes to the dry cleaner’s, and sure enough, you clever readers, that was the beginning of my end.

Everyone checks their boyfriend’s jacket pockets when they’re taking their clothes to the dry cleaner’s, don’t they? Don’t
you
? Not even when two weeks before he spent most of the night absent without leave, and has subsequently acted like a moody bastard, putting it down to work worries?

I was just doing my girlfriendly duty, for God’s sake, I mean, he might have left money in there, Simon was so scatty. Aha, he has left money in here I thought, drawing out three photographs from his inside pocket.

I didn’t think anything else after that, I just sat down very quickly, holding the photographs and thinking nothing very much really.

You think you’ve got it, don’t you? Ha! You haven’t. You think I was holding pictures of Simon in bed with some bimbo, both of them caught in an erotic embrace, or some such similar damning evidence.

Nothing so obvious, and in some ways I’m still convinced that what I found was worse. What I found left room for questions. The questions that can never be satisfied by answers, the questions that keep you awake every night, analyzing every possibility, trying to rationalize what they mean.

She was a very beautiful blonde girl. Not, like me, strikingly attractive with a hell of a lot of makeup and newly highlighted roots. She was naturally beautiful. Long blond hair, straight, and it looked natural from what I could see. She was wearing only a tiny bit of makeup, with just a smudge of taupe lipstick. She looked like a model, and she was sitting in Café Rouge in Notting Hill—before you ask I recognized the decor—it was nighttime and she was smiling into the camera.

And in the second one she was talking animatedly, as if the photographer had just picked up his lens and shot her in mid-flow, and in the third one she was rubbing the back of her neck with one hand, and looking coyly, flirtatiously, beyond the lens and presumably into the eyes of the photographer. Simon. Who the hell else could it have been?

A man doesn’t carry around a photograph, let alone three photographs, of a woman unless she intrigues him, unless she’s got under his skin. I didn’t know who she was, but I knew instantly she’d wormed her way in, she’d caused his moodiness toward me, and I knew she wasn’t going to be going away, at least not without a hell of a fight.

And I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t think I needed to. I thought Simon loved me, and I thought, oh how stupid I was, I thought love was enough. But do you know the worst thing about looking at the photographs and feeling these feelings? The worst thing was that if I was a bloke I’d feel the same way. If I was a bloke and had to choose between me and her, I’d choose her. No contest.

When Simon came bounding down the hallway I walked out to greet him holding the photographs in front of me, showing him the evidence.

“What’s the matter, Fanny? What are those?” He went to put his arms around me and vaguely looked at the pictures.

“Oh yeah. Tanya.”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘Oh yeah. Tanya.’? Who the fuck is she and what the hell are these pictures?”

When a man is innocent, he quite rightly says what the hell were you doing going through my jacket pockets. When a man is guilty he’s too busy trying to think up a story to even bother attacking you for looking in the first place. This is how I knew, except I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want to believe it.

“Darling. She’s some model who we’re thinking of doing a shoot with. She’s no one. What are you worried about?”

“I’m worried that you’re carrying around pictures of this girl, and that you were in Café Rouge, and that it was night. I’m worried because you’ve been strange since you worked late in the office, and I want to know what’s going on.”

“I’ve already told you. Oh Fanny, you don’t think . . .” He put his head back and laughed. The bastard actually laughed. “Oh baby, come here, you’re jealous.”

He put his arms around me and I didn’t exactly cuddle him back, but I’ll admit I did lean into him, but just a little, OK?

“I love it when you get jealous, it proves how much you love me. Fanny, you have nothing to worry about with that girl. Yes, she’s OK looking, but believe me, she looks a hell of a lot better on camera than in the flesh. She’s got terrible skin which she hides under a gallon of makeup.”

I didn’t say anything. I just leaned into him a little more, waiting to hear what else he was going to say.

“And God is she thick. She’s the thickest girl I’ve ever met. Believe me, my darling, you have nothing to worry about.”

“So what were you doing with her in Notting Hill? And when were you there?” My voice sounded softer, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

“We were with Nick Clark, the photographer, and the three of us had a meeting in Notting Hill. It was ages ago now, about six weeks, I’d completely forgotten about those pictures.”

“But you were there at night. Which night?” As I said it my mind started finally clicking into gear, and I knew there was something I was missing, but I just wasn’t sure what it was. I think if I had sat down and thought for long enough that little blurry thought would have shifted into focus, but I didn’t want to do that, I wanted to ignore it. I hoped it would go away.

5

My mobile rings just as I’m getting in the car to drive to Louise, my therapist. It’s Mel, she’s in a state.

“I told him I’ve had enough, I can’t carry on anymore. He doesn’t want to be my boyfriend and until he does I’ve kicked him out.”

“What did he say?” I’m cautious, because this isn’t the first time this has happened, and in the past I’ve called him every name under the sun, and within three weeks they’re back together again, as blissfully unhappy as they know how to be.

“He didn’t say anything. There was a silence and then he said are we still going out to the theater next week, and would I make sure I picked up his jacket from the dry cleaner’s.”

“So once again he’s trying to pretend it’s not happening?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs, “but I’m serious this time, I’ve had enough, I don’t want him back. I’ve tried everything, I’ve tried talking but every time I ask what he has to say he won’t bother because I never listen to him anyway.”

I snort with derision. “Mel, you listen for a goddamned living, if
you
can’t listen who the hell can?”

“I know, I know. But he confuses me. I start off an argument being very sure of where I stand, of who’s right and who’s wrong, and then he throws these accusations at me and I don’t know anymore. Maybe he is right. Maybe if I weren’t such a nag things would be different. Maybe it’s my fault.”

I say what I always say, and then I have to go because I spy a police car waiting to turn in to the main road and the last thing I need is a fine for using the phone while driving.

I wasn’t going to tell you about therapy, was I, but now you’re here with me you may as well come along for the ride.

I always hated therapy, thought it was for sad people, didn’t I? I didn’t need therapy, not me, Miss Dynamo. But then again, my childhood wasn’t exactly the happiest in the world, and whenever I’m unhappy, or depressed, or simply bored I practically climb in the fridge and eat whatever’s there.

You think I’m joking? I wish I were. I’ve been known to buy a loaf of bread, and while the first two slices are toasting, six more have disappeared into my mouth faster than you can say pass the butter.

So there’s food, there’s my unhappy childhood, there’s my unfaithful father, but I thought I was all right. I mean, I know I’m not exactly good at relationships, but after Simon, after it all went horribly wrong, after the bingeing and the quick fucks with faceless strangers, I went.

I liked Louise immediately. She was recommended by Mel, who obviously is too close to me to treat me, and as soon as I walked into the little room she uses as her therapy center, or whatever the hell you call it, I felt at home.

But I’ll admit I wasn’t entirely sure about this whole therapy lark at first. Louise looked like a reject from
Woodstock
, the movie. Long brown hair hennaed red, a heavy fringe, caught up in a big soft bun at the nape of her neck. The first time we met she was wearing a long ethnic skirt, the kind that should have had tiny little mirrors sewed into the fabric, except it didn’t, it just swirled softly about her ample thighs. On her feet were Chinese slippers, the shoes that, if my memory serves me correctly, were the height of fashion in 1981.

“Oh shit,” I remember thinking. “How in the hell is this woman going to understand my middle-class confusion?” But then I looked in her eyes, and they were so warm and understanding, I knew it was going to be fine. And the minute I started talking, she drew me out so cleverly, so carefully, I knew at once that if there was anyone I wanted to pour my troubles out to, it would be Louise.

There was always the smell of burning aromatic oils, probably lavender, or patchouli, or some such hippy shit to make you feel relaxed, and Louise, even in that first session, forced me to find answers I didn’t think I knew, answers I’d pushed to the back of my subconscious because the truth frightened me. Doesn’t the truth frighten
you
?

Therapy isn’t like talking to friends. When you talk to friends you censor yourself; you tell the truth, or your version of it, but you embellish, you’re dishonest, but you’ve told your stories so often you’ve come to believe them.

You can’t do that in therapy. You talk on a completely different level of honesty, and I think Louise saw the side that no one else saw. She saw that I wasn’t hard or tough or sassy. She cut through all that right to the vulnerable, gentle center. And she didn’t care. That was the point. I trusted her immediately, and, I’m being completely honest with you now, I think she’s possibly the first person I’ve ever trusted in my life.

As usual Louise opens the door and without saying anything gestures me inside to her room. Lining the walls are those Ikea shelves, you know, the wooden ones, bending with the strain of all her psychology books. Freud, Jung, every aspect of psychoanalysis you could dream of.

Louise sits down as I sit in the big comfy chair opposite her and she starts as she always starts. “How
are
you?”

“Fine, I’ve been fine. I haven’t even really thought about Guy, I’m not really that upset, which has surprised me, because I came to see you because of men like Guy, men who professed to have fallen in love then disappeared, but maybe things are changing, because even though it’s happened again, I’m OK.”

“So you’re not seeing him anymore? What happened?”

Here we go again, dear reader. Cast your mind back to when we first met. Do you remember Andy was coming round to hear about the three-monther? Guy was the three-monther.

I met Guy in a queue standing outside a club. I never go clubbing anymore, I have neither the time nor the inclination but it was a Sunday night and I didn’t have anything better to do.

And Jesus, was this party shit. Everyone was about sixteen, and I felt one hundred. I was there with the gang, and we all hated it, and after about an hour we decided to leave. And as we were walking out, past the huge line that had formed outside the door, praying that they would be amongst the chosen few that the huge black bouncers would let in, I saw Jeremy, an old friend, someone I hadn’t seen for years.

He was with “the boys,” and of course they didn’t mind the fact that everyone was sixteen, because men don’t care how old their prey is, as long as she’s pretty.

And while I was talking to Jeremy, I could feel one of his friends staring at me, couldn’t take his eyes off me. I kept glancing toward him and catching his eye and although I liked what I saw, he was obviously very, very young.

He was twenty-seven, which isn’t that young, I know, but I’m not into boys, and this guy somehow looked incredibly boyish. He was incredibly pretty, with big brown eyes and a trendy short crop. He looked like he should have been in
Take That
. But he was, in fact, a solicitor.

Which isn’t a bad thing in itself, but I’ve never been able to see myself with someone who works in law or accountancy. Great jobs, I know, but so boring. Please. I don’t even mind if they’re bastards from the beginning, but at least make it exciting.

But he
was
very cute, and he obviously liked me, so when Jeremy invited me to join them to go to another party, how could I resist?

“You can come in my car,” offered Guy, as I was about to climb into Jeremy’s Golf. I swiftly climbed out and into Guy’s Range Rover.

We didn’t talk much on the way, but I assessed his choice of music—REM, not the greatest, but compromises are always possible. I assessed his driving—fast and confident, just the kind of driving I like, and I assessed the back of his neck—clean, fresh, waiting to be kissed.

And at the party he leaned against the door frame, and he was tall and big, and he towered above me and despite the fact that he was ever so slightly boring, I started to fancy him. Surprise, surprise.

“So you live in Bayswater? Which road?”

I told him grudgingly because the road is a bit of a dump but his face lit up. “That’s amazing, I drive past there every day on my way home from work. I’m going to come for dinner. What day shall I come?”

“Don’t come during the week because we’ll both have to have early nights. Why don’t you come on the weekend?”

“Deal. I’ll see you on Friday.” And he dropped me home and outside my flat he didn’t try to kiss me, he just said, “I’ll bring the food, you supply the wine.”

I got out of the car grinning. And I grinned all through the next day. No one at work could figure out why I was suddenly so happy, but of course you know, don’t you, I thought I’d stumbled upon love again.

He turned up for dinner empty-handed, carrying nothing but an aura of confidence, weighed down by good looks and charm. I, trying to be stunning but not trying too hard, greeted him at the door wearing jeans, a sloppy sweatshirt and thick socks. He walked straight past me and into the kitchen to open the bottle of wine I’d bought. He was taking control, taking my breath away. I really had forgotten how cute this guy was.

I carried the wine and glasses into the living room and we sat there and talked, chatting about everything, while I, in my socks and sloppy sweater, pretended to be as cute as cute can be. Gone was the tough Anastasia, here was the gentle, sweet Tasha, the Tasha that could fall in love, the Tasha men could adore.

“I changed my mind,” he said. “I’m taking you out for dinner.” And so he did, to a smart new restaurant in Hampstead. We feasted on bruschetta, rubbed with garlic, olive oil, and covered with juicy tomatoes and fresh basil. We laughed over fresh pasta, stuffed with ricotta and spinach, and we fed one another spoonfuls of sticky toffee pudding.

“What are you doing for the rest of the weekend?” he asked, and, conveniently forgetting that in the beginning you have to play hard to get, you have to make them work for you a little bit, you have to be slightly unavailable, I said, “No plans really. Why?”

He took me boating the next day. Luckily, because his first suggestion was rollerblading, and I happen to be allergic to any form of exercise unless it takes place between the sheets. We went to Regents Park and on the way there, in the car, he kissed me. And then, at every traffic light he kissed me again. And he kissed me getting out of the car, walking to the shed to hire a boat, in the boat, on the grass, by the water, and I really thought this could work out.

“I can’t believe I met you in that queue,” he said, stroking my hair and kissing the palm of my hand. “I just can’t believe it. I’ve spent so long looking for someone and then I met you, just like that.”

Reader, bear with me, don’t be too judgmental when I tell you we went to bed that night. We spent the whole day together, boating, having a long, lazy lunch, then back at my flat talking by candlelight.

Sex just seemed the most perfect ending to a perfect day. And in the morning he didn’t disappear, he stayed with me until lunchtime when he had to go home and do some work, but he wanted to see me that night, and me being me, I said yes.

Playing hard to get is easy when you don’t really like someone. When you’re testing the theory to see if it works and of course it does, because the victim of your game is an ugly bastard, so when he keeps calling and wanting to see you, you laugh to yourself because your mother was right after all—treat them mean and they really do stay keen.

But then you meet someone who makes your heart stir, and you think, I will try and play hard to get, but what this really means is when they ask can I see you tonight, you say you’re busy. But you can see them later, you add hopefully, after the dinner party you had been so looking forward to before you met them. It won’t finish late you say, just so they don’t think you’re changing your arrangements for them.

So you go out for dinner and you sit there quite separate from the conversation around you. Every five minutes you check your watch, and at ten o’clock you excuse yourself and rush back to your new lover. This is how we play hard to get. And then we wonder why they feel threatened, suffocated, why they disappear.

I had an idyllic three months with Guy. Every time I saw him it got better and better, and he really liked me, at least he seemed to. But of course I made a fatal mistake. I started to believe that he meant what he said, and after a couple of months, after I had started to relax, I brought my toothbrush, moisturizer, and a sexy nightdress to his flat and accidentally left it there. He didn’t say anything, which I took to be a good sign. How wrong can you be?

Just before we were about to hit our third-month anniversary he invited me on holiday—a long weekend—with him and another couple, to his parents’ house in the South of France.

We flew down there together, me ecstatic with happiness, him kissing me throughout the whole journey. Guy’s friends, who I didn’t know well, and who were very pleasant, in that pleasant way people have of sizing up their friend’s new girlfriend, were arriving the next day.

But Christ, were they young. Guy mixed with twenty-five-year-olds, and while there is only a five-year difference, I felt like an old woman. They were sweet, but I knew, after the first night when we made dinner and ate it on the terrace overlooking the swimming pool, I knew that perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Not that I had any doubts about Guy, I just wished we were here alone.

Guy and I had made dinner, and I want you to know that while I was cooking, Guy couldn’t keep his hands off me, spinning me around while I was trying to chop, hands all over me like an octopus, lips desperately searching for mine.

Everything was fine the day we arrived. We were, I thought, in love, even though neither of us had used the dreaded L word, but I could feel it coming. I really could.

And then the next day, Saturday, out of the blue, Guy started to ignore me. Not completely, that would have been too obvious, but every time I spoke this intense look of irritation crossed his face.

So I stopped speaking, unsure of what to do, of what I was doing wrong, of how to make it all right again. I waited until the evening, until we had come back for dinner, where I had done a very passable impression of everything being fine.

We went to bed, and Guy didn’t reach out for me as he had done every night we had spent together since we met. He lay in bed and picked up a book.