Deranged Marriage (6 page)

‘Christ, Hol, you have certainly managed to develop your temper in later life. I remember when you were quiet as a lamb.’ He seemed to be mocking me. Where had my friend gone? Why was he doing that? I understood less than nothing.

‘I have never needed to raise my voice the way I need to now.’ I looked at him and realised that it was fruitless to carry on. He looked so smug, sitting there in his plush hotel room, like the cat who got the cream. Or the cat who had the cream waiting for him back in New York, and who had just sampled the skimmed milk. ‘I’m going now and I want you to know that I am incredibly pissed off with you.’ When it came down to it, the anger didn’t in any way manage to manifest itself. I couldn’t even do my feelings justice.

‘When you calm down you’ll realise that we did the right thing.’ With George’s words ringing in my ears I walked out of his hotel room and out of his life without even a backward glance.

My lifelong friendship was over.

Chapter Five

I woke on Sunday feeling suitably horrible. I know I deserved it. As soon as I was sober again, the anger and guilt set in. Joe didn’t deserve to have a loose woman for a girlfriend, especially since I was in love with him. Why on earth did I kiss George? I couldn’t figure it out, I had no answers. If it was lust, or something like that then I could almost understand. Even if it was just curiosity I would have known why I did it. But I didn’t have any of those reasons. I did it because he wanted me to and that was unforgivable.

I really loved Joe. So why would I jeopardise that with anyone? What sort of woman am I? A raging harlot, a slut, a whore? How could I have let anything happen when my true feelings for Joe had only just been recognised? I couldn’t forgive myself. I hated George, but I hated myself more. I couldn’t bear to think about what I’d done. I couldn’t bear to admit to what I’d done.

I crawled out of bed and into the shower. As soon as I dried myself and dressed I went out to buy the papers. I also bought food to make myself a fry-up. I cooked, ate, then dragged my duvet to the sofa where I lay, feeling miserable, reading the papers.

The phone didn’t ring all day. I thought Joe would have called and just let me know that he was still talking to me, but he didn’t. I wanted to send him a text message, but knew that wouldn’t be a cool thing to do so I hid my mobile phone in the laundry basket. I then tried to figure out what I was going to do.

Normally, at times like this, I would turn to friends for advice. But I couldn’t face talking to anyone, couldn’t bring myself to try to explain the situation. I decided there and then that I would never tell anyone what had happened with George. By not telling anyone, then I could pretend it never happened. Like magic, I obliterated the previous night from my mind and concentrated on how I was going to make my relationship with Joe work. After all, George was now firmly relegated to my past, and I had a future to look forward to. I just had to ensure that Joe still wanted to be part of it.

Finally I pulled myself together that evening and called Lisa. Lisa is the best person to speak to when you feel a little bit down because she doesn’t believe in dwelling on problems. She is better at ignoring her own moods than anyone I have ever come across; she is also better at ignoring other people’s moods. Ever since I first moved in with her she was the one person who could always cheer me up. She was brilliant after George left for America all those years ago, she moved me straight back into her flat and nurtured me in an alcoholic sort of way until I was ready to move on and get my own place. Then she helped me find the little two-bedroomed flat in Clapham which is still my home.

We arranged to go for supper at our favourite Italian, conveniently located down the road from my flat. Because I was meeting Lisa, who was stunning, I put on a bit of make-up, and because she was tall, I put on my high heels. I looked at myself in the mirror, and I could still see the hangover. I smiled and tried my best to look human, then I left.

*

‘So, you and Joe aren’t talking,’ Lisa said when we were settled with a bottle of red. She was wearing jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt, but she still looked amazing.

‘I don’t know. We haven’t spoken since it happened, and I guess he’s pissed off with me, but I don’t know because all there’s been is silence.’

‘Call him?’ Lisa didn’t believe in game-playing.

‘I thought that it would be better if I didn’t.’

‘Holly, you’re a bloody idiot. Anyway did you say you saw George last night?’ This was my line: I met George, he told me that he was going to ask his girlfriend to marry him, we had dinner to celebrate and catch up.

‘Yeah, he looked older.’

‘No offence, but you look older.’

‘Today I do.’

‘Every day darling. Listen, you’re going to be thirty soon, I was wondering what sort of a party you had planned.’

‘I don’t like parties, you know that.’

‘I wanted to have a roller disco for my thirtieth but the insurance premium was too high.’ Lisa lit a cigarette.

‘As I remember it your thirtieth was a drugs and disco party.’

‘That’s back in the days when I was on the drugs and disco diet.’

‘The what?’

‘Well, in order to stay thin I took a little coke and danced a lot.’

‘And now?’

‘Now I smoke a lot, but generally I don’t do much else.’

Not sure how we had got to this point, I decided to change the subject. ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’

‘Oh, Max has invited his family to come to us for Christmas Day. He tried to persuade me to invite mine too, but no way. What about you?’ Max was Lisa’s boyfriend, they’d been together for years and she adored him.

‘Well, I’m probably going to Devon, but I’d quite like to spend Christmas Day with Joe.’

‘If he’s still talking to you.’ We had come full circle.

Later, as I lay wrapped in my duvet, I realised that recently I had begun to hate sleeping alone. It had never bothered me before. Sure, I liked to spread out in bed, but I wanted Joe there. I chastised myself for sounding so sad. Instead, I looked forward to a new day, a new week, and I would concentrate on Joe, I wasn’t ready to let him get away.

*

‘Freddie, why didn’t you buy me coffee?’ I asked as I sat at my desk glancing enviously at Freddie’s overpriced cappuccino.

‘Because it’s bad for you and now you have a boyfriend you have to be careful.’

‘But I don’t even know if I have a boyfriend at the moment.’

‘Oh God, I wondered how long it would take you. Holly it’s ten o’clock on Monday morning and already you’re whingeing.’

‘I am not.’ What I didn’t tell Freddie was that I had already taken action on the Joe front. I decided not to be too proud and so sent him a text message on the way to work asking him to call me. I hated the idea I was coming across as desperate but felt that I didn’t have any choice.

‘Good weekend?’ I asked, changing the subject.

‘Yeah, yours?’

‘Yeah, it was lovely seeing George again,’ I lied.

‘So why do you look so ghastly?’ It was a good question. One which reaffirmed that I looked the way I felt.

‘Joe.’

‘Oh the whores,’ Freddie teased. I shot him a look. This was Freddie’s idea of lending a sympathetic ear.

‘No, I don’t think that’s it. I’m not a total moron. How do you get a man to fall in love with you?’

‘Red dress, no knickers,’ Freddie responded without appearing to think.

‘I didn’t ask how to get a man to shag me, I asked how to get a man to fall in love with me.’

‘Trust me that works. It’s not about sex, you don’t have to make any effort to make a man want to sleep with you. In fact you only need a hole in the right place.’ I knew before I had started that he wasn’t the right man to ask, but he was all I had.

‘Freddie, I’m serious.’

‘So am I. Red dress, no knickers; nice meal, nice wine. All any man wants. Trust me.’

I wondered if I had a red dress. I knew I could do no knickers.

Later, I was just drafting an e-mail to
Jet
, my household cleaning product client, about their New Year campaign—‘Clean Away Those January Blues’—when Dixie appeared at my desk carrying an enormous bunch of flowers. Everyone crowded around to exclaim how lucky I was, but still my hands shook as I opened the card. It just said,
Sorry
,
Joe
. My heart soared. He wasn’t going to finish with me and he cared enough to send flowers. My love life was on course again.

I called him straight away and arranged for him to come over to my flat that evening. He apologised for not calling but said he wanted to send flowers before we spoke. He said that he didn’t get my e-mail before he had left, and he’d spent the weekend worrying that I wasn’t speaking to him! So, I was going to cook dinner, and look nice (Freddie style), before addressing the subject of our relationship (My style). It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best plan I had.

I spent the rest of the day in a little bit of a flurry. I know that I am trying desperately hard to convey the fact I was an intelligent, sensible grown-up, but underneath there were some conflicting emotions that were hard to control. It wasn’t my fault, it certainly wasn’t my style. I actually felt a bit cross with myself about it.

Weighed down with the flowers, I had to get a cab home, giving me the feeling that my evening was starting off well. Joe was due round at eight, which gave me just over an hour to go to the shop, make myself look stunning and tidy up the flat. Joe didn’t stand a chance.

I cheated on the food and bought fresh pasta and sauce from the organic shop. I also bought a lipsmacking cheesecake. The wine was chilling and I was wearing a knee-length, tight black skirt (no red dress in my wardrobe), no knickers, high heels and a small strappy top. It wasn’t the most sensible outfit seeing as it was minus six degrees outside and my central heating was escaping through the cracks in the window, but the stiff nipples it produced were a genius addition. Freddie would have been proud.

Joe, or he who is normally late, was on time. I threw my arms around him and kissed him to within an inch of his life.

‘So I’m forgiven?’ he said.

‘I was being neurotic,’ I replied, leading him to the dining table. I decided beforehand that we would eat without talking about ourselves, have a nice normal dinner, then we would talk about us.

‘You look fucking sexy,’ he said. I giggled and kissed him again. The only problem was that if I wasn’t careful the plan would be abandoned and I would be in bed without sorting things out. I couldn’t let that happen.

‘I made your favourite,’ I said, disappearing into the kitchen. I was like a teenager on a first date. My adrenaline was pumping, a feeling that I liked because not only did it make me feel young, but it made me feel alive.

I returned with a dish of steaming pasta.

‘This looks fabulous,’ Joe said, although he was looking at me, not the food.

‘I know how much you love pasta,’ I replied. Actually, I had no idea if he loved pasta, but I wanted to be in control.

‘I like it a lot,’ Joe replied, slightly puzzled.

‘Good.’ Then I asked him about his stag weekend.

‘It was all right,’ he said cautiously.

‘Look, I don’t mind if you had a great time, in fact I hope you
had
a great time.’ After that we managed to have the natural conversation I had planned. We chatted about work, I even told him about seeing George (but not about going to his hotel suite). Everything was on track. Finally it was time for brandy.

‘What I love about dating a posh bird like you is that not only do you know about knives and forks, but you also give me proper drinks after dinner.’ I raised my eyebrows. Joe always played up his humble beginnings. He might have been from Essex but so what. He wasn’t poor, he hadn’t been brought up poor, he’d had an average childhood as far as I could gather: two parents who were still together, and a younger sister. Just because his father was a plasterer and mine was a suit didn’t mean anything, but I think he liked to play on the class differences between us.

He went to state school, I went to private school; his parents lived in a semi, mine live in a detached house with an acre of land. Anyway, I hadn’t met his parents and he hadn’t met mine. He called himself my ‘bit of rough’, but he worked for a top design consultancy, he spent most of his days in designer clothes, and he drove a beautiful 1960s Porsche.

‘How much do you like dating me?’ I asked.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because of that silly row we had. I felt all vulnerable at the weekend and I hate to put pressure on you but I just need to know that what we have, what we’re doing is more than a bit of fun.’ I was quite proud of the succinct way I had voiced my feelings.

‘Has that been bothering you?’ I watched as a huge grin spread across his face.

‘Yes,’ I said, not smiling back.

‘Holly, I adore you, and yes what we have is much more than a bit of fun. I was worried too, thought about you all weekend, which wasn’t easy with all the whores there. Joke. The thing is that I’m not really good at the boyfriend thing.’

‘That’s a typical man-thing to say.’ My hackles were raised, despite my resolve to stay calm.

‘Let me finish. I’m just not used to it. I haven’t had a girlfriend for ages and I’m just a bit selfish. I don’t want to be, but I am. I want us to make a proper go of it, and I’m going to do that.’ He stood up, took my hands and pulled me up. He nuzzled my ear.

‘I’m not wearing any knickers,’ I whispered. He took me to bed to check and afterwards he told me that he loved me.

There followed a blissful few weeks. We were in love, head over heels in love and it was everything that I’d dreamed of. Life was wonderful, really wonderful. We spent more and more time together, until I had underwear and cosmetics firmly lodged in his flat and he had deposited his shaving gear and shirts in mine. It was nearly Christmas and Christmas was truly magical. I wasn’t going to write a letter to Santa that year, I had everything I wanted.