Before I Met You

41


1995




JOHN BRIGHTLY HAD already packed away his stall and left by the time Betty got home from work the next day. She felt curiously deflated, having assumed that he would still be there, wanting to share her first day with someone. With anyone. She thought about calling Bella, or her mum, or even Joe Joe, although history had taught her that she could only understand about thirty per cent of what he said when they spoke on the phone. Then she checked her purse for twenty-pence pieces and sighed when she realised she didn’t have enough to make a phone call.

But she needed desperately to talk to someone.

So many remarkable things had happened today.

Isabel O’Dell had popped over to pick up a serving dish!

She’d had tea with Ed and Sam Todd’s nanny and their two horribly behaved children!

She’d seen a plaster cast of Amy Metz’s vagina in the bathroom!

She’d played football in the park with Donny and his little friend Jackson, who just happened to be the son of the world-famous film star, Jonny Clyde!

Then she remembered something. Her new phone. In her handbag. Amy had given it to her today, told her she could make private calls on it ‘within reason’. She took the steps to her flat two at a time, made herself a roll-up and a cup of tea and went onto the fire escape.

There she stared for a moment at the device in her hand. Amy had given her a crash course in its use but she still struggled to remember where the on switch was. She finally figured it out, and typed in Bella’s number.

‘Guess where I’m calling you from?’ she began.

‘The Presidential Suite at the Ritz?’

‘No.’

‘Neptune?’

‘No.’

‘The bowels of the earth?’

‘No. I’m calling you from outside.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, I am outdoors and calling you from my new mobile phone.’

‘Cool! And how, pray, can you afford a mobile phone on Wendy’s wages?’

‘Oh, Bella, I have got so much to tell you. It is unbelievable!’

By the time Betty had finished telling Bella all her news, starting with, ‘Well, first of all I was having a coffee in this greasy spoon, and me and Dom Jones got talking ...’ and ending on a final, triumphant, ‘... and tomorrow I’m taking them all to play at Daisy Snow’s house!’ she had racked up almost thirty minutes of phone time to be paid for by Amy Metz.

‘Shit,’ she said, ‘Bella, I’m going to have to go. This call’s probably cost about a hundred pounds.’ As she said these words she heard a loud cough from across the yard and jumped when she saw Dom sitting on his windowledge, watching her with a smile on his face.

‘Keep talking!’ he hollered through cupped hands. ‘I’ll pay for it!’

‘Christ!’ she shouted back. ‘How long have you been sitting there?’

‘Long enough.’

‘I haven’t said anything that breaks the terms of my contract,’ she called.

‘I believe you,’ he teased, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

‘Who are you talking to?’ asked Bella.

‘Him,’ she hissed. ‘Jones.’

‘You’re talking to Dom Jones? While you’re on the phone to me?’

‘Yes.’

‘God. And I’m sitting here with goose shit under my fingernails wondering if the five-day-old shepherd’s pie in the fridge is still OK to eat. You win.’

‘It’s not as glamorous as it sounds,’ Betty replied unconvincingly.

‘That’s utter shit and you know it, Betty Dean.’

‘Well, yeah, maybe a bit.’ She glanced across again at Dom and saw him looking at her expectantly. ‘Look,’ she said to Bella, ‘I really do need to go now.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Bella. ‘Do not let me keep you from Dom Jones.’

‘Love you.’

‘Love you, too.’

She turned off the phone and turned back to Dom. ‘How are you?’ she shouted across.

‘Tired,’ he said. ‘Went on a bit late last night.’

‘I thought it might,’ she said.

‘Was I being a wanker?’

She shrugged and smiled. ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘Not really.’

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a chicken in the oven. Wanna come over? I’m sober.’ He smiled uncertainly and Betty felt her heart melt at the sight of him. He was a different person entirely from the idiot at the Groucho the night before. He was lonely and she was lonely, and not only that but she was absolutely starving and had not had anything as homely and nutritious as roast chicken for nearly three months.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘When do you want me?’

‘Now,’ he said, ‘come over now.’


Dom’s house smelled good. Dom also smelled good when he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. His hair was slightly damp at the ends, suggesting a recent shower. The TV was on, showing an old episode of Prime Suspect. Although it was high summer and still bright outside, it felt dark and autumnal in here, with curtains drawn and windows masked with milky film. For a moment it felt almost as if Betty could be anywhere, anywhere at all. It was impossible to believe that beyond the drawn curtains was the mayhem and hedonism of a summer’s night in Soho.

‘Wine? Beer? Elderflower cordial?’

‘What are you having?’

‘I was going to stick to the cordial tonight. After last night. But don’t let that stop you.’

‘Fine,’ she said, ‘I’ll have a cordial.’

‘Sure?’

She nodded. Her heart wanted a drink, her head told her that when her alarm went off at six o’clock tomorrow morning she’d be glad that she hadn’t listened to her heart.

‘Listen,’ Dom began. ‘I wanted to say sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘For being such a dick last night.’

‘Honestly,’ she said. ‘You weren’t. You were fine.’

‘I wasn’t. I’m just ...’ He paused and twisted the top off a bottle of cordial. ‘When I drink it’s like I revert to being a brainless teenage boy. And honestly, truly,’ he put his hand to his heart, ‘that’s not what I am.’

‘It’s fine,’ Betty said. ‘We’re all a bit different when we’ve had a drink.’

He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re not. Some people become better versions of themselves when they drink. You know, funnier, happier, more affectionate, more honest. And then some people, like me, become lesser versions of themselves. Mawkish, immature and narcissistic, in my case.’

‘Don’t forget “lecherous”,’ she added.

‘Oh, f*ck, was I?’

‘There was a buttock squeeze towards the end.’

His face crumpled. ‘Oh God, Christ, how disgusting. I’m so sorry. I’m a dick. Really. Of the absolutely highest order.’ He sighed and stared sadly at the floor for a moment. ‘My apologies. So, anyway. Welcome back to me, the booze-free version. And tell me you like sweet potato, please!’ He wrung his hands together and looked at her hopefully.

‘Love sweet potato,’ she said.

‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘One good thing that I picked up from my years living with a crazy vegetarian Californian. The joy of the sweet potato. F*cking love them.’

He laid the table as they chatted and Betty sat in the armchair, sipped her cordial and ate the Kettle Chips he’d put in a bowl for her. She watched him pull a hefty candle down from a shelf, place it in the centre of the table and light it.

‘What do you want to listen to?’ he asked, flicking through a rack of CDs. ‘And, yes, you don’t need to tell me: not Wall. I may not remember squeezing your arse, but I do remember you telling me you weren’t a fan.’

Betty laughed. ‘Yes, sorry about that, but you were so gasping for compliments ...’

‘I don’t blame you, honestly. I spend my whole life picking people out of my arse, it’s good for me to get some honest feedback. Reggae?’ He pulled out a CD and waved it at her and she nodded. The music softened the atmosphere and Betty felt herself begin to relax.

‘So,’ Dom said. ‘How was your first day at work?’

She laughed. ‘Surely you already know the answer to that after ear-wigging my phone call out there.’

He laughed. ‘I was just winding you up. I didn’t hear a word you were saying. Honest.’ He flicked on the gas beneath a pan of water and pulled a bag of green beans out of the fridge.

‘It was good,’ she said. ‘Full on. But good.’

He smiled knowingly. ‘I’ll ask you again in a week. The longest we’ve managed to keep a nanny is four months.’

‘Now he tells me!’ she cried indignantly.

‘Nothing to do with my perfect children, I hasten to add.’

‘Amy, you mean?’

‘Bless her little heart,’ he said, half under his breath.

‘She was fine.’

‘Give her a chance,’ he muttered, trimming the tops off the beans.

Betty laughed. ‘She was fine!’ she reiterated. ‘Perfectly nice.’

‘I think it helps that you’re not a real nanny.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you’ve got nothing to compare her to, no other children to compare ours with. You’re a clean slate.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘She’ll be on strictly best behaviour for you.’

Betty shrugged. ‘Well, it’s only been one day. I’m going to take it a day at a time. I didn’t really come to London to be a nanny.’

Dom glanced at her again. ‘What did you come to London for?’

‘To see the Queen.’

He laughed. ‘No. Really. I mean I know you had the big Soho dream and all that, but what did you want to do when you got here?’

Betty stared down into her cordial and shrugged. ‘No idea, really,’ she said. ‘I was on a kind of mission. Trying to find someone.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ He looked at her with interest.

‘Long story,’ she said. ‘But I think, really, I just thought I’d show up and everyone would be tripping over themselves to fit me into their lives. I thought I was just the right girl for everything, you know. The perfect fit. I even went into the Groucho, just after I arrived, looking for a job.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ he smiled. ‘And what did they say?’

‘They very charmingly told me to f*ck off.’

He laughed. ‘I could get you a job there, you know. Tomorrow, if that’s what you wanted?’

‘I don’t think it is any more. All the jobs I went for I was convinced that this was it. This was my destiny. This was where I belonged. But now, I think I’ve realised that my destiny is still just a dot on the horizon. I’m nowhere near it yet. I studied art.’ She shrugged. ‘That could still lead somewhere. This nanny thing might turn into a career. Anything could happen. I’m so young ...’

‘That you are, Betty. That you are.’

‘And you know, my grandmother ...’ She paused, as the thought had only just occurred to her and she hadn’t worked out what it meant yet. ‘Well, I thought she’d spent her life on Guernsey. I thought that had been her entire existence. Her husband. Her house. Her son. The Yacht Club. But now it turns out that she was here, too. That she came to London when she was my age. That she hung around with jazz musicians. And artists. You know, there’s an actual portrait of her in the National Portrait Gallery.’

‘What! Seriously? Your grandmother?’

‘Yeah. My grandmother. And I just think, well, if she could have started her adult life like that, all those dreams and plans, all those ideas she must have had about how everything was going to turn out, yet she ended up back in her childhood home having a son she detested, then really, you’ve just got to go with the flow, haven’t you? Because, really,’ she shrugged again, ‘anything can happen. Can’t it?’

Dom nodded and smiled. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I guess so. Although, in my case, I’ve been pretty much on a one-track journey since I was a kid.’

‘Well, yes, and you’re still young ...’

‘Relatively.’

‘Yes. Relatively. So this might not be your destiny. I mean, you might end up – I don’t know – being a pig farmer or something. You might look back on all this and think: what the hell was all that pop-star stuff about? This is where I was always meant to be.’

Dom looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Hmm,’ he said, touching his chin, ‘a pig farmer. I can see that. I can. And you could be the pig farmer’s wife.’ He laughed, lightly, leaching any awkwardness from his comment. ‘Imagine that,’ he said quietly. ‘Imagine that.’

As he said it, Betty had a terrible overwhelming jolt of longing. Almost premonitory. She saw herself sitting at a long wooden table with Dom and his children, pouring milk into beakers. Beyond the windows she saw acres of rolling meadows and fields of fat, pink pigs. She smelled something wholesome roasting in the oven. Her. The farmer’s wife. The ex-pop star’s wife. The reformed hedonist’s wife. She could see it and smell it. Then she shook it, quite violently, from her head.

She was doing it again. Seeing her destiny carved into every fleeting comment, every half-formed moment. Her destiny did not lie in Dom Jones’s retirement plans; it lay here, in this very moment, drinking cordial, about to eat chicken and sweet potatoes. Because for all she knew, she too could end up back in Guernsey, seeing out her years alone in a big cold house on a cliff.

‘Breast or leg?’ asked Dom, carving knife poised above the golden chicken.

‘Both,’ said Betty, reeling herself back into the present. ‘Thank you.’

The food was delicious. Betty ate as if she hadn’t eaten for a month. They talked easily over the meal, about Arlette and her missing beneficiary, about Gideon Worsley and the Southern Syncopated Orchestra, about Alexandra and her room of old clothes, about a woman called Clara Pickle.

Dom was dumbstruck.

‘Amazing,’ he said. ‘Really amazing. You could write a book about it.’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Yeah. Maybe. But first of all I need to find out what the ending is going to be.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Dom. ‘And how are you going to do that?’

‘Don’t know. Alexandra’s friend is seeing what he can uncover. John from outside my house said he’d do some research for me, too.’

‘That’s the record, guy, yeah?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good bloke.’

‘Yes. He is.’

‘I reckon he’s got the hots for you.’

‘What!’

‘Yeah.’ Dom smiled mischievously. ‘Whenever I go and ask after you, he kind of bristles a bit. You know.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t. We’re just friends.’

Dom raised an eyebrow at her. ‘You never seen When Harry Met Sally?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘Well, then, there you go. No such thing as “just friends”. Particularly not when the female friend looks like you.’ He skewered her, then, with a long and deep-rooted look across the table.

Betty flushed and stared into her lap. ‘No,’ she said, ‘he definitely doesn’t have the hots for me. I know he doesn’t.’

Dom raised his eyebrow higher. ‘Hmm,’ he said.

‘Really!’

‘Maybe he just really really likes you then,’ he said facetiously.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘he does.’

Dom leaned back into his chair, folded his arms across his chest and smiled. ‘And reading between the lines I would suggest that it might be mutual.’

Betty laughed. ‘Of course it is!’ she said. ‘I really like him. He’s a really nice guy.’

Dom just stared at her with a smug smile on his face.

‘What!’

‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, pulling himself straight and unfolding his arms. ‘Just trying to work out if I’ve got competition.’

‘Oh my God!’ said Betty. ‘What are you talking about!’

‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, ‘nothing.’

She narrowed her eyes at him and he laughed.

‘Nothing!’ he said again. ‘I just, well, God, you must know, Betty?’

‘What!’

‘You must know that I’ve got a massive crush on you?’ He blinked, just once.

Betty blinked back.

‘The first time I saw you I thought, you know: cute blond. But then that morning in the café. You looked like shit. That gross hat. Your make-up everywhere. You had a hole in your dress. And green hair. And I just thought: that is the best-looking girl I have ever seen in my life. Seriously.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Oh.’

Betty had no idea if she was supposed to respond to this declaration. The silence that had fallen since he’d made it felt strangely comforting, as though it was protecting her from something. She smiled nervously, and then, like the onset of an uncontrollable sneeze, she felt a wave of laughter building up inside her. She held it down for as long as she could, until it physically started to hurt, and then she let it rush to the surface and explode across the table.

Dom looked at her, half injured, half amused. He looked as though he was about to question her laughter, but then he too caught the joke and started to laugh.

Betty put her hands up to her face and made a show of trying to control her laughter, but still it rolled out of her, unstoppable, like the ocean. She brought her head down onto the table top, then up again to look at Dom and then they both started up again.

The laughter peeled on for the next five minutes and by the time it finally came to a still, gentle close her head was spinning and it was as if they’d been drinking, as if they were a bit tipsy, a touch stoned.

‘Not sure where the f*ck we go from there,’ giggled Dom, drawing his hands down his face and sighing.

Betty smiled. ‘Pretend it never happened?’

He glanced at her. ‘Really?’

‘Well, isn’t that what you’d like to do?’

He stared at her for a moment, as if he were trying to work out a really complicated puzzle. ‘No,’ he said, his voice serious again. ‘No. Not at all.’

Betty held his gaze and stopped breathing. ‘Then ...?’

‘Well, then ...’ He looked for a moment as if he were about to kiss her, but at the last second his demeanour changed and he said, ‘Fancy a spliff?’

She looked at the oversized clock on the kitchen wall. It was nearly eleven o’clock. She should head back, head for bed, get the early night she’d failed to get the night before. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep now, not with a stomach full of roast chicken and a head full of Dom saying he had a crush on her, and a drag or two on a spliff would definitely help her to sleep.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘why not?’

He brought a little box through to the kitchen and made one quickly and deftly, and then she followed him up the stairs to the window on the landing and she tried not to muse too much on the fact that his bedroom was just there, the door ajar, his bedding visible from where they sat. She tried not to think too much about the fact that they were sitting, knee to knee, facing each other at a negligible distance, their fingers brushing as they passed the spliff back and forth, the warm summer air vibrant against their skin, their lips taking it in turns to touch the same damp spot on the end of the spliff. She tried just to concentrate on the precise wording of her imminent announcement of her intention to leave, to go home, to her bed. She thought about Amy’s words, she thought about John’s warnings, she reminded herself that she had never looked at a picture of Dom Jones in a newspaper and thought that she might want to sleep with him. She thought about anything and everything apart from the sense of overwhelming desire building within her, the sense that the air between them was being sucked away in rhythm with the spliff, that every time their fingers touched it was bringing her closer and closer to some kind of ludicrous inevitability.

‘I wish I’d met you first,’ said Dom, staring at her thoughtfully.

‘What do you mean?’ She passed him back the last nub of spliff.

‘I mean, before Cheryl. Before Amy. I wish I was sitting here with you ten years ago, a clean slate. I wish ...’ He turned and stared through the window, drew the last inhalation from the spliff, then hurled it, thoughtlessly, into the spiralling darkness below. And then, suddenly, almost stealthily, he was on his feet and tipping Betty’s head upwards towards his, and then he was kissing her, as though she were overripe fruit and he was hungry.

Betty stopped thinking entirely.


John Brightly stared at Betty curiously as she dashed past his stall and towards her front door at seven o’clock the following morning.

‘Morning,’ she trilled, feeling his gaze taking in every tiny detail of her appearance: the faded make-up, bed-hair, possibly even the bulge of her balled-up knickers in her shoulder bag.

He nodded but didn’t reply, just carried on staring at her inscrutably.

‘Just ...’ She stood before him, waiting nonsensically for a miraculous rush of words to pour from her mouth that might offer a more savoury explanation for her appearance and her demeanour. But of course none came, so she pulled her keys from her handbag, smiled awkwardly and a touch psychotically at him and disappeared inside her flat, slamming the door hard behind her in her wake.

And then, her back pressed up against the door, she took a moment just to breathe, to contemplate the implications of what had just happened.

She stood like that for thirty seconds, let the embarrassment wash through her like a foul-tasting tonic, and then quickly and mindlessly, she got ready for work.