Chapter 5
My visit with Marjorie popped into my mind a few nights later when Kat dropped her bombshell in the V&A’s foyer as we enjoyed the museum’s monthly drinks party. Hundreds of people milled about with wine glasses and the jazz quartet played on, oblivious to my shattering world view.
‘How can you say that?!’ I said. The culture vultures nearby flapped at my outburst. ‘Of course you were in love.’
She shook her head, her bob punctuating her denial. ‘I told you, it doesn’t exist. There’s no such thing as “in love”. It’s simply “in lust”. A biological reaction. It wears off. Like Novocain. When James thought it was time to get married, he asked me. I thought it was time too, and I said yes. We weren’t in love. But we loved each other. We were like two peas in a pot.’
‘What about passion?’
‘If you want passion, go to the films. That’s where it exists. Only in imaginations.’
‘But Kat, if it really doesn’t exist, then I’ve broken up with Mattias for no good reason.’
‘That’s what I told you when you did it. B., honestly, you’ve made a big mistake.’
She didn’t say this with malice, but with a certainty that scared the crap out of me. I couldn’t let myself believe she was right. Her experience, and Marjorie’s, just meant there were two kinds of relationships.
‘Kat, believe me, I haven’t made a mistake. I spent Friday night with Mattias and it was nice, but that’s all it was. Nice. Comfortable. Like spending the night with you or Clare. Nothing more. And I have to believe there’s more out there.’
‘You spent the night with Mattias?’
‘Not like that. He asked me over for dinner. That’s all. I slept on the sofa. Absolutely nothing happened. It was just a friendly evening.’
‘But that’s wonderful! B., you can get back together with him.’
‘My feelings haven’t changed. We’re friends. That’s not enough for a future. At least, it’s not enough for mine.’ I didn’t tell her how nice it felt to be back in the flat, or in Mattias’ company, or that he was texting again. Just friendly messages asking about my day, but she’d get the wrong idea if she knew. Nostalgia and a shared love of Spanish cuisine weren’t the cornerstone of a future together. And I didn’t believe that friendship alone held together Kat and James’ marriage either.
Mattias and I had talked about marriage over the years, generally after well-meaning friends demanded to know whether nuptials were on the cards. Our answer was consistent, and convincing. No need for that piece of paper to prove our commitment. After all, we’d been together longer than many married couples. Mattias did check in every so often, away from friends’ questions, to see how I felt about it. My answer was honest. I’d never felt the urge to walk down the aisle. In truth, the very idea made me feel a little sick. That probably wasn’t a healthy reaction to the idea of spending your life with someone you love. Mattias’ reaction was more sensible, and less nauseous. His parents were happily unmarried, as Scandies often are. He was comfortable with the status quo. His point of view was cultural. Mine flew in the face of my upbringing. Married parents, married brothers, married friends. And yet I didn’t even entertain the notion.
Kat and James were different. He proposed to her in a little ski village near her hometown. He wanted to take one more run, down to the village. She preferred the gondola. They bickered, Kat wanting to meet at the cafe at the bottom, James insisting they ski the last run together. James won. And halfway down he stopped alongside her, unclipped his skis and clumsily got on one knee. They were married a year later.
I remembered my friend’s face when she told me the story. She’d looked like she was in love. Mattias and I never were. It was just an easy relationship, as long as we didn’t delve too deeply into its inner workings. We were the flat stones thrown across the surface of the pond, enjoying the movement and heat of the sun while skimming until, eventually, momentum stopped and we sank.
‘I think you just don’t remember about you and James,’ I said.
‘B., does it really matter?’
‘Of course it matters! I have to believe in it.’
She sighed. ‘But the passion, even if you have it, doesn’t last. That’s not what makes the relationship work. It’s the friendship. You can marry and be happy with anyone who is your best friend. Trust me, you’ve got to have the friendship for it to last. James and I wouldn’t have made it through these last few years without that.’
She was talking about Jonathan. I stroked my friend’s shoulder. Those were hard years. ‘I know that friendship needs to be in the equation, but so does passion. Surely you have to be in love, at least at the start.’
‘No, you don’t,’ she said with her usual conviction. ‘Love doesn’t really come into it at all, after awhile.’ Her sliding-away eyes said more than her words.
‘Kat, what’s wrong?’
She stared at the enormous yellow, green and blue blown glass chandelier illuminated against the deeply shadowed vaulted ceiling.
‘Nothing is wrong, Spatzl. I’m just telling you not to be so naïve. You’re like a baby in the forest. In real life it’s not fairy tales–’
Her admonishment was cut off when Faith pounced on us. ‘So sorry I’m tardy,’ she sang, obviously not sorry at all. ‘I was waylaid. And I had to drop my bags at the cloakroom. Long queue. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.’ She meant she’d been shopping. Faith was a marketer’s dream, wielding her credit cards in the face of all drama. Misadventures in her job ensured she was always on fashion’s cutting edge. On her salary, it was a good thing her parents had a city flat that they let her live in for nearly nothing. Otherwise she’d have to hang her latest purchases in the cardboard box she’d call home under London Bridge.
‘Hello, Faith,’ Kat said. ‘Nice to join us. Sorry to hit and run but I promised James I’d be home by eight to look after the children. Tonight’s poker night. Good night, Suesse, have fun, Faith.’
‘But Kat,’ Faith moaned. ‘You can’t leave now, we haven’t had a chance to talk!’
‘That’s because you are an hour late.’ Kat could imagine no higher sin. It was a good thing she loved Faith. ‘I forgive you but I must go. We’ll see each other again soon.’ She kissed us both, gathered her things and hurried off to relieve her husband.
‘Did you already go to the talk?’ Faith asked, watching Kat hurry to the tall glass doors. ‘Tsch, it’s a shame I couldn’t get here earlier. Though I found the most divine skirt, and it was virtually free, so that’s some consolation. Clare’s not here yet?’
I confirmed that she was due any minute.
‘Good. How bad was your day?’
It was our standard introduction to nights out together. My job was boring and therefore my bitching was boring. But Faith had one of the world’s most interesting awful jobs.
It was her lifelong dream to be an investigative reporter. At first she contributed stories to a local weekly, which had a circulation around the size of a seven-year-old’s paper route. She got her break three years ago, landing a staff job at a larger paper, but her euphoria was short-lived. As the most junior of cub reporters, her assignments were not career-building.
‘We had our presentation yesterday,’ I said. ‘As predicted, the clients’ eyes glazed over. Of course, it was really gratifying to feel like I was talking to the walls. But at least they didn’t ask any questions. Clare was right, once again. We could have screwed everything up and they’d only care that we didn’t go over budget. We’re just overpriced scapegoats. They’re happy whether we make their business better or worse. When it goes well they take all the credit for making the change, and when it doesn’t they blame us for the change, even though we only implemented their decisions. Anyway, it’s over, one more month tying up loose ends, and then I’m off to live amongst the Oompa Loompas at the chocolate factory.’
‘Lucky girl. I’d love to live amongst the Oompa Loompas with you. I could run their newspaper, investigating the Everlasting Gobstopper innovations and allegations of Willy Wonka’s impropriety. Not that my current article isn’t equally thrilling.’
‘What is it?’ Try as I might to settle my expression into one of sympathy, my anticipatory glee must have been obvious.
‘I’m investigating whether a restaurant is illegally dumping food in LIDL’s bins.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Deadly serious. I spent last night hiding behind a dumpster with a camera.’
‘Why don’t they just look at the CCTV footage?’
‘Thanks for belittling my already shitty career path.’
‘Sorry, that was rubbish of me.’
‘Very funny.’
‘I’m sure it’s bin very hard for you.’
‘Please shut up.’
‘Seriously, sorry. Tell me. Did they do it? Did they dump?’
‘They dumped. I’ve just written the shocking exposé: Mr Singh is putting his chapattis where they don’t belong. My career is meteoric. There’s no other word for it. What about you? You’re really going to Zurich. Any news on the flat?’
I shook my head. They really were cutting it fine.
‘Then maybe you’ll get to stay! I don’t like it when you’re away.’
‘I know but it’ll only be during the week, like when we worked in Leeds, remember? I’ll come back on Fridays so it’ll be nearly like normal. I need to go, Faith.’
She rubbed my hand. ‘I know you do. It’ll be good for you, a reset button, as you’ve said. And who knows what Swiss delicacies you might sample while you’re there. A little Swiss roll, maybe?’
‘A little Swiss roll is the last thing I’m looking for, thanks.’
‘You’re right. We are far too fabulous to suffer any snack-sized baked goods.’ She sighed. ‘Although at this stage, a slice of anything would be welcome. I broke up with Ben last night. The Teacher,’ she clarified, anticipating my question. ‘He wasn’t the one.’
‘I’m sorry, what happened?’ I wanted to sound surprised, but couldn’t manage it. Faith suffered from a serious flaw intolerance when it came to men. The tiniest taste of imperfection sent her into a full-blown adverse reaction. The list of irritants grew by the month: The Publican (bad breath), Chuckles (hummed when he read), The Banker (mother issues), Foreplay…
‘Do you remember Foreplay?’ I asked. ‘What was wrong with him?’ That was one I wouldn’t have given up so easily.
‘How can you have forgotten? He was lactose intolerant. And don’t make light. You know my views on cheese.’
‘I know. It’s the West’s most civilising factor.’ Naturally, hearing about the latest unforgiveable offence gave Clare and me hours of entertainment, and made us wonder how she remained so optimistic despite constant disappointment. She’d have been forgiven for resigning herself to living with cats, but she wasn’t that sort of person. Her glass wasn’t just half full. It spilled on to the table. That made her a tremendous if often unrealistic friend. ‘So, The Teacher?’
‘His feet smell. He took his shoes off at my place, when he came over for dinner. We were having a nice time. He’s very easy to talk to, and we’ve got so much in common. He even likes romcoms and he’s not ashamed of it.’
‘Are you sure he’s not gay?’
‘Not judging by his kissing, no. He is good, mmm, I could spend hours kissing him.’
‘So, his feet?’
‘Ugh. He asked to take off his shoes when I put the DVD on. The smell. Like yogurt that’s gone off.’
‘That is bad. But maybe it was just that night. What if he’d stepped in a puddle or something, and they hadn’t dried properly? You know, a good kisser who’ll watch Sleepless in Seattle shouldn’t be dismissed lightly.’
She wasn’t convinced. ‘I’m sure his shoes all reek.’
‘Foot spray?’
‘No.’
‘Different socks?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘New shoes?’
‘B., I can’t. You know how sensitive I am to smells. I couldn’t even think of spending my life with that odour.’
‘But you got along so well. And the kissing.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s over.’
‘Did you tell him?’
‘Of course.’
‘Reason?’
‘Irreconcilable differences. I’m not a monster. I couldn’t very well say it was because he smelled like he had Stilton between his toes.’
‘But what about the next woman?’
‘I’m not interested in fixing men for other women. Let them do their own work.’
Clare arrived just in time to hear her proclamation. ‘Amen to that!’ She punctuated her statement with faux praise-Jesus jazz hands. ‘Hello, my little chihuahuas. Good days?’ Faith rolled her eyes and I shrugged. In my case it was a rhetorical question since Clare and I shared a desk at the client’s offices. ‘What are we talking about?’
‘Faith was just saying that she’s ended it with The Teacher.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. He sounded like a good one.’
Faith shook her head, pronouncing, ‘Smelly feet.’
‘But maybe–’ My look cut Clare off. ‘Oh, I see. Well, better luck next time.’
‘I’m not in the mood for next time.’ She sighed, shaking her head. ‘I think I need a break.’
It may have seemed a small statement but I was stunned. Shocked, flabbergasted, gobsmacked, knocked for six, at a loss for words. This was Faith. Optimistic, glass-spilling-over-on-the-table Faith. She was never, ne-ver, tired of dating. It was her RoboDate tenacity that gave the rest of womankind the fortitude to go on. If she had doubts, what chance did the rest of us have? ‘Faith, you don’t mean that.’ Clare looked as if she’d just learned that her Manolos really came from Marks & Spencer.
‘I don’t know,’ Faith continued. ‘I suppose there are perfect couples out there. Look at Kat and James. They’re going strong. But the men I meet are all so fatally flawed.’
Clare and I traded glances. We were treading in a minefield. How did you tell your best friend that she was perhaps a tad stringent in her judgements without hurting her, or making her feel even worse? Anyone could see she was a commitmentphobe. Anyone but Faith. It was a subject to approach again when she was happily in a relationship, not in the midst of self-doubt. Unfortunately, it was a bit like buying light bulbs. The only time you thought to do it was when you’d just cracked your shin in the dark. Clare eyed me pointedly. She was right. It was not the time to detonate those bombs. Mental note: home truths for Faith the next time she was coupled up.
‘Faith, we completely understand your frustration. But like you said, Kat found James. I found Mattias. Even though he’s not right for me, he’s not flawed. He’s right for lots of other women. So the good ones are out there. And you don’t have the problem that most women have.’ I paused for effect. ‘Think about your history. How many times have you been broken up with? Right, hardly ever. It’s not as though you’re finding Mister Right and he doesn’t want to be your mister. You’re just, em, pickier than most women, that’s all.’
‘She’s right,’ nodded Clare. ‘Look at how many times I’ve been dumped. I’m almost always on the receiving end. It’s pathetic, really.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘I mean, the most stable relationship I’ve ever had is with a man I call late at night for sex. It’s really very depressing.’
The conversation was going downhill fast. ‘Oh no, not you too, Clare. This is a temporary knock-back, Faith. So The Teacher wasn’t right for you. Maybe the next man will be. And Clare, I’m sorry but I can’t take your moaning seriously when you’ve got The Shag.’
Clare, the lucky cow, had a shag buddy. He was the ideal man-in-waiting, the one who was fun, clothed or naked, and welcomed late-night booty calls with no expectations about staying for breakfast. We all envied her, but it was terrible in the early days when she wanted The Shag as a boyfriend. He’d sweep her off her feet, then neglect to be faithful beyond the weekend. We spent those years in emergency disaster relief, plying our friend with Häagen-Dazs and warnings against her destructive habit. She’d wean herself off him, but always give in to the craving. ‘I’m strong enough to handle it,’ she’d say. ‘Just the one time won’t hurt.’ So they’d get together. They’d shag. They’d part. She’d plan. He’d dodge. She’d cry, recover, repeat.
She finally had an epiphany during a wedding reception, compliments of an aged widow. She’d wheedled Clare’s entire sorry story out of her by the time they’d finished their starters, as only old people could do without you hating them. At the end of Clare’s explanation the wrinkled moral compass asked, ‘Well, if he’s so wonderful, dear, why is he behaving like a feckin’ arsehole to you?’ Maybe it was the shock of hearing a nana curse, or the common-sense truth of her question, but Clare took it to heart. She quit her addiction cold turkey.
Oddly, once the prospect of nudity was taken off the table, and the tears dried, she and the addiction became friends. He was really quite likeable, commitment issues aside. Not that we didn’t worry when they started sleeping together again, but Clare had finally discovered the uncomplicated joy of having great sex with a man she didn’t want to date. She likened him to slippers – super-comfortable but never seen on her in public. So far there’d been no regrets, not a single incontinent conversation (when ‘we’ slipped out).
‘That’s right, Clare,’ said Faith, brightening. ‘Your man in the wings disqualifies you. What’s that look for?’
Clare squirmed. ‘Now’s probably not the time to say that I’m stopping by his place after this, right?’
‘I rest my case. And you, B., you can’t complain until at least a year of horror dating has passed. Four months does not qualify you to moan. You’re still driving on a provisional licence.’
‘She’s right, buttercup. Come talk to us after you’ve been vomited on.’ This was Clare’s best worst dating story. They were having sex at the time. Missionary.
‘Or been taken out for a romantic dinner and told your date has an alter ego named Paula.’
Nobody thought Faith’s judgment was harsh that time. My friends constantly toiled at the coalface. Smug in my cohabitating life, I’d secretly assumed there was something wrong with them. It never occurred to me that I’d be there alongside them futilely wielding a pickaxe at the meagre lode, and coming away with fool’s gold.
They were right. My paltry few months of singledom didn’t give me a leg to stand on. No wonder they mocked my whinging. I’d do exactly the same thing if a fresh-faced newbie complained about how hard the music industry was. After decades, I knew how hard the music industry was. My last gig was not exactly a career-defining high. I was a little tired, I guess. And I hadn’t wanted to do it. I was depping for another singer, filling in while she had her bunions shaved or something. The room was stuffy and the equipment wouldn’t cooperate. Every time I hit high C the feedback threatened to deafen the patrons. And I was flat. Even on my best songs. The audience clapped politely. That was worse than being booed off stage.
My phone bzzzzd with a text. Faith glanced at the table before I could snatch it away. ‘B., what’s going on?’
‘Nothing, why?’
‘Oh really? Then why did Mattias just ask you out in a text, and say Friday encore?’
‘You shouldn’t read my texts.’
‘Please. I’ve held your hair out of the toilet bowl so you could be sick. Of course I’m going to read your texts. What’s this all about?’
‘It’s nothing. I’m not going to say yes. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Remember? I’m going out with The Musician on Friday.’
‘Yes, we know that, don’t we Clare?’ Clare nodded. It had been fodder for discussion at work since he called. ‘Don’t change the subject. The mystery remains,’ she continued, as I knew she would. ‘What did Mattias mean by Friday encore?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Pssh,’ Clare snorted. ‘You don’t really think we’re going to drop it, do you?’
Of course not. My friends had the Gestapo’s tenacity. I ordered us another bottle of wine and told them about Friday. By the end of the story I’d just about convinced them that it was nothing. I was nearly as persuasive with myself.