Dinner for Two (29 page)

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Authors: Mike Gayle

BOOK: Dinner for Two
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‘No,’ she says. ‘We didn’t.’
‘Maybe next time, eh?’
‘Maybe next time.’ She leans forward and kisses me full on the lips. I kiss her back.
‘I love you,’ she says.
‘I love you too,’ I tell her.
And with that we turn in opposite directions and walk away.
measure
Week two: Thursday evening, Kettner’s, Romilly Street
Starter
It’s just after seven thirty when I arrive, and Izzy’s already sitting at the table. She stands up to kiss me hello and then we sit down.
‘How are you?’ asks Izzy. ‘How did your meeting with Nick Randall go?’
‘Really well. It looks like I’ll be back working in the same building as you pretty soon. He’s been working on a dummy issue of a new mag ever since
Louder
folded and apparently it’s been green-lighted and they’re looking to launch in the next two months.’
‘What kind of magazine?’
‘Guess.’
‘Music?’
‘No, it’s not music.’
She laughs. ‘It’s not teenagers, surely?’
‘No.’
‘Not a women’s magazine.’ She smiles. ‘Don’t tell me I’m going to have my own husband as a rival.’
‘The exact opposite,’ I reply, laughing. ‘Men’s lifestyle. Like
GQ
and
Esquire
. A few hundred glossy pages of interviews with models, film stars, features about ridiculously expensive cars, sandwiched between dozens of ads for high-performance cars, aftershave and electrical gadgets.’
Izzy laughs. ‘That’s fantastic! I mean, we’d both heard the rumours that BDP were looking in to this market but I never thought it would happen. I’m thrilled for you. What do they want you to do?’
‘Nick’s going to be executive editor, they’re getting in some guy who’s worked on men’s lifestyle mags before to be the actual editor and they want me to be his deputy. The money’s good and we have their assurance – for what it’s worth – that they’re going to keep the sales targets modest and as long as we make them within twelve months they won’t pull the plug.’
‘What’s it going to be called?’
‘
First Class
.’
‘Dave Harding, deputy editor of
First Class
,’ says Izzy. ‘Well done. So, no more Love Doctor?’
‘Jenny wants me to carry on the column and I’ve checked with the boss and he says it’s fine.’
‘So you’re still the solver of love dilemmas?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘For what it’s worth, that’s me.’
Main course
It’s now eight fifteen and I’ve been trying to summon the strength to bring up the topic ever since we sat down to eat. ‘I think it’s time we talked about Nicola,’ I say.
‘You’re right,’ says Izzy. ‘Where do we begin?’
‘I don’t know. How do you feel about her?’
‘If I’m being totally truthful – and I know this will sound horrible – I wish she wasn’t part of our lives and that you’d never met her. I wish we could have our old lives back.’
‘But that’s not possible.’
‘I know, but that doesn’t stop me wishing, does it?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘I suppose not.’
‘The strange thing is, I know that if Nicola had always been in your life – that if you’d known about her and told me when we first met – it wouldn’t have been a problem at all. Loads of people have children from previous relationships.’
‘So what’s the difference?’
‘It’s hard to say. Some of it’s to do with the shock, some of it’s to do with the way you lied to me, but it’s mostly to do with the miscarriage. I wanted to give you a son or daughter and it didn’t work. But now you’ve got this beautiful teenage girl who’s part you and part some other woman. And that hurts.’
Dessert
‘Tell me about Nicola,’ says Izzy. ‘Tell me how you feel about her.’
It’s now nine thirty and we’ve barely touched the food.
‘I think she’s amazing. I can’t talk about her in terms of ifs or maybes. I can only talk about the way things are. So I can’t say that I wish she didn’t exist because she does. I can’t say I wish I’d never met her because I have. And I can’t change what happened fifteen years ago. Yes, things are messy. Yes, none of this has turned out the way I would’ve liked in a perfect world, but I don’t live in a perfect world. Neither of us does.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ says Izzy. ‘I wake up every day and you’re not there. I come home to an empty flat because you’re not there. I sit alone in the home we made feeling desperate for you to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be all right. And I can’t help but feel that the one reason you’re not there at the centre of my life is Nicola. And that hurts. It hurts more than anything in the world because even though it might not be the case, it feels like you’ve chosen her over me.’
‘I haven’t. There is no choice. She’s part of me. You’re part of me too. It’s like . . . I don’t know . . . asking me to choose between my heart and my lungs.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘But the thing is,
you
are my heart and my lungs. You’re everything to me. And what hurts is that I know I used to be everything to you.’
‘Would you care for a dessert?’ asks the waiter, approaching our table.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ I reply. ‘How about you, Izzy?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Just the bill, please,’ I say to the waiter. Izzy slips on her coat and stands up. ‘If you hang on a sec the waiter will be back with the bill and I’ll walk out with you.’
‘It’s okay. I’d rather leave on my own.’
‘Why?’
‘Because saying goodbye to you is too hard,’ she says, and then picks up her bag and walks out of the restaurant.
in
Week three: Atlantic Bar and Grill, Glasshouse Street
Starter:
It’s nine thirty on a Friday evening. We meet in the bar beforehand. I’m wearing a black Paul Smith suit Izzy bought me for my birthday last year. Izzy’s wearing a pale blue shift dress and heels, and looks too beautiful for words. We kiss hello as usual and make small-talk, and as we stand at the bar I look at our reflection in the mirror and wonder if we look like a couple to the people around us. We chat aimlessly for a while, catching up on each other. Izzy still hasn’t heard whether or not she’s got the job and is beginning to worry that no news is bad news.
In return I tell her that my first week at
First Class
went okay although I was certain I’d bump into her in the lift or the lobby but it never happened. We both seem to be keeping such odd hours at work that it’s unlikely it will. I tell her how it’s taken me a few days to adjust to the world of men’s fashion, electronic gadgets, cars and, of course, good-looking women. I tell her that Fran’s handed in her notice at
Teen Scene
. She’s heard of a job going at
Fashionista
that she’s going to apply for and if she doesn’t get it she’s thinking about travelling for a year with some old college friends.
Main course
‘Can I ask you a question?’ says Izzy. It’s now ten fifteen, and we are in the middle of our meal.
‘Of course.’
‘Over the past few weeks we’ve talked a lot about Nicola. But neither you nor I have said a word about her mum, Caitlin. I have to admit I’m jealous of her, Dave, and I think that’s one of the reasons why I’m finding all this so hard. You have a bond with this other woman – a living, breathing bond, a bond you love, and I’m afraid . . . of losing you to her.’
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. You won’t.’
‘Deep down I know that. But what about when I’m not feeling quite so logical? When I’m not feeling quite so sure of myself. Whether you like it or not, the three of you are a family: Mum, Dad, and a kid. I’m the one who’s surplus to requirements. It would be so easy for something to happen between you because then your life wouldn’t be messy any more – everything would be tidy. You’d be with the mother of your daughter. There’s no point in denying it.’
Everything Izzy says makes sense and I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t occurred to me. Part of me – the part that has come to love Nicola – wants to make the world perfect for her, make up for everything she’s missed out on, and right at the top of the list is a proper family. Izzy’s right. All of our lives would be much tidier if Caitlin and I were to get together. But life isn’t that tidy. I don’t love Caitlin, I love Izzy, and no matter what she does or says that won’t change.
Dessert
‘Dave?’ says Izzy, as she settles the bill at the end of the evening. ‘I know this might sound strange but, well, do you remember the photo you showed me of Nicola?’
I nod.
‘Do you think you could bring it with you next time we meet? I’d like to keep it for a while, if that’s all right. It’s just that . . . I don’t know . . . I’d just like to see it again.’
‘I’ll make sure I bring it next time,’ I say.
She smiles awkwardly, then says, ‘I want you to know that whatever happens between us, I really am trying my best, but this is so hard though. Sometimes I feel like I’m never going to get over it.’
out
Week four: Tuesday evening, Bertorelli’s, Charlotte Street
Starter
It’s just gone seven thirty when Izzy arrives. The table was booked for seven.
‘I’m really sorry I’m late,’ she apologises. ‘Did you get any of my messages I left on your mobile?’
‘I couldn’t get a signal. I thought it was probably something to do with work. What happened?’
‘All the usual suspects: being behind schedule, advertising headaches, legal stuff. You name it I think I’ve probably had to deal with it today.’
‘Still no news about the job?’
‘I spoke to the publishing director after a meeting today and she reassured me that they’ll have made a decision by the end of next week at the latest. So that’s it. Seven more days and I’ll be out of my misery.’
‘You really don’t think you’re going to get the job, do you?’
‘No. I’m not being modest either. I know I haven’t got the experience. Everyone in the office thinks I’m this really confident person but if you’d seen me today, Dave, you’d have been able to tell I was
this
close to falling apart.’
‘But you didn’t, did you?’
‘Not today but there’s still tomorrow.’
‘It won’t happen, I guarantee, because you’re good at your job. And I’m willing to lay down hard cash to prove it. I bet you five hundred pounds that by next week you’re editor of
Femme
.’
‘I wish I believed in me as much as you do.’
‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ I tell her. ‘Because I’ve got enough belief for both of us.’
Main course
We talk all through dinner – sometimes about work, but mainly about our friends. I tell Izzy that Fran’s got an interview at
First Class
for the position of full-time staff writer. Eventually we begin talking about Nicola again when I bring up the subject of the photograph and hand it to her. She stares at it for a long time.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
‘I’m fine. I was just wondering . . . did you ever doubt that Nicola was yours?’
‘In the beginning, yes.’
‘If I’d seen this photograph I wouldn’t have doubted it for a second. There are elements of you in her face, especially her eyes – and that smile is pure you.’
There’s a long silence, then Izzy slips the photograph into her bag and we don’t talk about Nicola or our problems for the rest of the meal.
Dessert
For the first time we have dessert and share a
crème brûlée
and I feel suddenly that there’s renewed hope between us. That no matter what it takes we’ll find a way to make things work. I pay the bill and we walk out of the restaurant together. Izzy decides she’s too tired to get the tube so we decide to head over to Charing Cross in the hope of finding a cab. As we walk hand in hand through the noise and clamour of Leicester Square it feels like old times and I don’t want to let her go. ‘Do you have to go home?’ I ask her, as we both try to hail cabs. ‘We could go somewhere else for a drink or something.’
It’s the ‘or something’ that let’s me down. I can see in her face that she knows exactly what I’d like to happen.
‘As much as I want to, Dave, you know it’s not a good idea. It’s crossed my mind a million times tonight, but being attracted to each other isn’t our problem, is it? And sleeping together won’t solve everything. We can’t gloss over this problem, no matter how much we might want to. We have to face it head on.’
I look across the road, see a black cab with its light on and hail it. The driver turns on his indicator and pulls across the road to us. He winds down his window and Izzy tells him she wants to go to Muswell Hill. ‘Are you getting a cab too?’ she asks me.
‘I’ll get the tube.’
‘What are you doing your next column on?’ she asks, as she gets in.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it yet. I’ve been toying with the idea of something about men and their relationship with their cars.’ Izzy pulls a face. ‘Okay, what have you got in mind?’
‘Well, as we can’t do what we want to do, I was about to suggest the next best thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘Eight hundred words on what makes a man sexy.’
allure
To:         [email protected]
From:     [email protected]
Subject: This month’s Male Man
Dear Izzy,
I was up all night working on this.
Not much of a substitute but at least it pays well . . .
Dave XXX
What Makes a Man Sexy
When Rod Stewart posed the question back in the, seventies, ‘Do ya think I’m sexy?’ my guess is that as a man, and especially a man sporting leopard-print Spandex trousers, he already knew the answer. This is the strange thing about men: no matter who we are, or what we look like, we all think we look sexy – all the time. First thing in the morning. Slouching on the sofa. Picking spinach from between our teeth. We are gorgeous. It’s not an ego thing, or self-delusional mania either. It’s simply that the self-assurance required to believe we are sexy is handed to us at birth. And when you think about it this makes total sense.
From the beginning of time until now, it’s been a matter of fact that men pursue women and women (occasionally) allow themselves to be caught. Now, when you know from day one that nine times out of ten it is you who will suffer the embarrassment that comes with a declaration of love declined; that it is you who will offer your heart and soul on a plate to Sally Beale (my kindergarten love) and that it is you who will have the aforementioned minxtress laugh in your face, then, of course, you have to believe you’re sex on legs. It’s a survival mechanism. Without it, you (or rather, in this case, I) would still be licking the wounds of that particular rejection today. And herein lies the rub, because no matter how sexy we men think we are, unless we can convince womankind of this fact, we’re basically on a hiding to nothing.
For example, I feel my best attributes are my eyes, shoulders and smile, yet when I asked my wife what she found sexy about me, the first thing she said was my forearms. Now, I pay no attention to my forearms whatsoever (but I do work on my eyes, shoulders and – oh, the shame of it – my smile) so how can she find them sexy? The sheer subtlety, randomness and elusiveness of what women find sexy is so frustrating.

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