Getting Over It (30 page)

Jasper rakes his hand through his hair and leans back. I hold my breath. “In a word,” he says.

At this point, I realize a pool of saliva has collected in my mouth and if I don’t swallow instantly I’m going to drool like a basset hound. I gulp and squeak, “What happened?”

Jasper stretches his lips into a grimace and the tendons in his neck appear like tent ropes. Then he says, “She, ah, wanted to get back together.”

My mouth drops. “No!” I say. “What, what did you say?”

Jasper sighs again and says, “I said, if I could, I would. But it wouldn’t be fair on her.” He stops. Then adds, “Because I’m keen on”—he sighs—“someone else.”

I gaze at him and he blushes. And immediately I know that Jasper has a belated crush on me. My eyes are like gobstoppers.

I try to keep my voice level. “Oh, no!” I squeak. “What did Louisa say to that?”

Jasper looks uncomfortable.

“Well?” I demand.

He says quietly, “Ah, I’d rather not say.”

I bang my fist on the table. “Come on!” I bellow. “You can’t not tell me now!” I force the details out of him. Although he doesn’t mention my name, he doesn’t need to. I watch his mouth as he talks. And as he relates the woeful tale of his ex-girlfriend’s unrequited love, I find myself wanting to kiss him.

I’m the same with sweaters. I was hovering by a black V-neck in Warehouse, fingering the material and wondering if it would itch, when a tall, tanned woman sashayed over and plucked it from the shelf. Immediately, I craved the V-neck like a nicotine addict craves a fag on a no-smoking flight. I tailed V-neck Woman around the shop, into the changing rooms, out of the changing rooms, and when she shot me a nasty look and dumped the sweater over a rail, I snatched it up, and trembling with excitement, bought it. I am the gullible materialist that advertisers dream about. I am indifferent to a person or a product until someone else wants it. Then, immediately, I want it more.

So when Jasper tells me that a week before Christmas, Louisa gave him three months to move out because she couldn’t stand the agony of seeing his face and not being able to snog it, I exclaim, “Jass! Jass! I’ve had a brilliant idea! Until you find somewhere—why not stay at my place for a few days?”

Jasper stares at me as if Fatboy has spoken. “You can’t mean that?” he says in an awed voice. I nod vigorously. Anything is better than living in poky isolation. His chiseled face breaks into a dimpled smile and he grabs my hand and kisses it. “Angelsweet,” he murmurs, “you’re a shining star.” And then, “Hey! I know! Why don’t you drive me to Kensington and we can get my things now! It’ll be fun!”

Though I cannot see how taxiing Jasper across London and lugging his gloomy ship paintings up my stairs will be fun, I can hardly refuse. As there is precisely nowhere to park in Kensington, I wait in the Toyota while Jasper fills it with his belongings. Clothes. Paintings. Stereo. And two hideous wicker chairs and a wicker coffee table. I blurt, “I thought the crap furniture belonged to your landlord!”

Jasper laughs and says, “Babe, these are original colonial pieces! Anyway I don’t know what you’re complaining about. They’ll look ace in your living room!” I am not so sure and my suspicion is confirmed when the chairs are in place. They hunch over the floor, each one like a praying mantis, and their mean scratchy wickerness dominates the room. Even though it’s great to have company, I feel cross.

I feel even crosser when Jasper snakes up behind me, grabs my hips, and whispers, “Hey, babe, what say we christen the flat?”

I sternly imprison his hands in mine and say with forced sweetness, “Sure, Jass. Only I should tell you I’m having a really heavy period. Whew, talk about a flow! Honestly, it’s like my uterus is being dragged out of me, so I’m warning you it’ll be very messy, but I see you’ve brought your Egyptian cotton, we can lay it over the bed like an absorbent plaster to soak up the effluvia… .”

Jasper sleeps on the living room floor and doesn’t bother me again.

Chapter 39

I
WAS ABOUT FOURTEEN
and walking down the road when a paunchy, wisp-haired, middle-aged man stopped me and said, “If you don’t mind me saying, that outfit doesn’t suit you.”

Taken aback I squeaked, “Oh! Er, thanks for telling me.” I ran home, stared in the mirror at me and my round shoulders in my red-and-white-striped sweatshirt, and thought,
Ugh, yes, the state of you.

It was a good few years before it occurred to me that an adult who stops a plump teenage stranger in the street to criticize her dress sense has got to be a thick chauvenist fruitcake. Then again, I had to ask myself—what the hell was I doing wearing a red-and-white-striped sweatshirt? Did I work at a barber’s shop? Was I a pouting Lolita-like superwaif who could wear doll’s clothes and call it ironic kitsch? No. Did I have even a splash of self-awareness? No.

When I see my pristine white bath defiled by Jasper’s shaving stubble and my freshly tiled floor transformed into a penguin’s paddling pool and my big square mirror steamed up like a microwave door and realize there’s going to be no hot water for the fourth time this week and it’s only Thursday, I scowl and think in the last twelve years have I learned anything at all? Obviously not.

Although the last four days have been interesting. My romantic notions of living—as Jasper might say—à deux were shot to pieces within minutes. In the foolish seconds preceding my rash invitation, I fantasized about a host of cozy things. Changing the message on my new answer machine to “Helenanjasper aren’t in right now.” Filling my supermarket basket with Jasperish items like smoked venison and freshly squeezed OJ, as well as Dime Bars and cat litter. Snuggling up on the floorboards in front of
Lethal Weapon.
The edible scent of Egoiste lending a blast of masculinity to my bachelorette flat.

What was I thinking! The moment I saw those grubby wicker chairs polluting my territory, I knew I’d made a mistake. I liked having an answer machine message all to myself. I didn’t want a dead Bambi in my fridge. I preferred watching
Lethal Weapon
on my own, especially as—unlike some people—I would never exclaim loudly at a crucial point, “This is preposterous facile crap, let’s watch a decent film like
Citizen Kane
.” And if I was that desperate for a masculine blast, I could feed Fatboy a large helping of turkey and giblets pâté and await the stinky inevitable. What is it with me?

“But I can’t tell him to leave,” I bleat to Lizzy over lunch. “He’s got nowhere to go.”

Lizzy, who is carefully inspecting her green salad for slugs, says “Really, Helen, I don’t know why you asked him in the first place. He’s a selfish man who, if you ask me, is emotionally constipated, and he’s not been nice to you.”

I poke my lasagne with a fork and think how prettily two-faced Lizzy is. I remember a time, not so very long ago, when she shared a flat with her psychologist friend. She was always inviting people to sleep over!

I dismiss this from my mind and attempt to answer her question. Why did I ask Jasper to stay? “I felt lonely after you’d skipped off to your boat party,” I say sulkily. “And it was rainy and I was by myself in an empty flat.”

Lizzy shakes her curls and says, “But that’s my favorite thing! Being all cozy in a warm flat, watching the rain! And it was your first night in your own home. Weren’t you excited?”

I sigh. Then I say in a grumpy voice, “I felt sorry for him.”

Lizzy purses her lips. “Why?” she says.

I feel hot and cross. I snap, “Because Louisa turfed him out!”

Lizzy retorts, “But she gave him notice. Couldn’t he find his own flat?”

I growl, “No.”

“Oh,” says Lizzy. “Why not?”

I shrug and say, “I think he’s short of cash.”

Lizzy isn’t convinced. She says, “Well, he’s lucky that he had you to fall back on. You’re very kind, Helen, but I do think it’s your right to tell Jasper to go if you’ve changed your mind about having him.”

Something Lizzy has just said chafes at my composure. I say huffily, “We’re fond of each other. And I feel sorry for him because I know what it’s like to be living with someone you’ve been involved with and for it to go sour.”

Lizzy emits a neat ladylike snort and replies, “Well, Helen, you certainly know now!” I tut and ignore her.

Lizzy is in a bad mood because she’s twenty-eight tomorrow. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue, but she has booked a private room in a restaurant to celebrate with friends and yesterday afternoon Tina e-mailed her to say she would be unable to attend. She didn’t give a reason. This shocked Lizzy and she rang Tina at home in the evening to ask why. Adrian answered. I can only assume that Lizzy charmed the bastard, because he and Tina are now attending.

But Lizzy remains upset. She counts Tina as one of her ten closest pals and has made infinite excuses for the fact that recently she’s been as friendly as a traffic warden with gout. According to Lizzy, Tina has been “incredibly pressurized” because the deputy fashion editor has landed a job at
Cosmopolitan
and hasn’t yet been replaced so Tina is “snowed under with work.” Also, Tina is “mad about Adrian” but “they both work such long hours” and so “Tina wants to spend every precious minute with him.”

It has been easy for Lizzy to believe her own hype, as she is one of those repulsively popular people who isn’t possessive of her friends (they’re two a penny and always ringing her). But while she’s a liberal pal, she is a birthday fascist. This is because Lizzy’s family have always made a huge fuss of birthdays—hired halls, magicians, clown cakes, balloon sculptures, fancy dress, ribboned presents, goody bags stuffed with sweets—and Lizzy continues to regard birthdays as sacrosant. So Tina’s attempt to wriggle out of Lizzy’s birthday dinner is an unpardonable sin. And that Tina’s now been forced into attending doesn’t erase the snub. I open my mouth to say “How many people have you invited?” when Lizzy opens her mouth and says, “Helen, do you mind awfully if I don’t invite Jasper?”

I am astonished. Lizzy blushes and adds hurriedly, “It’s just that I don’t think he’ll enjoy it at all. Oh, I do hope you’re not offended, it’s just that—”

I overcome my surprise and say, “Liz, honestly, it’s fine. In fact, he can’t make it, he’s going out with the guys from his college cricket team tomorrow night. So don’t worry.” Even as these words drop glibly from my lips, a thousand more rough and tumble inside my head. Do I believe my ears! So Jasper is blackballed, but the wife-beater is cordially invited! This is heresy! It’s tantamount to God telling Adam that Eve isn’t invited to his Garden party but the Snake is.

I smile thinly and try not to look offended. I don’t want Jasper to come to Lizzy’s—he’d only bitch about the food and the guests and the music and the venue—but Lizzy not wanting him to come is another thing entirely. It’s my right to discriminate against Jasper, as he’s my ex. But Lizzy has no past-ownership entitlement to Jasper’s reputation and so I am forced to declare her out of order. (In my head, of course, I wouldn’t dream of saying so to her face.)

“I’ve invited Luke, though,” says Lizzy. “I know you adore him, and he’s such a sweetie.”

I am astonished for the second time in two minutes. “Oh!” I say. I’m not sure if I am pleased (at least Luke won’t talk about karmic astrology all evening) or annoyed (Lizzy’s got a billion friends, why is she appropriating mine?). I tell Lizzy that’s fine, but if she’ll excuse me, I’ve got to make a phone call. Then I stalk back to the office and sulk. My mood doesn’t improve, even when I get home and see that Jasper has made himself a cheese and tomato sandwich in the kitchen and eaten it in the living room—the cutlery drawer is open, a crumb-encrusted plate is abandoned on the table, a bread knife is lying by the sink, a spider-resembling tomato top has been dropped on the floor, and the remains of a hunk of cheddar (unwrapped) is turning stale on the side.

“He’s got a nerve!” I say to Fatboy, who is biting his claws and pays no attention. I wonder if Jasper has left me a note to say where he is. After a three-second search in which I comb the flat, I discover he hasn’t. I wash up the plate and knife, slam shut the drawer, pick up the tomato top and the cracking cheddar, and hurl them in the bin, all the while muttering under my breath about slothful, loutish flatmates who hurl their weight around like Henry VIII, expect other people to tidy up their filthy mess, and leave their Earl Grey teabags in the stainless steel sink and stain it. I pound around for forty minutes fussing and dusting, become bored, and call Tina.

I know I shouldn’t. The last time I rang her and inquired after her health, she told me coldly that she knew I was trying to break up her relationship and furthermore she knew it was because I was jealous of her and Adrian’s “amazing love” for each other, and I didn’t understand it. I—according to Tina—am eaten up with bitterness because the men I date are all wankers who couldn’t give a shit about me (only she didn’t put it quite so nicely).

Hurt though I was, I reminded myself she’d been hypnotized by the evil wizard and merely said, “Damn right I want to break up your relationship! I’d love to get you away from Adrian. He’s a—” but she put the phone down on me. She’s ignored me ever since, and the self-help books are moldering away on my bedroom floor. I hate it, but I’m scared to call in case I get her into trouble. But I think, I can pretend I’m ringing to see what she’s buying Lizzy for her birthday. Just this once won’t hurt.

Tina’s mobile isn’t working, so I call her home number.

“Hello?” she whispers.

“Tina?” I say nervously. “It’s me, Helen. Do you know your mobile’s not working?”

Tina coughs and says, “I don’t have one anymore.”

As Tina is—or used to be—famed for the scale of her mobile phone bills (approx £300 per month), I am taken aback. “But,” I stutter, “how can you live!”

Tina coughs again. She seems to have a sore throat. “They’re bad for you,” she says flatly, “they give you brain cancer.”

I reply, “But isn’t it essential for your job?”

Tina says nothing. I feel a stab of rage and I say heatedly, “It’s him, isn’t it? He’s trying to take you away from us! Why—”

She interrupts me. Her tone is fierce. “No, he’s not! It’s only because he cares about me, and you can’t deal with that! Why won’t you stop interfering and leave me alone! Please! He’ll be here soon, he’s got a key, and if he catches me, he’ll press 1471 and he’ll want to know who I spoke to and for how long and what we said and—” Her voice cracks.

I grimace and try to understand. I tell her I’m her friend and I want the best for her and she’s got to trust me. I tell her (and here I keep my fingers crossed) I respect her and Adrian’s relationship, but a relationship should make you happy and I don’t think she’s that happy. I ask her if he’s hit her recently and she tells me he hasn’t hit her in a long time. But something in the way she says it alerts me, and I ask if he’s done anything that he wouldn’t do if, say, I was in the room.

Which is when I find out that last night, after Lizzy’s phone call, Adrian took a plastic spatula from Tina’s kitchen drawer, a plastic bag from under the sink, locked Tina in her flat (saying he might call at any time, so if she rang anyone he’d know), sauntered down the road to the park, shovelled three fresh dog shits into the bag, returned to the flat, donned a pair of yellow rubber gloves, then smeared dog shit all over Tina’s face and into her mouth while hissing, “That’s what you are.”

Apart from that, he’s been a real dear.