Greatest Love Story of All Time (7 page)

‘Michael left me. Well, he asked for a three-month separation but, yeah, essentially he’s left me.’

There. The first time I’d said it.

Dave whistled. ‘Fuck. Seriously? Oh, Fran, that’s terrible. Are you OK? Christ, you poor thing. Is someone looking after you?’

My throat was smarting but I hadn’t the energy to cry again. ‘Dave, I can’t talk about it. I’ll come back soon. Goodbye.’ I ended the call. Talking to Dave was like talking to Dad – if I started crying I’d never stop. I hugged a sock of Michael’s that I’d found under the bed and rolled over on my front, longing for a painless death.

March 2008

Sent:
Tue, 18 Mar 2008 18:30:28 GMT

From:
INTERNAL TAPE LIBRARY [[email protected]]

To:
O’Callaghan, Frances [[email protected]];

Subject:
Change of department

Dear Frances

We notice that you have been performing the below searches on a regular basis:

• SEARCH TERMS
  : ITN REPORTS: Michael Slater + Kosovo
  
• SEARCH TERMS
  ITN REPORTS: Michael Slater + Mitrovica
  
• SEARCH TERMS
  ITN REPORTS: Balkans + Michael Slater
  

According to the internal phone list you currently work on the Entertainment and Culture news desk. Should we change your user profile to Foreign Affairs and increase your access to the Balkans collection?

Please advise us accordingly and state which line
manager we should contact for authorization.

All best,

Steve

TAPE LIBRARY

Sent:
Tue, 18 Mar 2008 18:32:47 GMT

From:
O’Callaghan; Frances [[email protected]]

To:
INTERNAL TAPE LIBRARY [[email protected]]

Subject:
RE: Change of department

Importance:
HIGH

Hi Steve

No need to contact anyone. I won’t need to look at the Kosovo archives again. My line manager is very busy so please do NOT contact her about this.

Many thanks!

Fran

Michael came home at the beginning of spring. The day when London emerges from its winter hibernation and everyone capers around excitedly in parks full of daffodils and sunshine.

I was at Gatwick and I was a mess: breathlessly excited, horribly nervous and hoping,
praying
, that this might be it. That the man who was belted up preparing for touchdown would be the man I would spend the next sixty years picking up from airports, missing him, loving him, feeding him and, all things
going well, having a fair bit of sex with him. Leonie texted me: You OK? Outfit working out?

NO. Shitting self in a serious way. Hate outfit. In Monsoon buying new one I replied from the changing room.

Five minutes later I was scanning the crowds streaming out of Arrivals in my new rather middle-class ensemble. And then there he was. Tired-looking, taller than I’d remembered and displaying freckles I’d not seen in the cold hard light of February. His hair was shorter and he was wearing a long-sleeved grey T-shirt that gave a definite impression of things I’d not been expecting to see. Biceps. Pectorals. In fact, muscles in general. Jesus Christ, did Michael go to the
gym?
I felt my stomach tighten with fear. Perhaps I should hold off sex for a few weeks while I did some sit-ups and stuff.

Finally he saw me. His face opened into that beautiful lazy smile and I hurled myself across the terminal at him, like a big, mad dog. His arms closed around me and I smelt the clean-laundry scent of his T-shirt and felt him laugh, a deep, rumbly noise that made his chest shake. I was so happy I could have exploded. He pulled me away after a few seconds and kissed me tentatively.

We stood back and gazed at each other. I couldn’t really say anything: I was overwhelmed by how beautiful he was and how happy he seemed to see me.

‘Franny … God, you’re lovely. I’ve dreamed so much about this day.’ He ran a finger under the neckline of
my top and stared at me shyly. ‘You are pleased I came back, aren’t you?’

‘
What?
Oh, my God, I haven’t thought about anything else!’ I coloured slightly, realizing that that wasn’t particularly smooth.

‘No, don’t apologize. I needed to hear it. I just had a panic on the plane that I’d been too hasty … I like your outfit, by the way. Did you shoplift it?’ he asked, with interest.

‘Um … no. Why?’

‘Just that your cardigan is on inside out and the label is still on. We may need to talk about this.’

‘Right. I … kind of … Oh, fuck it. I just had a panic about how I looked so I sort of ran into Monsoon and bought this. And now you probably think I’m the biggest knob in the world,’ I added, shamefaced.

Michael laughed and kissed me again. His arms locked round me and he muttered into my hair, ‘I think I love you, you batty woman. In fact, I’m sure. I’m so happy I came home.’

Jesus Christ! I had an actual boyfriend! Who loved me before he’d even seen me with my kit off! A boyfriend who would love me and laugh at me and cook manly joints of beef! A further explosion of happiness erupted in my stomach, far greater and more beautiful than anything I’d ever seen in Battersea Park on Fireworks Night.

We snogged all the way to London, so much so
that a large American woman asked us to stop. We went and sat on a luggage rack and continued until the ticket collector threatened to fine us for indecent exposure. ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ I said, laughing. ‘We’re just kissing!’

He squinted at us for a second. ‘So you are, so you are. As you were, kids! I’ll tell that lady to put a sock in it. Can’t she see you’re in love?’

In my excitement, I shoved my hand up the back of Michael’s T-shirt and encountered a lower back rug. ‘Oh, my GOD! You’ve got a hairy back!’ I giggled, rubbing appreciatively.

‘Do you ever think before you speak?’ he asked.

‘Not so much. But you’re not insulted, are you? I LOVE your back rug!’

Michael hugged me harder. ‘You’re nuts,’ he said into my neck. I glowed.

Arriving at Victoria, Michael stood staring at the swarming mass of people on the concourse and looked bewildered. ‘Bloody hell … Did you
have
to live in London? I’d forgotten how ridiculous it is.’ He fished a bottle of something disgusting out of his bag. ‘I think we should get drunk immediately. Otherwise I’m kidnapping you and taking you back to Kosovo.’

So that was what we did. We each had a hearty swig from the bottle and walked hand in hand into Green Park where the pale sun hung in a hard spring sky.
Bold beams of modest warmth crept through the still-bare lime trees and lovers held hands in striped deckchairs, trying to pretend that it was a summer’s day as they shivered in short sleeves.

We drank Michael’s horrible liqueur on a bench and exchanged stories of teenage love affairs. When I told him about my doomed liaison with Patrick Moorestead, whom I’d found in the stationery cupboard with his face lost between the tits of our massive-titted DT teacher, Miss Redpath, Michael was convulsed with laughter. ‘Oh, God, Fran, you’re scarred, aren’t you? You’re going to be one of those girlfriends who wants a pair of fake breasts for Christmas!’

‘Shut up! I was devastated!’ I cried. He continued to laugh. ‘Shut
up
, Michael!’ I shouted, punching him.

‘Oh Fran … I’m sorry. For what it’s worth I’m sure yours are perfect as they are. I look forward to meeting them,’ he said, nibbling my ear. ‘In fact, I think we should go back to your house at the earliest possible juncture so I can have a chat with them. We have a lot to discuss.’

It was all I could do to prevent myself booking us into the Ritz next door and yelling, ‘TAKE ME NOW!’ Instead I looked him in the eye and said steadily, ‘That’s fine. We’ll go now. But you should know that I have a third nipple.’ I cleared up our mess and smiled to myself while he stood behind me, wondering if I was serious.

On the tube to Camden Michael tried to put the bottle of meths – or whatever it was – back into his bag but I grabbed it, grimly aware that I might be required to take my clothes off soon. ‘I’ve not done with that,’ I muttered, in response to his raised eyebrow. ‘I’m up for getting trolleyed.’

‘Nice.’ He chuckled. ‘You get better by the minute.’

By the time we got back to my flat, I was rollicking. Michael ran off to the loo and I sat on the floor and talked to Duke Ellington, who was obviously angry at my late return. ‘WEEOOOW,’ he said crossly. While he ate his Tesco Supreme pouch with great irritation I stroked him carefully and whispered to him about Michael. He ignored me.

‘So this is him. The fiend. The tiger.’ Michael was standing in the kitchen doorway, so handsome I didn’t know where to look. WHY WAS THIS MAN SO INTO ME?

‘Yes. Duke Ellington, meet Michael Slater. Michael, meet Duke Ellington.’ I tried to grab Duke Ellington’s paw to offer to Michael but he withdrew it and waved his tail threateningly.

‘Right. Enough,’ Michael said, striding across the room and bundling me up off the floor. ‘It’s my turn now. Duke Ellington has had enough of your time.’

He threw me over his shoulder and marched out of the kitchen amid screams of ‘I AM TOO HEAVY FOR YOU TO PICK UP! PUT ME DOWN!’

‘A man has needs, Fran,’ he replied curtly, throwing me on to my bed and kicking the door shut. I felt a little bit guilty about Duke Ellington but, of course, a woman has needs too.

‘Where’s the third nipple?’ Michael said, pulling off my tights and then my dress without a great deal of regard for the buttons. I was shaking, partly with nerves, partly with the rampant horn.

‘Um, not sure,’ I muttered, as he took off his T-shirt and started to move a hand along my leg from my knees.

‘Is it here?’ he whispered, moving down and kissing my thighs softly.

‘Nope. Higher,’ I said, gasping as he travelled up my legs. ‘Here?’

‘Nearly …’

‘Here?’

‘Oh, God, yes. Yes. There … Oh, God … please don’t stop …’

The next morning I woke up to the sight of Michael’s dark grey eyes smiling at me. He was curled up, like a prawn, next to me, his hand playing with my hair and his feet resting on my leg. I decided it was time I started practising a religion.

January 2010

I sat on the floor of the wet room while water thundered on to my head, bouncing off my nose and knees. I looked blankly at my feet. The pedicure I’d had, ready for my thirtieth and possible engagement, was still almost completely intact. I’d let slip to the lady who’d done it that I might possibly be proposed to in a few days. ‘Oh, love, that’s great. Should we book you in for a Brazilian?’ she’d said. ‘Everyone wants a nice fresh foo-foo for their engagement night!’

I circled my feet with my hands, numb. It felt strange, remembering happiness. The girl giggling about fresh foo-foos felt like another person, a Fran who belonged in a parallel universe, not the Fran I was stuck with now, the Fran who felt crushingly sad and lost. The Fran who spent hours and hours fantasizing about what she would say if Michael called her and begged her to reconsider, then dissolved into tears when she remembered that contact was out of the question. The Fran who felt so empty she had no idea how to get out of bed and start the day.

What had Michael been doing while I was having my birthday pedicure and talking foo-foos? Was he out buying a ring or was he planning his dumping speech? Was he thinking about how happy we were together or how much he wanted to get rid of me?

I heard an angry miaow and reached above me to turn the shower off. If Duke Ellington hadn’t been so consistent with his meal demands I probably wouldn’t have got out of bed at all. In spite of all the food Stefania was leaving through the cat-flap, I was still barely able to eat. He yowled again. ‘All RIGHT! I’m coming, dammit.’

Unconvinced, he miaowed once more, this time with renewed force.

‘Oh, my God! Shut
up
, Duke Ellington? Can’t you see I’m dealing with a broken heart here?’

He responded with the feline equivalent of a bellow. My broken heart was clearly a matter of supreme unimportance to him.

I dragged myself up and into a cold towel.

April 2008

The first drop of rain splashed heavily on Michael’s nose as he got started on his second pint of Kronenberg. ‘Bollocks. Let’s go back inside.’

‘But we can’t! Gin Thursday has moved outside for the spring!’

Leonie nodded in agreement. ‘She’s right, Michael, we’re going to have to brave it. And Stefania’s coming tonight – she’s a stickler for the rules.’

Stefania only came to Gin Thursdays about once a month, but this was a gala celebration: it was Gin Thursday Welcomes Michael Slater. Even Mum had threatened to turn up after her busy day at Harvey Nichols and the Royal Opera House. (Guiltily, I hoped she wouldn’t come. Her response when I’d first told her about Michael had not been ‘Oh, how exciting!’ or ‘He sounds wonderful!’ but ‘Does he have clean ears, Frances?’ In Mum’s world, anyone who didn’t scrub the inside of their ears with disinfectant and a pressure hose on a daily basis was probably a drug addict.)

Dave was bringing Freya. While I didn’t necessarily
want to be confronted with her unnervingly serene beauty, I was desperate for Michael to see me as someone who had a large, colourful group of friends. The kind of friends who enjoyed challenging debates about social anthropology and threw organic dinner parties. I didn’t want him to know that Gin Thursday was really only about Dave and me getting drunk in a corner while Leonie got off with whoever was handy.

Michael had invited his super-brainy friend Alex with whom he’d studied at Oxford (‘He’ll probably try to make you feel like you’re really thick,’ he’d warned me reassuringly), while his sister Jenny and her husband Dmitri were scheduled to make an appearance too. All in all, there were going to be a lot of brainy people around. (I had bought a Bohemian scarf for the occasion and was primed with as many pub quiz facts as I could remember.)