How to Get a (Love) Life (20 page)

We pushed open the heavy doors and I turned to him, opened my mouth and heard myself saying, ‘Well!’ But in a hugely cross sort of way.

‘Drink?’ Dan offered.

‘Well, I …’ I’d started to flounder.
Come on, Nicola, have it out with him. Tell him what you think of him.
‘I … um … Yes, that would be nice.’

I’d bottled it.

We walked across the foyer, out into the street and over to a nearby restaurant. A waitress showed us to a cosy table near the back of the room.
Clean slate
,
clean slate
, I thought as I removed my coat and sat down. I ordered a mineral water because I had so much sugar running round my system I really didn’t think my body could take much more.

Dan settled himself opposite me and raked his hand through his hair. I nodded and smiled. I suppose at the very least, it’d be nice to reminisce about old times.

‘Didn’t you have long hair at university?’ Dan asked, indicating my bobbed haircut.

I patted the ends self-consciously. ‘I did.’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘I think you should grow it long again.’

‘Oh.’

A further silence descended. I waited for our drinks, drumming my fingers on the tabletop and looking around the room. He hates my hair and he steals my food. I really didn’t think things could get any worse but after ten minutes of limping down various conversational cul-de-sacs involving people we’d both known at university, the conversation ran dry.

Halfway through telling him a sorry anecdote about the time I jammed the photocopier (not one of my top ten tales), I became aware that Dan was glancing at my breasts. I moved the story on to the part where I’d had to ring the photocopier manufacturers to enquire about the paper feed, but even this scintillating turn of events failed to distract him. He was definitely still looking at my breasts. The trouble was that, interspersed with the tit staring, he was also occasionally glancing up at my face, so it was difficult to accuse him of ogling my boobs for a concentrated period of time. I continued to talk, becoming more and more uncomfortable. My story ended (happily I should add – we could still use the photocopier) and I crossed my arms in an attempt to distract Dan from my cleavage. It didn’t work.

‘Out of interest, Nicola, what bra size do you wear?’

‘I’m sorry?’ I gasped, flummoxed by his cheek.

‘What bra size? Because I think it might be wrong.’ He gestured at my chest.

‘I … I can’t remember,’ I gabbled.

‘There’s no need to be embarrassed,’ he said breezily. ‘You see, I worked at Marks and Spencer’s in the underwear department, and you need one that hoists them up a bit, if you don’t mind me saying.’ He held his hands up in a gesture of innocence. ‘Many women get it wrong, it’s very common.’ He nodded, in a very knowledgeable sort of way.

This was surely my moment to silence him, surely my moment to tell this man what I thought of him? But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it. Dan seemed to think my lack of reaction was an invitation to continue talking to me on the subject of bras in general. He added: ‘Did you know that ninety per cent of women in this country wear the wrong bra size and many develop problems with their backs because of this? Not forgetting the increased risk that their breasts will lose their elasticity in the future.’

As Dan talked and I sat in shocked silence, my mind raced. How did I manage to meet these people? I was a good person. I was trying to ‘get
out there
’, but if this was what was
out there,
did I want to be
out there
with them? Was I not better inside, behind closed doors, with the television for company?
I should get up and leave. I really should. I should go now. I could. I could just make my excuses and leave.

‘Dan, I …’

‘Another drink?’ he asked enthusiastically, waving the waitress over. ‘Same again, please,’ he said, even though I had barely touched my mineral water.

Fine. Another drink, another few minutes, I thought, slumping back into the seat. At least Dan had moved on from the previous conversation and was now bemoaning the plethora of fat people he had witnessed on his lunch break from work.

‘It’s their fault,’ he ranted, in an irritatingly know-all voice, a sort of nasally whine – how had I never noticed this at university? ‘Some say it’s genes, but that’s rubbish. It is because they eat too much. You know, I think they should charge them more on planes.’

‘Hmm,’ I replied weakly.

‘I imagine many people out there would agree with us,’ he continued. ‘Yet it won’t change things. Political correctness, see, that’s the damn problem. If I was a politician I’d ban—’

Before he got progressively worse, I found myself standing up. Turned out I did have a limit.

‘I need to go home,’ I announced, gathering my bag.

Dan looked slightly put out. ‘I’ll get the bill then,’ he said, beckoning to the waitress. She appeared as I reached for my coat.

‘Right. Well, thank you, Dan, it’s been … er …’

Dan frowned up at me, clearly surprised I was leaving, and held up his hand. ‘Hold on,’ he said. He took the bill from the waitress, read it, looked at me and said: ‘Your drinks were four pounds forty.’

I rummaged in my bag, threw a fiver down on the table and spat, ‘Keep the change.’ I knew he would.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Speeding back from the cinema in a taxi, I felt my breathing slow. Bristol looked wintery and magical as we swept back to the flat. Frost had formed so that stone houses and cars seemed to sparkle under the lamplight. Couples weaved back from the pubs, bobble hats bent in conversation. A group of girls wearing Santa hats wobbled in heels as we raced past.

Stepping out of the taxi, I thanked the driver and glanced up at the flat. There was a newly manicured lawn area outside of our apartment block. Julio had obviously been attacking it with shears. He’d clipped the low hedge along the front into a straight line and had bought a couple of pots to brighten up the place. Moving closer, I realised the pots were full of small clumps of lavender. The scent made me stop in my tracks, key wavering. I was drawn to a memory, blinking as I was swept back seven years.

I’d been rushing back to our flat with a pot of lavender. I’d had the idea of making window boxes for our bedroom – we had wide sills that would be perfect. I pictured waking up in the morning, limbs entwined, watching the sun come up, an open window allowing a gentle breeze into the room and the smell of lavender nudging us into consciousness.

I noticed the light on from the street and realised he was home from lectures early. Smiling, I started planning an ambush in my mind, excited already to think of his amber eyes crinkling in delight, his mouth breaking into laughter.

Creeping into the flat, trying not to giggle, I’d put the lavender down on a side-table, padded softly over to the kitchen and peered my head round the doorway. No one there. I frowned and wandered to the living room, removing my top so that I’d appear in my red bra, make him laugh at my brazen behaviour. Throwing the door open, I noticed his clothes already on the sofa. I chuckled to myself. The cheeky thing – he was beating me at my own game!

Laughing, I walked across the corridor to our bedroom – a box room so tiny there was only enough room for a bed and our whispered nothings. I turned the doorknob and prepared to dive-bomb him.

As I walked in, the ‘TA-DA’ died on my lips. I took in the scene before me. Flesh, naked flesh, long blonde hair, clothes scattered and my boyfriend, the man I had moved in with only a month ago, the man I had planned my future with, made promises of a life together with, was wrapped around my very best friend. Her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes open in surprise at the intrusion.

I stood there dumbly as they had scooped up clothes, apologised, muttered things. I couldn’t get my head around what I was witnessing. My whole world had shrunk in the space of a few seconds.

His ever-confident gaze met mine. His face was practically a smirk as he’d said: ‘Well, this wasn’t quite how I planned to tell you.’ My stomach lurched.

Charlotte clutched her jumper to her chest in a pathetic attempt to cover herself up. She couldn’t even meet my eye. Our friendship shattered in that moment. All the hours we had spent pouring out our woes over a glass of wine, giggling over a tin of Roses, cramming before exams, the things I had told her about him, the times I’d taken her home to sleep on my floor when she’d got drunk and needed somewhere to crash. I’d believed in our friendship, assumed she would be a bridesmaid of mine, a loyal side-kick as we grew up.

I only just made it to the bathroom in time, before throwing up. Then I stumbled out of the apartment, straight into the street below, not knowing where to go, but knowing I would never, ever go back.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Single girl WLTM someone to kiss at midnight.

Contact: Box No. 08366

It was New Year’s Eve and the evening of my dinner with Chris Sheldon-Wade. We’d be following dinner with a New Year’s Party he was co-hosting with someone who I swear he’d called ‘Nobby’ – a good friend of his from public school.

I’d taken forever to decide what to wear, knowing that people would be looking at the girl on Chris’s arm, and I’d splurged on a short electric-blue dress and a pair of ridiculously high strappy silver heels. For a moment, I’d felt like I used to feel, the old excitement as I’d dressed. I spent time putting my make-up on, a brilliant slick of red lipstick coupled with smoky grey eyes, using the eye shadow Carol had given me for Christmas. I completed the look by pinning up my hair at the back.

I waited in my flat, perched on the edge of my sofa, feeling nervous. When I’d looked in the mirror earlier I’d been pleasantly surprised by my make-over. But now the dress seemed too short, the lipstick seemed overdone and the shoes an absurdity. I tugged at the hem of my dress. I couldn’t stand Chris. He was petulant and self-absorbed, but he was a man the agency needed to keep sweet, a man whose fees paid my rent, and I knew being nice to him was important, especially to James.

The intercom buzzed and I answered it, hearing, ‘Niiicolllaaa, the taxi’s on a meter,’ before hanging up. I practically pulled a muscle racing down the stairs of the apartment.

Chris was looking effortlessly gorgeous in a black suit with a thin deep-blue tie and I became tongue-tied as I gripped the inside of the cab and tried to find something to talk about that wasn’t work. Fortunately, it took us less than five minutes to reach our destination and I managed to cover: the weather (unpleasant but normal for December) and his tie (Hugo Boss).

The restaurant was full to bursting; couples were waiting in a reception area, clustered around low tables, clutching their half-empty drinks and looking expectantly at any passing waiter. We were swept straight through by the maître’d. I felt a small, guilty glow and tried not to catch any of the narrowed eyes as I passed.

It took us about forty-five minutes to reach our table. Chris knew practically every other diner so we had to stop for a good deal of air-kissing. We finally sat down in a corner next to a fish tank filled with bright, exotic-looking fish. Chris shifted his seat slightly, to be ‘out of the way of the draught’, but coincidentally managed to settle himself right in front of a large square of mirror positioned behind me.

We then spent a few tense minutes trying to catch the eye of a waiter. Every time I tried to start a conversation, Chris craned his neck round to continue the waiter hunt, thus silencing my efforts. Finally, a waitress with a cute blonde pixie-cut and a mini-skirt showing off long legs casually sauntered over. She barely bothered to look in my direction but instead drawled the day’s specials so quietly to Chris that I was forced to lean across the table to hear. Not totally effective, as all I heard was ‘salmon, herb, asparagus’ repeated intermittently, so anything special from the kitchen was going to have to pass me by.

Chris ordered for both of us, salmon en croute with dill sauce. I’d have plumped for something different but kept quiet. After all, he did know the restaurant better, and the day’s specials had just been whispered in his ear.

When the waitress exited, with one final giggle and wiggle at Chris, we sat looking at each other. He fiddled nervously with the napkin in his lap, which was actually quite endearing. I hadn’t really thought about it from his point of view, but here he was taking out a colleague, of sorts, and trying to come up with some conversation. Maybe his confident front was just a show and a sensitive soul was hiding underneath the brash exterior?

At that moment he looked up. ‘I’m just texting Nobby.’

‘Oh.’ I flushed, caught off guard, realising the nervous fiddling was in fact tapping on a mobile. ‘Will he be at the party later?’ I asked.

Chris didn’t bother to look up. ‘Yeah, but he’s recording the game.’

‘Ah,’ I nodded. I sensed I should not ask what game this was. This would not be a Cool Question. I imagined a patronizing ‘Jesus-you-don’t-know-what-game-it-is’ roll of the eyes.

I waited patiently for Chris to finish, by pretending to develop an urge to study the room, due to a sudden intense interest in its architecture. Marble columns by reception, hmm, very interesting. A sign for the toilets written in an italic scroll, very nice. A mahogany bar with red velvet-covered bar stools,
fascinating
. Finally he finished and I looked back at him with a startled try at ‘Oh, you’re still here, silly me I was too engrossed by the decor.’ Cool you see, that’s me. Chris placed his mobile on the table and looked at me.

‘How was your day?’ I piped up.

Dazzling Question Number One, Nicola
. However, seeing his face light up like I’d just asked him what he got from Santa made me realise I couldn’t have asked Chris a better question.

‘Yeah, it was okay, Nicola. Hectic obviously, always is in an acttttooorr’s life. I got headshots done, do you want to see them? He printed me off some contact sheets.’