Love Always (21 page)

Cathy is concentrating on her quiche on the plate. She says after a pause, ‘I don’t think she would be.’

I laugh. ‘Bless you. But I think she would. She was really proud I did fine art at uni. She was so disappointed when I didn’t become an artist, and she was OK with the jeweller thing because she thought it was arty. She didn’t expect me to go bankrupt, did she.’

‘I think you’re being too hard on yourself. It’s really tough out there at the moment, apart from anything else,’ Cathy says. She swallows and clears her throat. ‘Not to be rude, but you know, I always thought . . .’ She stops. ‘Actually, forget it.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

I’m laughing. ‘Come on, Cathy! What?’

‘I always thought she was pretty hard on you too, if you want me to be honest.’

‘Who?’ I don’t understand her. ‘Your granny, Nat.’

I scoff, it’s so unlikely. ‘No, she wasn’t!’

Cathy says slowly, ‘I just remember, when we went to Summercove, the summer after we’d finished our A levels before you went off to college, she’d make you paint instead of coming down to the sea with me and Jay, and then she’d critique you. When she hadn’t painted herself for like thirty years, and you were only eighteen!’ She winces, as though she doesn’t like the taste of what she’s saying. ‘I think it was unfair. Like she wanted you to be something your mum wasn’t. Or Archie wasn’t. You know?’

That’s so outlandish I goggle at her. ‘Cathy, it really wasn’t like that!’ My voice is rising. ‘I wanted to learn from her.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Cathy is a bit red. ‘I just think sometimes she was using you to make up for disappointments in her own life. Please, I didn’t mean anything by it. Forget it. I’m just glad you’ve sorted it out. You have, haven’t you?’

I think of my already huge credit card bill; I’ve been putting things for the business on that, too, of late, instead of putting them through the account. I am going to be very poor. These last couple of weeks without Oli to split the bills for food and cabs and toilet rolls have already taken their toll. I nod. ‘I have. It’s going to be tight, but I think I have.’ I touch the ring around my neck. I’m going to start sketching tonight. I take another sip of apple juice and lean forward, patting her arm. I am perched above her on the stool, she is in a low chair, so this is more difficult than it might be. ‘I’m sick of talking about me, though. How’s tricks? Tell me. I haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘Oh, OK.’ Cathy shrugs, so that the shoulder pads in her suit jacket shoot up, almost to her ears. ‘Had another date with Jonathan on Friday.’ I raise my eyebrows.

‘Hey, how was it?’

Just then the door opens and a thick head of hair pokes round. ‘Nat?’

‘Ben!’ I stand up. ‘Hey, come and have some food.’

The hair advances into the room, followed by its owner, my neighbour. He looks quizzically at the meagre quiche, half-eaten, on the table, and the small salad next to it. ‘No, thanks. I’m on my way out anyway,’ he says, scratching his head. ‘Hi, Cathy. I just came to see how you were doing, Nat.’ He hugs himself. ‘It’s freaking freezing in here.’

Ben is wearing his usual uniform, which is a large woollen sweater. He has an endless supply of them, mostly bought from junk shops or markets, and they are all extremely thick. His hair is curly and long. It bounces when he’s enthusiastic about something. I am glad to see him, as ever. I’m sure I have a Pavlovian response to Ben, because he represents company of some sort during the day, so it’s normally lovely to see him. I’m sure if we went on holiday we’d fall out on the first evening. ‘It’ll warm up soon, hopefully,’ I say. ‘Hey, man. Stay and have a cup of tea.’

‘I won’t,’ he says. ‘Just popped by to say hi.’ He looks at me. ‘So you’re doing OK?’

‘I’ll come by later,’ I say. ‘It was quite something.’

‘The funeral? Or the meeting?’

‘Oh – both.’

Ben nods. ‘Well, I’ve got a shoot this afternoon, but I’m not sure when. Knock me up, chuck.’

‘OK.’

‘Nice to see you, Cathy,’ he says. ‘Nat – see you later. I want to hear about it.’

I nod, and turn back to Cathy as the door closes. ‘I’m sorry about that. Blithely inviting him in when you’re in the middle of telling me about Jonathan. Go on.’

‘He’s so lovely.’ Cathy gazes at the shut door. ‘Who, Ben? He’s got a girlfriend,’ I say. ‘I don’t mean like that.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘No, I don’t. He’s just lovely.’ She sighs. ‘Why can’t all men be like him, eh? I don’t get it.’

I think about Ben, who I’ve known vaguely for years because of Jay, and his floppy hair and thick jumpers. I’ve never really thought about him in that way. ‘He’s adorable. But he’s a bit like a big sheep, don’t you think?’

‘What?’ Cathy laughs. ‘You’re insane. I think he’s really cute. Those big brown eyes. That smile. He’s got a lovely smile. If he had his hair cut . . . Wow, he’d be absolutely gorgeous. Pow.’

She mimes an explosion with her hands. I sigh. Cathy has such weird taste in men. ‘Come on. Tell me. I’m sorry. You and Jonathan.’

‘Yes.’ She sighs. ‘It was odd. I don’t get it.’

‘OK, so what happened?’

‘OK. We had a good dinner. Good conversation.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Kettner’s. I don’t like it there now though, since the makeover. They’ve done it up like a whore’s boudoir. It used to be so great.’

I nod, a shiver running down my body. Kettner’s, in Soho, was our favourite place. Oli and I, I mean: we used to meet there all the time when we lived on opposite sides of the city. Cheap beautiful pizzas and a lovely champagne bar. Chintzy, seaside-hotel decor, old-fashioned service and a pianist playing jazz standards. Now it’s been ‘done up’, the menu’s been changed, and I think it looks awful.

Oli and I went there in November, and had a bad evening. Terrible, in fact. It was our first night out for a while and, to cut a long story short, it began when, during a conversation about the merits of our flat, I used the phrase, ‘because we might want a bigger place some day, if we have children’, and it ended with me leaving the restaurant and taking a very expensive cab all the way home on my own. Oli wasn’t ready for the ‘if we have children’ conversation, you see. Apparently, being married for two years doesn’t mean you’re ready to even
talk
about it.

‘Kettner’s did used to be so great. But anyway. Did anything happen?’ Ah,
did anything happen
, possibly the most-asked question in London.

‘Sort of.’

‘Like what?’

Cathy shifts in her low chair, looking down at the ground, so I can’t see her face. She is bad at the details. ‘Well, I mean, it was unsatisfactory.’

‘How?’

‘Well, we had quite a lot to drink. And we kissed, outside Kettner’s. And he lives in Clapham too, so we got a cab home. But it was odd.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘We got to his and he could have asked me in, and we’re in the back of the cab, you know –’ she mouths the word
snogging
– ‘and we’re kind of –’ again, she mouths what I think is
doing stuff under each other’s clothes
, but I don’t want to check and interrupt the flow – ‘And he chucks a twenty-pound note at me and says, Oh, thanks for a lovely evening, and then gets out!’ She’s practically squeaking in outrage at this.

‘He chucked a twenner at you?’ I say. ‘Like you’re a prostitute and he’s paying you in cash for letting him feel you up?’

‘Exactly!’ she shouts. ‘I mean, I think it was for the cab, but you know – wow, way to make me feel cheap!’

‘Who paid for dinner?’

‘We split.’ There’s a silence. ‘I don’t think that means anything though.’

‘Me neither. What does he do?’

‘He’s a . . . well. He’s a dancer.’

‘He’s a what?’

She takes a bite of her quiche. ‘He’s a dancer.’

‘What kind of a dancer?’

‘He’s in
The Lion King
.’

‘He’s a dancer in
The Lion King
,’ I say. ‘You snogged a dancer in
The Lion King
.’ I’m nodding. ‘What part does he play in
The Lion King
?’

Cathy still isn’t looking at me. Her voice is shaking. ‘I think he’s a giraffe.’

We both collapse with laughter, and my stool rocks alarmingly. I steady myself with one hand.

‘And you don’t think he’s . . .’

‘He’s not gay!’ Cathy says in indignation. ‘He’s bloody not! He says that’s really irritating, that everyone always assumes he must be, and that it’d be much easier for him if he was!’ She pauses. ‘Apart from with his parents. They’d disown him.’

‘Why? What’s with his parents?’

‘They’re very strict Baptists. They think homosexuality is a sin.’ Cathy shakes her head. ‘They sound kind of awful. Very repressive. He grew up in Rickmansworth,’ she adds, as if the two are connected.

‘Right,’ I say, though I now have severe doubts about Jonathan the dancing giraffe from Rickmansworth with the repressive Baptist parents. ‘Well, maybe he’s just shy . . .’ I trail off. ‘How was the snogging?’

Cathy looks around again. ‘It was OK. You know? Sometimes it’s just not that great. And we were quite drunk.’

‘But you like him?’

She stares into space. ‘Yeah, I do. He’s really funny. And we have nothing in common. I like that. He’s different from me.’ She shifts in her chair again. ‘Everyone at work’s just like me. Always in suits. Serious. Reads the
FT
.’ She pushes her lips out. ‘That’s why I liked his profile, and when we were emailing. He just sounded really fun.’ She stops. Her voice is soft. ‘I just want to meet someone, you know? And it’s hard.’

I remember the last date I went on before I ran into Oli. A man with a signet ring and fat, sausage-like fingers, talking about himself all evening and how his friends thought he was ‘completely crazy, up for anything, me!’ Yellowish blond thin hair, red face like a baby, eyes that looked anywhere but into mine, and I sat there in silence and thought to myself,
Perhaps he’ll do, perhaps I’m being too picky, that’s what everyone says.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know it’s hard.’

‘Ha.’ Cathy looks at me. ‘Like you’d know.’

‘Oi,’ I say. She claps her hand over her mouth. ‘Shit, Nat, I’m really sorry!’ Red stains her white cheeks. ‘That’s so tactless of me!’

I lean forward on my stool and pat her head, which is all I can reach. ‘It’s fine! Honestly, don’t worry. I wouldn’t know, anyway. I haven’t been out there for ages.’

‘Do you think you will be, soon, then?’

‘Don’t know,’ I say, stretching my fingers out in front of me. ‘We need to talk. He keeps calling, he wants to meet up again. I just haven’t wanted to see him.’

‘He wants to come back, doesn’t he?’ Cathy asks. I nod. ‘Of course he does!’ she says, relieved. ‘You and Oli – you’re together for ever! I mean, you can’t split up!’

‘He slept with someone else,’ I say. ‘Don’t you think that’s a big deal?’

Cathy knits her hands together. Normally so sure of herself, she looks around. ‘Yes, of course it is. But if you’re asking me if it’s something to end your marriage over . . . I don’t know. I’m not in it.’ She smiles, knowing it’s a bad answer. ‘I can’t make that judgement.’

‘Well, I am in it, and I have made that judgement,’ I say. ‘I just don’t know if I can be with him again.’

‘Wow.’ Cathy opens and shuts her mouth. ‘Seriously? But your life – together.’

‘I know.’ My throat is dry. ‘Weren’t you going to start trying for a baby soon, too?’ Now I am knitting my fingers together. I can’t look at her, I don’t want to lose it. I push down the sound I want to make, push it back down somewhere at the back of my throat. ‘No.’

‘Oh. I thought you were.’

‘Well, we’re not. He doesn’t want to. He said he wasn’t ready.’

Cathy flicks a look at me from under her lashes, and doesn’t pursue this. Instead she says, ‘Do you think he’s sorry?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘I think he’s very sorry he’s been chucked out of his nice flat with the big TV and all his DVDs and crap and someone who knows how he likes his coffee in the morning. I think he misses that a lot.’

‘Come on,’ Cathy says. ‘It’s more than that.’

I’m not sure it is for him, and I can’t blame him either. Your relationship is in your home. Your home is where the two of you are for the most part. And your home is where you have your stuff and where you chill out after a bad day. Even after everything that’s happened, our flat is still our flat. It’s where I have my books, where my clothes hang in cupboards, where I keep the letters Granny wrote me, the postcards Jay sent me, the Zabar’s mug I bought in New York with Cathy. I liked having space to put stuff, letting our things mingle together. In Bryant Court, Mum and I improvised almost everything. Her chest of drawers was the trunk she had at boarding school and our clothes hung on a wire rack she bought at a fair; the shelves in the kitchen were too narrow to store anything other than small spice jars, which was ironic as neither of us ever cooked and we lived on takeout or ready-meals and occasionally pasta. So our plates and glasses and mugs were all stacked in a corner, the cutlery in a large patterned glass jar she’d got in Italy.