Love Always (30 page)

He says it as though it’s not a big deal. I gape at him. ‘You guys – you split up? I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, yes.’ He scratches his shoulder, reaching behind with his arm and really concentrating, as if it’s important to scratch it properly.

‘But – you never said. How – when? When was it?’

‘A month ago,’ Ben says. ‘Yeah.’ He looks down into his pint. ‘It’s pretty sad.’

‘Was it – was it a bad break-up?’

He looks up and around the crowded pub but doesn’t meet my eye. ‘It wasn’t good.’

He won’t look at me. Even though Ben is pretty chilled, he’s still a bloke. There’s a lot of stuff you just don’t get out of them.

‘How long –’ I begin, but he says quickly, ‘Yeah, two years. It was painful. But we get on, that’s why we’re still working together. It’s weird sometimes, but . . . it’s for the best, I suppose.’

‘Can I ask what happened?’ I push the mess I’ve made with the new mat out of the way, embarrassed.

‘Nothing really.’ He looks at me now. ‘Just that . . .’ He pauses. ‘We were together for two years and . . . Yep.’

‘“Yep”?’

Ben smiles. ‘Well . . . I’ve come to realise – we both did – that it’s better to be alone than be in a relationship that’s not right.’

I nod emphatically. ‘Sure.’

‘And if you know you don’t want to be with that person, that you don’t love them any more, it’s best to do something about it sooner rather than later.’

‘You don’t sound like most boys I know,’ I say. ‘Most of them stick with it but they behave so craply the girl eventually has to dump them.’

Ben looks cross. ‘I hate the way people just assume all men are going to be like that.’ He mimics a busybody with a quavering voice, ‘“Oh, he’s such a useless
man
!” Really pisses me off. Girls do it, mainly. Girls shouldn’t do it. They shouldn’t assign gender roles. They know what it’s like.’ He frowns, so deeply that I laugh.

‘Hello, second-wave feminist!’ I hold up my hand. ‘You go, girl!’

‘Everyone should be a feminist,’ Ben says. ‘I don’t understand people who say, “I’m not sure I’m a feminist.” It’s like saying, “I think I might be racist.” You get my mum on the subject. Wow.’

Ben’s mum is a professor of history at Queen Mary and Westfield College. She is amazing – what my friend Maura who lives round the corner calls a Necklace Lady – one of those cool fifty-plus women with big frizzy hair who wear draped jersey and huge, bold, signature necklaces.

‘My mum doesn’t believe in all that,’ I say. ‘Which is so weird, when you think about it. She acts like a young ingénue in a Jane Austen novel when any man speaks to her, all batting eyelashes and trembling voice. And she’s tough. She raised me on my own, hardly any money, without a dad.’

‘Do you ever wonder who he was? Your dad?’ Ben asks. ‘You never talk about it.’

‘A bit more lately, what with everything,’ I admit. ‘It’s made me think about all that stuff more. Where you come from, who your family is. Etcetera.’

‘Just “Etcetera”?’ He smiles, and I think how nice it is to talk about this with someone, I never do.

‘Have you ever thought it might be someone you know?’

‘No, not really,’ I say. ‘I think it really is just some guy she never saw again.’

‘I know, but—’ Ben puts his pint down and wipes his forehead. The noise in the pub seems to go up a notch, all of a sudden. ‘Your mum – I mean, you don’t necessarily believe what she says all the time, do you?’

‘I don’t, sadly. Why?’

‘Well, it must be something you think about. Half your family tree is missing. Where you come from, isn’t it interesting?’

‘I suppose so,’ I say. ‘Like your grandfather – you’ve always been interested in his family, the Muslim side.’

‘He’s not Muslim, he’s Hindu.’

‘But I thought he was from Lahore, from Pakistan?’

‘Yeah, but he’s not Muslim. There were loads of Hindus there before Partition,’ I explain. Everyone always assumes Arvind is Muslim. I don’t blame them, but his name alone should show he’s not. ‘You’re right, I’d love to go there. I am interested in it. But it’s only a quarter of me, you’re right. There’s another whole half. Look at Jay,’ I say. ‘His mum’s from Mumbai, his dad’s half Indian – he’s three-quarters there. Me, I’m only a quarter there. I used to wonder a lot about the other half.’

‘I would, if I was you,’ Ben says. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘If you ever want some help with it,’ Ben says. ‘Just ask.’

‘What, have you got a DNA database in your studio?’ I ask.

He grins. ‘I mean it. Just – anything I can do. Just someone to talk to.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Ben.’

We smile uncertainly at each other in the crowded bar, and there’s a pause, though everyone else around us is laughing and having a good time. Perhaps I should go. I don’t want to, though. I glance at my watch, just as he says, ‘One more drink?’

And I don’t say, No, I’ll be off. I look at him, and I think about being at home, waiting for Oli to turn up or not, when I could be here, and I push my glass towards him, and I say, ‘Yes, please. Same again.’

‘Coming right up,’ he says, and we sort of know it’s not going to be just one more drink.

Chapter Thirty-Three

So we have another drink, and another, and it’s seven o’clock and then it’s eight-thirty, and we talk about a new commission Ben’s just got, a photo-essay on a Countryside Alliance march taking place next week, and about my new collection, and about Les and the writers’ collective with whom we are both obsessed, and about Jamie’s love life – Jamie being the slightly more amenable of the two receptionists whom I think Ben has a crush on, mainly because she is beautiful, Sophie-Dahl-style, but also fascinating because her boyfriend is an extremely short pockmarked Russian guy, not obviously rich but we think he must be.

Then we have another drink and talk about what we’re working on, and I point out the two girls at the bar and how one of them is wearing this beautiful necklace made up of different charms, and how I want to copy it, and Ben goes up to them super-politely and asks if we can take a photo of her necklace. And he manages to do it without sounding creepy, and the girls are really lovely, and he snaps away a couple of times because he has a little camera he always carries around with him. Then we have another drink, but somewhere along the line we’ve forgotten we got to the pub early, and nine-thirty seems deceptively early, and we’re so pleased about this we have another drink. In all this time Oli doesn’t call, and after a while I put my phone in my bag, because I’m sick of checking it every five minutes.

At ten-thirty we are both very hungry, and we know we have to go, and we stumble out of the Ten Bells onto the street, waving bye to the girls, who are called Claire and Leah and who are lovely.

The road is slick with rain and it is still freezing cold. It’s mid-March, and this winter feels as though it will never end. We set off down Fournier Street; I’m just round the corner. As we walk, Ben hums to himself. He always does, I realise. I can hear him in his studio, sometimes, if the window’s open. I don’t think he knows he does it.

‘What are you humming?’

He makes a noise like a scarily authentic trumpet. ‘“When the Saints Go Marching In”,’ he says. ‘It’s a good song to keep you warm. I’m cold.’

‘Me too,’ I say. He puts his arm round me and pulls me tight. He has one of those large, sensible puffa jackets like security guards wear and it is nice and comforting. I lean my head against it as we walk, remembering how comforting he is, though we are walking slightly unevenly.

We’re on the corner of Wilkes Street, and then I’ll be home. Ben stops and says, into my ear, ‘Natasha. I’m glad every-thing’s turning out OK for you. I really am.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure it is, but thanks. I’m glad you think so.’

‘I was worried about you, for a while there.’ His breath is on my ear; it is dry and warm.

I stop, and he nearly trips over me. ‘Ah, that’s nice. Why?’

‘Well . . .’ Ben says. ‘I just meant . . . Oh, shit.’

‘What?’

‘I’m about to be rude. I’ve had a lot to drink. It’s taken the edge off.’

I close my eyes. ‘I’ve had six vodka lime and sodas. Possibly seven. Eight. Nine. Go on.’

Ben says, ‘I meant you and Oli.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I just didn’t . . . didn’t see you staying together. I know we only met a couple of times, but – just watching the two of you together, the way you talk about him – I always thought he wasn’t good enough for you.’ He nods politely. ‘OK, I’ll be off then. Off to bang my head repeatedly against a rock.’ He walks off and I follow him.

‘I know,’ I call. He stops. ‘What?’

‘I know you think that,’ I say. ‘Really?’

‘Really,’ I say. ‘I know you didn’t like Oli, Ben.’ He starts to protest but I carry on. ‘I’m not stupid. But he was my husband.’

‘OK.’ Ben nods and runs both his hands over his shorn hair, his kind face smiling at me. ‘You’re right. I’m being a dick, Nat, I’m sorry. It’s just I want you to be happy.’

‘But I was happy,’ I say. ‘We were happy, for a while.’

‘Right,’ he says, but there’s a note of disbelief in his voice and for the first time I feel myself getting angry.

‘We were,’ I said. ‘I loved him – I – I don’t know, perhaps I still do.’

When I say this out loud, I realise how long I’ve been wanting to say it.

‘You don’t deserve him,’ Ben says. He is staring into my eyes. ‘You should be with someone who wants you to be happy, Nat. Who it’s easy to be with. Easy. Like . . . like it is with you and me.’

He leans forward. I don’t say anything. I just move towards him, resting my head on his shoulder. It is so nice to be held by someone again after so long. He puts his arms round me, and I give in to it, sinking into his comfortable jacket and the comfortableness of him, how lovely he is, how kind, how handsome . . . how my head fits into the crook of his neck the way it’s supposed to. The way it’s supposed to.

I look up at him and he moves his head towards me just enough, so his lips are touching mine. And he whispers, so his lips brush mine, ‘You and me.’

He pushes his mouth against mine, and I close my eyes, feeling the wetness of his tongue sliding into my mouth. He moves against me, and he sighs, and pulls me towards him; his lips are hard on mine, his fingers are on my neck, and it’s as if I’m coming alive again, tingling all over.

His skin is so sweet, the touch of his kiss is so alarmingly exciting, I push myself against him for a few glorious moments. I want him to pull me tighter towards him, to totally sweep me up, to carry on kissing me, feeling his hands on me, holding me close, it is amazing . . .

And then my phone rings. I should ignore it, I should stop. But in the quiet street it is loud. As if I’m coming awake, out of a dream, I pull away from Ben, step backwards. I push him away, my palm flat on his chest, and snatch the phone out of my bag.

‘Ol?’ I say. I pause. ‘Where are you? You’re – now? You’re coming now? OK – um, yeah, that’s – that’s fine. See you in a minute.’ I put the phone away, my eyes still locked with Ben’s. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and look at my fingers, as if he’s poisoned me. He is staring, standing stock-still, in the shadow of the huge church, the cobbles shining in the moon and the rain.

‘So Oli’s coming over, then, is he?’ Ben’s voice is cold. ‘You’re running off. He says, “Jump,” you say, “How high, Oli?”’

My stomach is churning, I think I’m going to be sick. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, breathing heavily, my heart pounding almost painfully in my chest. My hair is falling over my shoulders, around my face, and I back away, staring into his face. ‘I have to go, we should never – I’m so sorry . . . we should never have done this.’

‘Why?’ he says. He’s almost smiling. He reaches out to touch me, and ends up cupping my elbow in his palm. His hands are big and strong. ‘Natasha, you must have known this was going to happen.’

‘No!’ I say, pulled towards him by his hand on my elbow, and by a huge desire to kiss him again. I shake my head at him. ‘Absolutely not, Ben, no!’

And then the doubt that can almost immediately cover the bravado of taking an action like this comes over him. ‘But—’

I put my hand underneath his and remove my arm from his grip. ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘It’s too soon. It’s too soon. Oli and I, we only just split up, and I don’t know what’s going to happen, and—’

‘You do know!’ he says, almost impatiently, and he steps forward again, as if to touch me, but instead he clenches his hands into fists by his sides, his knuckles white with frustration. A passer-by scurries alongside the wall of the church, and we both turn. Ben lowers his voice. ‘Natasha – can’t you see? He’s never going to change, what are you waiting around for?’ He trails off. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

I stare at him again. ‘That’s horrible.’

‘Not horrible.’ His voice is low and soft. ‘It’s because I want you to be happy. It’s because – God, can’t you see it? I’m in love with you, Natasha – I have been for a while.’ And he reaches up to his chest, and touches his heart with his fingers. I don’t think he realises he’s doing it.

‘You’re what?’

‘I’ve fallen for you. What the hell. I have fallen for you. Your smile, the way you bend your head when you’re embarrassed, your long legs . . .’ He opens his hands, his eyes burning into me. ‘How talented you are, and you don’t see it, how tough you try to be, how sad you are, and how happy you deserve to be. You’re so strong all the time and you don’t always have to be. You need someone to look after you.’

‘Stop it, Ben,’ I say, and I’m trying not to shake. ‘Stop it.’

‘You deserve everything, Nat.’ He nods. ‘And you don’t deserve him. You deserve someone much better.’

‘What? Like you?’ I practically spit the words out, sudden anger coursing through me. ‘How dare you,’ I say. ‘Just because you’re single again, and you don’t like Oli, and you think you know me – you don’t know me, Ben! We’re colleagues, we’re not . . .’ I shake my head, looking for the right words. His eyes are still on me, searching my face. I think again how naked he looks without the beard and hair. Defenceless. I don’t want to hurt him. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s probably best if – I’m going to go now.’

‘Nat – don’t go –’ he calls. I turn and run up the street. He is following me.

‘Please, just leave, just let me go!’ I am almost hysterical. I turn in to my road, which is completely dead, and as I do I look back down Wilkes Street. Ben is standing there, watching me, a lone figure, dark in the yellowing lamplight. He turns and walks away.

My phone rings again and I pick it up, unlocking the front door.

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘You’re back already?’

‘Yes,’ Oli says, his voice so familiar it beats a tattoo in my head. ‘Let myself in. Is it OK? ’S’not too late? For a visit?’

He’s drunk. I’m drunk. I know what I’m about to do. Slowly, I shut the door and go upstairs, wondering where the hell that came from, whether it’s always been there, and wishing, with a desire I tell myself is completely childish, that Ben were still here now, that I was in his arms, my head on his broad, comforting, safe chest, feeling his heart beating underneath. His heart.