Pear Shaped (11 page)

‘I like this,’ he says.

‘You would – it’s about you,’ I say.

‘Huh?’

‘Listen to the lyrics,’ I say. He does, then says, ‘but you’re my bird, and you can sing.’

‘I’m not
your bird
anymore. And you’re entirely missing the point.’

Next up comes Willy Nelson, ‘Always on My Mind.’ He listens for ten seconds, then tries to flick forward.

‘That’s a beautiful song!’ I say.

‘No,’ he shakes his head. ‘It’s sad. What a waste, spending all that time thinking about someone.’

‘That’s why it’s beautiful, dummy,’ I say. ‘Not as beautiful as Flo Rida I know …’

He laughs. ‘I watched a DVD the other night,
Being John Malkovich
, have you seen it? It’s your sort of mad, artsy thing,’ he says.

‘Brilliant film,’ I say. That and
Eternal Sunshine
…’

‘Is that where they’re trying to turn the sun out?’

‘No, that’s
Sunshine. Eternal Sunshine
is about love and memory – if you could, would you zap away all your painful memories. You should watch it, even Jim Carrey is great in it.’

‘Doesn’t sound as good as
Dumb and Dumber
,’ he says, laughing.

‘I love John Malkovich,’ I say. ‘He can do
Con Air
and
Dangerous Liaisons
and be entirely seductive in both.’

‘
Dangerous Liaisons
! I love that film. He destroys her, even though he loves her.’

‘I can barely watch it,’ I say. ‘Such cruelty …’

For the rest of the drive home we discuss music and film and TV and we sing the theme tune to The Muppets, and talk about how much we love that scene in
Airplane!
where the girl is on the drip, and before I know it, we are pulling up outside my block of flats.

‘Thanks for the ride,’ I say, raising my eyebrows.

‘I’m coming in,’ he says.

‘Coming in where?’ I say.

‘To your flat.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s my flat. Where I live.’

‘Yes,’ he nods. ‘I know that.’

‘Why are you coming in?’

‘Because.’

‘Because what?’

‘Because I want to.’

‘You want to.’

He nods.

‘What, just for a cup of tea, to pass the time?’

‘No, not just for a cup of tea, to pass the time,’ he says.

‘Because if you really just want something simple – like a cup of tea – to pass the time, you could just go to the tea shop round the corner. You know that, right?’

‘I don’t just want a cup of tea, Sophie,’ he says, and opens the car door and gets out.

And we both fully understand the significance of this conversation, even though the words remain unspoken.

That night we have a lot of sex, and at first I feel a self-loathing that makes me weak.

‘What is it, what’s wrong?’ says James.

‘I feel like I’m on death row,’ I say.

‘Why?’

‘What if you turn around in five minutes or five months and say exactly the same thing …’

‘So what if I do? People break up for a million reasons.’

‘If I take you back and you pull this shit again, I’ll blame myself, as well as you. Fool me once …’

‘Soph, you have got to let your guard down. This is never going to work if you’re going to be all defensive.’

‘No, you should be the one trying to prove that you’re good enough for me,’ I say.

He shrugs: take it or leave it.

If I could zap away all my painful memories, I’d probably do so at exactly this point, in this conversation. That, or head straight for the lobotomy.

‘You’ve got to take a risk,’ he says.

Yes, I agree. But all the risk is on my side.

And then I think of being a horse stealer and how I can take on the world and I think: I know I am more than good enough for this man. I can win this.

A week after the ‘outburst’, as he has coyly named it, James asks me, nervously, if I’d like to come for a drink with his friend Mallard.

‘Mallard?’

‘Gary. He’s one of my oldest friends from uni.’

‘Why Mallard?’

‘A particularly drunken incident at the Nottingham Fresher’s Fair, 1982 …’

‘Is he married?’

‘Divorced. Twice.’

‘What happened?’

‘Mal’s got a rather different definition of fidelity than either of the women he married.’

‘Nice.’

‘You know how it is. He’s a bond trader, those guys work hard, play hard …’

‘Kids?’

‘Five.’

‘By the wives?’

‘Two, one, and two by his secretary. You’ll like him, he’s fun.’

What’s that line about judging someone by the company they keep? Still, wouldn’t be too much fun if all his friends were of the cloth …

The following Saturday night we are in the bar at the Soho Hotel, eating the ‘free’ spicy peanuts that accompany £11 glasses of wine, waiting for Mal and his new girlfriend to join us.

James has eaten handfuls of nuts and pushes the bowl in my direction. I carry on eating them.

‘Don’t ruin your appetite, gannet,’ says James.

I feel myself turn scarlet, but Mal and his girlfriend arrive arm in arm, giggling, before I can pick him up on it.

I’ve imagined the girlfriend would be some young bimbo but she is nothing of the sort. She has intelligent eyes, bobbed brown hair, glasses. She’s at least forty, very natural, looks like an optician. She is wearing a simple black dress, flat shoes, discreet silver earrings.

‘I’m Julia,’ she says, extending a hand to James, who looks at her with surprise and a touch of disappointment.

‘You must be Sophie,’ says Mal. From the little James has told me about him, I’m convinced I’m going to hate Mal.

He is five foot ten with a huge gut, red hair, crap teeth. He’s wearing a stripy polo shirt and jeans, and unlike James,
he really does look like a 45-year-old. That’ll be five kids and two sets of alimony.

But there is something about him that is entirely charming. He’s very bright, very quick-witted, very funny. He buys a bottle of champagne, and promptly tells us an obscene anecdote about his colleague, a lap dancer and a bathtub filled with Chablis. I wonder if he is actually the ‘colleague’ in question. His arm rests round Julia’s shoulder; she holds his hand. We are all laughing.

Another bottle down and Julia excuses herself for the loo.

‘What do you think, mate?’ says Mal, leaning in towards James the moment she’s out of earshot.

‘What’s going on there?’ says James.

‘I knew you’d be surprised. I’m telling you, I think she’s the one.’

‘Really?’ says James, doubt in his voice.

‘Mate, all those years chasing beautiful dumb women. But this one, God! I never had a woman who makes me laugh like she does.’

I am pondering how tragic this statement is as James now leans forward, interested. ‘But how do you know you’re not going to get, you know, bored with the plain, funny one …’

The plain, funny one? I can’t believe these two are having this conversation within my earshot. I get up to go to the bar.

‘Where are you off to?’ demands James.

‘To get some water.’ To get away from you two.

‘Sit. Mal, get Soph some water.’ Mal goes off to the bar and gives my shoulder a friendly squeeze.

‘Did I tell you Mal’s got another kid on the way?’ says James.

‘Number six!’ I’m surprised, given Julia’s age.

‘He’s got super-spunk – he could hit you from here,’ says James, looking behind him at Mal who is standing at the bar.

‘I could hit
you
from here,’ I say, thinking back to the gannet comment.

He gives me a look of incomprehension as Julia comes back to the table and sits down.

‘Sophie, I hear you’re a pudding maker!’ she smiles warmly.

‘She’s the Queen of Puddings,’ says James proudly.

‘That sounds like the best job in the world,’ says Julia, ‘what do you actually do?’

‘Oooh, it’s very tough. I spend about six hours a day eating custard,’ I say.

‘I love custard,’ says Julia, patting her tiny belly.

‘Me too,’ says James. ‘She keeps stuffing me with it, trying to kill me off with an early heart attack.’

‘Yeah, I’m a feeder, like one of those freaky Arizona perverts,’ I say.

‘So, when’s it due?’ says James, pointing at Julia’s stomach.

‘Sorry?’ She looks confused. Maybe she’s less than three months and Mal shouldn’t have told James.

I realise a split second before James does what’s happened. A look of panic passes over his face. How the fuck’s he going to get out of this one? Why is he friends with such a shitbag?

‘When are we due? At the restaurant … tummies … need filling.’ I jump in, cack-handed, red-faced.

‘Er, Mal booked the table,’ she says, taking a swig of her champagne, and giving James a look of slow understanding. ‘Excuse me a minute,’ she says, putting her half-drunk glass on the table, pushing herself up from the chair, and heading to the bar.

James looks at me, crestfallen.

I shake my head. Behind him, I can see Julia and Mal talking. He looks as though he’s been slapped in the face, though Julia’s hands remain by her sides. A moment later she walks out calmly, ten seconds later he chases after.

‘Looks like it’s a table for two,’ I say, the least shocked of the four of us, but still shocked.

‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘That’s something, even for Mal.’

‘Your friend is an utter imbecile. How has a man who looks like that got the audacity to shit on a woman like Julia, what, just ’cause he’s got money? And who’s he got pregnant this time? His secretary again? What a pig.’

‘Don’t judge him so harshly, Soph.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘There are two sides to every story.’

‘There are at least three sides to this one and none of them reflect well on your idiot friend.’

He looks troubled. Is he bothered that he blurted his friend’s secret? That his gaffe has cost Mal a shag? Or that I am slagging off one of his best mates? It seems like the latter.

‘Let’s go to the restaurant, babe.’

Mal must have really been trying to impress Julia as he’s booked a table at a supremely poncey Michelin starred restaurant in Covent Garden. When James and I walk in, squabbling about who would win in an underwater backgammon championship – him, because he can hold his breath longer, or me, because I play quicker and I’m better at backgammon – we seem to be the only ones in even vaguely ebullient mood.

It’s like walking into synagogue on Yom Kippur, except with a bit more food – but not much. On people’s plates, tiny offerings sit surrounded in spittles of froth and dots of jus. Faces turn to look at us, slightly angry and confused. How has it come to this? Why am I paying £85 before wine for two bites of a duck with a rhubarb foam on the side?

‘Should have eaten more of those peanuts at the bar,’ I say, raising an eyebrow at James. He nods grudgingly and we give Mal’s name to the maître d’.

‘This is a table for four, yes? We cannot seat you till the other guests arrive.’

‘It’s just us,’ says James, politely.

‘But sir, the booking has been made for four. No one has telephoned to let us know.’

‘Ok, fair enough, it was a last minute change.’

‘But our policy is that we must be notified by telephone in advance if the numbers change.’

James looks at the room, which has five empty tables. ‘Do you want me to phone you now and tell you?’ he takes out his mobile and looks the guy in the eye with a fraction of a smile.

The maître d’ sighs. ‘Follow me please, sir.’

We sit down and I ask for a glass of tap water. I’ve had a bit too much wine on too empty a stomach.

‘Sparkling or still, Madame?’

‘Tap. Please,’ I say, blushing.

Ten minutes later the waiter brings over a couple of menus. ‘Please could I have some tap water?’ I ask, and the waiter nods and disappears again.

I can feel myself on the verge of impatience and open the menu.

‘I’m starving,’ I say, then read on the menu a list of expensive and overly complex combinations, none of which appeal. ‘Shot glass of samphire and pike soup; Pork and cannellini bean risotto with vanilla pod and heirloom tomatoes; Sour cherry mousse with Crottin de Chavignol goat’s cheese from La Maison de Fromage …’ What I really fancy is a Big Mac, with plastique cheese from La Maison de McDonalds.

James is twitching. His fourth finger niggles at his right eyebrow, a sign I have come to learn means he’s slightly angry.

The waiter is suddenly upon us with a basket of five amazing looking breads. ‘Bread?’ he says impatiently.

‘Wow. What are they?’ I say.

‘Walnut-and-raisin-brioche-sourdough-potato-and-rosemary-sunblushed-tomato,’ he recites, as if I’m a total dolt for not knowing.

He dumps a piece of brioche on my plate with shiny tongs.

‘Could we please have some butter, and a glass of tap water?’ I say, but the waiter has already walked away. I raise my eyebrows at James, and he rubs his face with his hand, covering his mouth.

‘Good bread … Right! Tell me more about your new business,’ I say.

‘Yeah, so the Bonders are financing 40%, and we’ll raise the equity through investment funds. We should launch this side of the year.’

‘That soon? You’ll be busy. I’m drunk, I need more bread, do you need more bread?’

He nods firmly.

‘Excuse me!’ I say as the waiter steams past us, refusing to make eye contact. ‘Excuse me?’

He emits an audible huff, makes a pointed turn and then stands to attention at our table. And then puts on his smile. ‘Yes?’

‘Could we please have some more bread?’ I say.

‘You do know there is a surcharge for extra bread,’ he says with a tiny smile. He is ‘joking’ and James and I both ‘understand’ that he is ‘joking’.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ says James, with an even tinier smile. ‘Why don’t you practise your stand-up routine while you’re getting our coats?’

The waiter pulls a face I can only describe as ultra-French, and goes to fetch our coats. I high-five James, and tell him I couldn’t agree with him more.

Outside it’s pouring with rain. We’re standing on the junction of Shaftesbury Avenue and Tottenham Court Road. There’s no chance of a taxi.