Pear Shaped (6 page)

Chance would be a fine thing. He’s now been in Portugal for four days and hasn’t even texted me. Still, he’s busy working. And he’s forty-five. Do 45-year-olds really text? Isn’t that a bit teenage? I hate texts anyway, so avoidant, I’d much rather talk. He’s due back tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll call then.

Three days later he phones from Lisbon airport.

‘I was starting to think I’d imagined you,’ I say. And I’m starting to think Laura’s right and there is another woman.

‘Is that a dig?’ he says, with good humour.

‘Have you been terribly busy with work?’

‘It’s not been too bad, actually. A bit of work, a bit of fun.’

‘Are you just one of those people who compartmentalises their life?’

‘No, not really.’

‘So you stayed a few days longer than planned?’

‘Yeah, the Bonders own a place down the coast, they invited me for some golf.’

‘The Bonders?’

‘The venture capital guys.’

‘Are they Portuguese?’

‘Swiss, but they’ve got houses all over the place.’

I daren’t go for a sixth question, the only one I want the answer to, which is: why didn’t you call? Because he is calling.
And I know I’d sound needy and weird. Besides, he’s forty-five. He’s been on a business trip. It’s very early days. We’ve only had three dates. Three great dates and some good sex. Still, you aren’t allowed to expect too much attention at this stage, so Pete tells me, and I should stop being paranoid.

‘So, when are you free to see me, woman?’

I pause. I am genuinely busy this week, plus I want to spend more than just an evening and a morning with him. ‘At the weekend?’

‘What are you doing in the week?’

‘I’m busy.’

‘Friday night?’

‘Busy … I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, so I made other plans.’ And if you’d called me sooner then I wouldn’t have had to …

‘I’m not surprised you’re so popular, a girl with your qualities. Okay, Sunday afternoon, let’s see a movie – all these dinners with you are making me fat!’ Nonsense, he had a gut when I met him!

‘I might be free Saturday night …’ I say.

‘Seeing Rob and the boys,’ he says quickly.

‘Fine, no, Sunday then …’

‘I’ll pick you up at 3pm, I’ll choose the film.’

I like a man who takes control.

‘I’m outside your flat, come on down,’ he says at 3pm on the dot.

‘What car are you in?’

‘The little blue one that makes a funny noise.’

For some reason I imagined he’d drive a BMW or a Golf GTi – something mainstream and fast and solid and a little bit flash.

But no. No, no, no. He is, in fact, behind the wheel of a very shiny, fancy sports car.

What make is it? There is a little crown insignia at the front, but I can’t tell. I know the difference between a Porsche, a Ferrari and a Lamborghini. James does not have a small penis and clearly doesn’t feel the need to drive any of these.

But nowadays Jaguars, Aston Martins, even that Ford with the old Steve McQueen ad – all meld into one.

‘Listen to this,’ he says, and revs the engine, ‘it has the best purr of any car. And it’s shaped like a woman’s body …’

‘Sometimes you sound like such an 80s dickhead,’ I say, smiling as he leans over to open the door for me.

As I step in, I see a large Maserati logo in silver on the  floor. Handy. In case you forget which of your cars you’re driving.

I am surprised and pleased to see what a tip it is inside, as bad as my Honda Accord. Boots, fleeces, mud, sweet wrappers, even an empty white mug in the drinks holder, that’s surely meant to accommodate a goblet of Krug.

I do so like this about James. He is not precious about things, he’s carefree, careless even. I had a boyfriend at college who had a three-day tantrum after I knocked his
Raybans onto the floor as I handed him an orange juice at a Happy Chef on the M6. I hate people who treat generic branded goods like they’re family heirlooms; it’s just stuff.

‘So, what’s with this car?’ I say, trying not to sound impressed.

‘A little toy I bought myself when the Bonders bought 25% equity in JSA. I do like the occasional toy.’

‘How much did they pay you?’ Blunt, but I’m trying to work out just how fancy this car is.

‘Three.’

‘£300,000?’ If that’s 25%, that’s a £1.2 million pound business. Not bad for selling socks.

And a whole house in Camden must be worth a million at least.

He laughs. ‘You’re so sweet, Soph. Add an 0.’

‘Oh.’ Oh, oh, oh.

We’re driving to the Curzon in Soho. I am still in shock about his wealth.

My immediate reaction had been: my God. I’ve found a prince, the last handsome, tall, not-bald multimillionaire in London. That’s lottery ticket win money. That doesn’t happen. Well, the odds are 1 in 12 million.

But a nanosecond later the discovery has started to bother me. It has set off various small alarms that I’m trying to put on snooze:

That sort of money rockets him in to a different universe.

That sort of money lets him do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, without consequence.

That sort of money goes to a man’s head. It is power.

No one makes that much money without being ruthless and hard as nails along the way.

People want to be close to a man like that. Men, yes, but the women. The type of women who would not look at him twice if he was a regular guy. That explains the Wolford model.

I’m bloody glad I didn’t know he was rich when I first met him. I wish I didn’t know now.

Maybe he doesn’t own the whole company; maybe his dad and brother own half …

‘Play some music, would you?’ I say, stroking his thick dark hair and thinking how good his genes are, and hoping if we have kids they’ll inherit his straight, shiny locks rather than my curls.

James fiddles with his CD player and on comes the soundtrack to the inner circle of hell: Dido, Flo Rida, some vocoder crap, the sort of banging dance music they play in gyms.

‘Have you not got the Crazy Frog tune?’ I say.

He presses the forward button and on comes Sam Cook.

‘Well recovered,’ I say.

There is a queue of cars in front of us, and James suddenly pulls to the left and speeds down the bus lane.

‘Bus lane,’ I say.

‘It’s fine.’

‘It says “At any time”.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘You’ll get a ticket.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Just because you’ve got a crown on your steering wheel doesn’t mean you can act like royalty.’

‘It’s a trident, love.’

‘What about the people on buses? There are bus lanes for a reason.’

‘They’ll still get there,’ he says.

‘If I was on that bus, I’d think you were a dick,’ I say.

‘But you’re not. You’re in my car.’

He has booked tickets to see
Antichrist
, because he thought I’d like an art house film. The cinema is very warm, and half an hour into the film, he falls asleep. Occasionally I nudge him but he looks extremely content, and quite frankly I wish I could sleep through it too.

As the end credits roll I wake him up. ‘You missed the bit where she drills through his leg, and the bit where she wanks him off and blood spurts out of his cock,’ I say.

He shudders. ‘Thank God.’

‘What now,’ I say, ‘Chinatown for some duck pancakes?’

‘I thought you might like to have dinner at mine.’

‘You’re going to cook for me?’

‘I was thinking more like a takeaway,’ he says.

‘Why don’t we cook?’

‘You’ll see why.’

‘Are you sure your wife’s not at home tonight?’

‘She’s on holiday with the kids and my three mistresses,’ he says.

He pulls up outside a house in Fitzroy Road. That’s Primrose Hill, not Camden. It has the loveliest front door of all the houses on the street – a deep, inky blue, with a semi-circular glass window at the top, like the sun rising.

This is all too good to be true. He’s too sexy, too rich, too tall, too much fun, too interesting, too smart, that door is too perfect. You don’t get to have all this in one person. Maybe you get three of the above but the guy turns out to be a cokehead or a depressive. James is the golden ticket. Something must be wrong.

Inside, everything is homely and unpretentious. On a low wooden sideboard sits a beautiful old-fashioned globe, the countries in faded pinks and yellows and greens and blues.

‘Who are these guys?’ I say, looking at the framed photos next to the globe.

‘That’s me and Rob in Mexico.’

‘You look happy,’ I say.

‘We’d just been skydiving,’ he says. ‘I think I was still high.’

‘And in this one? That must be your grandfather … father’s side?’ I say, looking at a faded photo of a stern looking man with James’s nose and dark eyebrows, his hand on the shoulder of a young boy who’s trying not to giggle. ‘Your hair was so blonde!’

‘My grandad was, what, early seventies? Still smoking thirty a day and drinking a large whisky before lunch. He made me go and find ten different types of leaves in Epping Forest while he sat on that bench with a hip flask, smoking and reading the
Essex Chronicle
.’

‘And this one! Look at your hair! How old are you here?’

‘Ten. June 3rd, 1975, Woodford Under 11s Junior Chess Champion.’

‘Such a nerd!’ I say. ‘Do you still play?’

‘Not really. But I’ll give you a game if you don’t mind losing,’ he says.

‘I love losing. So, why can’t we cook?’ I say, as we head downstairs to his kitchen.

‘You’ll see.’ And I do. His kitchen is like a student dig. He has a double electric hob, a microwave and a tiny, none-too-clean oven. I open one cupboard and see three Pot Noodles and two tins of tuna. In the next cupboard is some Tesco own brand pasta. ‘I need a wife,’ he says. ‘A wife who can cook!’

‘What’s in here?’ I say, spying a waist-high fridge in the corner.

‘Don’t look!’ he says, but it’s too late. I open the door and see that his fridge has no shelves at all. The few things in it are all stacked on top of each other at the bottom.

‘What’s that all about?’

‘I broke the shelves a while back, I keep meaning to replace them, but I never get round to it …’ he says.

‘How do you even break a fridge shelf?’

‘Ask Jack Daniels,’ he says.

‘I have never seen anything like that,’ I say. ‘How come the rest of your house is so lovely and your kitchen’s so shit?’

He laughs. ‘I’ve been travelling so much in the last year, it’s not been a priority. I’ll get round to it soon.’

‘Takeaway it is,’ I say.

‘There’s a great Japanese on Parkway, I’ll pop out and get some,’ he says, ‘No, it’s Sunday … pizza?’

‘Pizza’s good,’ I say. ‘Or I see you’re harbouring a lovely selection of Pot Noodles in your cupboard.’

‘Don’t say you like Pot Noodle or I’ll think I’ve dreamt you,’ he says.

‘I don’t mind it, if I’m drunk,’ I say. ‘Let’s get pizza. A bit more sociable, isn’t it?’

We lie on his sofa and eat a spicy meat pizza from his local takeaway. I’d never normally eat meatballs from a delivery place – I work at Fletchers, I know how bad a bad meatball
can be. But James fancies meatballs, and I fancy James, and they taste delicious.

‘My friend in New York’s just had a baby and called him “Domino”,’ I say.

‘That’s a terrible name,’ he says.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘If I had a boy I’d call him Genghis,’ he says.

‘Gengis Stephens, nice ring. What about girls’ names?’

‘What do you think’s nice?

‘Don’t know. Lauren’s pretty. Olivia, maybe too posh. Martha?’

‘Martha’s a fat girl’s name,’ he says.

‘No, it’s not!’

‘How about Yasmine Jayde, and Anoushka Rose.’

‘You’re not calling our daughters after Bratz dolls and air fresheners.’

‘I’m the husband, you will obey,’ he says, beating his chest.

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ I say. ‘– By the way, do you normally date women a lot younger than you?’ I know Celine is now forty-two, but presumably if he wants children, he’ll want a wife under forty.

‘You’re a few years older than what I’d normally go for,’ he says.

‘Outrageous! You’re pushing fifty!’ I say.

‘Shhhh,’ he puts his finger to my lips.

Truth is we both know his age doesn’t matter. You can knock a year off his real age for every million in his bank
account: Forty-five, thirty-five, thirty-three … now he’s my age. Knock another year off for each inch over five foot seven. Twenty-six. A full head of hair buys at least five. Excellent personal hygiene, another couple. Good in bed, another five. He’s officially fourteen.

Yep, I am dating a teenage boy.

He has two very different faces. When he frowns, concentrates or looks anxious – 40% of the time – he looks Sicilian and cruel and sexy; when he smiles he looks like a warm, happy, child. His face glazes with delight. Later, when we are together, I take photos of him, and when people ask to see them, they think they’re looking at two different people. He is a chameleon. There is something about him that makes me want to hold on to him forever.

‘He is really, really rich,’ I say to Laura the following day.

‘Good for him.’

‘I wish he didn’t have that much money.’

‘What would you prefer, three million?’

‘I could even go to four …’

‘Whatever, Soph. It’s a number, isn’t it? Doesn’t make anyone truly happy.’

Insert the cliché of your choice, but she is, I promise you, correct.

It is almost April and I have finally pinned Devron down and made him taste the trifles and fools he should’ve eaten weeks ago. I hate waiting for anything and anyone, but I particularly hate waiting for product sign-off from a man who won’t go to a restaurant that doesn’t serve a well-done steak and wedges.

‘What’s the life like on this one?’ he says, sliding his finger along the top of a chocolate trifle I was planning on taking round to Laura and Dave’s at the weekend.

‘Seven. This is life minus three,’ I say – we’re three days off the ‘eat by’ date, so four days into the pudding’s life.

‘And how does the consistency of that hold up on minus one?’ He points to a raspberry trifle. Devron will always ask one question that makes him sound knowledgeable, but blindfold him and he doesn’t know the difference between a blackberry and a blackcurrant.