State We're In (27 page)

‘The right opportunity didn't come along,' he replies, telling me precisely nothing.

‘So that's why you snatch at every opportunity that comes your way now, hey?'

‘Suppose.'

‘Is that something you got from your father?'

‘You could say that.' Dean doesn't look happy about the similarity I've drawn. ‘From what I understand, my father certainly likes an adventure, and he taught me to stand on my own two feet.' He picks up his glass and takes a big gulp. I get the feeling that just for once he might have liked there to be alcohol in it.

Maybe I'm emboldened by the cocktail, but I decide to take a chance; I honestly think it will be good for him to talk things through. ‘Why did your dad leave?' I probe.

‘The usual reason: he met someone else. In fact he was always meeting other someones, but apparently one came along that was a bit special.'

‘I see.'

‘The thing is, Jo, in the world that you live in, the one that was a bit special should have been my mother, and then that should have been it.'

‘Yes.'

‘That's why I struggle to believe in your theory of “the One”. Isn't there just a new one every so often?'

I can't argue with his logic even though I dearly want to. ‘You think relationships are a bit like buses?' I joke.

‘Yeah, nothing, and then three come along all at once.' Dean grins, but inexplicably I feel a flash of jealousy.

I try to maintain a jokey tone. ‘In your dreams.' The fact is, I'm irritated by the thought of these three women that Dean may or may not be dating. The thought of him kissing other women, stroking their thighs, licking their nipples, jumps into my head. That's not right. I think about the waitress, who has suddenly become a conduit for my irrational irritation. She reappears as though she's a genie.

‘Hey, how are you doing here? Would you like to order any more drinks?' I glare at her and want to shoo her away, but she's oblivious to my wishes; it's all about Dean. She actually goes to put his napkin on his lap! He orders another round.

The moment she leaves us alone I blurt, ‘That waitress likes you.'

‘I know. She slipped her number into my jacket pocket.'

‘She did what?' I'm outraged. ‘But you're with me.'

‘Well, not technically.'

‘But don't you think she thinks we are a couple on a date?'

‘Probably. I don't think she cares. I think she's the audacious type.'

‘Does that happen a lot? People pressing their numbers on you.'

‘Often enough.'

I have never slipped my number into a man's jacket pocket, let alone a man who is dining with another woman, but of course women would press their numbers on Dean. Look at him. He's gorgeous. He has the sort of face that movie producers scout for. His skin is clear and fine; it rests on his strong and sculptured bones. He's blemish-free, with no sign of ingrowing stubble, whiteheads or even those tiny red spots that come out to play after a chocolate binge. He's tanned, and his tan suggests good health and a wealth of experience. He says he's hardly slept in days and the slightly darker skin under his eyes testifies as much, but even the purple-hued bags manage to somehow look sexy.

‘You see, this world is too competitive for me,' I say with a sigh. ‘What does your girlfriend say when women slip you their number?' It's a pathetic and transparent question. I'm pretty sure Dean doesn't have a girlfriend. Pretty sure. But for some reason that's not good enough for me. I want to be certain. I need to be. I can't bring myself to form the words ‘Do you have a girlfriend?' I know from bitter experience that that question can't fail to sound anything other than stalkerish, weird, needy or nosy; it's much better if he thinks I'm pathetic.

‘I don't have a girlfriend.' We share that look. The look millions share when this sort of fact is revealed; the look that challenges, promises and questions all at once. There's a small but undeniable flicker of something in my belly. I know it is delight.

But.

I can't get carried away. For many, many reasons I mustn't get carried away. ‘Oh yes, it's different here in America, isn't it? People date non-exclusively and then they have
The Talk
and then it's fast-track to the wedding department at Bloomingdale's. Right?'

‘I wouldn't know.' He shifts on his chair and stares over my right shoulder. I pause, waiting until he drags his gaze back to mine.

‘But you date?'

‘Yes. Well, sort of.'

‘Sort of? You either do or you don't.' I know I should not be pursuing this line of questioning with such vigour, yet I'm helpless to do anything other.

‘I'm not sure what I do is date.'

‘What is it you do?'

‘I fuck.'

‘Oh.'

Hearing him say the word causes an intense and overpowering shudder to ricochet throughout my body. It starts in my gut and radiates outwards; lower towards my thighs and upwards too, stopping my breath and quickening my heart.
Martin, Martin, Martin.
I say the name over and over again like a prayer or chant. I have to stay focused, that's all. This attraction I feel for Dean isn't real. Well, it is, but it's fleeting; the result of the cocktail, jet lag and the champagne on the flight. Martin is real and enduring. Suddenly Dean leans forward and for a mad moment I think he is going to kiss me, but instead he pops an olive into my mouth. His thumb lingers on my lip. I can't spit, so I swallow.

‘Do you like it?'

‘Delicious,' I admit.

Dean looks at me carefully, then lets out a sort of sad groan. He holds my gaze and then says, ‘Jo, you should know I'm not a nice guy.'

I cough, find my voice and reply, ‘You seem like a nice guy.'

‘That's the trick.'

I don't want to accept it. ‘You've got to be a nice guy, because not nice guys would never confess to being such. They pretend to be nice guys until …' I am talking from experience, and suddenly I realise it is impossible to finish the sentence and retain any dignity.

‘Until after?' Dean suggests.

‘Well, yes. Until after,' I mumble. After sex.

‘Normally I follow that rule too, but …'

This time I finish his sentence. ‘But we're not in a before position.'

‘Exactly.'

I can't hold his gaze any longer. I study the menu, giving the impression that I am seriously interested in the daily specials. I shouldn't care that he doesn't see me as anything other than a friend – friendship is what I want from him – and yet a dull ache throbs through my body, replacing the wonderful shard of lust. The dull ache feels a lot like disappointment. I bluster. ‘So, as there isn't going to be an
after
for us, you don't need to lie to me, and that's why you're telling me you're not a nice guy.'

‘Correct.'

‘But the fact is, you have been nice to me,' I insist. ‘Exceptionally nice.'

‘Well, I can be nice to you. You're different.'

Before I can get excited about the fact that I'm different (every girl's dream), I understand in what way he thinks of me as different. The disappointment solidifies. ‘You can be nice to me because you'd never, ever want to sleep with me,' I state.

Dean shrugs. ‘Let's just say we're not in that place.'

‘Right. Well, I'm glad we got that cleared up.' I force myself to smile. Dean not wanting me in
that
way shouldn't be a difficult thing for me to accept. It should be a matter of total indifference. Surely it's only my pride that's dented, isn't it? Because Dean should not be on my radar. I ought to be totally focused on Martin. ‘So we can be, already are, good friends.'

Dean grins. ‘Yes.'

I raise my glass. ‘To friendship and you being nice to me.' Dean clinks his glass against mine. I drain my cocktail, not giving a thought to the fact that not only is Dean footing the bill but he is stone-cold sober and planning to stay that way. I look around impatiently for the waitress to appear with the refills.

‘To friendship. What else? After all, you're here to break up a wedding and marry the groom, so whether I want to sleep with you or not is irrelevant, surely.' Dean is smirking as he says this. Which hurts.

‘You have a way of making my plan sound ridiculous.'

‘That's because it is ridiculous, Jo.'

‘I have your cocktails.' This time I am thankful for the interruption. I am probably as willing to kiss the hot waitress as Dean is. ‘Should I bring your dogs now?'

‘Yes,' Dean and I chorus gratefully.

I have to rally. I will not let Dean bring me down. I have a plan and it's a good one. At least it's my only one. I need things to work out with Martin tomorrow. They have to. ‘Of course, when this is sorted out, I'll be very busy again. I'm not sure how much time I'll have to keep up with friends.' I look at Dean meaningfully. I want him to know that what we have, whatever it is, will be finite. I'm pretty sure I won't be able to accommodate my relationship with Dean into my new life with Martin. It would all be too complicated. ‘I'll have to visit venues, shop for my dress and pick out cars and flowers. I'll have to go to menu tastings.'

‘Can't you just use all the stuff you bought for last time? Same venue, et cetera.'

‘Don't be crass.'

‘Yeah, it's me that's being crass here. You are planning a wedding to a man who is probably on his stag.'

I pretend not to hear him. ‘I will not be using the old stuff. Fashions change – besides, most of it was borrowed,' I add reluctantly – I really don't want to get into this – ‘and those suppliers think I married him last time.'

‘I'm not even going to ask.'

‘No, don't. My point is, Dean, I'm not a very good correspondent, so if I don't email often, don't feel bad.'

‘You mean you're not planning on inviting me to your wedding?' I can hear the amusement in his voice; he wants me to.

‘You're teasing me.'

‘I am.'

Suddenly a thought crosses my mind. ‘You've done it again.'

‘What?'

‘You've shifted the focus away from you and on to me.'

‘Well, you are the heroine here. You're the one doing the big romantic dash across the Atlantic to stop a wedding. I'm just some guy.'

‘Whose estranged father is dying.'

The pesky and perky waitress pops up at the side of our table yet again. I really don't know why she doesn't just pull up a chair. ‘I have your dogs.' She means sausages. ‘Can I get you anything else?' Her orthodontically enhanced beam is flashed exclusively at Dean obviously.

‘Mustard.' Then, as an afterthought – his mind is not on the dogs or even the waitress – he remembers his manners. ‘Please.'

I add it to my list of things I know about him. He likes mustard. He has good manners. This time I really hope she hurries back, because we sit brooding and speechless, with nothing to listen to other than the sound of other people's good times: the clink of bottles and cutlery, the buoyant murmur of happy chatting and the odd screech of laughter. When she does return with the mustard, she touches Dean's shoulder twice. Twice!

‘Do you think your dad has done everything he wants to with his life?'

‘Probably. He has a selfish gene. Can we talk about something else?'

‘We could, but I really think you need to talk about your dad, Dean.'

‘I really don't. Talking about how I'm feeling isn't my thing.'

‘How do you know until you've tried?'

‘Hilarious coming from a woman who hadn't even tried an olive until today.'

‘But I did try it!' I point out. Dean bites ravenously into his hot dog. Ketchup squirts down his lip. He wipes it away with the back of his hand. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to pull off my T-shirt and toss my bra on to his plate. He has appetites for food, life, sex. I shake my head. What am I thinking of? I shouldn't care about this man's sexual appetites. I feel disproportionately agitated, frustrated. I want to help him. Our relationship has been uneven so far, and I owe him. I don't accept that he's as impervious and unaffected by his father's terminal illness as he's trying to suggest. I push on. ‘Families are important. Worthwhile. Such a support.'

‘Maybe some. Not mine.'

‘But you can't deal with losing a member of your family by just blanking it out.'

‘I lost him a long time ago.'

‘But—'

‘Shut up, Jo.' Dean's voice is suddenly loud enough to catch the attention of a number of diners sitting close by. Heads swivel in our direction. Dean looks flushed. He bites his lip and then adds more softly, ‘Please, leave it. You don't know what you're talking about. This isn't something you can fix. I wish it was.'

Despite the fact that he is so obviously a fully fledged adult, he somehow transforms under my gaze, following his confession that he wishes to be fixed. That he wishes
I
could fix him. His face softens; it loses its angular adultness. I have a sudden and undeniable longing to kiss him. It isn't the firmness of his words that finally silences me; it's the fact that he reaches across the table and puts his hand on top of mine. His touch scorches. I feel tattooed, and stupidly, insanely, I fight the idea that I'll always feel his touch. Normally, I blunder and clatter on, persistently demanding answers, but for once I clamp my mouth shut, respecting his privacy. His hand stays on mine. One heffalump, two heffalump, three heffalump, four hef … He lets go. Under the table I pinch myself sharply. It has no effect; I still want to kiss him. Kiss it all better.

S
he wouldn't have known him. Was it the cancer or the time that had passed or her memory that made him unrecognisable? A combination, probably. Clara thought that forgetting him seemed the biggest crime; bigger than cancer, which was ridiculous, of course. She'd have walked by him in the street. Very well might have, on a number of occasions. How could that be, considering she'd searched for him, over and over again? For years she'd scoured crowds, people picnicking on the beach or in the park, masses at concerts and in galleries, always hoping for a glimpse, a chance. Many a time she thought she'd seen the back of his head on the tube or in the street, and chased breathlessly down a platform or across a road, feet pounding, sense flying, to tap him on the shoulder. She was always cruelly disappointed when he turned out to be simply someone else. Someone with slightly less lustrous hair, on close inspection, someone without challenge in their eyes. The disappointment would crawl all over her scalp, making her want to scratch and scream.