State We're In (39 page)

‘I don't need one.' He folds the paper and hands it to me.

‘Well, you can't have done everything,' I protest, although I do remember him saying he liked snowboarding, mountain biking, grass sledging, water skiing, sky-diving, bungee jumping, rafting and swimming with sharks, which does sound pretty comprehensive.

‘No, of course I haven't done
everything
.
There are one or two things that I might put on a list, but when opportunities come along I never hesitate in taking them; in fact I actively hunt them out on a regular basis, so I don't need a physical list. Right now, you see, I have the opportunity of having more amazing sex with a very beautiful woman and I think we should stop talking and seize that opportunity.' He grins, pulls the duvet over his head and starts to make his way down my body, leaving a trail of searing kisses as he goes. I find it impossible to disagree with him, and that has nothing to do with the fact that I'm in the habit of fitting around other people's plans and falling in line with their suggestions; it's just that it is a genuinely brilliant idea.

D
ean was staggered to comprehend how he had spent the day in a montage from a romantic chick flick, a genre he was very familiar with because those sorts of movies were often the preferred choice of various women he passed time with.

They'd agreed to start working through Jo's list immediately. Jo had expressed an interest in ‘doing something with boats'. Dean had imagined her gaining her RYA Coastal Skipper qualification, chartering a boat and eventually sailing around the Indian Ocean, but it turned out that all she wanted to do was stand on the bow of a ship, spread her arms wide and be held from behind while she sang ‘My Heart Will Go On',
so
they'd set off to Navy Pier. There, they spent an hour on the Tall Ship
Windy
, a 148-foot schooner modelled after a traditional trading ship. The tour guide was obliging and let her sing as many verses as she could remember, as well as encouraging the other passengers to join in the chorus. They also enjoyed the spectacular views of the Chicago skyline from the water, helped raise sail and relayed traditional sailing commands, although Dean wasn't sure how much of the boating history and tales of courage from the golden age of sail Jo actually absorbed; it seemed that she was most intent on running back through their brief relationship, minute by minute, and piecing him together.

‘At first I was puzzled as to how and why you reconciled being an obvious womaniser and a strong belief in fidelity. It's because of your father, isn't it? You might have a rotating bedroom door, but it's always one at a time. Right? Fidelity isn't the issue, commitment is,' she said, just as the long-suffering tour guide was trying to scare the tourists with ludicrous stories about spirit ships and haunted harbours. Dean was pretty sure most of the other passengers were more interested in Jo's conversation too.

‘I guess.' If she'd wanted him to update his thoughts on the rotating bedroom door, she didn't say so, and therefore it didn't occur to him to elaborate, which was probably a good thing, because he wasn't yet sure what he could say. Twenty-nine years of distrust don't dissolve overnight; Dean was uncertain as to whether he could be a different man. He pushed the difficult thoughts away and stayed in the moment.

As they rode the Ferris wheel, dangling their legs and nibbling candy floss, Jo gasped, ‘The movie. On the plane. You were touched by the begging scene not because you were thinking about the lengths fathers should go to for their kids but—'

‘Having the electricity turned off. Yes.' She had candy floss in her hair; he picked it out, careful not to pull.

When he did a victory dance after securing five consecutive holes-in-one on the crazy golf course, she smiled indulgently. He knew she understood why he needed to win. At everything. He was a survivor, a fighter, a victor. He had feared that after confiding in Jo she would harp on about his childhood in a pitying way, but during the day, it became clear that was not going to be the case. It was obvious that she was rapt, but what she felt for him was far from pity. Her eyes shone in admiration; she understood his strength and determination, she accepted, perhaps even forgave, his cynicism. Her intense interest in him was not at all irritating; it made him feel fascinating, wanted. Of course women had tried to work him out before; they had scratched and scratched at his impenetrable exterior and broken their nails and hearts in the process, but none had ever got close. He hadn't allowed them the chance to do so; he hadn't given anyone else the key to the puzzle. The miserable childhood had been a secret between him and Zoe – until yesterday. He'd let Jo get past the shiny, affluent, sexy man and closer to the murkier depths, and she didn't seem put off.

The surprise for Dean was that not only had he found himself in the romantic montage cliché of sailing boats, Ferris wheels, candy floss and crazy golf, but he also discovered that he liked it there. There with Jo.

She was fun; her naivety had melted and they were left with a less irritating childlike enthusiasm, which he had to admit he found appealing. She saw the world in such a sparkly light, it was impossible not to be dazzled and brightened in her presence. He was forced to question his long-held belief that the world was
entirely
populated by selfish bastards, that it was foolhardy to trust
anyone
. She was scrupulously and refreshingly honest; when they inevitably talked about their sexual histories, she frankly relayed endless stories that made her appear desperate and deluded, but she did so in a way that was hilariously self-deprecating and comedic. Almost adorable. Besides, she was clever; much cleverer than she allowed people to believe. She had clearly benefited from a broad and classical education and so was not only well read but also curious. He'd always thought that polished and effervescent privately educated girls were, frankly, silly; capable of a strong serve in a game of mixed doubles and identifying several soft cheeses but not much else. Jo, however, knew a lot of stuff about the American War of Independence, and when she talked of Tissot, she meant the nineteenth-century artist, not a brand of watches. Dean thought that she was the sort of woman who might make gallery visiting interesting, and gallery visiting was not normally his thing. The bit he liked most was that she did not waste time and energy on games. She seemed physically incapable of playing hard to get; she could not keep her hands off him and she made it clear. He had feared in the IMAX theatre that she might actually follow him into the loo; instead she had to be satisfied with hovering outside and she practically leapt into his arms when he emerged.

‘Let's go home and have more sex,' she suggested. How was it that this woman had been single so long? mused Dean.

‘You know, we really should do some of the ordinary stuff at some point.'

‘Like?'

‘Like I need to unpack, put on the laundry, buy groceries.'

‘Really?'

‘No, not really. I like your idea better.' He was only flesh and blood.

Dean thought sex with Jo was great. Really particularly good. True, maybe he'd had more athletic sex in the past, enjoyed better-toned bodies and done dirtier stuff with various other women, but then he'd also had less energetic sex, bedded women with flabbier bodies and had very straightforward, not too exciting sex as well. The point being, he had had lots of sex with lots of women and he had been pretty confident that he knew the range of experiences available, but the sex he had with Jo was surprising. It was (and it killed him to admit this, even to himself) different. It was
more
. More than sex. It was possible, he wasn't certain, but there was a chance that for the first time ever, Dean had allowed himself to make love. He'd always thought the expression was, ultimately, a euphemism – the preserve of married couples who wanted to believe that what they had was special, or middle-aged spinsters who were too prudish to call a shag a shag – but now he understood. What he and Jo had created was affectionate. It was loving.

Dean was not saying that he was in love. No, he would not say that, because whilst he was unconcerned about leaping out of small aircraft from a height of five thousand feet with only a thin circular sheet of nylon for security, or diving over a waterfall with rapids gushing beneath him and only an elastic rope tied around his feet to save him from certain death, those leaps and falls were child's play in comparison to making the leap from loner to partner, a piece of cake in comparison to falling in love.

And yet.

He was finding it impossible to think of anything other than Jo's lips. Until she slipped out of her clothes; then he thought about her body. She had a good body: full, inviting tits, as he'd imagined back on the aeroplane, slightly rounded stomach and thighs, but he'd known that about her before she'd taken her clothes off. He liked her shape; it was extremely feminine. She also had just a bit of cellulite. He knew the moment he spotted it that he would never admit as much to her. Even if she asked him, he would say she was as smooth as a peach. Who would have known that ribs and elbows could be so attractive?

After the lovemaking, he found himself telling her even more. Now he'd taken his finger out of the dam, he couldn't stop the flood; he didn't even want to try. For the first time he understood, rather than simply remotely admiring, Zoe's intimacy with her husband. It was a relief for someone who had not experienced the heartache to hear about it. He had spent a lifetime denying the horrors; now he wanted to let the monsters climb out from the shadows. He took a perverse but definite pleasure in seeing her shocked face. He felt vindicated. It
had
been awful and wrong. Jo agreed. He hadn't exaggerated or indulged. He also liked listening to her stories, her glittering ones, and even though it was obvious that with her retellings she was now questioning her memories, re-examining everything in light of her parents' revelations, she still valued her golden childhood and, most importantly, recognised it as such, no matter how confusing things were right now. He knew he'd helped her preserve that and he was proud to have done so.

‘So tell me about visiting your father. How did it go?' she asked. She was lying on her side, curled towards him. Dean could practically hear the cogs in her mind whirring. He sighed and turned towards her.

‘Badly. I thought the reason he'd got in touch was that he might be able to explain things, even – and I know this is mental – justify them, but he couldn't. In fact it turned out he hadn't actually wanted me there, not even at the end.' His hand slipped below the duvet again and homed in on her bum cheek. It was soft and warm; he was addicted to stroking it. He found confessing to his father's unrelenting indifference tough, even confessing it to Jo. It was still shaming, incredibly painful, relentlessly damning. He sighed so deeply he wondered whether there was any air left in his body. ‘The angry spiky man was not how I'd imagined a dying man should be. I'd expected more calm, more resignation. Some answers. I wanted to yell at him, “I'm the one entitled to be angry.” You know, I offered to get a photo printed off of Zoe's kids, for his bedside. His grandchildren. He said no.' Dean turned to Jo, outrage plastered across his face.

Jo considered. ‘How long would that have taken?'

‘What?'

‘It might have just been an issue of time rather than indifference. You'd have had to leave the hospital to get a print. Maybe he didn't want to waste any more time by letting you out of his sight.'

Dean thought about her suggestion. It was possible but not probable. Still, it was possible. He smiled at her. ‘Do you think you can teach me that trick of yours?'

‘What trick?'

‘The one where you insist on seeing the best in people?'

‘I could try.'

Dean let the possibility seep into his brain. He'd previously been impervious to any suggestion that he might be able to think better thoughts or believe in more advantageous, pleasing scenarios. Was it achievable? ‘Hey, there was one big thing.'

‘What was that?'

‘I found out I have two more sisters.'

‘Really?' Dean knew that Jo was stuck for words. He appreciated the fact that she didn't assume he'd see this as delightful news, especially as she probably did think a bigger family was a bonus. She had the sensitivity to understand that he might be a little more cautious. ‘Will you get in touch with them?'

‘Maybe. But I'm not sure how much we'll have in common.' Dean didn't want to get his hopes up. ‘They're kids really. One is still a student, the other is in her early twenties.'

‘How old is your father?'

‘I don't know exactly. Less than sixty.'

‘Youngish, then. I don't imagine he is ready to go.'

‘No, I don't imagine he is. For once he must want to stay. How ironic.' Dean tried to gather the determination not to be dragged down by the facts. Mentally he had to shrug this off, he had to. ‘I'm beginning to wonder whether it even matters any more. Whatever he said, it couldn't have changed anything. An explanation as to why he left wouldn't give me back a normal and stable home. An explanation wouldn't allow me to be a different man.'

Jo gasped. ‘Thank God. I wouldn't want you to be any other man.'

Well that was good, then. ‘It was a fool's errand, a wasted journey.'

‘No it wasn't, it had a purpose.'

Dean read her urgent and insistent gaze. ‘We met.'

‘Exactly. It was fate, and don't say you don't believe in fate.'

‘I wasn't going to,' said Dean, kissing her. He didn't believe in fate, but he'd always valued opportunities. He was relieved that she hadn't tried to pacify him with ill-informed consolations. She did not suggest that his father must love him deep down; she did not presume to know more about the situation than he did. She simply listened, quietly and carefully. He put an end to the discussion, but for no better reason than he wanted to kiss her, more and more and more.