State We're In (7 page)

‘We had each other.'

‘Only because there was no one else around.'

‘Still, it was enough, wasn't it?'

They both knew it hadn't been, but neither could insult the other by saying so. After a brief pause Zoe added, ‘Well, I'm not interested. I don't want to know anything about him. I don't want details. Don't talk to me about him again. Not until you call to tell me he's dead.'

‘Zoe,' Dean pleaded.

‘Don't make me hate you too, Dean. Not you too.'

‘That's not what I'm trying to do. I don't want to disappoint you but I couldn't hide this from you. I don't want to fight.'

‘I have to go. The dog is going to pee in the kitchen otherwise.'

Dean knew the chocolate-brown Labrador was perfectly well house-trained; Zoe just wanted to get off the line.

‘OK, sis, I'll call you when—' He didn't get to be specific. Zoe had hung up.

T
his is the start of something big. This is important. Well, it could be. It
might
be. I'm not an idiot – well, not all of the time. I've had enough false starts, my hopes have been raised more than enough times, for me to be aware that true love – whilst certainly in existence – isn't easy to stumble on. But still, I cross my fingers.

I lie awake and concentrate on not moving. I don't want to disturb and wake Jeff. We only fell asleep at twenty to three this morning and the smart, enormous aluminium clock on the wall says it isn't yet six a.m. But I can't go back to sleep. Emotionally, I'm too full. Too charged.

I try not to fidget or wriggle, but staring at the ceiling is boring. It's entirely blank; there's no impressive coving, no offensive polystyrene tiles, not even a patch of damp that would suggest a financial struggle or a lackadaisical neighbour who might have forgotten to turn off the bath tap. The ceiling tells me nothing at all. I slide my eyes around the room. The decoration is immaculate; I can smell new paint. I wonder whether Jeff might be the sort of person who has professional decorators in every couple of years to ensure that the place always looks spick and span. Some people do live like that, don't they? Well, my parents do, obviously, but other people too.

I can imagine living here, with Jeff. I know, I know, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm just saying,
if
things panned out, this would suit me very well. At least it would once I conquered my concerns about breaking something or messing everything up. This really is an exceptionally clean and tidy environment. Slowly my confidence picks up and I dare to move my head from left to right. I don't want to wake Jeff yet, but I need to get my bearings. Last night, I was too drunk on wine and lust to take in much. I remember him fumbling with a massive bunch of keys and then, once the door slipped open, I flung him against the hall wall. We had exciting, wild, uninhibited sex, right there and then, followed by a second round in bed; that time it was slower, more meaningful. Twice! Ha, that is something I have on my married friends. How many of them can say they have sex twice in one night? Most of my friends hint that twice a
month
is average. It is a mystery to me how I can be privy to such information but still be more than keen to join their club.

Jeff's bedroom is gorgeous! So modern and comfortable. He has great taste. The prints on the wall are dramatic black and white photos of a beach in winter time. It's unusual for a man to appreciate throws, candles and cushions, but Jeff has them all. I glance around for photographs that might give a sneaky insight into my new boyfriend's world. I can't remember any of the details he told me last night, not specifically. We didn't do that much talking about personal stuff really; there wasn't time. I gleaned that he liked going down to Bude to windsurf; I remember that, and the fact that he works nearby, in Hackney – we discussed the joy of a short commute. Although I can't quite remember what he does for a living. Did he say? He has a brother, or it might be two. The details are patchy.

There are no photos to help fill in the gaps, nor are there any books or clutter that could give clues. Wow, this man is a neat
freak.
If I ever moved in here I'd have to buy one of those jewellery trees because my necklaces are always getting tangled and I have a feeling he isn't the type to appreciate puddles of jewellery littering up the place (or discarded clothes and stray shoes come to that). I'd also have to buy a set of those laundry boxes that say ‘Whites' and ‘Darks'; it's clear that Jeff is the sort of guy who likes a system.

I turn my head and drink in the sight of my new boyfriend, who is sleeping peacefully beside me. Exhausted. Spent. He looks a bit like Mark Wahlberg, or maybe Ryan Reynolds. Like them, he's sort of boy next door but better. Tighter, more taut and toned. Properly hot. He has a great jawline, dark eyes, dark hair, plump, pink – let's face it – sensual lips. I wonder how old he is. It's quite possible that he is a year or two younger than I am, maybe three or four. I'll have to take care not to let him see my driving licence, at least not too soon. That's not the sort of thing I want to lead with. This properly hot guy will undoubtedly be in demand; he could choose from a queue of women. Younger women, taller women, prettier women, funnier women, women with more successful careers. All of the above. The thought causes my breath to quicken. It is tough out there. It is busy and predatory; twenty-first-century dating rituals are like being continually embroiled in the first day of the January sales. Elbows out.

Still, he is here, right next to me. I am here, in his bed. I push a long, slow breath out into the word. As I do so, I try to let go of my panic and worry, just as advised by the yoga teacher on the DVD I bought myself last Christmas. I can take this slowly. We have time. Obviously not years and years. I am thirty-six next month, for God's sake (back to that again!). But we have
some
time. I could skive off work today and then we could stay in bed. In fact, if I rang in and said I had a stomach bug, I could play truant on Friday too. Then we'd have four whole days of uninterrupted loving. Who knows where those four days might lead. To weeks? Months?

OK, I'm going to stay optimistic. Imagine we did fall in love; how would the timing work? Let's say six months' dating, followed by a six-month engagement (whatever I said about Martin's ‘indecent haste' I've now conveniently blanked); this time next year Jeff and I could be drawing up a wedding gift list in one of the smarter department stores. Then we could have a year enjoying ourselves as a married couple, three months trying to get pregnant, nine months pregnant and then the first baby by the time I am thirty-eight. It is just possible to have two before I am forty. Just. A tight schedule but it isn't unimaginable. I have a tendency to think in double negatives; it's the closest I ever get to a positive these days.

But this time,
this time
I think there really is something to get excited about, because there is one thing I remember with crystal clarity from last night. Something he whispered to me after the second bout of lovemaking. He said, ‘You're just the sort of girl I should marry.'

Men don't say that sort of thing lightly. He has to have meant it.

And the sex. The sex was phenomenal. I really have never, ever experienced anything like it. Just thinking about it causes a fleeting spike of excitement between my legs. It was so … I search for the exact word to describe the marathon session we enjoyed. My head is still a bit fuzzy. What
is
the perfect word? It was so … energetic.

I really need to pee. Carefully I inch the duvet aside and edge out of the bed. I glance around, hoping to locate his robe so that I can cover up. No matter how acrobatic I was last night, in the cold light of day my body demands sanctuary. I can't see a robe, nor is there a jumper or hoodie flung across the back of the bedroom chair. I have no alternative but to dash naked into the bathroom.

The bathroom is a delight! It looks like it has sprung from a magazine. He must have a cleaner. He can afford a cleaner! I know it is shallow to care, but the idea of having a boyfriend with an income that allows him to employ a cleaner is fantastic. I've spent far too many ‘dates' cleaning the homes of various exes. To start with it is always smart restaurants and a club, then a couple of weeks down the line it's often a trip to the cinema and a bag of popcorn, and before I know it, I'm lucky to be watching a DVD from the sofa. I try to tell myself that dates that consist of me scouring ovens or defrosting freezers are intimate and domestic, part of a real relationship, but in my heart of hearts I know that I'm simply being taken advantage of.

The towels are sharply folded and stacked in a precise tower on the shelf near the enormous walk-in shower, there are tea-light candles lined up like soldiers along the basin and the end of the loo roll is folded into a triangle. I have only ever seen that done in hotels before. This place is amazing! I want to hug myself. Instead I pee, and as I wash my hands I force myself to confront my reflection. There was once a time when a long night of sex meant that I sparkled the next morning. Nowadays, such antics are more likely to lead to bulky blue bags under my eyes. I splash water on my face and look round for some cleanser or soap. There isn't any. In fact, there aren't any bottles of lotions and potions at all. Not lined up on the windowsill or stashed in the cabinet. There is a cabinet but it's empty, pristine.

Pristine like the candles that have never been lit. I quietly make my way through to the kitchen. Something about this place is a bit off, a bit weird, but without coffee I am not up to puzzling it out. The kitchen-diner is as immaculate as the bathroom. The laminate floors and all the surfaces shine; the taps and windows twinkle and the many scatter cushions are plump and smooth. There is a full set of gleaming crockery set out on the dining room table, as though Jeff is waiting for imminent dinner guests. The room makes me think of Miss Havisham's wedding breakfast, except these dishes are clean and polished rather than covered in cobwebs and vermin. But who is Jeff expecting?

I need coffee to think. I open the cupboard above the kettle, but it's empty. I'd expected a jar of instant coffee granules and a box of breakfast tea bags, at the least, though the apartment is so stylish I wouldn't have been surprised to find coffee beans, filter papers and three different herbal teas.

‘We'll have to go out for coffee, of course.' I jump at the sound of Jeff's voice. Despite the intimacy of last night, I don't recognise his tone. I turn to face him; he's standing naked in the doorway. I am naked too. Suddenly, rather disconcerted, I think that there seems to be too much nudity in the kitchen. I suck in my belly. My thighs and bum are towards the high-gloss kitchen units; I really hope they aren't so high-gloss that they reflect my cellulite back out to the world. It is always so much harder in the cold light of day.

‘Are you out of coffee?' I ask.

Jeff doesn't reply; he just grins and then walks towards the bathroom.

I seize the opportunity to dash back into the bedroom and dive beneath the duvet. Thank goodness he hasn't opened the curtains; daylight is sneaking through the drapes but it is subdued rather than exposing. I listen to him pee and flush; he comes out of the bathroom without washing his hands. I try not to dwell on that thought but it does bother me. Why don't more men wash afterwards?

I expect Jeff to jump back into bed, but instead he stoops down and snatches up his discarded clothes. ‘Sorry, lovely lady, we don't have time for another helping. We have to get up and out of here before anyone spots us.'

I am so busy trying to tell myself that he really does think I
am
a lovely lady and that's why he's used the endearment – it isn't because he's forgotten my name – that initially I don't compute the significance of the second sentence.

Spots us? What does he mean? Who might spot us? Why does it matter? ‘But I haven't had any breakfast. Not even coffee.' I really do need a coffee; my hangover is beginning to take effect, as though it has awoken with Jeff.

‘Well there's nothing to eat here.'

‘I can go out and buy something, if you like. While you take a shower,' I offer.

Jeff is buttoning up his shirt, but he pauses. I wonder whether he is offended that I suggested he shower. Does he think I am commenting on his personal hygiene? Well, in a way I am. Who makes love all night and then gets up and goes to work without a shower? Standards.

‘I can't shower here, the other agents will notice, and we can't eat here for the same reason. Come on, get a move on. We have to make the bed so you can't tell anyone has slept in it. There's an iron. I just plug it in and iron the wrinkled duvet
in situ
. I'm getting pretty good at it.'

I stare at Jeff, bemused. ‘Agents?' What is he on about? ‘Isn't this apartment yours?' Then an explanation strikes. ‘Do you share it?'

‘I'm trying to sell it. I told you, last night. This is a show home, I'm an agent. Wow, how drunk were you?' Jeff is by this time fully dressed, except for his socks. He sits on the end of the bed and starts to pull them on too. ‘Come on, get up.' He taps my leg through the duvet, but it isn't an affectionate caress and there's an edge of impatience in his voice that I didn't hear last night. Then, his tone was all about desire and persuasion; now, it's distinctly sergeant major. ‘We really have to be out of here by seven thirty, or I'll be fired.'

‘You're an estate agent?'

‘Yes. What sort of agent did you think I meant? A secret agent?'

Oh, an estate agent, that does ring a bell. I am disappointed that this beautiful apartment doesn't belong to my boyfriend – mentally I'd already started to arrange my books and trinkets – but I take a deep breath. I'm not going to show my disappointment. Obviously he brought me here because it is exciting and sexy. Lots of men like to do it on their desk, or their boss's desk; it means that the next day, during office hours, the flashbacks provide entertainment. There is nothing wrong with that. I wonder what
his
flat is like. ‘Remind me, where do you live?'