Still Thinking of You (4 page)

7. Clearing Up

Tash reminded herself that these people meant a lot to Rich, and Rich meant everything to her. Yet she couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief when they finally left her to the washing up at 1 a.m.

‘They really liked you,’ said Rich, as he slipped his arms around Tash’s waist and breathed in the smell of her hair. She was concentrating on the washing up, so didn’t turn to face him.

‘You think so, hey?’ she asked, not absolutely convinced. Yes, Jason liked her. That was clear. She had legs, breasts and a vagina; he wasn’t going to dislike her. He borderline fancied her, which was ideal. They could gently flirt, knowing it would never go anywhere, and he could ask her for advice on women. Not that he seemed to need it, if the anecdotes that he relayed tonight were anything to go by. And he clearly adored Rich. She could trust him not to tie a naked Rich to a lamppost the night before their wedding.

Ted and Kate were quite unlike any of Tash’s friends. They seemed genuinely excited that they had managed to book tickets for the Khachaturian Centenary Concert with the Philharmonic Orchestra and George Pehlivanian conducting. Apparently it was mid October’s must-see. But they were not interested when Tash generously offered her spare tickets for the Robbie Williams concert at Knebworth, which was probably just as well because her old mates would sell their grandmother’s souls to secure tickets and would not appreciate her giving them away to her new friends. Their conversation had been fiercely intellectual, as Rich had promised. But rather than being stimulated, as Tash had expected, she was paralysed. She knew she’d come across as dim, which was infuriating. Still, there was plenty of time for her to drop into conversation that she had actually read Salman Rushdie’s
The Satanic Verses
and James Joyce’s
Ulysses
. She hoped that one day they’d be friends enough for her to admit that she hadn’t actually enjoyed either book.

But Mia.

‘Absolutely, they loved you,’ enthused Rich, interrupting Tash’s thoughts and ignoring the nuances of the evening.

‘Well, why wouldn’t they? I’m very nice.’

‘Mia even made up a nickname for you, a rare honour. Come on, leave the washing up. I’ll do it in the morning.’

Tash peeled off the rubber gloves and allowed Rich to lead her by the hand up the stairs.

‘Have you ever slept with Mia?’ asked Tash, as they undressed and slipped between the sheets.

‘Yeah, a long time ago. Just once.’ Telling Tash about old lovers was easy. Their pledge to be totally honest with one another demanded a level of trust and an expectation of clear-headed responses.

‘That explains a lot,’ stated Tash simply, as she fought a yawn.

‘It wasn’t an exclusive club.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, obviously there was Jason. They used to be an item, but she’s slept with Ted, too.’

‘Ted?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Blimey.’

‘I’m not sure Kate knows that.’

‘No, I don’t suppose she does.’ Tash rolled on top of Rich and started to kiss his chest; he stroked her back. ‘What was Mia’s nickname, then?’ she asked between kisses.

‘Bridge, as in the game. Very complex.’

‘Given what you’ve just told me I’d have had her down as “Poker”.’

Rich laughed, and moved closer to kiss Tash. They kissed for a very long time. Slowly exploring each other’s mouth, tongue and lips as if for the first time, not for the thousandth. Tash took hold of Rich’s hard penis and guided it inside her. Gently, she rode him, and they made love very quietly, very carefully. When Rich came, Tash lay exactly where she was until it became uncomfortable. Then she rolled off him, and they lay side by side, Rich spooned around Tash.

‘How many people have you slept with, Rich?’ asked Tash curiously. ‘Do you keep count?’

‘I have a number, but I couldn’t put a name to every one.’

‘That’s awful,’ said Tash, as she playfully hit him. ‘How insensitive. So, go on, how many?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘You have to,’ she giggled. Rich leant close to her ear and whispered the number.

‘No!’ she yelled, feigning shock and horror.

‘What? What should I have said? What’s the right number?’

‘I’m teasing you. The correct number is the real number, however many or few that may be. I mean, what’s the right scenario? Would I have preferred it if you’d slept with fewer women and had had longer relationships? Or would it have been better if there had been lots more, but you’d never cared for anyone at all before me? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Everyone has a history.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ smiled Rich. ‘I thought you were a virgin when we met,’ he joked.

‘Right,’ laughed Tash.

Eventually, their breathing slowed, and they were seconds away from a peaceful, slightly drunken sleep when Tash thought to ask, ‘By the way, what nickname did Mia give me?’

‘Didn’t I say?’

‘No.’

‘She called you “Barbie”, as in–’

‘Barbie doll.’

Rich fell asleep, and Tash was left wondering whether the nickname could be interpreted as anything other than a declaration of war.

8. Lloyd

It was late October, but still startlingly warm. The leaves on the trees had turned red and were starting to fall. A warm, honey light dripped through the gaps left between the branches and rested on a blanket of conkers and colour that lay on the ground. The majority of Londoners took advantage of the mild autumn. They sat in cafés drinking smoothies and refusing to don jackets. They laughed and joked. They hung on to summer and ignored the displays of Halloween pumpkins that had crept into the window of every shop.

Not Mia.

Mia was also fighting time, but not simply because she wanted to lazily loll in cafés. She didn’t like wasting precious hours simply having fun. Since Action Man and Barbie Babe had announced their engagement, Mia had been planning and plotting and scheming to find a way to turn their situation into one that was advantageous for her. It might be Barbie Babe’s wedding, but Mia was trying for something even higher. Mia wanted a baby. Nothing was more important than that.

Mia rummaged around her bag for the small make-up mirror that she thought might be hiding in there. She sighed, briefly disappointed by her reflection. She ran her fingers through her hair – it was too short. She hated it. However, she was almost thirty-four and had come to accept that hating her haircut was part of her hairdressing experience, as intrinsic as the ugly nylon gowns and the luxurious head massage. She would hate it intensely for twenty-four hours, then she would forget it until she needed it cut again. She’d love it for the week between booking her next appointment and attending her next appointment. She used to think that this showed her insecurity, but she now chose to believe that it showed she was a perfectionist.

She fumbled for her mobile phone, and searched for Lloyd’s number. She rang it and was surprised to find that it was out of use; it had been a while since they were in touch. Mia called his ex-wife, Sophie, to secure his new mobile number; she’d provided it, but not much else by way of conversation, and was barely civil in response to Mia’s question about how little Joanna was faring – ‘Extremely well, thank you.’ Sophie had never had any social graces, thought Mia.

Mia dialled Lloyd’s new number, and he picked up after just two rings.

‘Checkers, it’s me.’

Lloyd knew immediately that it was Mia on the line, even though he hadn’t heard her voice for nearly six months. No one else still used this nickname from uni. He wished Mia wouldn’t. He’d never liked it. Checkers was the less cerebral little brother of chess and the nickname had never seemed like a compliment. Apparently Mia had chosen it because, as she said, ‘Lloyd
appeared
very black and white, and you could guarantee he was always one move ahead.’ He’d never been sure what she meant by that, although she had made her proclamation with a big smile, as though she were being nice. He supposed that she meant he was a great planner. And he was. Or at least had been. Nowadays it seemed hard enough to put one foot in front of another, let alone plan years ahead as he had always prided himself.

‘Checkers, how the devil are you?’ she screeched. ‘You have been on my mind for so long now. I’ve been meaning to call. Meant to almost every day. Have you heard Action Man’s news?’

‘He called last week, actually, to say that he’s finally taking the plunge. But he was rushing to a meeting so we didn’t get a chance to talk at any length. Great news. Tell me, what do you know about Natasha? I like her name.’

‘Do you?’

‘Is she Russian?’

‘Hardly, she’s from Manchester. I think her parents must be a bit pretentious.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘I’ve only met her a couple of times.’

‘And?’ Lloyd knew Mia well enough to know that she always made her mind up about people instantly. She’d then declare a great fondness – or, more often, a damning condemnation – then she would hastily add that it was unfair to judge a book by its cover, and that she was reserving judgement until she got to know the subject better. In reality, no one got a second chance after a first impression.

‘She’s slim.’

‘And?’

‘Blonde.’

‘And?’

‘Tall.’

‘As tall as you? Do you see eye to eye?’ Lloyd chuckled at his own wit. Mia chose not to answer. ‘Is she clever, funny, what? Give me details,’ demanded Lloyd.

‘It’s always hard to say when someone is marrying one of your oldest friends, isn’t it? I’m not sure I can be objective. I mean, who is good enough for your best friend? I don’t know much about her. She went to a very ordinary university, one of those that’s really a poly, so she’s no genius.’

Lloyd wondered whether going to an ancient university was the best thing that had ever happened to Mia. It seemed to be the only thing she ever measured anyone by. Lloyd decided to move the conversation along.

‘Rich told me that they are taking off to the Alps to get married. Just the two of them, and that they are planning to pull a couple of witnesses off the slopes. Sounds cool.’ Lloyd was thinking about his own very big and very formal wedding, several years earlier. He hadn’t thought it was possible to argue about the thickness of the card of an invitation, but apparently it was. ‘I think they’ve made a wise move having a no-fuss wedding.’

‘Do you?’ Mia wasn’t so sure. She’d hoped for a big bash, where everybody got drunk and sentimental. As it wasn’t to be, she had concocted an alternative plan. ‘Listen, it’s just a quick call to run through the details of the stag weekend.’ Mia hoped she sounded breezy and efficient, rather than tense and a little desperate.

‘Rich never mentioned a stag weekend.’

‘It’s a surprise. I’m arranging a stag holiday for Action

Man.’

‘
You
are?’

‘I am one of his best friends, even if I am a woman,’ said Mia, hotly irritated. She’d met with the same surprise not only from Jase, but also Ted, so she was particularly alive to any implied criticism. ‘I thought that you, Action Man, Scaley and Big Ted and I could all go away for a couple of days, just like old times. I’m planning something wild in Dublin.’

‘You and four guys?’

‘I suppose Kate might tag along, but we often did that at uni.’

‘And you’re thirty-three and still unmarried, I just don’t understand it,’ joked Lloyd.

‘Ha-fucking-ha,’ snapped Mia. She was stung because she’d had the same thought herself, a thousand times. ‘So how does the second weekend of November sound?’ Mia took a deep breath. She hoped she sounded nonchalant. She had been living on a knife edge for the past few months. She’d planned everything so carefully. The timing of the stag do had to coincide with her cycle and, of course, getting Scaley Jase on the trip was paramount, but she had to give the necessary attention to the demands of everyone’s diaries.

Yes, she’d considered sperm banks; she’d investigated them quite thoroughly. Rationally, she knew that one could trust the medical notes that read ‘6 foot 2 inches, MENSA member, with blue eyes and no medical conditions’, but how could you be 100 per cent sure? Mia constantly had visions of the Elephant Man, without the IQ and with more congenital deficiencies. Besides, the cost of artificial insemination was extraordinary, and she had to start watching the pennies now. She was unlikely to be flush after she had the baby and gave up work.

She had considered getting pregnant via a one-night stand, but there was always the danger of the unknown there, too. A guy might seem like a rational, intelligent, pleasant enough guy while he’s eating pizza, but what’s to say that in reality he’s not an axe-wielding psycho? And if she took the time to get to know the one-night stand, then that, too, would lead to all sorts of complications. By definition it was no longer a one-night stand if she actually knew the guy. It would be a relationship. The donor might suddenly decide he was in love with her (men that she wasn’t particularly attracted to were always doing that). Then he might decide that he wanted to help bring up the baby.

There was no chance of that with Jason.

Mia couldn’t see a baby in Jason’s flat. Imagine the sticky fingerprints on his vertical Bang and Olufsen hi-fi. He had the one with the option to play one of six CDs. He loved that hi-fi because when the phone rang he was able to change CD from Kylie Minogue to a moody lounge track, just in case it was a woman calling and he wanted to impress. He had no idea how entirely Austin Powers he appeared to the outside world. He usually picked something like
Hotel Costes
to play. Even though he lamented that it wasn’t as hip as it had been in 2001 when he stayed at Costes and actually met Stephane Pompougnac, sat and drank with him, talked about what inspired his mixes. He’d confided in Mia that the
Costes
CDs ‘had become mass market, a victim of their own success, but they were still good tunes’. She’d replied curtly that it was a shame that he’d have to abandon it now and find something more cutting edge as the likes of Ted and Kate played it as background music at their dinner parties.

Imagine the baby pressing all the buttons on his Cosmo dual-band GSM phone and ballsing up the oh-so-considered (and contrived) message that Jason had recorded. Apparently the phone had an integral data-fax – whatever that meant. Mia had no idea, however often Jason explained it. You could buy software to allow video conferencing; Jason intended to do so. Naturally there was no handset. The phone cost the average guy’s month’s salary, but he wasn’t an average guy and he earned way more than an average salary. Anyway, the phone hadn’t really cost him a penny as the advertising agency where he worked had paid for it. They deemed it a necessary accessory for their newly appointed Creative Director of Q&A. It was worth every penny because Jason was able to hold one woman as he talked to another if the occasion arose – and it sometimes did.

Mia smiled to herself. She knew Jason well enough to know that he was genetically perfect father material in every way – and a total vacuum emotionally. Exactly what she wanted.

Now all that was left for Mia to do was to tie up loose ends such as inviting Lloyd along to the stag do. She wanted to give all her old uni friends the impression that the only thing that concerned her was that Action Man had a great time. There were bound to be questions after the trip, when she conceived. It was essential that the pregnancy appeared absolutely accidental. No one must guess at how she’d schemed for the event. Arranging the trip had involved all her negotiation skills, her cunning, her discretion and her determination. Providing Checkers could make that weekend, however, she thought it was in the bag.

‘Fantastic. Count me in,’ said Lloyd, although he was thinking he ought to check with Greta first to see if she had anything in the diary that he needed to be involved with.

‘Cool,’ said Mia. ‘I wondered if you’d have to check with Greta.’

‘No, no, no problem there,’ assured Lloyd. He hoped that he sounded like a man that successfully managed his relationship with his girlfriend. A man that had found balance and attained intimacy, while avoiding intrusion. ‘There won’t be any argument. Greta doesn’t do arguments.’ His ex-wife, Sophie, had been the queen there. Greta, on the other hand, sulked. Lloyd didn’t think it was necessary to add these choice pieces of info.

This wedding was good news for Lloyd. He hadn’t heard from the gang for such a long time. It would be good to catch up with all the guys and spend some real quality time with them. Sure, they texted one another reasonably regularly. Sure, they called occasionally, and they even made plans to meet for dinner or to go away together for a weekend from time to time. Invariably, though, those plans were cancelled at the last moment. Everyone worked so hard. People had come to expect a blowout because of a meeting running late or a sudden and urgent request to put a report together for 8 a.m. the following day. He was possibly the worst culprit of all for last-minute blowouts.

Sophie used to grumble about that all the time. She used to say that he ruined her social life. He never understood that. Why, if he had to work late, couldn’t she go along to Kate and Ted’s without him? When he used to ask her that she would reply that she’d rather spend an evening with her own friends, and then he’d ask, ‘Well, why don’t you?’ She’d always argued that she never planned to see her own friends because they always had plans to see his, plans that he always cancelled at the last minute.

He could replay these rows word for word. She must have plenty of time to spend with her own friends now. She never understood just how demanding his work was. Bitch. At least Greta got that about him. She knew that he, and what he did, was important.

Lloyd thought it was peculiarly poignant that the gang used to call him ‘Checkers’ because everything in his life was black and white, and he was always a step ahead of the crowd. Since he and Sophie split up, everything was a blurred, indistinguishable mass of greys. He felt he was way off-track. If life was a race, he was falling behind.

Sophie had kicked Lloyd out of his home one year, one month, two weeks ago. She’d shouted that he was useless, neglectful and hurtful. She’d yelled that she was sick of trying to win his attention, let alone his approval. She’d cried she was exhausted, sick of doing everything for the baby on her own, while still trying to keep her own career afloat. He’d pointed out that things were easier for her in her career than they were for him in his because she worked at home and for herself. She argued that this just made things scarier; there was no such thing as a coasting day. She’d also argued that she was the biggest breadwinner and therefore what she did was important. She never actually said
more
important, but she thought it. He knew she thought it.

For fuck’s sake, she organized parties.

It was supposed to be a little part-time something-to-do job that would fit around their future family. Who would have thought that the vol-au-vent eating population was so greedy? There seemed to be a party every night, which left Sophie little time to support Lloyd in his career. She knew that was what he expected of her. They’d talked about it at the beginning of their relationship, way back when. A civil servant needed a wife that supported him, not one with her own career. When he’d argued this, Sophie had said, ‘I have two words for you, Lloyd: “Cherie Blair”.’ Very funny. The last two words she’d flung at him were not as considered.