Straight Talking (19 page)

Perhaps this is what we need. A dream, a hope for the future, something to aspire to, and perhaps we need to keep replacing this dream with something a little bigger, because when we manage to fulfill the dream, we usually find out that it’s not what we wanted in the first place.

Or if it is, it doesn’t feel the way we always thought it should.

Sometimes, if you’re very mixed up, very stupid, or very thoughtless, you screw up the dream just as you get it. You tell yourself you don’t deserve it, and you have to start all over again.

I put my key in the lock and the door doesn’t open more than a crack. Pushing and shoving, I manage to squeeze in, and there on the floor of my hallway are boxes of CDs, of books, of papers.

Clothes are strewn in between and as I pick my way through the mess I think again, what the hell have I done? Harvey and Stanley are sitting at the other end of the corridor, watching me belligerently as if to say, “What on earth are you doing to our home? What’s all this
stuff
?”

Adam’s left a note: “Gone back to get some more stuff together. Probably won’t be back till late, got so much packing to do! Sorry about the mess in the hall, I’ll clear it tomorrow. Adam xxx.”

Well, where the hell will he clear it to? I look around at the junk, feel slightly sick at the prospect of even more turning up, and then I look around at my lovely immaculate flat with not a lot of storage.

I need a bath.

The bubbles rise high above my body as I lie back, soaking away the worries and drawing out the dirt of London from my pores with a cucumber astringent face mask. My hair’s piled up on top of my head, a glass of wine is resting on the side of the bath, and Ella Fitzgerald is singing from the speakers in the living room.

Mmm. This is lovely. Nothing like a long, hot soak when you’re tired and confused, not sure whether you’ve just done the right thing. I sip the wine and idly watch my cherry red toenails as my feet play with the taps.

And just as I’m debating whether or not to immerse my head in the water, the silent, soothing bathwater covered in bubbles, the bloody doorbell rings.

“Shit!” I say. I’m not going to answer that. But what if it’s important? Could be Adam back earlier than he thought, forgetting his key. Could be anyone. Shit! I leap out of the bath, wrap a towel around and run down the stairs. Halfway down I realize the face mask is still on. “HANG ON!” I yell in the general direction of the front door as I leap back upstairs, three steps at a time, and scrub off the mask.

Clutching the towel around me like a talisman I open the door and who should be standing on the doorstep but Andrew.

Yes,
that
Andrew. Andrew who I fancied the pants off. Andrew who I haven’t seen since Adam and I got together. Andrew who kissed me. Andrew who’s standing there looking absolutely, one hundred percent fuckable. Still.

And me? I’m standing there looking like something the bloody cat’s dragged in.

My hand instinctively goes up to my hair, piled up in a messy topknot, but I can’t let it down and shake it out, it would be too damned obvious, so I grin nervously and rub one foot against the back of my calf. Just checking, and yes, phew, they’re shaved. Not a hair in sight.

Why does this sort of thing only ever seem to happen to me?

“I hope I’m not disturbing you?” His sexy drawl is as sexy as ever and it’s quite obvious he’s disturbing me, he’s pulled me out of the bath but I stand there and say, “No, it’s fine.”

What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to ask him in? Am I supposed to stand there on the doorstep saying, “Can I help you?” or what? Help!

“Um,” he grins, “do you think I could come in?”

“Oh God, yes, of course,” and I stand back and let him in, thinking, why doesn’t he kiss me hello? Why does his mere presence, standing on my doorstep, in my hall, sitting on my sofa, reduce me to jelly?

I
know
what I should have done then. Really, you don’t need to tell me. I should have said something like, “Hang on a minute, let me just get dressed,” and maybe if I had everything would have been fine. But I didn’t, I was so nervous, excited, adrenaline rushing through my body that I didn’t think. I just sat down, the towel still clutched round me.

“So Adam’s not here then?”

“He should be back any minute.” A blatant lie, but he’ll stay if he thinks Adam’s going to be here. After all, he’s here to see Adam. Isn’t he?

“OK, you don’t mind if I wait for a few minutes, do you?”

“Not at all. Would you like a drink?”

“A glass of wine would be lovely.”

I come back from the kitchen, snatching a quick look in the mirror in the hallway on my way back and pulling a few tumbling tendrils down from my topknot, and I pour the wine into the glasses.

“Didn’t you try him at home?” I am curious. Maybe, just maybe, he’s here because he wants to see me. Maybe he’s using Adam as an excuse.

“I didn’t bother. He told me he was moving in here and I just assumed he’d be here. I was going to ring but I was passing the door so I thought I’d chance my luck.”

He takes a sip of the wine and settles back against the cushions, closing his eyes as he savours the crisp cool flavor and sighs loudly. “What a day.”

I want him. I want him. I want him. I want him to lean over and kiss me. I want him to rip my towel off and clutch me in his arms. I want to undress him. I want him living here. I want to wake up every morning and be with this man. Oh God, what is happening to me?

Forget Adam, forget everything. I am here in this moment with a man who makes my heart beat faster. Isn’t this what I’ve been waiting for? Isn’t this what I’ve wanted?

Andrew opens his eyes and looks at me. My face, my body, my legs, and I feel myself flushing. “I’m surprised,” he says, his eyes traveling back up to meet mine.

I frown at him.

“I’m surprised that you look the way you do with next to nothing on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve only ever seen you looking perfect, I thought you would be one of those women who look great when they’re all dressed up but terrible first thing in the morning, or just out of the bath with no makeup on.”

“And do I look terrible?” I smile flirtatiously.

“No. Jesus, you look sexy as hell.”

This is it! This is it!

“Look, I’d better go.” He’s shaking his head.

“Please, stay.” Urgency in my voice.

“You’re Adam’s girlfriend now. I can’t stay, I can’t be in the same room with you looking the way you do now. This is crazy.”

My heart’s pounding, pounding, pounding. I’m back on the rollercoaster, high as a kite, flying through the clouds on a torrent of passion.

“We’re not doing anything.”

“Yet.” He looks at me slowly and then moves a little bit closer, gauging my reaction, waiting to see whether I move away, but I don’t. I move a little bit closer.

He takes my hand and takes a deep breath. “Adam’s my friend, Tasha. I couldn’t do this to him.” He shakes his head again, trying to dislodge the thought, remove it, pretend it isn’t there. “But, Christ, you are gorgeous.”

He groans and suddenly he holds my head with both hands and kisses me, furiously, passionately, and I think I am going to die with the excitement. I moan as he circles his tongue in my mouth and then we both jerk back in horror.

My front door slams shut. Footsteps running down my stairs. A car door opening and an engine revving. A car, a Saab, roaring off into the night.

Andrew and I look at each other, fear written over both our faces.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Adam.”

19

Don’t judge me. Please don’t judge me. Not yet, not before I try to explain, try to justify what I did, try to find the mitigating circumstances.

Do you remember a while ago I told you about women who are stupid? Women who don’t recognize a good thing when they’ve got it? Women who screw it up?

And cast your mind back to when we first met. I told you that some women put up with terrible relationships because they don’t think they deserve any better. These same women, when they find a good relationship, screw it up because they don’t think they deserve it.

Am I one of these women? Oh God, have I screwed up what could have been the best relationship of my life? Or was it the best? Was it just average? Could it only ever be just average because Adam never makes me feel the way that Andrew, in the space of probably ten minutes, just made me feel.

Andrew leaves. I practically push him out the door and neither of us says a word to one another as he walks out. Then just as he walks through the door he turns to me and says softly, “I’m sorry.”

“Just leave,” I say, shutting the door in his oh-so-handsome face. Whatever I was thinking, whatever I was feeling has gone, vanished into thin air as I lean back against the wall in the corridor, one hand still on the door handle.

My knees sink slowly to the floor and I crouch there for a while, before sitting down and hugging my knees to my chest. I’m shaking, and I feel very cold, very alone.

I sit there for most of the night, among the boxes and books that are all I have tonight of Adam’s. Every time a car drives past I look up, praying it’s Adam, praying I can explain.

But can I explain? Should I explain? I don’t want Adam to leave, but nor do I think I want him to stay. At one point I stand up and look in the mirror and a mass of confusion stares back. What the hell do I want? Do I care? Does anyone care?

At around two o’clock in the morning I start to look curiously at the boxes on my floor. At the parts of Adam’s life I’ve never seen. Perhaps if I open them it will bring him back. Perhaps by sensing he is near he will physically be near. Soon. Or is that what I really want?

I pick up a huge Aran-knit sweater. A big scratchy patterned thing that I’ve always hated and I hold it close and take a big sniff, smelling Adam’s strength, his security, his comfort.

I let it go and open another box, pick up the books, stroke their spines, open and read a few words by Nick Hornby, Irvine Welsh, Andrew Davies.

I read the words and rewrite them in my mind. “Where does he go, when he’s gone? Who can we trust?” I put the book down. He’s not here and he can’t trust me. How can he? I can’t trust myself.

And another box filled with CDs. Billy Joel, Jackson Browne, Crowded House. My Mr. Middle of the Road, I think, and smile sadly as a tear threatens to stagger down my cheek.

And photographs. Dozens of photographs. Here’s Adam and Simon, on holiday somewhere many years ago, arms flung round one another as their sunburned faces grin broadly at the camera.

Here’s Adam with his parents, all of them having lunch in the garden, empty plates with chicken bones, empty bowls on the table. Smiling, happy, Adam’s shirt off, basking in the sunshine. I trace my finger down his chest, across his arms. The body I know so well.

And then I pick up a picture of me, a picture I vaguely remember. A picture that I haven’t seen for years. I recognize my clothes, beige silk trousers, blue denim shirt, brown loafers, and I know I haven’t worn these clothes for years. Not since Simon.

I’m sitting in a large airy living room, smiling at something, looking to my left, presumably at someone who is not in the picture. I remember this night. It was a dinner party, three years ago, and I was with Simon. It’s coming back to me now. I’m talking to Adam and Simon took the picture. The last time I saw this picture it was at Simon’s. How did Adam get it?

And then another picture, a picture I didn’t know existed, a picture taken recently. Me again, fast asleep, lying on my side, one arm under the pillow, one clutching the duvet to my chin. I never knew about this picture, Adam must have taken it one morning, caught me at my most vulnerable.

I flip the picture over and on the back Adam has written, “My Tasha.” I didn’t know this picture had been taken, a picture of me taken unawares that Adam has kept, a picture that yearns, aches, sighs for a touch.

At three o’clock in the morning I find myself pacing up and down the flat. He’s at home now, I think. He’s tucked up in bed. I need to talk to him. I need to explain.

I know what you’re thinking, shades of Simon, of driving round to find him in the middle of the night, and I think it too, as I’m driving to Adam’s flat, pulling up outside, double parking in Sutherland Avenue and sitting staring. Just staring. For a long, long time.

Thinking about Simon. Thinking about Adam. Thinking about Andrew. Thinking that maybe this was supposed to happen. Maybe I’m not meant to be with Adam.

Thinking about my life. About how far I’ve come, what I’ve achieved, and whether any of it really means anything if I’m on my own.

And I sit and I stare, and eventually look up at Adam’s windows, blackened windows and I know that I can’t ring his doorbell. I can’t face him yet because I don’t know how to explain. I don’t know what to say.

I don’t sleep very well. I lie in bed, on my back, eyes wide and staring into space. I think about my relationship with Adam. I think about Andrew. I think about that kiss and I still don’t know what to do.

In the morning I go to work on auto-pilot, picking my way through Adam’s junk in the corridor, driving to work in rush hour, no road rage from me this morning. I drive slowly, calmly, my mind somewhere else.

“You can’t do a fucking item on Big Is Beautiful,” says Jim, striding up to me with fury in his eyes. “We’re doing it on Monday.”

The lack of communication in this place is amazing. How many times do we ring up an author, a celebrity, a guest, and ask them on the show, only to find out they’ve already been approached by ten different researchers from
Breakfast Break
, all working on different days, all desperate to entice them on to their day, their Monday or Thursday that is “so much better than all the other days.”

I look up at Jim wearily. I don’t need this now, not now. I’ve been trying Mel all morning and her answering machine at work is on which means she’s in a session. “I’m sorry I can’t get to the phone, but do leave your name and number and I promise I will telephone you immediately. Thank you so much for calling.”

I don’t need this hassle, I don’t need people shouting at me. I’m very close to breaking point so I just look at Jim with tired eyes and say, “We’ve been planning it for ages, Jim. I’m sorry, but we’re going ahead.”

“Who are you using?”

“Julia Douglas.” I wait for his reaction. Julia Douglas is what you might call a B-list celebrity. She’s written dozens of books on being fat and proud of it. She’s the number-one model with the agency 16 Plus VAT, and she’s just endorsed a new line of fresh cream cakes.

His reaction is not what I expect. Jim smirks and says, “Well
love
, you’d better cancel her. We’ve got Gina Golden.”

Shit, shit, shit! We’ve been trying Gina Golden for weeks. Faxing her agent in America, then her publicist, chasing them, waiting for their return calls that never came, and finally being told that sorry, it was a short tour in England and she wouldn’t be doing any television.

Gina Golden is a major A-list Hollywood star. She shot to fame as a child with her platinum blond curls and big green eyes. She was as cute as cute can be, and her career soared upward, as has, recently, her weight.

She’s in her fifties now. Still beautiful, but a number of loveless marriages has taken its toll, and she’s now huge. Swathed in shimmering caftans, she hasn’t been able to play a film part in years.

So instead she’s become a businesswoman. She has a line of jewelry, costume rip-offs of designer gems, a line of cosmetics, and a line of beauty products.

But she’s still remembered as the most beautiful platinum blonde star since Jean Harlow, long since deceased. She’s dragged out regularly at the Oscars and the Emmys. No Hollywood function would be complete without the ample form of Gina Golden.

“How the hell did you get Gina Golden?” I’m jealous, but curious.

“Contacts, darling. She wasn’t going to do anything but a friend of mine in L.A. is her personal makeup artist and he talked her into it.”

I shake my head in amazement. Does this gay mafia know no bounds? “You win. I’ll cancel Julia Douglas.”

Jim walks off and then, God knows why, tears start welling up in my eyes, and before I know it I’m fighting to keep down huge heaving sobs.

I know people are watching but I don’t care. I lean my head into my hands and my body heaves, black lines of mascara running down my fingers in streams and then I feel an arm around my shoulder.

“Come on, Tasha, it’s going to be OK.” David pulls my chair back and leads me out of the office and into his dressing room where he puts his arms around me and I fold into them, leaning my head against his chest and sobbing makeup all over his shirt, but he just holds me tight until I stop.

When you’ve hit breaking point sometimes you need to be held, and sometimes you need to talk. The odd thing is we tend to talk to the most unlikely people. We talk to strangers in the street, a kind word or a reassuring hand on our arm causes us to open up, causes all the pain to come spilling out.

We talk to strangers, or to people who are not in our inner circle because we don’t care and they won’t judge. We don’t think about the consequences of talking to those we don’t know well. We don’t worry that they are seeing us at our most vulnerable, that they may take advantage of that. No. Why would we?

David sits me down and disappears, coming back with a cup of tea. He hands it to me silently as I hold it on my lap, lapping over the cup and into the saucer as I start to talk, taking huge great hiccups of breath every few seconds. But I’m calming down.

I talk and I tell David what happened. I tell him about Adam and I tell him about me. I tell him about Simon. I tell him about the rollercoaster. I tell him about Jennifer Mason.

And then when I’ve finished and I’m just starting to feel embarrassed about the depths of my soul I have just revealed to the host on my show, David leans down and strokes my face.

I feel the tears well up again at this sensitivity, this kindness, the way you are always OK until someone asks in a gentle voice, “Are you OK?” and suddenly you’re not.

“You will find someone else,” he says, thinking perhaps he is saying the right thing. “It feels like the end of the world but time heals all wounds.”

Oh shut up, I think. Keep the clichés to yourself, this isn’t about healing the wounds, this is about love, this is about passion, respect, and admiration. This is about which are the two that are enough.

But I smile gratefully for he
has
been lovely, he has held out a helping hand when there was no one else around.

“How about that drink after work?” he says. “You shouldn’t be on your own tonight.”

Typical man, isn’t he? He’s happy to hold me, to comfort me and to listen to me, just as long as there’s something in it for him. But there isn’t this time, because the very last thing I need is another man to confuse everything further.

“No,” I say.

“Are you sure?” The sensitive concerned look is on his face again and as I look at him I can’t help but wonder where he learned to do that. From a film perhaps?

“I’m sure.”

He shrugs his shoulders and says, “If you’re sure you’ll be OK. Another time perhaps.”

I don’t say anything this time, I just walk out of the room and sit back down at my desk, trying to ignore the whispers and stares. I pick up the phone and try Mel again, but it’s still her machine. I don’t leave a message, and I keep trying her all day, but it’s a busy day, and she’s not there to pick up.

At some point in the afternoon I call Andy. Not perhaps the most sympathetic of people, I know, but she knows me and she knows Adam, and perhaps she can tell me what I should do.

“Bloody hell,” she says when I tell her what happened. “You’ve really blown it this time.”

“I know, Andy, I just don’t need to hear that right now.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

I sigh. “I don’t know. I just don’t know what I want.”

“Do you love Adam?”

“Yes. You know I do.”

“But you fancy Andrew.” It’s a rhetorical question to which we both know the answer.

“It’s a bit of a mess,” she says. “Are you going to talk to Adam?”

“As soon as I’ve figured out what I’m going to say.”

“Look, why don’t you come over later? I’m not doing anything tonight and I’ll make something to eat. We can talk about it then, work out what you’re going to say.”

“Andy, you can’t cook.”

“Yeah, but I meant I’ll go out and buy something.”

“OK. If I get hold of Mel can I ask her too?”

“Sure. Do you want me to ask Emma?”

“Mmm. Not sure. I think just the three of us.”