Rebecca

OVER DINNER LANCE KEPT looking at me in that loving, yet puzzled, manner that he had displayed ever since he picked me up at Angie Bliss’s rooms. And I remembered the girl who, a little over twenty years ago, had got ready for an evening with the boy she thought she loved. I smiled to myself as I thought of how I had bleached my hair just because someone had told me Lance preferred blondes. I remembered it all: my hand trembling with delicious anticipation as I applied mascara, the feeling that life was beginning right then and that everything that had gone before had been a rehearsal. And I found myself wondering what our lives might have been like if we had got together that New Year’s Eve. Would we have married? Perhaps.

And by now you’d be divorced, Coco said, which is a comforting thought as it shows that, when it comes to love, whichever path you choose you end up in the same place.

Lance smiled across the table.

‘We didn’t even know each other that well when we were kids, but it’s been so easy just picking up where we left off.’

‘Not knowing each other that well, you mean?’

It was meant as a joke but Lance flinched.

‘I meant the opposite, actually. I meant that it feels as if we …’

I put my hand on his.

‘I know what you meant and I’m sorry, I was being facetious.’

He looked up at me, holding my gaze with his, and I quickly withdrew my hand.

‘Time is as vulnerable to inflation as money,’ I said. We didn’t just get a whole bag of gobstoppers for our penny pocket money when we were kids but a serious chunk of living in the space of a few weeks as well. I suppose it means that when it comes to childhood friendships you just get more bang for your buck.’

‘I would hardly say we were children,’ Lance said.

‘No, perhaps not,’ I said, my attention wandering.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Lance said.

‘Work.’

‘You’re busy on a new book?’

‘No. That’s why I’m preoccupied. I’ve got an idea for a play but at the moment it’s not much more than that. I miss writing novels; without a book at the end of it all my days pass like so much waste floating by on its way down some universal plughole. It’s like recycling, I suppose: I need to recycle life into fiction and now I can’t and I’m all clogged up. And instead of trying to improve my miserable little mind in order for it to be able to create something other than love stories, instead of rereading the classics or taking a philosophy course, I watch soaps and shop for things I don’t need, like another handbag. This in turn makes me suspect that I lack depth.’

To my surprise I realised that Lance was actually listening, his gaze fixed on me as intently as if he were attempting to catch each word with his eyeballs. When I paused he refilled our glasses. It was a warm evening and I downed the chilled white wine to quench my thirst.

‘I don’t see why handbags and philosophy should be mutually exclusive,’ Lance said.

It was a nice thought. I tried it out.

‘Epicurus and handbags,’ I said. ‘OK, so the desire for another new handbag is natural but the bag is not necessary, although it seems that way to the woman in question. The ability of a certain handbag to offer us happiness does not lie in the handbag itself but in the circumstances we find ourselves in and the attitudes we have when we desire it. Thus, in the right circumstances and with a different attitude, a bag from Accessorize could bring as much pleasure as a bag from Prada, which means that the objects of our desire carry no intrinsic value but are simply a reflection of our state of mind.’

Instead of looking bored, which he had every reason to do, Lance looked at me proudly as if I were his very own pet performing an especially clever trick.

Still, I changed the subject.

‘What is your passion?’

‘I’m like you, I suppose, in that work is my main interest, that and sport. It’s always been rugby and cricket, but lately I’ve got more and more into motor sports.’ He paused for the briefest of moments. ‘And of course I really enjoy reading.’

‘Oh, what writers do you enjoy?’

‘Gosh, I’m hopeless with names but I do like a good thriller.’

‘Have you read Henning Mankell? Though I suppose he’s more crime than thriller.’

‘Well, I am definitely more of a thriller man.’

I really didn’t mind that the conversation seemed to be going nowhere. In fact, I didn’t really care that much what Lance thought of me. He was good-looking and sweet and it was perfectly pleasant spending time with him. Yet not so long ago I would have seen him the way I used to see practically every man between the ages of thirty and seventy and in possession of their own teeth: as a potential love interest. Not any more. I was free. Free to be myself.

Free to be both boring and bored, Coco said. That’s what I call progress.

‘You’re smiling,’ Lance said. He had a pleased, expectant look on his face.

‘I was thinking how nice it is just to sit here having dinner together, two old friends, nothing more, nothing less.’

‘Nothing more, nothing less: are you sure about that?’ He reached for my hand.

I checked my watch and got to my feet.

‘Goodness, is that the time? We’d better find our seats.’

Lance was hungry again so I asked him up to the flat. I made an omelette and put out cheese, biscuits and a bowl of grapes.

‘How many grapes count as one of your five a day?’ I asked him.

‘Probably about ten,’ he said.

I poured us some more wine. Lance ate his omelette and then some cheese and biscuits, finishing off with a small bunch of grapes.

‘Have to get my five a day,’ he said.

He walked around to my chair and pulled me to my feet and I realised he was about to kiss me.

As we reached my bedroom, arms around each other’s waists, I thought that this was the difference between youth and middle-aged lust: middle-aged finished its supper first.

He phoned me from work the next day.

‘And how are you this morning?’ His voice was conspiratorial and congratulatory both at once.

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘Last night was wonderful.’ He had lowered his voice and I could hear his breath against the receiver.

I moved it a fraction from my ear. Then I realised that he was waiting for a reply. Thinking that an ‘It was fine’ most probably wasn’t the reply he was after, I settled for an indistinct mumble that could be thought of as agreement.

‘Are you free this evening?’

‘I’m not, actually.’ There were at least three TV programmes on that I wanted to watch.

‘How about Sunday lunch? We could drive out of London. There’s this great little pub I know just this side of Oxford.’

The forecast was good. I wouldn’t have to cook.

‘That would be lovely,’ I told him.

In the weeks that followed it was tempting to play along with the spring sunshine and the chirruping birds and act like a woman in love. We made a nice couple. We walked hand in hand, some of the time. We laughed at each other’s jokes. We enjoyed some of the same films and we liked a lot of the same kind of food. So what about the irritation that sat at the base of my chest? It threatened to spill over when he didn’t wring out the dishcloth and left it sopping wet in the sink, or when he made a joke with a waiter and then went on trying to explain even though the man clearly didn’t understand him. And today it had made me smack his hand away when he reached round from behind and pulled me close as I was standing by the kitchen table reading the paper.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ he complained. ‘You’re always grumpy these days. I thought we were having a good thing here.’

I turned round and smiled and apologised.

‘I’m just worried about work, that’s all.’

‘You’re always worried about work.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. Let’s go out and eat.’

‘You’re not regretting us, are you?’

‘Of course not. It’s really good being relaxed in a relationship for once. To be two independent adults who enjoy spending time together without the dramas and the panting and the sighing and the losing weight and sleep. Anyway, shall I call and book a table?’

‘Let’s go to Paris,’ Lance said.

‘Paris?’

He laughed and took my hands.

‘You know Paris? The city. The capital of France.’

‘Maybe not Paris,’ I said.

‘So what about Rome?’

I thought of jasmine-scented nights and walks along the shady side of the street. I thought of pasta and red wine and late afternoons in bed and drives out to the ruins of Hadrian’s Villa. For some reason I wanted to cry.

‘Not Rome,’ I said.

He looked surprised but he didn’t question me.

‘New York?’

‘Amsterdam,’ I said. I’ve never been to Amsterdam.’

‘OK. But it’s not the most romantic place, you know.’

I did know.

The next morning I woke to a soft caress with a rough finger on my cheek. I opened my eyes and saw Lance smiling down at me, a tray with coffee and croissants balanced on his other hand.

‘Good morning, darling,’ he said as I sat up, blinking and wondering what on earth I looked like in the unforgiving light. He placed the tray on my knees and perched down next to me. ‘I used to love my place but lately I don’t want to be there at all.’ He ruffled my hair. ‘I wonder why that is?’

‘But your place is lovely,’ I said. ‘Really, really lovely.’

‘Mmm.’ He bent down and kissed me. ‘But you’re not there.’

I looked at the clock on the bedside table.

‘Oh look, it’s almost eight. You’ll be late for work.’

He checked his watch and got to his feet slowly, as if he were being peeled away.

‘I don’t want to go,’ he said, pouting, reminding me of Dominic. ‘And I won’t see you tonight either – I’ve got that work thing.’

I sat up straighter against the pillows.

‘I know, such a bore. Still, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Mentally I was mapping out my morning. Breakfast and the papers. A fast half-hour walk to clear my head and then work. Later in the day, and if work had gone well, I might see if Matilda or Maggie was free to go and see a film. I hadn’t seen either of them much since I had started meeting Lance and I missed them.

He leant down and kissed me one more time. He was a good kisser.

‘I’ll get out of the dinner. Yup, that’s what I’ll do. Wasn’t there that Jane Austen film you wanted to see?’

‘Yes, but …’

He put his finger on my lips.

‘No buts, I want to be with you.’

‘No.’

Lance had been on his way to the door but now he stopped and turned round.

‘I thought you wanted to see it.’

‘I do.’

He frowned.

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘I want to see it with Matilda,’ I said, sounding, I realised, like a truculent five-year-old.

‘Oh.’

‘You’re going to be really late,’ I said.

‘I’m fine,’ he snapped. ‘Why don’t you want to see it with me? Aren’t we meant to be doing these things together?’

‘Of course. Sometimes.’

He walked back to the bed and sat down. He took my hands, which I had made into claws, in his.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘You seem out of sorts.’

I pulled the claws from his grasp.

‘I’m not.’

‘Call me a romantic old fool,’ he said, smiling now, twinkling, in fact. ‘But I enjoy spending time with you. It’s what lovers do, remember?’

I thought about it.

‘Yes, it is,’ I said.

‘Good.’ Once again he got to his feet and made for the door. ‘I’ll see you about six then.’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Lance,’ I said, ‘I don’t think we should see each other again.’

I listened to the front door banging shut and with a sigh of relief I lay back against the pillows.

It’s nice, being just us, Coco said.

It is, I agreed.