Authors: William Nicholson
Meg says, Was it me? Could it have been anyone? What can I say? Yes, it could have been anyone, but it wasn’t anyone. It was you. Hold on to that. It was the real you I came to in your flat, not some figment of my imagination. Please don’t ask for any more meaning than that. Who we meet, who we love, it’s all accident. But once the accident has happened it becomes individual. Don’t read life backwards, keep going forwards. I could have been anyone too, Meg. But I turned out to be me.
‘I don’t know what I want you to say, really,’ says Meg. ‘I feel so miserable. I know that’s not fair. We never made any promises. It had to stop one day. I do know all that. But when I think I may never see you again, at least not in that way, I get this frightening feeling that we never really knew each other at all. Like we’ve been strangers all along.’
‘How can you say that?’ says Tom.
‘Don’t you feel it?’
‘Not at all. I’ve felt closer to you than almost anyone in my life.’
‘Really?’
‘Why do you doubt it?’
‘Isn’t that just sex?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s just sex. Which is just the intensest way I know how to live.’
‘But you can have sex with anybody.’
‘Then why do I do it with you?’
‘That’s what I’m asking you, Tom. Why me?’
Because I thought you wanted to have sex with me. But this is the one answer he can’t give.
‘I can’t analyse it, Meg. What is it people say? We clicked. Didn’t you feel it?’
‘Yes. I did. But if you ask me why, I can tell you. Because of your smile. Because you have beautiful hands. Because you’re the best at what you do. Because you wear funny ties. Because of the way you look at me. Because of the way you touch me.’
‘I could say all of that back to you. Except the bit about the funny ties.’
‘Then say it.’
He starts to speak, and breaks off. Some inhibition closes his throat. What’s so hard about repeating a few words as an act of kindness? But some inner censor cuts him off each time he begins to speak.
He gets up, walks to the window, hoping that with his back to her the words will come, but they don’t.
‘I know it’s over,’ she says. ‘I’m just asking you to leave me in a better place than you found me.’ Close to tears now. ‘Don’t send me back to where I was before, Tom. Please.’
Tom has no idea what demon has possession of him. But the more pitifully she asks for loving words the less he is able to utter them. Some instinct of self-preservation has him in its powerful grip. Nothing to do with Belinda and loyalty to his marriage. This is about fear of being needed. Fear of responsibility for the happiness of another.
‘Well, I’ll tell you this,’ he says at last. ‘I’ve had the best sex of my whole life with you.’
She gives a small muffly laugh.
‘Have you, Tom? So have I.’
‘That’s something, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. More than something.’
‘You’re a wonderful lover, Meg.’
‘Am I? I want to be.’
‘You are.’
He’s not giving her what she asks for, but it’s something. He’s not choking on his words any more.
‘You’re a natural,’ he says. ‘You understand instinctively what a man wants.’
‘That’s because you told me. And I wanted it to be good for you.’
‘And for you.’
‘Yes. For me too.’
But Tom can’t deceive himself any longer. He had believed that with Meg he had found a mutuality of desire, but it was only wishful thinking. For Meg, sex was a means to another end.
‘You never thought I’d leave my wife or something, did you?’
‘No. Never.’
‘I never said anything to make you think that.’
‘No. Never.’
‘It was our secret other life, wasn’t it? Our stolen pleasures.’
His phone buzzes. Michelle.
‘I know you said not to disturb you, but Mrs Lazarus is waiting.’
‘Oh, God, is that the time? Tell her two minutes.’
Meg is already on her feet.
‘Meg. I’m sorry.’
She gives him an odd look, almost as if she pities him.
‘I’m sorry too.’
‘I’m no good at this sort of thing. I don’t know what to say. I feel terrible. I’ve just made a mess of everything, haven’t I?’
‘Not just a mess,’ she says. ‘Not just something to be sorry for.’
‘No, you’re right. I’m not sorry, really. It’s been so special. Can’t we hold onto that?’
‘Yes.’
He opens his arms, inviting her for a last kiss. She comes to him and leans against him. He holds her in his arms, kisses her cheek. She’s crying.
‘Now, now. None of that.’
‘It’s been more than special, Tom.’ She takes out a tissue and dries her eyes. ‘You’ve changed my life.’
‘Have I?’
‘But you have no idea, do you?’
One last hurt smile and she leaves his consulting room, walking fast. No goodbyes.
And now comes the pang of loss. Now he can say all the words she longs to hear. I need you, Meg. I love you. I think about you all the time. Now that she’s walking so briskly out of his life.
You changed my life too, Meg. Only I don’t yet know how.
Chloe climbs the stairs from the tube station and comes out onto the crowded pavement at Oxford Circus. The Christmas illumin ations hang unlit overhead. People are moving slowly, forcing their way doggedly through the throng. Red buses line up at the traffic lights like islands round which flow the eddies of Christmas shoppers. A dull cloud-shuttered day which makes the shop windows bright, enticing.
Her phone wakes up after its underground hibernation and bip-bips as texts come through. Pippa, one of her Exeter house-mates. Baz, still hoping. A passing man stares at her, apparently unaware that if he can see her she can see him. She knows that look, the sullen and insolent gape of desire from a man who does not expect to be desired in return. You’re on the money there, pal. You’d think men like that would have some shame. Fifty at least, overweight, in a ski jacket and jeans. He doesn’t care what I think. About Dad’s age.
Did Dad stare like that?
She’s been not thinking about her father all the way up from Sussex on the train. Really she’s been not thinking about him since she learned about his affair. It sits there, just out of her vision, like a dark mass. Not offensive, just embarrassing. Him wanting her forgiveness.
She shudders, and looks into the glowing windows of Top Shop. Not that she can afford to buy anything. What is it about money? Her dad gives her £500 a month on top of her rent, it’s much more than most of her friends, but it never lasts to the end of the month. Coming up on the train today, that’s nearly twenty for a start. At least she’ll get a free lunch.
Jesus, Oxford Street goes on for ever. Who are all these people? Isn’t there supposed to be a recession? The free-newspaper pushers try to make eye contact. What do you make in a job like that? Has to be rubbish money or they’d have better-looking people. How hard is it to give something away for free? The picture on the front page is Bush in Iraq ducking a flying shoe. Apparently a shoe is seriously insulting. Who knew?
A smile from a pretty boy loping towards her in a cute Pete Doherty hat. She smiles back. He raises one hand and shoots her with a thumb and extended finger, and goes on by. So many boys, so many missed chances. He could have been the one. How are you supposed to know? Except they all turn into boring creeps in the end. Not even in the end, after a week. If you’re lucky. She looks back but he’s disappeared into the crowd.
Dad having sex, that is so sick. There should be a law, you reproduce and that’s it. No more porking. You’ve had your day, now show some self-respect and act your age. Apparently old age pensioners still do it. We’re supposed to go Aah! That’s so romantic, but it’s not, it’s just gross. There should be a word for it, like paedophilia or bestiality. Wrinklefuck. Please.
Off Oxford Street at last, round by the umpteenth branch of Prêt à Manger into Radcliffe Place. The restaurant’s up here, she Googled it before leaving home. In Charlotte Street.
Turns out there’s nothing but restaurants, both sides of the street. It’s called Passione: small, Italian, smart. Chloe approves. She checks her watch, she’s not as late as she’d hoped, but when she looks in through the window she can see him inside, at a table. He’s reading a magazine, drinking a glass of wine. He looks like he’s in his own home.
Why am I here? Because he asked me. Why not?
She goes in to the warmth, feels her face turn pink. Guy Caulder looks up from his magazine.
‘How about that?’ he says. ‘I bet myself a fiver you wouldn’t come.’
‘I said I’d come,’ says Chloe, shrugging off her coat. A nice waiter takes it from behind her.
Guy subjects her to a critical examination. Chloe doesn’t mind, she’s taken trouble with her clothes. Mostly boys never notice.
‘You look stunning,’ he says.
‘Well, it is Christmas.’
She sits down, feeling suddenly unsure of herself. Guy’s never taken his eyes off her.
‘No shopping?’
‘What?’
‘You said you were coming up to town to do some shopping.’
‘Oh, yes. Later.’
‘Have a drink.’
He pours her a glass of wine from the bottle standing in a cooler.
‘I never shop,’ he says. ‘I’m too mean to give Christmas presents.’
‘I love giving Christmas presents,’ says Chloe. ‘I just never have enough money.’
‘You’re wearing Chanel. Coco. Not exactly broke.’
‘Mum gave it to me last birthday.’
She’s awestruck that he can tell her perfume.
‘So what do you fancy?’
He picks up the menu.
‘I expect you’re not all that hungry. How about skipping the starters and the mains, and going for a pasta? I’m having the pasta with broccoli and provola.’
‘Who says I’m not hungry?’
‘Are you?’
‘No. Not very.’
So he orders the
maloreddus con broccoli e provola
for both of them. Chloe feels dizzy.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he says. ‘I don’t really know anything about you.’
‘What’s to tell?’ she says. ‘I live in Sussex, in a village called Plumpton. My dad’s a surgeon, he does boob jobs and stuff like that. I’ve just started uni at Exeter. I’m doing drama.’
‘Do you want to be an actress?’
‘I thought so once. I’m not so sure any more.’
‘Why’s that?’
His interest in her is focused, almost fierce. His eyes never leave her.
‘I don’t think I’m good enough,’ she says.
‘Just as well,’ he says. ‘Acting is a pitiful existence.’
‘That’s a bit strong.’
‘I work in advertising. We use actors all the time. They line up for auditions like tarts in a Bangkok brothel. I’m Susi, buy me.’
‘Is that what tarts say in Bangkok brothels?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ he says with a smile.
‘These days everyone has to sell themselves,’ she says.
‘Who told you that?’
‘I don’t know. It’s what you hear. Present yourself in the best light. Give yourself the best chance. Da-de-da.’
She pushes stray hair from her face. Presenting herself in the best light.
‘I don’t agree,’ he says.
‘Oh.’ She’s not used to flat contradiction. ‘Okay.’
‘The way I see it, in any deal, in any transaction, there’s a master and there’s a servant. The master wants whatever it is he wants. The servant wants to please the master. All of us can be either masters or servants. We switch back and forth, depending on the deal.’
‘Okay …’
‘I believe that if you think and act like a master, you force the other person into the role of the servant.’
Chloe listens, fascinated. Not just by what he’s saying: by the feeling that he’s taking her seriously.
‘And the way to act like a master,’ he says, ‘is to go into any deal, any transaction, with a clear picture of what you want out of it. Which is exactly what most people don’t do. They think they have to sell themselves, like you said. They come into the room thinking, How can I please this person? How can I make him like me? And there you are. Before you’ve even opened your mouth, you’re the servant.’
It seems to Chloe that he’s obviously and undeniably right. She wonders that she never thought it before.
‘Only,’ she says, ‘I don’t see what you can do about it. I mean, you’re talking about confidence. Some people just don’t have it.’
‘So fake it,’ he says. ‘You’d be surprised. It works just as well.’
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I’ll try.’
He’s looking at her over the top of his glass of wine. ‘Now tell me why you’re here.’
‘Oh, I’ll go anywhere for a free lunch.’ He says nothing. ‘You did offer.’
‘I did.’
‘So here I am.’
‘And here I am.’
It’s not what he says, it’s how he says it. As if they’re having two conversations at the same time, one very ordinary and one that’s shockingly intimate. Chloe is entirely out of her depth. A new sensation.
‘I think I should make it clear to you,’ he says, ‘that I’m not here for the shopping or the lunch. I’m here for you.’
‘That’s nice.’
What kind of answer is that? That’s nice. I’m being the servant here.
‘I wanted to see you again.’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Me too.’
‘Because you’re a very attractive young woman. As I’m sure you know.’
‘Oh, well. Not really.’
‘Don’t do that.’
‘What?’
‘Say things you don’t mean. I’m not a very good man, in a whole lot of ways, but I say what I mean. If we’re going to be friends, let’s agree, right from the start, no bullshit. No lies.’
‘Okay.’
He’s so sure of himself. Chloe realizes she wants to please him even if that does make her the servant, only she doesn’t know how.
‘What has Alice told you about me?’
‘Nothing, really.’
‘I’m a lousy father. But then, it was never my idea in the first place. To be a good father you need to be reliable. Responsible. Faithful. I’m none of these things.’
‘You’re quite reliable. I mean, you showed up here.’
‘That’s because I wanted to. I’m very reliable about doing things I want to do.’
Chloe drinks more wine. Feels it working its magic.
‘I think you’re not nearly as bad as you like to make out.’