Authors: Lisa Jewell
That was another reason she'd chosen Smith, and he didn't blame her realy, he'd always been quite taken with the thought of being supported by a rich woman and could see no reason why Jem should be beyond the alure of a man in a position to keep up the mortgage payments and pay for Baby Gap clothes in the event of a maternity break, a man you could seriously envisage making a good impression at a Parent—Teacher meet ing, a man who would have no qualms about assembling a set of bookshelves, a man with AA membership. So, there was no point in getting al bitter and resentful about Smith and Ms seemingly obscene good luck. He just needed to rise to the level of the competition. Surely a girl would rather a fabulously successful artist type than a fabulously successful banker type.
He'd been in touch with his 'mentor', Philippe, who had unexpectedly been pleasantly surprised to hear from him after so many months. They'd discussed the future, the market, the prevailing stars, his past work, his state of mind, and Ralph had left feeling nicely needed and worth while and itching to get the cast off his wrist so he could start painting again. He'd made another, less eventful trip to his studio and pottered around for a while, clearing out the cobwebs and rat droppings, throwing out dead-bristled brushes and dried-up tubes of paint, familiarizing himself with the draughty old shit-hole.
Less is more, he'd decided, and he'd backed off from Jem in the two weeks since his accident, spending more time with his Mends, even when he knew that Jem was going to be on her own in the flat, deliberately forgetting about the chili plants in the airing cupboard, dispensing with the constant flower-buying and compliments. And the more he backed off, he'd been gratified to note, the more she came to him. Part of that was to do with guilt, he realized that. She stil blamed herself for the bike accident and fussed around him like a delightful little hen, making sure he was comfortable, fetching him things from the kitchen, cooking for him. But she was missing the rapport they'd developed, it was obvious -she'd talk to him about the chili plants, give him progress reports, like a sad mother to an absent father who needed reminding about the welfare of his children. She took up his flower-buying role and brought home unusual chilies she'd discovered in food hals and Asian supermarkets.
Once Ralph had established that Jem cared, truly cared, it was time to put step two of Operation Mature and Available into practice: finish with Claudia. And now this remarkable opportunity had arisen, Smith, away, for a whole weekend, two whole days. He didn't know what was going to happen but he knew something would. Definitely. He could feel it in his water.
Jem could feel something in her water, too. Ever since the day of the accident she hadn't experienced a moment's peace. She had spent the last fortnight battling with feelings she'd never encountered before. Jem had always been so solidly sensible in love, a serial monogamist, as they caled them these days, two years here, a year there, al nice blokes and clean breaks.
Despite the fact that for one reason or another Jem usualy ended up breaking men's hearts, it wasn't because she was cruel or unkind or had anything against men. She didn't
want
to hurt them, she just had to sometimes. She'd never been unfaithful and, as far as she knew, no one had ever been unfaithful to her. She'd never had a
'bad' relationship, just relationships that didn't work out because men wanted more than she could give. She wasn't one of those girls who was constantly attracted to the wrong sort of man, who suffered from unrequited love, who couldn't commit or who 'loved too much'. She'd never had a passionate love affair with someone, been consumed with desire. She'd never experienced irresistible lust. She'd loved, or at least been fond of everyone she'd ever been out with, and they'd loved her back. Al her relationships had been strong learning experiences, passing the time until the right man came along. And now, when finaly she thought the right man
had
come along, and she was happy and could see a long-term future ahead of her with Smith, she was suddenly feeling horribly attracted to someone else. To Ralph. It was utterly ridiculous. This wasn't how she operated.
Jem wasn't stupid, she could read people like books, had always been able to, and it was quite obvious that Ralph was attracted to her, too. It was touching, the way he'd been so pleased when she'd congratulated him on his choice of flowers that he'd gone out and bought them every week, and the way he was always making nice comments about her clothes, and that he was happy just to hang around the flat with her when Smith was out and chat about things which were 'their' things now, like chilies and music and recipes.
She'd ignored the signs at first, put it down to vanity on her half.
Why would Ralph, with his penchant for wilowy, upper-class blondes, be interested in her? She was imagining it, paying herself compliments. But then there'd been that peculiar morning, the morning of the accident, and she'd found herself behaving quite outrageously by her standards. She knew he'd been titilated by the shortness of her T-shirt and she'd been conscious of the fact that she wasn't wearing any knickers; she had known, deep down, that he'd deliberately asked her to reach for items from the top cupboard so that he could look at her bottom. She'd been wickedly happy to oblige, titilated by his titilation.
She hadn't been fuly aware of any of this at the time, of course.
People never realy are. Jem believed that very few people were as calculating as other people assumed them to be when they did something wrong.
Things
did
just happen, and it was only afterwards that you could look back and see the points at which you alowed yourself to lose control, to make the wrong decision, to behave badly. Ralph's interest in her made her feel good, and she couldn't ignore it. She'd been ashamed of herself when she'd experienced a flutter of excitement at the prospect of spending a weekend alone with him.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, of any description, shape, size or form was going to happen this weekend, or ever for that matter.
Nothing. No way. Never.
His announcement tonight about Claudia had unleashed a whole new set of unwelcome emotions. He was free, he was available.
Jem had no idea why this was important, but the moment he'd told her her stomach had done a backward flip and triple pike. She was pleased because over the two and a half months she'd been living at Almanac Road she'd become very fond of Ralph and wanted him to be happy, not henpecked by a dissatisfied, uptight, walking nightmare; she was pleased that he at last appeared to be taking his life in hand. But there was also a part of her that was pleased just because he was single, because he was no longer with someone else. And then she'd made that remark about finding him someone to fal in love with, and a strange feeling had overcome her, for a second she'd felt awkward and uncomfortable. Stupid, realy. After al, she wasn't in love with him, she was just day-dreaming; she was in love with Smith and that was that. She was flattered by Ralph, fond of him, cared about him. But she was
not
in love with him.
And he was not in love with her.
'What are you doing tonight?' she asked him abruptly, to diffuse the peculiar mood that had descended on her.
Your first night of freedom,' she added, finaly getting to her feet.
'Not a lot,' he replied. 'I was going to stay in and do a bit of sketching, now that my wrist's stopped hurting so much.'
Jem looked down at his bandaged wrist and started laughing.
'What's so funny?!' asked Ralph, laughing too.
'I just thought of something.'
'What?' said Ralph, smiling widely.
'I just thought, you sure chose a bad time to finish with Claudia! No sex and now no wanking! You're going to get pretty frustrated!'
Ralph looked down at his impotent right hand as wel, and a look of dismay came over his face. 'Shit/ he muttered, 'I hadn't thought of that. Supposed to be good for you, though, isn't it?' he added, brightening. 'A bit of abstinence, holding on to your seed. Good for the mind and soul. Stil... shit
Jem continued to laugh at the look on Ralph's face. 'Looks like it's the old hoover attachment for you, then,' she cackled, slapping her thighs with her hands.
Ralph winced.
'Come out with us tonight, Ralph, we're only going up the Falcon.
Come on, it'l take your mind off your predicament!'
Who's "we"?'
'Oh, just some friends. It's Becky's birthday, it'l probably be quite a big group.'
Ralph quickly weighed up the pros and cons: night in alone u. night out with Jem. 'OK. When do we have to be there?'
Ralph roled a spliff for the walk, using some grass he'd just acquired from a friend of a friend.
'I don't know what this is like,' he said, pinching it out of the bag between his fingertips, 'but it was fucking expensive and it smels amazing.'
'Looks like skunk,' said Jem. 'Go easy on it.'
'Nah,' said Ralph, smiling wickedly and piling it on to the Rizlas with the abandon of a man who has a brand-new bag of weed.
They took the spliff and a can of lager, wrapped themselves up in as many clothes as possible and began the freezing walk down St John's Road, smoking as they walked. Half-way down they both suddenly realized that they were completely stoned.
'Shit,' said Jem, Tm wasted.'
'Me, too,' agreed Ralph. 'That's completely taken me out.'
'I told you to go easy on it!'
St John's Road was empty and gaudy, brash chain stores twinkling with fairy lights and sale banners, the occasional group of revelers passing them drunkenly in swaying bands. It was the last weekend before Christmas.
They walked up to the traffic lights giggling at their predicament, quickly finishing the lager, finding a bin for the empty can. St John's Hil was busier, chily commuters stil pouring out of Clapham Junction station clutching Blockbuster Video cases and hoping they weren't too late to make it to Marks and Spencers. They crossed the road and pushed open the door to the Falcon and were greeted by a blast of warmth and Oasis and loud male talk, accented by the occasional shard of female laughter. The huge U-shaped pub, replete with
traditional Victorian fixtures and fittings, was packed, and they had to push their way to the bar.
Til get these,' said Jem. 'What do you want?'
She stood on the foot rail to gain a few inches and leant into the bar, years of experience teaching her that this was her only chance of being served at a busy bar lined with tal men, smiling at the barmaid, who was serving someone else — barmaids always served girls first.
'Two pints of LowenbrSu, please,' she shouted, when it was her turn.
They took their drinks and Ralph folowed Jem while she manoeuvred her smal frame through clusters of office workers in suits and skirts, circles of friends in jumpers and jeans, scanning the room for a familiar face.
Eventualy, the glimmer of recognition, the raised hand, the introductions, the sea of strange faces and barrage of instantly forgotten names, the echoing question, 'Whfere's Smith?', the quizzical looks, the friendly handshakes, the gradual separation of the group back into the individual conversations which had been momentarily halted by their arrival.
'Jem tels me you're an artist.'
Oh, God. Ralph turned to face the architect of this dreadful opener, a lanky young man with an agreeably lop-sided face wearing a
Reservoir Dogs
T-shirt and drinking a pint of cloudy bitter that looked like it contained frog spawn.
'Um, wel, sort of... lapsed, you could say, but trying.' He managed a snigger and looked down into his glass before taking a large gulp.
'Actualy, I'm a sort of artist, too — sort of,' replied Reservoir Dogs, unfazed by Ralph's lack of interest. Tm a graphic designer; Jem tels me you do a bit of that, on the old Mac.' He was grinning and wriggling with excitement as he spoke, and Ralph knew what was coming:
'You
know, I think Macs are finaly coming into their own ...'
And he was off. Ralph died inside. He loved computers but he hated talking about them. And he was stoned. So stoned. It was al he could do to keep up with what Reservoir Dogs was saying, let alone think of one single response that wouldn't make him sound like he'd just landed in a time machine from the year 3000 BC. It was loud; the music was so loud, he kept asking Reservoir Dogs to repeat himself and then wondering why he'd bothered. He'd lost the ability to make eye contact. He glanced across at Jem every now and then, and she would glance back from the conversation she was conducting with an unattractive girl with a squandered bosom, and he could tel that she was having a hard time too. He smiled, he chuckled, if the intonation of Reservoir Dogs's voice suggested that that was appropriate, he nodded agreement, he shook his head with disapproval, he said 'Yeah, I know' a lot. But he didn't have the first idea what the man was talking about and he didn't care. He had to get away, this was a nightmare. He finished his pint; he'd only had it for ten minutes.
'Can I get you a drink?' he asked, affecting an angled glass with his empty hand in case his voice got lost in the atmosphere.
Yeah - thanks. Il have a pint of Parson's Codpiece please.'
Ralph made his way gratefuly to the bar. This wa§ such a bad idea.
Why had he loaded that spliff ? He was
a paranoid, twitching, nervous wreck. The vibrant pub was electric with colours and movement and noise. He felt like he was walking on a moving carousel and everyone, but everyone was looking at him. He wanted to go home.
'How you doing?'
He turned around. Oh, thank God. It was Jem. Tm completely fucked, I can't cope. Who
is
that bloke? He's so weird.'
'What - Gordy?! He's not weird, he's lovely - that's just you being stoned.' 'How are you doing?'
'Oh, I'm fucked too. I've been trying to talk to Becky but I've got no idea what she's talking about, and I can't take my eyes off her tits.'
'I don't blame you - better than looking at her face!'
Jem hit him with mock indignation and then laughed.