Bella Summer Takes a Chance (3 page)

Chapter 3

I was still optimistic about making something of myself musically when Mattias and I met. I’d just landed a gig at one of London’s most lacklustre clubs. I was celebrating this infinitesimal advance (to a starving woman a bean was a feast), and I was very drunk. I mean unattractively, lipstick-smeary, talking crap drunk. I’d completely forgotten him until he called a few days later. I never told him that his first impression was about as indelible as a Tibetan sand mandala.

‘May I please speak with B.?’ He sounded vaguely foreign as he introduced himself. But that wasn’t unusual. I’d only moved to London six months earlier, so everyone sounded vaguely foreign.

‘Hi…’ I stalled.

‘From the bar? The other night?’

I still had no idea. ‘Yes, hi.’

‘How are you?’ He continued. ‘Did your brother have a nice birthday? Did you remember to call him?’

It had indeed been my brother’s birthday on Saturday. Using my considerable deductive powers, that meant I’d talked to this man on Friday. I had a bleary memory of writing on someone’s hand, evidence of which I’d found in the bottom of my handbag the next morning. My favourite kohl eye pencil was worn to a nub. I must have included my phone number, address, uni grades and personal stats, all the way up his arm. The human scroll was calling. ‘Yes, he did, thanks, and I remembered to call just before bed, so clocked in the birthday wishes in time. How are you? Did you, em…’ Think, think, think what we might have talked about. ‘Did you go on to another bar afterwards?’ I was playing the odds.

‘Nah, we were done. Listen, I enjoyed talking to you and wondered if you’d like to meet again?’

That wasn’t as easy to answer as one might think. I had no idea what he looked like. I also had no idea what we’d talked about. Ergo, no idea whether his idea of fun might be collecting stamps or birdwatching. But I
had
talked to him. And given him my number. My real number. I figured he mustn’t have been hideous; although he could still have been boring. He was probably cute enough to kiss. ‘Sure, I’d love to.’

‘Great,’ he said. ‘Friday, say, seven? How about the Long Island Iced Tea bar, in honour of your Americanness?’

‘Canadian-Americanness,’ I reminded him. ‘Don’t be fooled by the accent. Dad’s from Toronto, and proud of it, so I’ve got a foot in both cultures. In theory I guess that should make it a little easier to settle into the UK.’

‘Does that mean I should take you out to eat maple syrup on crumpet hamburgers? Maybe we can save that for the second date.’

I laughed and the biggest relationship of my life began that simply, though it almost didn’t go any further for practical reasons. His visage remained a mystery. I couldn’t ask him what he looked like, but blanking him in the bar might have set the wrong tone for our date. My brain refused to give up its secrets, threaten it as I might. Not one clue loosed itself from the morass of that night. My only chance was to get there early and let him find me. I had a plan to escape the client’s offices in plenty of time. On paper it was perfect.

In reality I arrived fifteen minutes late to find that all men could be him. I fixed my face with a slightly bemused half-smile, hoping to suggest dawning recognition rather than idiocy, and made slowly for the bar.

A vague spark of recognition fired my synapses when I spotted him. He wasn’t ugly. Or short, or bald. His smile told me he wasn’t disappointed either.

‘Hi.’ He leaned in and kissed me on both cheeks while I stifled a smirk. Being new to London, I still believed people air-kissed to be ironic.

‘Hi, I’m sorry I’m late. I got caught up at the office. Do you work close by?’

‘Not too far. In Islington. You’re in the City, right? How’s your project going? Your deadline is next week, isn’t it?’

Uh-oh. We’d talked about our jobs already. ‘Fine, thanks.’ How much had I told this man? Clearly my future didn’t lie with MI6. ‘Yes, next Friday. All going to plan. And you? How’s your, um, project?’ I was guessing he had one.

‘Which one?’

‘… The big one?’

‘B., you don’t remember what I do, do you?’

‘God. I’m sorry. No, I have no idea what we talked about. I’d had a bit to drink. I’m sorry.’

‘How long did you plan to bluff?’

‘What time is it now?’

He looked at his watch. ‘Seven thirty.’

‘All night. And next time if necessary.’

‘Do you have to bluff a lot?’

‘Are you asking if I’m an alcoholic?’

‘You’re an interesting girl. Should we start again?’

‘Yes, please.’

He wasn’t a stamp collector or a birdwatcher. Nor was he awkward, insolvent or dumb. He wasn’t a felon, or married or psychotic. He was just nice. And Swedish, though raised from teenhood in the US, which gave us something in common. Several hours in, he leaned over and kissed me. Good kisses. ‘Do you want to come to my place?’ He asked as we left hand in hand.

‘You mean for coffee?’

‘I mean for sex. But I’ll make you coffee if you like.’

I said yes. He wasn’t stereotypically Scandinavian. No blonde hair or Viking-like presence. He did have lovely green eyes but he was more Volvo station wagon than Saab 9-3 convertible. He was just nice. Incredibly nice. And warm and sociable and smart. He asked me to stay that first night. He snored a little too much for a peaceful night’s sleep, but we fooled around again in the morning. Then he got up, said that he had lunch with his brother and needed to go. As he kissed me on the forehead en route to the shower I thought,
I played this all wrong
. Wracked with self-loathing I tried to think of something to say to let him know that I wasn’t usually a slapper. What a feeble protest from a naked girl, and a virtual stranger, in his bed. I said it anyway, just for the record. ‘That was unusual for me. I never sleep with men I’ve just met.’

‘Neither do I. Girls, I mean.’

I didn’t believe him any more than he probably believed me. ‘I feel like we did this all wrong, backwards,’ I continued. ‘But for what it’s worth, I’d like to see you again.’

‘Yeah, I’d like that too.’ He kissed me as I gathered my clothes together for the walk of shame, and left to nurse my regrets.

I didn’t expect to see him again. It had been too easy. Not the sleeping together part, though that was a snap. The whole date was remarkably straightforward. Of course he wasn’t going to call. My love life was never that simple. So I put him out of my mind, chalking the night up as a should-keep-legs-together-for-at-least-twenty-four-hours learning experience.

But he did call a few days later to ask me out again. The details of that date were lost to my memory, as were the many after that. They were nondescript. They were easy. We fell naturally into a comfortable pattern, and still we liked each other’s company, had things to talk about. There wasn’t a specific moment when we decided that we were boyfriend and girlfriend. It just progressed that way. We were friends and lovers for ten years.

So why did I give up an easy relationship with this nice, fun, smart man? My reason never sounded good enough, even to me, let alone to my friends. It sounded naïve, like a pipe dream. A hard-hearted judge might say stupid. Who walked away from an
acceptable
relationship for… what? What if there was nothing behind door number two? And yet I knew I had to try to find what would be right for me. What would be enough. Even though I didn’t know whether what I was looking for existed. Events of the past weeks and months made me doubt it.

This niggling thought was my companion for my former colleague Jill’s wedding a few weeks after lunch with Kat. It was as bad as I’d feared, yet I had to keep smiling, proving to the bride that I was having the time of my life.

The man she’d sat me next to only added insult to injury. Upon introductions Prince Charmless took my hand, leaned around to examine my backside, and wriggled his bounteous eyebrows. I made my feelings clear but he wouldn’t let up. He kept asking why I was single. I didn’t really want to share my story with someone with whom I so keenly resented sharing the table. I mumbled more vague nonsense, cursing my manners. Even when I wanted to drive a fork into my companion I couldn’t be impolite. It was a trait my friends valued in me. I was the one they knew they could stick with crazy Aunt Rita at parties and rest assured that Rita would have a nice time. Every group of friends had one of these suckers. We were invaluable, greasing the wheels of inept social interaction.

‘I was married once,’ he volunteered to the table while everyone avoided his gaze. ‘It was me that ended it. Stupid to get married so young, but I didn’t know any better.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, just to fill the increasingly uncomfortable void. There were at least four more hours before we guests would be released from conjugal captivity. Two hundred and forty minutes of pretending to be engaged by the décor. Fourteen thousand seconds (because I had time to work that out) and counting. The equivalent of waiting for the kettle to boil eighty times. That was a lot of wedding to get through.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ said the bore, warming to his theme. ‘I wasn’t. Heh heh.’ He sighed and stretched. ‘Nope, I’ve never looked back. Too many fine ladies out there to be tied down to one. We’re not meant to be monogamous, you know. Look at the animals. We’re hard-wired to sow our seeds as widely as possible. It’s in our genetic programming. Though if I met the right lady, I’d consider monogamy for a period.’

‘Uh-huh. I’m sure you’ll find her.’

‘Maybe I have.’ He wriggled his eyebrows again.

‘Good for you. Excuse me. I need to powder my nose.’

As I wove my way between the dancing couples, I said a little act of contrition. ‘Hello God? It’s me, B. I’m heartily sorry for all the smug thoughts I’ve ever had when listening to friends lament being solo at weddings. This really is soul-destroying. I will never be judgmental again. Amen.’

‘There you are!’ Kat said from in front of the mirror where she smoothed her dark bob. She looked remarkably un-Teutonic for an Austrian. Deep brown eyes and lightly tanned skin suggested some Ottoman seeds got mixed up in her family tree. ‘How’re you doing?’ She blotted vivid red lipstick.

‘Okay.’

‘I’m sorry we’ve been away from the table. I don’t know what has got into James. He thinks he’s Fred Astaire tonight.’ Her brows scrunched together. ‘How are you
really
doing?’

It was no use lying to her. ‘This is awful. I think I might go soon.’

‘No, you can’t go! Stay with James and me. Please? The man next to you seems interested. Is he nice? Should we talk to him?’

‘He’s interested in anything with a pulse. Promise me you won’t do anything to encourage him.’ I appreciated their willingness to be my chaperones, but I was more likely to need defence lawyers if the bore kept up his attentions.

‘All right, then stay and talk to us. You know you’re our only form of entertainment.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Oh, it is, B., I never lie.’

That was a fact. Kat was the most straightforward, unlying person I knew. That made her a tremendous if sometimes painful friend. I wouldn’t have traded her for the world.

‘The babysitter turns into a squash in two hours,’ she continued. ‘Then we have to go anyway.’

‘I think you mean pumpkin.’ I was godmother to their youngest son, Conrad, so obviously he was my favourite. But the other one, Jonathan, was a close runner-up. ‘How’s Jonathan?’

‘Better. Fine. His medication seems to be working for the moment.’

The poor boy hadn’t had it easy. A few years earlier he started having awful stomach pains that kept him, and everyone else, awake through the night. The specialists had their theories. They prescribed lots of drugs with little success. Kat and James started to look like new parents again. It was bad for James, but it was worse for Kat, caring for Jonathan night and day. Raising a family was always her number one priority, and her kids were her world. If it were me, being on-call like that would have given me fantasies about trading places with James. Working 60-hour weeks under the weight of insomnia would seem like a doddle in comparison.

Understandably, they were at each other’s throats, looking down a very long, uncertain road. They couldn’t leave their son alone because they never knew when he’d need their hands to hold, which was all he wanted when symptoms struck. They became recluses. Finally, desperate, Kat took him to a Chinese medicine doctor who took one look at his tongue and diagnosed Crohn’s disease. It was terrible news, but at least they had an answer and were able to get Jonathan the right treatment. Slowly they recovered their lives again. ‘What a relief that the medicine is working,’ I said. ‘Still, it must be hard for him. And for you, of course.’

‘Mmm. It’s easier now that we are used to it. At least I don’t feel like a bad mother any more.’

‘Kat, you were never a bad mother!’

‘
Schatzi
, I hope you never know what it feels like to see your child hurting and not be able to help. That’s my job, to make it all better. I’m his mother. I don’t know what I’d have done if that doctor hadn’t helped. Now at least we know what he can eat. And the sweet child, he takes it in his stroke. You know how adaptable children are. They’re not like us.’ She shook her head. ‘Let’s go find James. I’m sure he’s by the bar, shifting his shoulders to the music in that way he thinks looks cool when he really looks like he’s having a fit. I told him not to drink too much but it’s not often that he gets to let his hairs down. So I don’t really mind. I said I’d drive anyway.’

The bellowing bride interrupted our walk back to the table. ‘B.,
you’re
single, get over here, I’m throwing the bouquet!’

Just to put the rotten cherry on the already foul-tasting cake.

It was remarkable that a woman who couldn’t aim a car into a 10-metre space without jumping the kerb could fire a nosegay with sniper-like precision. I was about to be taken down by friendly fire.

We cowered together on the parquet in various stages of denial and humiliation. It was the moment I’d dreaded since opening the Plus One invitation. How could brides suffer so completely from amnesia when it came to their own weddings? All the years of cringing behind the drunkest-looking single woman (slow reflexes) flew straight out of their heads, and suddenly this ritual humiliation became ‘fun’ in their wedding-addled brains.