Getting Over It (27 page)

It’s not as if I’m going to get off with him or anything.

Chapter 36

O
CCASIONALLY FATBOY FORGETS
himself and shows me some devotion. These lapses are at his convenience and inevitably occur when I’m busy. Especially when I’m reading the paper. He springs onto the table and sprawls languidly over the headlines, obscuring every word. If I lift him onto the floor, he jumps up onto the exact same article and flops again. The only compromise he’ll accept is being sat on my lap. He perches there, bolt upright, digs his claws into my legs, purrs like a propeller, and kneads. The sensation is identical, I imagine, to poking ten sharp needles into your skin, again and again, on the same increasingly tender spot. The action simultaneously draws out little threads and ruins your trousers. But I bear the pain and forfeit the trousers because affection from Fatboy is so devastatingly rare—which in a sellers’ market makes it all the more precious.

I suppose I agree to see Jasper for similar reasons. And despite everything, it’s pleasant to see him. He’s wearing—don’t laugh—Egoiste, which makes me want to bite him.

“You smell nice,” I say, without meaning to.

“I know,” he says, grinning.

I notice a bit of white gunk caught between his teeth. I run my tongue over my own teeth, and suck, even though I brushed them before I came out. Suddenly I feel clunky and the blithe arrogance of “I know” resonates harshly in my ear. Jasper is as beautiful as ever, but he is also mightily pleased with himself. I decide to give Jasper a hard time. Or, at least, a harder time than he expects. As we walk down Long Acre he rests a hand on my shoulder. I consider shrugging it off, but I don’t want to be too unfriendly. So it sits there heavy and uncomfortable until we hail a cab.

“So where are you taking me?” I say, as we chug through the London traffic.

“It’s a surprise!” he says. “So how are you! Long time no see!”

I nod and say, “Fine, fine!” and try not to be irritated by the phrase “long time no see.” “So how are you?” I say. “How’s Louisa?”

Jasper wrinkles his nose and says, with feeling, “I’m well, she’s a silly bitch!”

Strangely—or not—this doesn’t surprise me. “Oh? And why’s that?” I say coolly. I feel inexplicably irked on Louisa’s account.

Jasper flares his nostrils, snorts loudly, and rolls his eyes. The image of a panicking horse. “Ah, she winds me up, I can’t stand the woman! She…” From his tone I expect a long whinging rant, but he hesitates then trails off. “She, oh, she’s all right. She’s a good girl. She’s, er, fine, I, er, I abhor her taste in music.”

I raise my eyebrows and say, “Jasper, you abhor everyone’s taste in music. Why, what does she like that’s so offensive?”

He shudders and spits out the name like sour milk: “Madonna.”

I squeal, “Madonna! What’ve you got against Madonna! She’s brilliant! I love Madonna!”

Jasper snaps, “She’s a maneater!”

I purse my lips and say primly, “I see. That affects her music does it?”

Jasper—like all good politicians—ignores the question and replies, “Her music’s an abomination!” I think Jasper expects further comment but I am quiet. Eventually he mutters, “I can’t stand girls like that.”

I knew it. A tremor of rage ripples through me and I blurt, “I can’t stand
boys
with opinions like that.” After this we sit in frosty silence for a full five minutes until Jasper surrenders.

“Hey, babe,” he says softly, “I didn’t mean to upset you. Did I tell you how great you look? Really well.”

In my vocabulary “You’re looking really well” is a polite way of saying, “You’re looking really fat.” So I say scoffingly, “Huh!”

Jasper perseveres. “No, really. Have you lost weight or something?”

I’d prefer to stay grumpy but smirk involuntarily. “I don’t know and don’t care,” I mumble. “I haven’t weighed myself in ten years.”

Jasper, sensing a slight thaw, says cheerfully, “You can weigh yourself at the flat, if you like.”

I widen my eyes like a Disney chipmunk. “What flat?” I squeak. “I thought you were taking me out to dinner.”

“I thought I’d cook you a special dinner at my place,” he says.

I growl, “Louisa’s place, you mean. Is she going to be there?”

Jasper replies smoothly, “Louisa is in Chicago on business. We’ll have the, er, kitchen to ourselves.”

I decide to test him. “So what are you planning to cook me?”

Jasper coughs into his clenched hand. “
Frittata di cheddar e erbe d’estiva
,” he says, smiling.

“Wow!” I say, pleased that he’s made an effort. “That sounds amazing! Did you go to a specialist foodstore?”

Jasper laughs. “I suppose,” he says. Jasper has exerted himself on my account. I’m dumb with delight. For the remainder of the journey, we chat about Jasper’s job and how he’s on the brink of promotion. I tell him I am on the brink of demotion and he tells me that I’ve got to learn to “play the game.” Whatever that means. The cab pulls up in a small toytown street in Kensington. “Oof!” I say, in a burst of reluctant admiration for my rival. “This is gorgeous! Hasn’t Louisa done well!”

“Yeah,” says Jasper. “Lucky for some.”

Lucky for you,
I think. My opinion doesn’t change on seeing the flat. Louisa is keen on red. The walls are deep crimson, huge scarlet wool rugs cover the floors, and the windows are adorned with heavy red velvet drapes. The lounge is crowded with ornate candlesticks, elderly wooden tables and chairs, a worn lilac sofa, an overloaded bookshelf—I’d love to loathe it all, but the effect is warm, plush, and undeniably alluring. “This is wild!” I gasp.

“It’s like living inside a womb,” shouts Jasper from the kitchen. “Care for a sherry?”

I shout back, “Sorry, but do I look like a hundred-year-old aunt?”

There’s a pause, then Jasper says briskly, “Suit yourself, I’m having one.”

I poke my nose round the kitchen door. “Haven’t you got a beer?”

Jasper shakes his head.

“Wine?”

Jasper shakes his head.

“I’ll have a glass of water please, then,” I say.

“It’ll have to be tap,” he replies. “Cheers! So, tell me, how’s your new pad?”

I sip my water and say, “What new pad?”

Jasper looks confused. “I thought you were buying a place.”

I say quickly, “I am, I am. I’m, ah, moving in in about, ooh, five weeks.” This isn’t strictly a lie because before I left work today, Adam rang to say my offer had been rejected but, between him and I, if I was to up it by six thou, flat 55B would be in the bag. “Yeah, and it’s so bloody poky it would fit,” I’d muttered, after plonking down the phone.

Jasper indicates his interest in my property venture by raising an eyebrow, so I tell him all about the flat (leaving out the fact I haven’t bought it yet) while he cooks what appears to be a cheese omelette. Why is it, in these post-modern days, that all the men I know only cook omelettes? “I thought you were doing something complicated,” I say crossly.

“This is complicated, babe,” he replies, and winks.

We eat our omelettes sitting on the sofa, and Jasper is very attentive. He tries to feed me omelette off his fork—I humor him even though I have been perfectly able to feed myself for nearly twenty-five years—and he rummages through Louisa’s magazine rack to find a recent copy
of Homes & Interiors.
We pore over it together, and although there is precisely nothing in it I like or can afford, I feel touched by his interest. All is going well, until the clock strikes ten and Jasper tries to kiss me. “I miss you, babe,” he murmurs into my neck. “Babe, I miss you.”

He pushes me gently but firmly back onto the lilac sofa and attempts to remove my top. I lie still and let him kiss me, but I unpick his roving hands from my top. Jasper kisses me all over my face, making loud squelchy sounds. My stomach heaves with distaste and I avert my face. I should feel squelchy and kissy back, but I feel blank. Maybe the omelette disagreed with me. “So bashful,” mutters Jasper, twisting my face back into kissing range. “Very unlike you.”

I sit up fast and pull away from him. “What do you mean by that?” I say icily.

Jasper rakes a hand through his hair and says, “Take it easy, angelsweet, it was a joke.”

I glare and say, “Well, guess what, I don’t get it.”

Jasper tweaks my nose and jumps up. “How’s, ah, Fatty?” he says.

“Fatty!” I say, shrill with displeasure. “Fatboy is his name, and he’s thriving, thank you.”

Jasper laughs, and in a low husky voice says, “You’re sexy when you’re angry.”

I shake my head. “Don’t give me that line, it’s about fifty thousand years old. Dinosaurs used it on each other.”

Jasper rubs his forehead and treats me to a full-beam grin and I giggle and say, “Oh, stop it! Under normal circumstances I’d leap on you, but I’m feeling a bit headachey.”

Jasper looks at me, and without too much regret, says, “Awww.” Then he adds, “Hey, babe, I bought you a present.” He rifles through his briefcase and throws a pocket-sized, brightly colored book at me.
Cat Chat.
Immediately I know he’s pinched it from work.

“I do have other interests,” I say huffily. He picks up
Cat Chat,
plonks onto the sofa, lies down, rests his head in my lap, and starts reading extracts. As Jasper likes cats about as much as Nana Flo likes cats, I acknowledge the sacrifice.

“Every life should have nine cats,” he declares as if he means it, and my hard-set face softens and I feel the beginnings of an inner purr. I close my eyes, listen to his voice, and stroke his hair. I’m basking in the warmth of our intimacy when he drops the book, grabs my hand, and says, “Helen. I miss us. Please let’s get back together.”

I don’t know what to say so I say “Oh!” and tell him I’ll consider it. Then I leave.

I’m starting to think that the planet Jupiter was wrong and my late Christmas hadn’t come and I’d been tricked by idiots into hailing a false dawn when my offer on flat 55B is accepted. Adam relays the joyful news like a garbageman hurling a sack of rubbish into his truck. Then he says do I want to go for a drink and bring that posh bird I hang around with? I tell Adam that Lizzy only goes out with estate agents who deal in properties over three hundred thou. Then I relay my property news to Lizzy, who bounces on the spot and suggests I line up a feng shui expert.

“I hate this,” I say, as I put down the phone to the dodgiest mortgage-broker in the land. “I’m being stitched up.”

Lizzy does her best to look sympathetic and chirps, “But just think, it’ll be worth it in the end!”

I sigh and say, “Yeah. I’ll be the proud owner of negative equity.” I gnaw at my lip and mutter to myself, “Well, at least Tom will be pleased, the sanctimonious jerk.”

Tom is like a radio jingle—infuriating and unforgettable. Ever since I saw Jasper—and probably before—I’ve thought about Tom. I compare the two men obssessively. Eyes, jokes, chests, voices, humor, wit, omelette-cooking skills, penises, tempers, likes, intelligence, waiter-hailing styles, jobs… I compare most things about them and the end result is I don’t call Jasper.

But I itch to see Tom.

Admittedly, I am desperate to distract myself from the hell of conveyancing and all the leechery that surrounds it. But the main reason is, Tom and I have unfinished business to attend to. And, while a bonk would be an enjoyable bonus, I’m not refering to sex. If I’m to get on with my life—a phrase which I cannot stand, as if life is an economy-class long haul to be struggled through, but which I’ll make an exception for this once—I have to talk to Tom.

I don’t want to, but I need to. I keep flashing back to his astonished face on Dogs’ Bottom Night. The feeblest part of me wants to throw myself at his feet and explain, but the bolshy rest of me wants to rant at him until he throws himself at my feet. How dare he preach to me about my wrongdoings when he was tarting around behind my back? How could he say the things he said and not mean them?

How could I be so naive as to think just because he said them he meant them? What did he think he was doing, being so nice? Why wasn’t he honest? Doesn’t he realize I can deal with gittishness, so long as it isn’t disguised as sincerity? These sly maggoty questions burrow and squirm and prevent me from attending to the riotous confusion of Laetitia’s Invoice Drawer. So I snatch up the phone, ring Megavet, announce that Fatboy is off his food, and make an urgent appointment for 6:45 tonight.

My mother is sulking because I haven’t yet shown her the flat—the reason: I don’t dare—so I am able to prise Fatboy off the Volvo, stuff him into his Voyager, and speed to the vet without being waylaid. As the Toyota chokes and shudders to a halt on Golders Green Road, I pray that Tom is still on holiday. I take a deep breath, check my hair in the rearview mirror (as I thought, it’s flat), retrieve Fatboy from the backseat, and plod toward Megavet’s door. I lean my weight against it, push with my bottom, and stagger backward into reception. This isn’t a dignified entrance and I’m pleased to see that there are no animals and people waiting and Celine isn’t standing behind the front desk. Sadly, Tom is.

He is writing something in what I assume is the appointment book, and looks tired and disheveled. He stares at me, as if he can’t quite believe what the cat’s brought in, and nods curtly. My neck tenses and I stare and nod, too. Fatboy wails and scrabbles.

“So,” I say sourly. “We meet again.”

Tom throws down his pen, slams shut the appointment book, and says flatly, “You’re next. You might as well come in.”

I heave Fatboy into the surgery and Tom shuts the door behind us and I feel frightened. I’m scared of what he might say so I speak before he does.

“Did you have a nice holiday?” I say smarmily.

Tom seems surprised at this civility and says, “Yes, tha—”

I interrupt him with a roar. “With your girlfriend!”

Anger and shock vie for supremacy on his haggard face and he hisses, “What?!”

I am like Fatboy in that being hissed at is not my favorite thing, and the fury and resentment fuse and I flare up like a lit match. “ ‘What’!” I snarl, mimicking his surprise, “ ‘What’! Don’t give me ‘what’ like you don’t know what I’m talking about! Your girlfriend! You know, the one you went on holiday with? The one you were shagging while you were shagging me! Just about!”