Leftovers (17 page)

I’d moved quickly through the water. Further out, a sprinkling of little white boats dotted the horizon, but when I reached Jake it was just me and him, him and me. He put his arms around me tightly, pulling me to his chest, and his wet, cold mouth met mine and we kissed. Who knew salt could taste so sweet? He pressed himself against me and I could feel him, hard, against my thigh.

‘How can you have an erection in this ice bucket, Jake? It’s like minus twenty degrees in here.’

‘It’s you, it’s you, it’s always you …’ he said, sliding his hand up and under my bikini top. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, as I tried, half heartedly, to push his fingers away. His other hand moved slowly down into my bikini bottoms. ‘Oh God I want you,’ he said, slipping two fingers inside me as I turned to check no one was watching from the shore.

‘I’m not doing it in the water, it’s too teenage!’ I said, laughing and pushing his hair back from his forehead. The sun rising above us shone right into his eyes, making them almost amber. I kissed him softly on the side of his mouth. ‘Besides, we’ll drown and none of those tan-a-holics will jump in to save us.’

‘It’ll be worth drowning for,’ he said, trying to tug down my bikini bottoms and pulling my legs around his waist. ‘I promise, we’ll die happy.’

‘I can’t,’ I said, moving his hand away. ‘It reminds me of
Showgirls
.’ I stroked the back of his neck. ‘Kyle McLachlan from
Twin Peaks
, shagging that stripper in a swimming pool, all that over-the-top splashing about.’

‘Oh I like that film! Isn’t that the one with the scene in the dressing room where all the girls …’

‘Trust you to remember that bit.’

‘Hey, you’ve got goose bumps,’ he said, tracing his finger along my arm.

‘It’s freezing in here, that’s why!’

‘I just offered you a shag, that’d warm you up a bit.’

‘Piggy back instead?’ I said, feeling his biceps. ‘I’m sure there’s a bit in
Showgirls
where Kyle gives his exhausted, overworked girlfriend a piggy back because he loves her so much, and it shows how big and strong and manly he is.’

‘That sounds more like a Jennifer Aniston movie. But if it makes you happy …’

I’d clung onto him, my arms draped loosely over his chest, and we’d waded around in the water, the sun warming my shoulder blades.

‘Does m’lady want for anything back there?’ he said.

‘I could do with a glass of cold Chardonnay, butler. But if not, then I’m just fine thanks. Are you OK – I’m not too heavy?’

‘No, no, not at all. It’s nice actually, you’re protecting me from the sun.’

‘Oh shit, I haven’t got any sun cream on … Five more minutes and we’ll go back, I just want to be in the water a little bit longer. Look at the way everything is magnified under the surface.’ I pointed my toes to a small rock to our left. ‘It’s like a giant fish tank.’

‘It’s the nicest sea I’ve ever been in,’ he said.

‘It’s amazing,’ I said, kissing the back of his neck.

‘It’s amazing,’ he said, tickling the bottom of my foot.

And it was. It was amazing, that beach.

Afterwards we swam back to the rocks and he scrambled up with ease, then held out his arm to help me out of the water. We spread our towels on a large flat grey rock and I lay on my back while he rested sideways, his head in my lap.

‘Sandwich?’ he said, stroking my tummy.

‘Sure,’ I said, reaching into his rucksack to grab the paper bag from the bakery. Inside were two tomato and mozzarella sandwiches on sesame-seed-sprinkled rolls. I took one for us, then wrapped the other for later. ‘Here,’ I said, tearing the soft bread roughly in the middle, trying to keep the bright red tomato flesh from spilling out.

Propped up on our elbows we ate in silence. Sweet, fresh tomatoes, springy, creamy mozzarella, and chewy fresh bread. A dribble of olive oil so fruity you could drink it, and a sprinkling of salt to make everything taste even more like what it was. Perfection.

‘That’s about the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten, ever,’ said Jake, finally resting back in my lap.

‘Not much in the world that’s better than that,’ I said, nodding. ‘All you need, isn’t it? Simple things …’ I reached down to tousle his hair.

He turned his head to the side and kissed my navel, smiling softly.

‘Do you think we’ll always be this happy?’ I said, staring up at a sky so bright and deep it was almost overwhelming.

‘Of course we will,’ he said, gazing up and fixing me with a serious look. ‘We’ll be at least this happy, perhaps even happier.’

‘Now with more happiness …’ I said, ‘Sounds like a jingle.’

‘Even more happiness, guaranteed, or your money back,’ he said, reaching out to take my hand, holding it in front of his face and kissing my ring finger, then placing my palm on his chest. His skin was dry already. I felt his heart’s steady beat, warm, under my palm.

I’d never been happier than at that moment. I have not been as happy since. I did not want it to end.

So yes, I miss him, I still miss him, I do. I miss him.

I dream the most vivid dream of being back together with Jake. In the dream we are sorting out laundry in his parents’ house – the least exotic dream I’ve ever had – and yet I am filled with so much contentment within this dream that when I wake I feel momentarily happy. And then instantly deeply deflated and alone.

This is no use.

I get out of bed and make myself a cup of coffee and work out what I can do to cheer myself up. I’ll make banana bread for breakfast for a start – with those three manky bananas in the fruit bowl. Then the flat will smell happy. And then I’ll go and buy myself a new outfit for Polly’s wedding!

Banana bread – the perfect silver lining to a hideous cloud: overly ripe bananas. I can barely eat a banana unless it’s green. Yet if I miss that green window and they start to go brown, then right at this point of grossness – when they’re so soft the skin has almost melted into the flesh – they can be transformed, nay transmogrified, into something spectacular.

I’ve adapted a Nigella recipe to suit my needs: half the quantities – I’m a family of one. And I’m too impatient to soak sultanas so I leave them out and just add a good swig of bourbon and these cool mini fudge cubes I found in the Lakeland catalogue. It takes less than five minutes to assemble and just short of an hour to bake. I grab my recipe file and make a note that I’ve added an extra handful of toasted pecans that Dalia tried to throw away yesterday, just because they were four months out of date.

The loaf tin has been in the oven for all of five minutes when I hear Caspar clomping about upstairs. That’s OK, I think. He’s allowed to walk around. Why he has to wear hob-nail boots to do so I do not know, but still, let it be. Just as long as he doesn’t whack on the Michael Bublé … oh for goodness’ sake! It’s 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning! He can’t be having sex on a Sunday morning, and if he is, why can’t he at least have a cooler soundtrack?

I have no choice but to turn my own stereo on to drown out the noises. I whack on Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’ so loudly that the bass totally distorts, and then have to sit in the bedroom so that it doesn’t deafen me. Ah, Adele – I do love you though. This song! It’s so painful and sad and so
true
! How is it possible that you could read my mind? How did you manage to write a song that speaks so entirely of my feelings about Jake? Well, more or less. I mean, I’m not happy that he’s moved on, of course. But I do think about turning up on his doorstep rather a lot. I wonder what would happen if I did …

I’m in the middle of a fantasy about turning up at Jake’s flat and him turning round and telling me he’s never stopped loving me, he thinks about me every day too, and he totally doesn’t like or even fancy his new girlfriend when my doorbell rings. No. It couldn’t be … Jake? Oh my God, oh my God. I pull my dressing gown on over my pyjamas and run to the door.

The opposite of Jake: Caspar from upstairs, wearing a too-tight Abercrombie t-shirt and looking pink in the face. What the hell is he doing here? I pop into the living room to turn the stereo down, then go back and open the door an inch.

‘Caspar,’ I say. ‘Been a while.’

‘Yes, listen, your music? Could you not have it on so loud?’

‘My music? It’s not on particularly loud,’ I say, congratulating myself for turning it down before I opened the door.

‘Well, it was a minute ago.’

‘Your ears must be too sensitive,’ I say. ‘Isn’t that what you always say to me?’

‘It was audible in every room of my flat.’

‘That’s because you chose to put in wooden floors which reverb,’ I say.

‘Could you turn it down a bit? My girlfriend’s feeling a bit queasy.’

Not surprised, I would too if I was your girlfriend. Hang on a minute: girlfriend? Since when do you have an actual girlfriend? And queasy? How does he think I feel when I have to listen to him cough up phlegm and do … sex things – the cheek of it.

‘Caspar: if you lay down some carpet, you won’t have to listen to my music and more to the point I won’t have to listen to you.’

‘You’re being unreasonable,’ he says.

‘Carpets, Caspar – they are your friend,’ I say, and slam the door, feeling irritation rise up in me. How on earth has this man – the least attractive in North London – managed to find himself a proper relationship while I remain single, consoling myself with mouldy bananas? I know life isn’t fair, but this
really
is not fair. I mean, I am now literally the last single person left in the world. Apart from Rebecca. But she’s got another date with the Hawksmoor barman this week and no doubt she’ll actually make it work this time and then it’ll just be me.

I’m tempted to go straight back to bed, pull the duvet over my head and hibernate till Monday morning, but then remember that I have a dress to buy. And banana bread to eat … Forty minutes still to go. OK, I shall be productive and find something to do with three-quarters of a roast chicken, some old caraway seeds and honey. I’m sure there’ll be some inspiration online …

I type the ingredients into Google but can’t find anything appealing. There are loads of tagines if it’s only chicken and honey you need a home for, and various central European dishes with just chicken and caraway. But nothing that uses all three. Hmm, I’ll sacrifice the honey and go for a chicken goulash – any excuse for sour cream. And then later in the week I could use the remaining sour cream as an excuse for fajitas! Done. Mind you, I don’t like this chicken goulash recipe much. It’s quite basic and it uses margarine. Maybe if I used olive oil instead … And I could add sweet paprika as well as smoked – not least because I love that gorgeous red and yellow tin it comes in. I’ll chuck in some mushrooms too. Stroganoff and goulash must be related, I bet they’re cousins … And I bet creamy, slightly smoky chicken and mushrooms would work amazingly in a pie too, with a puff pastry top … I grab a piece of paper and start writing down ideas, but then find myself side-tracked searching for fajita recipes, then flights to Mexico and then swimsuits for pear-shapes.

The oven timer goes off. I whisk out the banana bread and spoon a large portion into a bowl and pour some cream over the top. Thank goodness for the soothing properties of sugar and fat and bourbon. Calmer now, I get dressed. No point putting on make-up, it’s a waste on a day like today. Instead I hide behind sunglasses and head out to find that killer dress.

I haven’t treated myself to a dress for such a long time. Why bother? I never go anywhere remotely fancy, other than the work Christmas party. And with budget cutting the NMN party’s been downgraded from champagne cocktails at a trendy East London members’ club with bowling alley, to beer and house wine at our local Wetherspoon’s.

But this is Polly’s wedding! An epic celebration deserves a new outfit. I head over to Primrose Hill to one of those chi-chi boutiques you always see mentioned in the glossies. I’m willing to spend up to a hundred and fifty quid. Well preferably no more than a hundred, but a hundred and fifty if it’s an absolutely amazing dress.

I walk into the shop and immediately feel like a tramp. What is it about the smell of these expensive candles that automatically makes me feel ungroomed? My nails aren’t manicured, my hair could definitely do with a trim, my eyebrows need shaping. All this inadequacy just from an overpriced candle? Still, why should I be intimidated by melting wax? Or for that matter by those two assistants who just looked straight through me as if I’m wearing an invisibility cloak. Can’t they tell that this invisibility cloak is new season Gucci?

I flick through the rack of clothes, each dress on a hanger separated by a good thirty centimetres. I can barely see what’s in my wardrobe at home, all my clothes are crammed together like it’s rush hour. Even the act of touching some of these clothes makes me feel like my fingers are dirty.

That’s a lovely dress … who’s that by … Phillip Lim … I’ve heard of him. Such pretty detailing at the neck, that’d be perfect. Oh. Ouch. Maybe not.
Seven hundred quid?
It’s only cotton. When did everything get quite so expensive? (I’m sounding more like my mother every day.)

Ah, now the sales assistant is paying me some attention! But not good attention. No, a very blatant type of scrutiny. As if she suspects I’m about to do a Winona. So insulting! Don’t fret, love, I’m not going to forget to pay. But now she’s given me this look I feel I have to try something on, to prove that I’m not casing the joint. I’m not trying on anything that costs seven hundred pounds though. There must be something more reasonable … Five hundred and fifty … Eight hundred and ninety! … Ah, here we are – Day Birger et Mikkelsen. Two hundred and thirty quid, that’s more like it. I have no intention of buying it of course, but I nod to myself as if I do, and head to try it on.

There is a girl in her twenties with long brown shiny hair, standing in the entrance to the changing room, the curtain held open by her friend. She stands there in black lace underwear and I find myself transfixed by the top of her thigh, where her leg meets her bottom. I try not to stare, but I find it impossible. Her body is amazing. Her thigh is so smooth and golden, and her bottom entirely pert and small but round. Her friend gazes on enviously too.