You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (12 page)

The
evening felt full of promise, like a first date, only one with a person I knew,
trusted and loved. I knew that during dinner Jonathan and I would catch each
other’s eyes, perhaps brush hands, let our thighs press together under the
table, and know that we were thinking the same thing, engaged together in a
silent dance of desire. It felt good – I’d missed it.

I
was even gladder of my new dress when I saw Zé, polished and stunning in a
silver-grey vest top that showed off her slim, sculpted arms. I couldn’t
compete with her – I didn’t have the time, the money or the raw material. I
wondered fleetingly how it must feel to be so fundamentally, unquestionably
beautiful, for it to be the first thing anyone ever noticed about you, the
first thing they thought when they saw you, even once they knew you quite well.
I wondered whether it was frightening for her to know that her looks would
fade, would slip away and leave her invisible, without currency.

But
I didn’t have much time for such gloomy thoughts, because I were being
introduced to Rick, a silver fox whose tanned skin, perfectly fitting clothes
and Cartier watch shouted status.

“Anton’s
running a bit late,” Zé said. “He said they’ll be here in twenty minutes, so
why don’t we have a cocktail while we wait? We’ve already ordered – I’m on the
pisco sours and Rick’s having something called a Blue Marine, God knows what’s
in it.”

“I
always order the campest drinks,” Rick said. “I can’t help it, it’s a curse.”

And
sure enough, his cocktail arrived bristling with pineapple slices, maraschino
cherries and paper parasols. He laughed, and I found myself liking him better.
Jonathan and I ordered martinis, and we all embarked on the kind of
conversation you have when the women know each other mostly through their
children, and the men through their jobs.

We’d
covered the weather, the pleasantness of the restaurant, and were just skirting
cautiously around the results of the General Election. Then Rick turned to
Jonathan and launched into a diatribe about office politics, leaving Zé and me
to talk to each other, and I liked him a bit less again, and found myself
understanding why Zé didn’t mind him being at work all the time.

Then
she glanced over my shoulder towards the door and said, “And here’s Anton. So
glad you could make it, darling.”

“Zé,
my precious, you look wonderful.” Anton was fey and tiny, with sparkly blue
eyes and a waxed moustache that I imagined he’d sported since last time they
were fashionable, about sixty years ago. His outfit was similarly extravagant:
a velvet smoking jacket and a cravat. But I wasn’t really looking at him or his
clothes.

“I
brought one of my boys along,” he said. “It’s his night off and I promised him
a square meal. We pay Equity rates, of course, we’re not vilely exploitative
like some theatre companies, but even so it’s barely enough to keep body and
soul together, is it, sweetheart?”

“I
intend to eat all the food,” agreed Felix solemnly.

My
heart was beating so fast it felt as if it was about to escape my body, either
by bashing through my ribcage or bursting out of my mouth. I pressed my lips
together and swallowed hard.

“Are
you in the show, then?” Zé said. “How exciting. We loved it, it’s the best
thing I’ve seen for ages. Rick’s gutted he missed it.”

“This
is Felix Lawson,” Anton said. “Meet my very dear, very old – well, not old at
all, my apologies, darling – friend Zélide. And you must be Rick, about whom
I’ve heard so very much. And…”

He
gestured towards Jonathan and me in a vague, fluttery sort of way.

“My
new friend Laura and her husband Jonathan,” Zé supplied.

I
shook Anton’s hand and reached for Felix’s, my face still arranged in a polite
smile, but my thoughts spinning wildly, ricocheting like a ball in one of the
computer games Felix had loved to play, back in the day. All I had to do was
say, “Yes, we know each other, actually.” But the words didn’t come.

Instead,
Felix said, “Lovely to meet you, Laura, Jonathan.” And he shook my husband’s
hand and kissed both my cheeks as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

I’ve
never been more grateful for the etiquette of seating arrangements, which
placed me opposite Anton and next to Zé, while Felix was on her other side,
opposite Rick, and thus almost invisible to me. Even so, as we ate oysters and
discussed whether the pâté or the asparagus would be a better bet to start
with, I felt as conscious of his presence as if a live electric current were
running between us. In the noisy restaurant, I could barely hear anything he
said, but the timbre of his voice and the quality of his laugh were
unmistakeable. I found myself straining to hear what he was saying and tuning
out poor Anton.

“Don’t
you think, Laura?” Anton said, catching me off guard.

“Oh,
yes, I completely agree,” I said helplessly, wondering what on earth he’d
asked, and what I was agreeing with.

I
was saved by the arrival of our waiter and the need to actually read the menu,
instead of staring blankly at the sea of swimming words it contained. By the
time we’d sorted out whose filet mignon was to be rare and whose well done,
ordered sides of buttered spinach, pommes frites and heirloom tomatoes for the
table, and witnessed a clash of wills between Rick and the sommelier, I’d more
or less recovered my poise. But still, when Zé nudged me and murmured, “Fancy a
fag?” I felt giddy with relief, and ignored Jonathan’s disapproving frown.

We
edged out between the tables and made our way towards the exit, but before we
reached it, Zé thrust her pack of Marlboro and lighter into my hand and said,
“I’m just going for a wee, see you out there in a second.”

I
pushed the heavy glass door aside and stepped out into the night, taking
relieved gulps of the cool air and, in short order, the blissfully welcome
nicotine. I had three courses to get through, probably followed by dessert and
pudding wine, if Rick’s initial bout of showing off over the wine list was
anything to go by. And then coffee. And maybe brandy. The main thing, I told
myself, was not to get pissed, and not, whatever happened, to move any closer
to Felix. If I didn’t talk to him, it would all be fine. Jonathan would know
nothing, and my life could return to normal.

I
felt a gust of warm air from inside the restaurant and turned to greet Zé. But,
of course, it was not her but Felix.

“Smokers’
corner,” he said, extracting a rollie from his pocket. Almost against my will,
I handed him Zé’s slim, silver lighter and watched as he cupped the flame and
touched it to the paper, exhaling a cloud of smoke in a way that was utterly,
agonisingly familiar.

“Why
did you pretend not to know me?” I blurted out.

“Because
that’s what you wanted me to do,” Felix said, smiling. “I don’t know why, but I
could tell. So I did. Haven’t you told your husband about us? He seems like a
decent bloke.”

“I…
he is,” I said. “And I would have told him. I could have done, it would’ve been
fine. But now you’ve gone and fucked it all up.”

Felix
laughed. The street lamp overhead lit up his shining dark hair, shorter now
than it had been when he was younger, but no less glossy. His teeth shone too –
I didn’t remember them being so white and straight. Even though I was the same
height as him in my high heels, I felt as if I was looking up to him.

“You
can say I’d forgotten, if you want,” he said. “We can go back in there and be
like, ‘Oh my God, we do know each other, after all. It’s just we’ve changed so
much, we didn’t recognise each other.’”

“You
haven’t changed,” I said.

“And
neither have you,” said Felix. “Your friend’s coming. Dial my number, quickly,
so I have yours.”

And
I found myself holding my mobile, urgently punching out the digits he recited,
then ending the call, immediately and furtively, the moment his phone bleeped
in his hand and Zé opened the door.

“So
that must have felt like a blast from the past,” Jonathan said as we walked
home. We weren’t holding hands any more – I was clutching his arm, because I’d
ended up drinking loads more than I meant to and I was feeling decidedly
unsteady on my towering heels. I felt my hand involuntarily tighten on his
elbow.

“What
do you mean?” I said, relieved that it was too dark for him to see how
violently I was blushing.

“Just
– you know. Being with those arty types. It must have reminded you of when you
were dancing.”

“Oh.”
I was appalled by how relieved I felt not to have been caught out in the
fiction Felix and I had played out for the rest of the evening – that we were
strangers, that we’d never met before. Okay, it was more than a fiction – it
was a lie. It was the first time I’d lied outright to Jonathan – lies of
omission didn’t really count, as I’d told myself countless times over the past
ten years. “Dancers aren’t arty. I wasn’t, anyway. I was more like – I don’t
know, a netball player, or something. An athlete. And not a very good one. And
it was ages ago, anyway. Ancient history.”

“But
that actor guy was saying he used to be a dancer,” Jonathan said. “It’s funny
the two of you never met.”

“No
it isn’t.” Through the haze of wine, I realised I was furious with Felix. What
the hell did he think he was doing, dragging me into some stupid game, making
me play along with his pathetic deception? “It’s not that small a world.”

“Do
you think he’s sleeping with that producer guy?” Jonathan continued. “He didn’t
strike me as gay but I could be wrong. Or maybe he’s just stringing him along,
keeping an eye on the main chance.”

Gay
men had always fancied Felix, I remembered. Anton would be no exception. And a
rich, older man who could be admired and pandered to, flattered by the idea
that he’d still got it, would be fair game. I was stung by the accuracy of
Jonathan’s analysis.

“I
have no idea,” I said, more irritably than I intended. “I don’t know why you’re
interested, anyway. It’s not like we’ll ever see them again. Let’s talk about
something else, for God’s sake.”

“Are
you okay, Laura? You seemed distracted tonight. I thought it was a fun evening
– it’s good to get out and meet new people.”

“I’m
just tired,” I said. “It’s been a long week, that’s all. And the kids will
probably be up at some ungodly hour in the morning.”

“We’ll
pay the babysitter and go straight to bed,” Jonathan said. “I still want…”

He
didn’t finish his sentence, because we’d arrived at our door. But I knew what
he meant – what he wanted. To resume what Carmen’s arrival had interrupted. And
although, earlier, I’d wanted it too, my earlier mood of carefree arousal had
dissolved. Felix had spoiled it.

I
stood in the bathroom a few minutes later, painstakingly removing my make-up,
flossing my teeth, spinning out the process of getting ready for bed in the
hope that Jonathan would fall asleep and I’d be left alone with my thoughts.
But when I emerged into the bedroom he was propped up against the pillows, his
tablet in his hands. As soon as he saw me, he put it aside.

“Come
here, my gorgeous wife,” he said.

“I’ll
just check on the kids,” I said.

“I
already did. Completely sparko, the pair of them. Come on.”

I
took my necklace off, put it in my jewellery box and stepped out of my shoes.
My heels felt raw, and I suspected I’d have blisters. My ankle ached, my mouth
felt sour from all the wine I’d drunk, and I knew I’d have a hangover in the
morning, when it was Jonathan’s turn for a lie-in. In short, I felt about as
unsexy as it was possible to feel.

I
reached up to undo my dress, but the zip caught and jammed.

“Fuck,”
I said, tugging at it.

“Don’t,”
Jonathan said. “You’ll make it worse. Come here.”

I
sat reluctantly on the bed and waited while he eased the zip down. So, he was
undressing me after all – getting what he wanted as he always did. I knew how I
must look, in my black lace bra and pants and the hold-up stockings I’d put on
for no particular reason other than that my only pair of sheer tights were in
the wash and opaques didn’t work with the dress – like a woman who wanted to
seduce her husband. Earlier, I had wanted to. And although I didn’t any more, I
didn’t want to say no, either.

We
hadn’t had sex for… I counted back in my head. More than two weeks. I’d had my
period, Jonathan had been working late, I’d been out – it just hadn’t happened.
Two weeks was too long, I told myself firmly. Two weeks felt like the beginning
of a slippery slope, one that might lead to not having sex for months, then
never. And besides, I didn’t want to hurt Jonathan, and I knew that rejection
did hurt him, just a bit, every time it happened.

So
I stepped out of my dress and hung it in the wardrobe, watching him watching
me, and I smiled at him and came to bed without taking off my underwear. I made
my body relax, tried to empty my mind and enjoy the familiar, skilful movements
of his hands over my skin. And it worked. Soon I felt the first stirrings of
pleasure, faint at first, then more insistent and intense. He knelt over me,
peeling down my knickers, and kissed my thighs above my stocking tops, and I
heard myself gasp with longing. Then his fingers and tongue were inside me,
quickly making me come.