Thanks to the horrible food and the not exactly relaxing company, this is, without a doubt, the worst lunch of my life. Not exactly relaxing?! Who am I kidding, these are about the least relaxed people on the planet!
My sister does nothing but throw me dirty looks and my mother refuses to look at me at all. I suspect that she is trying with all her might not to make nasty comments, because having to serve a member of the nobility is something that will certainly be driving her crazy. I really appreciate the effort.
“So, Ian,” my sister begins, “what do you do?”
The question might sound innocent, but since we've have already witnessed one fairly embarrassing scene, I have no doubt that another is now on the way.
“I'm the division's financial expert,” he says patiently, well aware that the outcome of the meal might hang in the balance.
“And you like your job?” asks Stacey.
“Yes, very much,” says Ian. Stacey doesn’t seem too happy to hear that.
“So you deal with completely different things to my sister, then—”
“Yes, she's a lawyer. We complement each other,” says Ian. Perhaps he'd have been wiser to leave out that particular comment.
Stacey gives him a look. “Apart from the fact that you work for the same bank, I'd say that you and my sister have very little in common. Nothing in common,” she says.
And the award for delicacy goes to… Stacey Percy!
I decide to intrude. “Ian's a colleague, okay?” I snap.
She lets out a chuckle of derision, which doesn’t go unnoticed by my mother. Great, just what she wanted.
“Did you enjoy the soup?” my mother asks Ian, who is trying hard to swallow yet another spoonful. I'm grateful to him for the effort he's making.
“Yummy,” he confirms with a smile so bright that for a moment even my mother seems to give in to his charms.
“And aren’t you interested in taking care of the family business?” asks Tom. Couldn't he have just carried on dozing?
“Not at the moment, no. My father and grandfather are more than capable.”
“And so you toil for a living—” adds Tom sarcastically.
“Just like everyone else,” answers Ian serenely.
“Well, not quite like everyone else,” says my sister, “None of us here earn anything like you.”
Ian looks at her seriously. “What about your sister?”
“Ian, my family try to ignore that fact,” I explain, trying to amuse him. But he doesn't give up.
“Why? You're very good at your job, I'm sure your family knows and appreciates that.”
“Jenny is good at helping rich people get even richer. Where's the contribution to society?” intrudes my mother, sounding very serious.
“What do you mean, that a job only has any value if it involves helping the poor?” asks Ian.
This could be the start of the clash of the titans.
“It certainly has more value,” proclaims my mother, who is not ashamed of her ideas.
Ian looks doubtful. “Well, to be honest I think that's a bit of a discriminatory view of things,” he says, as though nothing has happened.
Oops. No one contradicts my mother. Never. My father and all the rest of us there look at each other.
The whole thing is so unexpected that for a moment my mother looks almost shocked, but it doesn’t take her long to recover. “I don’t expect you to understand the problems facing the poorer classes. I mean, you are the grandson of the Duke of Revington.” She says it as though it were a mortal sin.
Ian isn’t on my list of favourite people, but I feel compelled to intervene.
“Mum, please remember that Ian's a guest and that it was you who invited him. The least we can offer him is a relaxing lunch, perhaps with some interesting conversation about something a bit more light hearted, what do you say?” I ask, attempting to calm the waters. Especially since the food and the company are so awful, I'd like to add, but wisely refraining from doing so.
“We never talk about light hearted things,” my dad replies with a puzzled look.
I smile as innocently as possible. “Maybe we should.”
“There's absolutely no need,” says Ian, “I'm perfectly capable of defending myself and I love a good debate. I was brought up the same way,” he says reassuringly.
“I know that you know how to defend yourself but I'd like to remind everyone that this is a Sunday lunch and it should be relaxing. I don’t know about you, but I'm not at all relaxed right now.”
My mother seems finally to get the message. “What about something simple?” she exclaims, proudly. “What do you think of these education cuts? It's absurd—”
Exactly what I didn't have in mind, I think miserably.
*
About two hours later, lunch is over and my head is about to burst. I think I'll skip the next one. You don't want to start taking these wonderful experiences for granted.
“Well, you certainly know how to put your ideas across,” my father says, while Ian gets up with me from the table. Now all we need is for them to like him, and they could all join forces against me.
“Thank you Mr Percy. You know your facts too,” Ian replies.
“Years of political involvement,” my mother interrupts proudly.
“I can tell, Mrs Percy,” says Ian, smiling at her almost sincerely.
Only my sister Stacey remains indifferent to his charm and continues to eye him suspiciously. And since I’m certain that I won’t be able to get away from being questioned by her, I decide to disappear along with Ian and save myself.
“Come again, whenever you want,” my father says to Ian.
Yeah, right, and why don't you shoot a couple of pheasants in his honour while you're at it, I think.
“Thank you very much for the invitation.”
I try to cut short this absurd conversation. “Dad, stop making Ian uncomfortable. He is a very busy man. Charity events, rounds of golf, models to see. He has his hands full.”
My tone is so caustic that everyone turns and looks at me. Ok, I could probably have left off the last bit: it smacked of jealousy, and I'm absolutely not jealous. I don’t give a damn where he goes nor who he goes with. Well, at least I hope I don’t.
“Well, if you’re ever in these parts, please drop by,” says my father.
“With pleasure, thank you.” Ian shakes his hand and says goodbye to the others.
“I'm off too.” I add, worried that he might escape before giving me the opportunity to do the same.
“Must you go?” asks Stacey gloomily.
“Absolutely. The girls are waiting for me, we're going to a museum.”
My sister looks at me knowing full well that it's a ridiculous lie, but she doesn't have the nerve to call me out on it.
“Bye, everyone!” I say, grabbing my coat and following Ian.
“Running away?” shoots Ian ironically, as soon as I close the front door behind me.
“You could say that,” I confirm. I have nothing to hide now that he's met my family. Surely he must understand why I want to run away.
“Have a good trip back,” I tell him, heading towards my car with a nod.
“Can we talk when we get back to London?” he asks.
“Why?” I ask worriedly. Haven’t we said enough already?
“I'd like to talk to you,” he says, without going into detail. I wish I could avoid it, but I made a mistake and now I have to pay the price.
“Ok, but at least let me get my breath back. Today's lunch was heavy going. I need some time to digest it, and I'm not talking about the food.”
Ian chuckles. “Interesting family. Almost as interesting as mine.”
“We should get them together,” I propose, kidding.
“That would be fun,” he admits.
“We'd probably have to make sure there were no knives on the table,” I add.
“Well, you can do a lot of damage with a fork too, you know,” he says, with a smile.
“Ok, finger food only, then. I can just see your grandfather.”
The image is so funny that Ian bursts out laughing. “Exactly what he needs.” For a few moments we stare at each other without knowing what to say.
“So I’ll expect you after dinner?” I ask. “Ok,” he nods, getting into the car. All that remains is for me to do the same.
My sister gives me just enough time to get back to London before she starts bombarding me with calls. My phone has been ringing nonstop for ten minutes. Not knowing what to say, I've decided that for the moment the best idea is not to answer.
“Have you no compassion for the poor boy?” asks Vera, passing in front of my door and obviously thinking that it's Ian who's calling.
“Actually, the poor boy turned up at my parents' house… as you know very well since it was you who gave him the address, my dear. For the record, it isn’t him who keeps phoning. Anyway, Ian's coming here after dinner to talk about I don’t know what,” I add, trying to look unfazed by the prospect.
“Don’t be like that! How was I to know that he'd turn up at your parents place—” says Vera.
“I bet you were hoping he would when you gave him the address, though—” I say bitterly.
“Maybe, but I wouldn't have bet on it,” she says. “Anyway, if it isn’t Ian, who the hell is it?” she asks, bringing my attention back to the madly vibrating phone.
“My sister,” I say, sighing.
“Why? You've only just seen her.”
“And I hope I don’t have to see her again for quite a while. And it's what she saw that's the problem—”
Vera looks at me. “What the hell did she see?”
“She saw us kissing…” I say softly, “… in my parents’ garden.”
Vera opens her mouth. “Let me get this right, he drove for an hour to get to your parents’ and as soon as he got there he started kissing you?”
“Not exactly, and it sounds a bit weird if you put it like that.”
“But it's true. He must have really fallen for you,” she says, walking in.
“He hasn’t fallen for me.”
“Oh yes he has! Someone who acts like that is head over heels in love, my dear,” she insists.
“No, it's just the novelty: where else would he find a woman who doesn’t fall swooning at his feet?”
“Apart from the swooning, which really isn’t you at all, I'd like to remind you that you have actually fallen at his feet.”
That's one thing I don’t wish to remember.
“I didn't fall,” I say, defending myself, “at worst, I tripped.”
Vera laughs. “Ah, that's a good one. Come on, you like him – what's wrong with admitting it?”
I stare at her in horror. “I don’t like him at all.”
My friend looks at me as if she was dealing with a total loon. “Really? I thought maybe you did like him, just a little bit, considering you’ve been to bed with him.”
I'd rather not give too much weight to certain details. “I'll admit that objectively he is attractive, and that deep down – very deep down – he’s an intelligent person—”
“Ah,” Vera exclaims, “you’re well away now.”
I don't let her interrupt me. “… but the fact remains that he's just not my kind of man.”
“And you should be grateful! Your kind of man sucks, do you realise that?”
That was a mean thing to say, I think angrily. Vera's not pulling her punches.
“Anyway, please answer that phone or mute it: my head's about to explode.”
She's quite right, I shouldn't be annoying everyone.
I grab the phone and in a moment of courage decide to answer it. “Hello?” I say disconsolately, knowing what awaits me.
“I can’t believe it!” thunders Stacey at the other end. She should patent that scary voice of hers.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re going out with an aristocrat!” she says incredulously. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not going out with him at all.” And it's true.
“Oh pull the other one! You've dumped Charles for someone like that?” she asks, horrified.
“Charles dumped me, not the other way round. Not that I’m not grateful… However, if you don’t believe me, please feel free to call him.” I'm starting to get sick of this. I’m over thirty years old and my sister shouldn't feel as though she has the right to interfere in my affairs.
“I mean, someone like Charles,” she exclaims again, emphatically.
“What exactly is the purpose of this phone call?” I ask.
“To tell you that you're making a mistake! Your family hate him, for one thing—” she whines.
It is not entirely true – my parents hate the world he belongs to, but from what I saw today they don’t hate him at all. If it’s at all possible, they probably actually quite like him.
“…And he’s too rich—” On that we can agree, but it's not his fault he was born that way.
“…Not to mention the fact that you'll regret it and he’ll make you suffer,” concludes Stacey.
“I won’t suffer, for the simple reason that I’m not going out with him,” I say quietly.
“But you kissed him! And I'm sure that you’ve done more than just kiss him,” she says.
“That really isn’t any of your business,” I answer. This phone call has already gone on too long for my tastes. “Bye,” I say coldly.
“Ok, but please be careful. You know what these people are like.” The reference to Michael couldn't be clearer.
“I know, really I do. Don’t worry.” We say a brisk goodbye and then I collapse on the bed.
“It could be worse!” shouts Vera, from the other part of the flat.
“You think so?” I say, grabbing a pillow to cover my face. What an awful weekend…
*
Ian rings the doorbell at half past nine exactly. I buzz open the main door and wait patiently. I'm not really happy to see him, but at least I'm prepared mentally.
I've put on an old pair of jeans and a white sweater. A plain, unpretentious look.
I open the door and I’m face to face with him again. Black jeans, black leather jacket, electric blue sweater: this man loves to draw attention to his eyes, I reflect frowning.
“Hello,” he says, on entering.
“Hello,” I say unenthusiastically. I really would have preferred to spend a quiet evening in alone.
“You okay?” he asks. I don’t say anything but the look on my face says it all.
“What do you think?”
I take him to the living room, seeing as Vera and Laura disappeared as soon as they heard him coming.
“Have you recovered from that memorable lunch?” I ask with a nervous laugh. He sits in the armchair.
“I don’t let things like that get to me. Although I must admit, you really do have a strange family.”
“You can say that again,” I say and gesture to the sofa. “You wanted to talk to me?” I don’t want to drag this out more than necessary. My plan is to have him out of here in ten minutes at the outside.
“Yes, I wanted to talk about Friday night,” he says, becoming serious.
“I've already told you what I think.”
“Yes, you did say a few confused things,” he says. Confused?
“I probably didn’t explain myself very well but the concept remains the same: We made a big mistake for reasons that frankly I'd rather not go into. And I'd really like to just forget all about it—”
Ian looks at me with decision. “And I would love to analyse those reasons.”
I’ve learned to recognize that decisive and determined look.
I sigh. “If we must want—” I say reluctantly.
“We're attracted to each other. It's not just a physical thing,” he says, trying to convince me, challenging me to contradict him. “And on my part, this attraction has always been there,” he reveals.
He’s just dropped a bombshell. And he even has the nerve to sit there with an impassive look on his face.
“Ah,” I say, not really knowing what he expects from me.
“And what about you?” he asks.
I ponder for a moment. “No, not for me,” I say sincerely, “but really I’ve never given it much thought.”
“Yes, you are good at ignoring the obvious,” he scolds.
“Is there a point to this conversation?” I ask him. I'm a bit irritated because I’m embarrassed by his confession and I don’t like it.
“It's supposed to be our 'moment of truth' – the first in the seven years that I’ve known you,” he says without changing the subject.
“Ian.” My voice should warn him not to go there.
“We could at least give going out with each other a try,” he proposes, sounding almost indifferent. So indifferent that it’s clear to me that he's bluffing.
“That sounds like a bad idea,” I respond, wide-eyed in amazement. Am I wrong or did Ian just say he'd like to go out with me? “Ian, you and I have absolutely nothing in common.” I thought it was obvious, but no, apparently I have to remind him.
“You're wrong. After seeing your family, I'd say that we have plenty in common.”
Unfortunately, a part of me is starting to think that he might have a point.
“You need somebody completely different,” I suggest changing tactics. “I’m not the right one for you.”
Ian snorts. “Can you let me decide who is right for me?”
I close my eyes, trying to contain my anger. “Ok, then – let's say that you're not the right person for me.”
“Why?” he asks. “And don’t give me that crap about class differences, please.”
He sounds annoyed, but I have no intention of letting myself get worked up.
“It's not just a matter of class, though that has got something to do with it and you can’t deny it. It’s everything else: the expectations of your family, the kind of life you lead now and the kind of future you’ll have, the tabloids… everything. I don’t want to end up in a whirlpool, I want a calm, peaceful relationship and I don’t want to feel as though I’m in competition with you. That’s what it would be like with you, because you're so competitive.”
Ian looks almost offended. “You're exactly the same,” he says. Which is true.
“I know! That's why I'm telling you.” I get up from the couch and start to walk around the room. “It’s not like you to make me talk like this,” I say.
Ian glares at me. “You have absolutely no idea what's ‘like me’ or ‘not like me’ so don’t make meaningless assumptions.”
“What do you want from me?” I ask him, exhausted. I'm afraid I’m about to give in.
“To go out with you!” he answers, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
If I think about it, I could almost consider the idea, and that's why I decide it’s much wiser to erase it totally from my mind. “The answer is no. Now have we finished?” I ask, trying to appear much more confident than I actually feel.
Ian gets up from his chair and joins me. “No, we have not finished.” And he kisses me. He does it so unexpectedly, that I don't even manage to push him away.
I don’t want to be kissed, no way, but as soon as his lips have taken possession of mine I no longer have the power to do anything about it. It's like eating something that you know will make you sick to the stomach, but that you just can’t resist.
Ian's lips are so forceful that they manage to convince mine. All I can do is hold him and let myself be carried away by this wave of passion. I just hope I don’t drown.
Several minutes later we come up, panting, for air.
“Where's your room?” Ian asks, now that he's stopped being guided by logic. I don’t know this side of him, I don’t know how to behave with this ‘new’ Ian.
“No way!” I exclaim, trying to break free from his grip.
Ian walks into the hall dragging me with him. “Ok, so that means we’ll just use the first one that's empty.”
Obviously the first room we come to is mine. Even he realises it’s mine because he sees my bag on the chair.
“The right room, apparently,” he says, trying to get his arms around me again.
“Stay away from me!” I shout. “Don’t come anywhere near me.”
He laughs. “Are you afraid of me or of yourself?”
I’m scared of my weakness for him, but I wish it wasn't quite so obvious. “I'm not afraid of anything,” I say. “And now that we’ve finished our little chat, will you please go?” With a very eloquent gesture I point to the door, but he doesn’t even notice. Instead he starts looking around my room, which is rather messy at the moment: the chair is covered with a pile of clothes and the table is scattered with articles that I’ve printed off but not yet read, seeing how the weekend went. After taking in all the details, he sits on the edge of my bed as if nothing had happened.
“What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed.
“I’m sitting down. Why don’t you come and sit next to me?” he asks.
“Ian, please,” I whisper, trying not to lose my patience, “if you don’t know what to do this evening, pick a random number from your little black book. I imagine you'll be spoiled for choice.”
The idiot even dares laugh – he's actually enjoying himself. “Is that the problem?” he asks. “The preposterous number of women throwing themselves at my feet?”
“I didn’t say 'preposterous'!” I say, which gives him even more satisfaction.
“But that is the problem,” he says, moving further onto the bed and inviting me to sit down with him.
The discussion is so pointless that I end up sitting beside him disconsolately. “Why can’t you understand?” I ask him.
He looks at me intently. “It's precisely because I want you to understand that I'm here and I'm insisting so much. And believe me, I'm used to a completely different kind of reception.”
I have no doubt about that.
“That isn't the only problem,” I repeat, taking up my thread again. “There are millions of problems, but first of all, we're just too different to be together. And anyway, all this is just a caprice for you! You're used to them all falling at your feet, and so this has become a challenge! Don’t you dare deny it!” The volume of my voice has risen, so much so that now I'm almost shouting, but luckily I realise and bring it back under control. “Ian, I need a serious person, someone who isn’t seeing other women, who knows the type of family I come from, who shares my feelings about animal rights, who understands me and doesn’t have to make sacrifices to be in my world.”
“So basically you want an exact replica of yourself?” he asks incredulously.
“No, I want someone with the opposite character to me,” I explain.
“Ok, but while you’re looking for this perfect boyfriend can’t you go out with me in the meantime?” he asks, as if it were that simple.
“Are you out of your mind?” I ask.
“It'd be perfect. Nothing too heavy, we can see each other only when we want to and in the meantime you can carry on looking for your perfect future husband.”
“I don’t want to get married,” I mutter quietly, folding my arms.
“Well, to live together then—” he adds, without wavering.
He must have a screw loose, I decide. “You don’t want to see me, you just want to sleep with me,” I accuse him.
“Is that a crime?” he asks, raising his arms. “But I want to see you too. You're fun, when you want to be. And you’re definitely different from the kind of women that I usually go out with.” Well, that’s not hard to believe. “And if you didn't want to sleep with me at the end of the evening, I wouldn’t be offended.”
“I'm not very good at that kind of casual relationship,” I say sincerely. “I like normal, simple relationships.”
“Yes, but look how those relationships end up—” he says. And he’s right.
“Maybe if you change criteria, you'll pick a better man next time,” he continues.
“Maybe,” I say.
He must think that I’ve given in to him, because a second later he grabs me and pulls me down onto the bed. I'm a prisoner.
“What are you doing?” I ask, blushing.
“What I wanted to do yesterday morning,” he says, and starts kissing me. I melt.
I might be a determined sort of girl usually, but for some strange reason I just don't have the willpower left to push him away.