Nick
When he was with her, he found he wanted to show her a good time, he wanted their dates to be memorable, impactful. Perfect. It was important to him that she had the best views, that her seat wasn’t near the draughty door, that he carried an umbrella, opened taxi and restaurant doors for her. The whole nine yards. OK, so they’d started with the safe meal in a restaurant but he’d made an effort to mix it up since. They’d been bowling and visited London Zoo. She’d taken him to a classical music concert at the Royal Festival Hall; it hadn’t been awful. He’d taken her to a rugby match at Twickenham; she’d done her best to understand the rules. He suggested hip hop karaoke in Portland Street, she suggested an evening learning to make gourmet sushi in Wimbledon. He reserved a table at Sexy Fish, arguably the most OTT restaurant in London where people went to be seen, she introduced him to a curry house where you brought your own drink, sat on a communal bench and ate whatever the chef had prepared, no menus. They’d had equally brilliant nights at all these places. There were no tests or tantrums, no demands or ultimatums. She was refreshing.
He understood women were equal to men—obviously they were, he wasn’t a moron. His mother and sister were very intelligent, admirable women, and he’d studied and worked with countless women who were better than him at something or other: deal making, working a room, running the London marathon. Truthfully, he couldn’t think of a single thing he could do that some woman of his acquaintance couldn’t do better. Women were amazing. He sincerely believed that, sadly it had been his experience that women didn’t believe it quite so much. It seemed that they rarely liked themselves.
Insecurity could be crippling. Many had an annoying habit of dismissing or underplaying their achievements. It bored him because manners dictated that he had to then bolster the perfectly adequate human being, pointing out her merits—merits that should have been obvious and a source of pride. It was a waste of time. It struck him that whilst he’d dated incredibly intelligent, passionate and beautiful women in the past, he hadn’t dated incredibly sensible ones. Anna’s sensibleness was novel and welcome.
He’d been expecting nothing; but this, well, this was possibly something.
This morning, ever since Nick had told Hal about spending the evening with Ivan, rather than going to the movies, Hal had amused himself by humming ‘Here Comes The Bride.’ Ha ha, very funny.
She’d been amazing last night. So calm, so reassuring. He’d noticed that it was not just when he was with her that he thought of her, she came to mind when she was nowhere about. The truth was, she was always on his mind.
Nick drew breath. Had he just had that thought? Had those words formed that exact sentence in his mind? Oh crap, he’d started to think in song titles! He’d even go so far as to say he was beginning to have some understanding of the lyrics, and he didn’t mean the songs he heard thrashed out in the bars and clubs he visited—the songs about bitches and asses—he meant the sort of sentimental stuff he’d heard dolloped around his own house when he was a very young kid. The revelation hit him like a blow.
He was falling in love. No? Yes? Hell.
Obviously, Nick had been in relationships before. A number of times. He was thirty, not thirteen, but none of the experiences had been especially scarring or especially momentous. Clearly, falling in love was a thing, there were endless books, films, songs and plays devoted to it. People drank themselves sick because of it, gambled, made themselves jobless or homeless, some people went totally mad for love; he just hadn’t felt the impact. His mother joked (somewhat desperately) that he’d been born without the necessary part of the brain that permitted a functioning, mutually beneficial, loving relationship. It was fair to say that he’d always found it quite overwhelmingly difficult to imagine sharing everything from his Krups coffee pods to the thoughts in his head, his bank account to his bed. Or, more accurately, he found it difficult to imagine doing that with just one person for the rest of his life. He knew his mother longed for grandchildren, and whilst she only allowed herself to admit it once a year (at Christmas, after a glass too many), she made it clear she couldn’t understand why there was no sign whatsoever that Nick might provide them one day. She worried less about his sister, Rachel, who was not dating at the moment but had at least had serious boyfriends in the past.
‘Your father and I have done our best to set a good example,’ she’d mutter, nonplussed. ‘It hasn’t always been easy, but nothing good comes easily. We’ve stuck at it and that’s what counts.’
She had no idea that this annual speech was part of the reason why Nick felt falling in love was a con. As far as he could gather, his parents appeared to exist in a state of wearied forbearance, rather than in everlasting ecstasy, which after all was what was promised.
When his friends announced they’d found someone special that they might want to move in with, possibly even marry, he’d always understood they’d been compelled by practicalities—shared bills, that sort of thing. No judgement. Obviously companionship was a motivator for some, just not for him. He was surrounded by people 24/7. Gobby, greedy, pushy, noisy people, much like himself. He liked alone time. He needed space. He also appreciated that some blokes met domestic goddesses, and that held an attraction. Those women filled the fridge, sorted out a bloke’s wardrobe and threw impressive dinner parties but Nick liked visiting restaurants and he earned enough to have all his shirts picked up from his home, laundered and delivered back to him. His domestic arrangements were fine, thanks very much, and they weren’t tied up in any way with sex or feelings, which was a bonus. OK, admittedly, he couldn’t procreate on his own still he wasn’t in a rush.
His private mobile buzzed. He glanced at the screen. It was his father.
He opened the conversation in his usual way. ‘Hello, Dad. This is not really a good time to talk.’
‘Right, son. Yes, yes, of course. Course not.’ His father sounded miles away. Distracted.
Were they on holiday? Had Dad lost track of the time difference? That would explain him calling during office hours.
‘Sorry, Nicholas, sorry to disturb you at work. But it’s your mother. She’s had a fall. She’s, they say—It’s not good.’