One Night

He was a show-off. He loved the sound of his own voice. Here he was again, bragging about his latest triumph on the pool table. Yadda, yadda, yadda, boring, boring, boring. Why didn’t he ever get fed up of telling everyone how marvellous he was? And the repetition! Everyone knew at least half a dozen times over that he’d once played a round of golf with Justin Rose. The whole pub also knew he used to be an amateur boxing champion and that he was a black belt in karaoke –yes, pun intended, he even thought he was Jason Manford.

I hated the way he ran his thick fingers through his hair every five seconds, as if trying to highlight the fact he still had some. He had to be almost forty and he was still rocking the Jon Bon Jovi look like it was en vogue. It might have been in the late eighties/early nineties, but not now and definitely not in rural Wiltshire.

His checked shirt, the lumberjack kind, clung to his broad chest and the sleeves, as always, were rolled up to show off his arms. He had pecs that were taut and tanned from outdoor work –not really impressive –and his jeans were one size too tight, showing he had legs that worked out –so what?

His eyes were blue, I thought, not that I cared, and he was laughing again. Clown. What was so funny all the time? He obviously loved the sound of his own laugh almost as much as the sound of his own voice. Show-off. Big, fat, stuck in the eighties, show-off.

He raised his pint glass and looked my way. Yes, his eyes were blue and I didn’t like the way they were scrutinising me right now. They weren’t just looking at me, they were looking into me and it made me feel uncomfortable. But I couldn’t look away. Why couldn’t I look away? I hated him. He was so annoying. A know-it-all, a Jack the Lad –if the stories were to be believed –someone who loved them and left them and bragged about it. Not that I had ever heard him brag about it. But that’s what he was like, it must be. He bore all the hallmarks and then some.

I clutched my wine glass and tried to draw my eyes away from his. I couldn’t do it. Come on, Lizzie, move your eyes away from the blonde-haired, broad-chested replica of a member of Van Halen –you can do it! You don’t want to look at him. What could possibly be fascinating about him? None of his clothes fitted properly, he started belching before pint number five, and thought it was hilarious, he was uncouth, ill-mannered and…hot as hell.

What?! Where had that thought come from? Lizzie Dawson you need therapy! Ricky Western is not a romantic possibility. He is not someone to lust after, daydream about or kid yourself that one day he might look your way for longer than it takes to order another round. No. No way, no thank you, non merci, nein, not on your Nellie.

I swallowed a large boulder that had somehow taken up residence in my throat, pushing it back down into my chest cavity before inhaling another mouthful of wine.

He was laughing again now, not looking at me, splitting his sides with his group of equally awful friends including one Darren Martin.

Darren had been mine once upon a time. It felt like another lifetime ago. He’d taken me in, told me I was beautiful, said he loved me, and I was stupid enough to believe him. That’s what you did when you didn’t know any better. Most normal people didn’t tell lies, most people were honest and most people didn’t ask you to marry them and then conduct an affair with your best friend when they were supposed to be choosing the design of the wedding invitations.

Clones. The whole group of men hanging around the pool table, thinking they were God’s gift to women, were all clones of Darren Martin: liars, users, abusers, men not to be trusted. I had someone special now. I had Adrian and I was happy.

Adrian understood me. Adrian listened when I talked. Adrian had never told me I looked beautiful but I knew he thought it. Sometimes you don’t need things to be said to know they’re meant. Adrian’s my world and I don’t need anyone else in it thank you very much. Especially not Ricky Western.

He started to come towards the bar and I panicked. Where is he going? The toilets aren’t this way and he still has half a pint left in his glass. Hide. I couldn’t hide, I was sat on a bar stool. Leave. No, this was the first night I’d had out in ages. Ignore him. He meant nothing to me anyway.

‘Hello, Lizzie.’

God, that voice. It was awful. Deep and gravelly –it grated on you. What to say?

‘Hello.’

‘Can I buy you a drink?’

He sat down on the bar stool next to me. His knee touched mine and I flinched, electric sparks shooting down the length of my back; obviously static from his polyester shirt or his hair products.

‘No thank you, I’m not staying long.’

Aren’t I? I had intended to stay as long as it took to get completely pissed, before picking up a Chinese takeaway and going home to see if Adrian was awake.

‘How are things? I haven’t seen you in a while.’

What was this? Concern? We’d never been friends, just passing acquaintances really, people who mumbled a greeting in the street, not even close on Facebook. He was a friend of Darren’s and that meant he wasn’t a friend of mine. It had to be that way.

‘I’m fine.’ I almost spat the words from my mouth. Was that venom in my tone? You don’t feel anything for him, Lizzie. Remember?

‘And Adrian?’

The mention of his name brought a smile to my lips I couldn’t stop forming. Adrian was so different to anyone else I’d met and he was going to make me a better person.

Ricky put his strong hand over mine and squeezed my fingers in his palm. His touch was hot, reassuring, comforting, sensual. I couldn’t move my hand from his. I didn’t want to.

‘I know,’ he whispered, leaning forward on his seat.

I felt his words touch my cheeks as the air left his mouth. His eyes met mine and involuntary tears slipped down my cheeks.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I tried, but I knew it was too late.

‘Let me in,’ he continued.

Let him in? What did he mean by that? I’d let him in, a year ago. I’d let him into my house, I’d let him into parts of me that hadn’t been touched since Darren. I still remembered every detail and had replayed it over and over in my mind. I’d undressed him, I’d taken off a green shirt, unbuttoned his fly, inched down his Calvin Kleins and let him touch every inch of me. I closed my eyes now and took a deep breath, recalling his lips on my skin, his hands wrapped in mine, both of us clutching the bedding and calling out.

‘I love you, Lizzie.’

Stop. Don’t say that. You don’t mean that and I don’t want you to mean that. I don’t even like you, I hate you. You slept with me and you said you’d call and you did call and you called and called and called and I didn’t answer because I wouldn’t put myself in that position again. You’re just the same as Darren, Darren who hurt me, Darren your friend.

I took my hand from his, letting his fingers drop to the bar and placed both hands over my ears. I looked stupid but I couldn’t listen to anything else he said. It was all pretence; this was just about Adrian, because I was happy now. Now I was happy he wanted to spoil it. Well, I couldn’t let him spoil it.

‘This isn’t about Adrian, this is about us.’

No. There was no ‘us’, never was, never will be, it was one night, one stupid mistake, I blame it on the brandy and coke.

‘Speak to me, Lizzie.’

The tone of his voice made me look up, made me meet those piercing blue eyes with mine. Ricky Western, sat with me in the pub, talking about a relationship. Wasn’t that what I had dreamt about for so long even though I shouldn’t have? Hadn’t I always wanted him because he was different, because he was out of the ordinary, confident, unashamedly retro.

‘I don’t know what to say to you.’ My voice came out as no more than a weak vibration with no conviction at all.

‘Say you’ll give me a chance, give us a chance. We could be happy,’ he said, taking hold of my hand again.

Could we? Could we be happy? I didn’t know. Relationships didn’t come with a guaranteed happy ever after and Darren hadn’t just burnt my fingers he had scalded my entire insides.

He didn’t wait for me to answer. He touched my face, cupping it with his firm hands, drawing it towards him. I felt his lips –soft, moist, tender –against mine, and felt the butterflies arrive in my stomach and begin a well-practised rolling formation. I reached for him, clung to him, let him gather me up into his muscular arms as the whole pub looked on.

When I broke away he was smiling, a smile like no other I had seen him wear before. It wasn’t an expression of elation because England had scored a goal, it wasn’t a look of delight because someone had laughed at one of his jokes, it was an expression of joy, of hope, a look of love.

‘Would you like to meet your son?’ I asked him.

‘Adrian,’ he said, his voice soft as he formed the word.

He nodded his head and then dropped it, a sob racking his shoulders. I knew how much that meant to him and how long he had been waiting for it.

I took his hand and squeezed it tight in mine. It was time to move on, it was time to grab what I wanted with both hands and it was time to admit that what I wanted was Ricky Western, the big, fat, stuck in the eighties, show-off. We’d had one night but we deserved more.