I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. I hadn’t even known I’d wanted one until Adam showed up. Pippa, my flatmate, and I were blissfully content going to work, coming home, having our tea on trays, then gorging ourselves on chocolate while watching back-to-back episodes of Prison Break. It was heaven on earth for those few short hours, but the next morning I’d get on the scales and damn my nine pounds of winter weight gain. It was the same every year—and not helped by the fact that I never went to the gym that I paid seventy-two pounds a month for. I could no longer fit into the size-twelve jeans I’d worn the year before, but instead of buying myself a size fourteen, I’d scoured the shops to find a more generous size-twelve pair that I could pour myself into. I’d spent the entire summer “in denial,” and was still kidding myself that the promised Indian summer would be sure to see my motivation return.
I would go out every once in a while, particularly around payday, but nights out weren’t what they used to be. Maybe it was because I was getting older, or everyone else was getting younger, but I saw little benefit in standing in a crowded pub and having to elbow my way to the bar every time I wanted a drink. Pippa’d dragged me kicking and screaming to a few gigs, though not, unfortunately, at the O2 Arena. She favored underground caverns, where bands, most of whom she seemed to have slept with, thrashed about the stage and encouraged their audience to do the same. I was the one standing alone at the back, with hidden earphones blasting out Musical Theater’s Greatest Hits.
Thank God for Seb, my best friend and a male version of me. I’d have married him years ago if I thought there was a single hair on his body that I could have turned straight, but, alas, I had to make do with evenings locked in a soundproof karaoke booth, each of us competing for the best lines in Les Misérables. We met during what he referred to as my “hairdressing period.” Discontented with secretarial work, I’d booked myself on a night course for hair and beauty. Obviously, I had visions of becoming a female Vidal Sassoon, with a trendy salon in the middle of Mayfair and celebrity clients having to book months in advance. Instead, I spent three months sweeping up other people’s hair and developing eczema on my hands from the caustic shampoo. I used to have these half-baked ideas and rush off to start making them happen, but I was forever deluded by grandeur. Like the time I enrolled on a homemaking course at my local college. It was never my intention to learn how to make a pretty cushion or spend hours rubbing five layers of eggshell off an old chest of drawers. No, I was going to bypass all the graft and groundwork that learning a new skill entailed. I was heading straight for New York, where I would be immediately commissioned to design a vast loft space for Chandler from Friends. Needless to say, the cushion never got finished and all the wallpaper samples and fabric swatches I’d acquired never saw the light of day again.
Seb had seen me through at least four career changes, and had been nothing short of overwhelmingly enthusiastic with each and every one, assuring me that I was “made for it.” Yet, as each phase came and went and I’d be lamenting on the sofa at how useless I was, he’d convince me that I was never really cut out for it in the first place. But now I’d finally found my calling. It came a little later in life than I’d planned, but selling people was my thing. I knew what I was doing, and I was good at it.
“So, he’s an IT analytical analyst?” Seb reiterated suspiciously, as we sat in Soho Square, sharing a sandwich and a salad bowl from M&S the following day. “Whatever that may mean.”
I nodded enthusiastically, but inside I was asking myself the same question. I placed real people in real jobs: retail assistants in shops, secretaries in offices, dental assistants in medical offices. The IT sector was a whole new ball game, a monster of an industry, and one that we at Faulkner’s left to the experts.
“Well, he sounds a right laugh-a-minute,” Seb said, desperately trying to keep a straight face. “What did he do? Enthrall you with his megabytes?”
I laughed. “He doesn’t look like you’d expect.”
“So he doesn’t wear glasses and have a center parting?”
I shook my head, smiling.
“And his name isn’t Eugene?”
“No,” I mumbled, through a mouthful of bread and roast beef. “He’s tall and dark, with really good teeth.”
“Oh, your mum will be pleased.”
I swiped his shoulder with my hand. “And he’s got a really sexy voice. All deep and mysterious. Like Matthew McConaughey, but without the Texan bit.”
Seb raised his eyebrows quizzically. “Which would make him nothing like McConaughey.”
I persisted. “You know what I mean. And big hands … really big hands, and nicely manicured nails.”
“What the hell were you doing looking at his hands?” asked Seb, spluttering out his lemonade. “You were only with him for fifteen minutes, and you’ve already managed to check his cuticles out?”
I shrugged my shoulders petulantly. “I’m just saying that he obviously takes care of himself, and I like that in a man. It’s important.”
Seb tutted. “This all sounds very well, but on a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that you’re going to see him again?”
“Honestly? A one or two. Firstly, he looked like the type to have a girlfriend, and secondly, I think he had his beer goggles on.”
“Was he drunk or just merry?”
“Hard to tell. It was someone’s leaving do, and I think he said something about coming from a pub in the City, so they’d obviously been going for a while. Adam looked okay, a bit disheveled, maybe, but then I don’t know what he normally looks like. One or two of his mates were definitely well on their way, though—they could barely stand up.”
“Oh, I bet the Grosvenor loved having them there,” Seb said, laughing.
“I think they were asked to leave at the same time as I came away,” I said, grimacing. “The well-heeled guests were starting to arrive, and the bar looked more like something on the Magaluf Strip than Park Lane.”
“It’s not looking good, kid,” said Seb.
I wrinkled my nose. “No. I think the likelihood of hearing from him again is pretty slim.”
“Did you give him the look?” he asked.
“What look?”
“You know the one. Your take-me-to-bed-or-lose-me-forever face?” He fluttered his eyelashes and licked his lips in the most unsexy way, like a dog after a chocolate-drop treat. He’d once been told by a potential suitor of mine that I had “bedroom eyes” and “engorged lips,” and I’d not heard the last of it. “Well, did you?”
“Oh, shut up!”
“What were you wearing?” he asked.
I screwed my face up. “My black pencil skirt with a white blouse. Why?”
“He’ll call you.” He smiled. “If you’d been wearing that tent of a dress that you bought in the Whistles sale then I’d say you’ve got no chance, but in the pencil skirt? Moderate to high.”
I laughed and threw a limp lettuce leaf at him. Every woman should have a Seb. He gave brutally honest advice, which on some days could send me off-kilter and have me reassessing my whole life, but today I was able to take it, happy to have him evaluate the situation because he was always darn well right.
“So, how are you going to play it when he calls?” he asked, retrieving the stray leaf from his beard and tossing it onto the grass.
“If he calls,” I stressed, “I’ll play it like I always do. Coy and demure.”
Seb laughed and fell onto his back, tickling his ribs for added effect. “You are to coy and demure what I am to machismo.”
I was tempted to empty the rest of the salad bowl onto his head as he lay writhing on the ground, but I knew it was likely to end up in a full-on food fight. I had a packed schedule that afternoon, and wanted to spare my silk shirt the onslaught of a balsamic-dressing attack. So, I gave him a playful nudge with the tip of my patent court shoe instead.
“Call yourself a friend?” I said haughtily, as I stood up to leave.
“Call me when he calls,” Seb shouted out after me. He was still cackling as I walked away.
“I’ll call you if he calls,” I shouted back, as I reached the gates to the square.
I was in the middle of an appointment later that afternoon when my mobile rang. My client, a Chinese businessman who, with the help of a translator, was looking for staff for his expanding company, signaled to me to take it. I smiled politely and shook my head, but the “No Caller ID” displayed across the screen had piqued my interest. When it rang three more times, he looked at me imploringly, almost begging me to answer it.
“Excuse me,” I said, before backing out of the room. It had better be important.
“Emily Havistock,” I stated, as I swiped my iPhone.
“Havistock?” a voice repeated.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“No wonder they didn’t put your surname on your badge.” He laughed.
A redness crept up my neck, its fingers flickering at my cheeks. “I’m afraid I’m in a meeting at the moment. May I call you back?”
“I don’t remember you sounding this posh either. Or is this your phone voice?”
I remained silent, but smiled.
“Okay, call me back,” he said. “It’s Adam, by the way. Adam Banks.”
How many men does he think I give my number to?
“I’ll text you,” he said. “Just in case my number doesn’t come up.”
“Thank you, I’ll revert to you shortly,” I said, terminating the call, but not before I heard him chuckle.
I couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the appointment, and found myself trying to wrap it up prematurely. But then, I didn’t want to appear over-keen by calling him back too quickly, so when the translator said my client would like to show me around the new office space a few floors above, I gratefully accepted.
Over dinner, a week later, I had to explain to Adam why it had taken me three hours to call him back.
“You honestly expect me to believe that?” he asked incredulously.
“I swear to you. I’m not one for holding out just to appear cool. Making you sweat for an hour, perhaps. But three? That’s just rude.” I laughed.
His eyes wrinkled up as he tried to suppress a smile. “And you were seriously stuck in a lift for all that time?”
“Yes, for three really long hours, with a man who hardly spoke English, and two super-smart phones, neither of which were smart enough to be able to ring for help, it seems.”
He choked on his sauvignon blanc and spluttered, “That’s Chinese technology for you.”
By the time I introduced Adam to Seb, a month later, we’d seen each other eighteen times.
“Are you serious?” Seb had moaned, when I’d told him for the third consecutive night that I couldn’t see him. “When do you think you might be able to fit me in?”
“Ah, don’t go getting all jealous,” I’d teased. “Maybe tomorrow night?”
“If he doesn’t ask to see you again then, I suppose?”
“I promise, tomorrow night is yours and yours alone.” Though, even as I was saying it, I felt a tad resentful.
“Okay, what do you want to do?” he asked sulkily. “That film’s out—of the book that we both loved.”
“The Fault in Our Stars?” I said, without thinking. “Adam and I are going to see that tonight.”
“Oh.” I could feel his disappointment, and I instantly wanted to slap myself.
“But that’s okay,” I said cheerily. “I’ll go again tomorrow night. The book was amazing, so the film will be too, right? We’ve got to see it together.”
“If you’re sure…” Seb said, his voice lifting. “Try not to enjoy it too much with your boyfriend.”
If only I could. I was too conscious of Adam fidgeting in his seat, looking at his phone. “Well, that was a happy little tale,” he said, as we came out of the cinema a couple of hours later.
“It’s all right for you,” I said, sniffing and surreptitiously wiping my nose on a tissue. “I’ve got to go through it all again tomorrow.”
He stopped in the street and turned to look at me. “Why?” he asked.
“Because I’ve promised Seb I’ll go and see it with him.”
Adam raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“We both loved the book and always vowed that when they made the film, we’d see it together.”
“But you’ve seen it now,” he said. “Job done.”
“I know, but it’s something we both wanted to do.”
“I need to meet this Seb who’s taking you away from me,” he said, pulling me toward him and breathing in my hair.
“If he was straight, you’d have a problem on your hands,” I said, laughing. “But you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“All the same. Let’s get together one night next week so that we can all discuss the merits and flaws of the silly film we’ve just seen.”
I playfully punched him on the arm, and he kissed me on the head. It felt like we’d been together forever, yet the excitement of just being around him fizzed through me, setting every nerve alight. I didn’t ever want that feeling to go away.
It was way too early to tell, but there was a growing part of me, the part that no one saw, that hoped this was something. I wasn’t brave enough, or stupid enough, perhaps, to be singing from the rooftops that Adam was “the one,” but I liked how it felt. It felt different, and I had all my fingers and toes crossed that my hunch was right.
We were comfortable with each other, not to the point where I’d leave the bathroom door open, but I wasn’t obsessing about whether my nail color matched my lip shade either, and not many guys had been around long enough to see them clashing.
“Are you sure it’s not too early for the Seb-o-meter?” Seb asked, wiping his eyes as we walked out of the same cinema twenty-four hours later. “I mean, it’s not even been a month yet, has it?”
“Well, thanks for your vote of confidence,” I said. I was sniveling again too, but, as I was with Seb, it didn’t matter. I put my arm through his, uniting us in our sadness at how the film had ended.
“I don’t mean to sound negative, but it’s all a bit full-on to last, don’t you think? You’re seeing him almost every night. Are you sure it won’t just fizzle out as quickly as it started? Don’t forget, I know what you’re like.”
I smiled, despite feeling a little hurt at the insinuation that what Adam and I had could be just a fling. “I’ve never felt like this, Seb. I need you to meet him because I think this might be going somewhere. And it’s important to me that you like him.”
“But you know you’re going to get a very honest appraisal,” he went on. “Are you ready for that?”
“I think you’re going to like him,” I said. “And if you don’t, just pretend you do.”
He laughed. “Is there any topic that’s off-limits? Like the time you asked me to marry you, or when you threw your knickers at Justin Timberlake?”
I laughed. “No, it’s all good. You can say whatever you want. There’s nothing I wouldn’t want him to know.”
“Hang on,” said Seb, as he bent forward and made a retching sound. “There. That’s better. Where were we?”
“D’you know that you’re a right royal pain in the arse when you want to be?” I laughed.
“You wouldn’t want me any other way.”
“Seriously, he’s pretty laid-back, so I don’t think you’ll be able to faze him that easily.”
That was the only thing with Adam: If he was any more laid-back he’d be horizontal. In his world, everything was calm and under control, like a sea without waves. He didn’t get exasperated when we were stuck behind a painfully slow driver. He didn’t call southeastern trains every name under the sun when leaves on the track caused delays, and he didn’t blame social media for everything that was wrong with the world. “If you don’t like what it represents, why do you go on it?” he’d asked, when I moaned about old school friends posting every burp, fart, and word their child offered.
None of the trivial stuff that had me spitting tacks almost every minute of my day seemed to touch him. Maybe he was sitting back, carefully navigating his way around my own waves and currents before revealing his own, but I wanted him to give me more. I needed to know that blood coursed through his veins and that he’d bleed if he cut himself.
I’d tried to provoke a reaction from him several times, even if just to check that he had a pulse, but I wasn’t going to get a rise out of him. He seemed happy just ambling along, with no real need or desire to offer anything more. Maybe I was being unfair, maybe that was just the way he was, but every now and again I liked to be challenged, even if it was only a debate over an article in the Daily Mail. It wouldn’t matter what it was, just anything that would give me an insight into his world. But no matter how hard I tried, we always ended up talking about me, even when I was the one asking the questions. There was no denying that, at times, it was a refreshing change, as the last guy I’d gone out with had prattled on about his video-game obsession all night. But Adam’s constant deflection left me wondering: What did I really know about him?
That was why I needed Seb. He was the type of person who could get right in there, burrow his way through the complex layers of people’s characters and into their souls, which they were often baring within minutes of meeting him. He’d once asked my mother if my dad was the only man she’d ever been with. I’d immediately put my hands over my ears and la-la-la-ed, but she confessed to having had a wonderful affair with an American she met, just before her and Dad got together. “Well, it wasn’t the type of affair that you youngsters talk about nowadays,” she said. “We didn’t have clandestine meetings and illicit sex, and neither of us were married, so it wasn’t an affair in the sense that you know. It was just a beautiful meeting of two people who were utterly in tune with each other.”
My mouth had dropped open. Aside from the shock that my mother had obviously had sex more than twice, from which she’d conceived me and my brother, it had been with someone other than my father? As a daughter, you so rarely get to discover these golden gems of times gone by, and before we know it, it’s too late to ask. But when you’re with someone like Seb, every little nugget is teased out, without you even realizing.
The following weekend, Adam, Seb, and I arranged to meet in a bar in Covent Garden. I didn’t like to suggest dinner, just in case it felt a little forced and awkward, but I was hoping that was how the evening would end up organically. We’d not even finished our first drink before Seb asked Adam where he grew up.
“Just outside Reading,” he replied. “We moved down to Sevenoaks when I was nine. What about you?”
There it was again.
But Seb wasn’t going to be thwarted. “I was born in Lewisham hospital, and have stayed there ever since. Not in the hospital, obviously, but literally just two roads down, off the High Street. I went to Sevenoaks a couple of years ago; a guy I was seeing had a design consultancy down there. Very pretty. What made you move there from Reading?”
Adam shifted uncomfortably. “Erm, my dad died. Mum had friends in Sevenoaks and needed a bit of help with me and my younger brother. There was nothing to stay in Reading for. Dad had worked for Microsoft for years, but with him gone…” He trailed off.
“Yeah, I lost my dad too,” offered Seb. “Crap, eh?”
Adam gave a sad nod.
“So, is your mum still on her own, or did she meet someone else?” asked Seb, before guiltily adding, “Sorry, I assume your mum’s still around?”
Adam nodded. “Yes, thank God. She’s still in Sevenoaks and still on her own.”
“It’s difficult when they’re on their own, isn’t it?” asked Seb. “You feel a lot more responsible for them, even when you’re the child and they’re supposed to be the grown-up.”
Adam raised his eyebrows and nodded in agreement. I couldn’t add to this conversation as thankfully both my parents were still alive, so I offered to get a round in instead.
“No, I’ll get them,” said Adam, no doubt relieved to extract himself from Seb’s searching questions. “Same again?”
Seb and I nodded.
“So…?” I asked, as soon as Adam’s back was turned.
“Very nice,” Seb said. “Very nice.”
“But?” I sensed one coming.
“I’m not sure,” he said, as my heart sank. “There’s something, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
That night, after we’d made love and were lying side by side, tracing our fingers over each other’s torsos, I raised the subject of his parents again.
“Do you think your mother will like me?” I asked.
He rolled over and pushed himself up onto one elbow. The light was off, but the curtains were open and the moon was bright. I could see his silhouette close to me, feel his breath on my face. “Of course she would. She’d think you’re perfect.”
I couldn’t help but notice the turn of phrase: “she’d” instead of “she’ll.” There’s a big difference between the two—one hypothetical, the other intentional. The sentence spoke volumes.
“So, you’re not planning on introducing us anytime soon, then?” I asked, as lightly as I could.
“We’ve only been together for a month.” He sighed, sensing the weight of the question. “Let’s just take our time, see how it goes.”
“So, I’m good enough to sleep with, but not to meet your mother?”
“You’re good enough for both.” He laughed. “Let’s just take it slowly. No pressure. No promises.”
I fought the tightness at the back of my throat and turned away from him. No pressure. No promises? What was this? And why did it matter so much? I could count on two hands how many lovers I’d had. Every one of them had meant something, apart from a shockingly uncharacteristic one-night stand I’d had at a friend’s twenty-first birthday.
But despite having been in love and lust before, I couldn’t ever remember feeling this safe. And that was how Adam made me feel. He made me feel all of the above. Every little box had a tick in it and, for the first time in my adult life, I felt whole, as if all the jigsaw pieces had been slotted into place.
“Okay,” I said, annoyed at my own neediness. I would have gladly shown him off to my mother’s half-aunt’s second cousin twice removed. Clearly, he didn’t feel the same, and, despite myself, it hurt.