But Louise believes that Adam is my chance at happiness, that passion isn’t important, that we have, sorry, had, the sort of relationship that she hopes all her clients will eventually achieve.
She’d never say that of course, but all it takes is a look, a scowl, a perfectly placed question to make me realize that I’m wrong, or that what I’m doing is not the, how shall I put it, the correct course of action.
But sitting in Louise’s room, sitting in the absolute silence is like taking a lie detector test. I can’t lie to her, as much as I want to, because it would be like lying to myself, and the first rule of therapy is honesty. But perhaps I can withhold the truth. Can I? Should I?
“How are you?” she says, knowing from my session last week that Adam and I have broken up, that I am confused, that I am still holding out for more.
“I’m OK,” I say, which is what I always say because it sounds too futile to say fine, and “OK” seems to cover the whole spectrum.
“How has your week been?”
“It’s been up and down. I’m missing Adam,” I’m not lying, I am, “but not as much as I’ve missed boyfriends in the past. I mean, I’m not crying myself to sleep at night or anything like that. There have been times when I’ve felt incredibly lonely but I don’t think that’s Adam particularly, it’s not that I want to be with him, it’s just getting used to the feeling of being on my own again.”
Louise looks at the ceiling for a while, which means she’s thinking, she’s thinking of the right question, the question that will probe my innermost thoughts.
Eventually she looks back at me. “So this breakup is different from all the others, hmm?”
I nod.
“Different because it’s not as painful.”
It’s a statement rather than a question but I nod anyway.
“So because it’s not painful does that mean the relationship wasn’t right?”
“I think so. I mean, in the past I’ve spent weeks crying, up all night wandering the corridors of my flat, feeling so lonely I think I’m going to die, but this time the thing I miss most is Adam’s friendship.”
“And how important is that friendship to you?”
God, talk about same old ground or what. But I know how Louise works, she thinks if she keeps on going eventually she’ll get through. Sometimes it works. I wouldn’t have started with Adam in the first place if Louise hadn’t kept banging on about the importance of friendship, how attraction doesn’t matter, how none of us has “a type.”
But just because she’s been right in the past doesn’t mean she’s always right. Does it?
“Next to my girlfriends, Adam’s friendship is the most important thing in my life, but I think that’s the problem, we shouldn’t have taken it further, we should have stayed friends.”
“And how important do you think friendship is in a relationship, hmm?”
“Very important, of course it is, but you need other things too.”
“Such as passion?” A sarcastic tone of voice but I choose to ignore it.
“Yes. Such as passion.”
“And where do you think you’ll find this combination of friendship with passion?”
I hesitate. Do I tell her? Do I tell her that right now I couldn’t give a damn about the friendship, that I’ve had friendship up to my ears, that what I want, what I really need right now is passion?
I wimp out.
“I’m sure it will happen sometime, but I think that at the moment I need to be on my own for a while.”
“And what about Andrew?”
Damn, the woman’s a witch.
“What about him?”
“Well, he could give you passion.”
I shrug my shoulders as if to say, “So? So what?”
“But he couldn’t give you friendship.”
I shrug again.
“Have you thought about that?”
“Yes,” I grudgingly admit, “he’s not relationship material at all, I know that.”
“But Adam was.”
Yes, she’s right, Adam was. I don’t tell her any more. How can I? I’ll tell her next week, after the deed has been done, after the earth has moved and then I’ll tell her it just happened, that it wasn’t planned, that he seduced me.
She doesn’t need to know it was premeditated. She doesn’t need to know about my quest for passion. She only needs to know as much as I want to tell her.
“A fling, with Andrew or any one of the Andrews in the world isn’t the answer. You’ve been through that,” she says, while I look guiltily at the ground. “You’ve slept with men in the past to raise your self-esteem and it hasn’t worked. You might have felt good while you were in bed with them, but afterward you always felt terrible.
“You’ve come too far to do that again. Life isn’t always black and white, and sometimes the gray areas are the ones that work best for us.”
What is she saying? Is Andrew a black area and Adam a gray? I don’t know, I really don’t know so I just nod as if I know what she’s talking about and look at the clock, desperate for the end of the session.
Am I doing the right thing, am I doing the right thing? The thought whirls round my head as I’m drifting off to sleep. But then I lie and think about Andrew’s eyes, his hands, the way his mouth feels, the taste of his lips, and I think, yes, you have to do it.
I think about Adam too. About the way we laughed together when we were in bed, how sex suddenly became fun, ridiculous, playful. Of course there were times when it was intense, but most of the time it wasn’t.
I think about the time I bought a women’s magazine and there was a pullout, “The Positions You Always Wanted to Try and Never Dared.” It fell out of the magazine while I was reading it in bed and Adam immediately grabbed it and read the Kama Sutra descriptions out loud in amazement, showing me every picture and shaking his head in disbelief.
He insisted we try each position. He even drew up a chart, little stick figures in absurd positions, with a day written over each one. On Monday we tried the Large Bee—me on top, facing his feet.
On Tuesday we tried the Knee Trembler, but we had to stop because we were laughing so hard as Adam tried to carry me, inside me with my legs wrapped round his waist. He kept losing his balance, stumbling around the bedroom with me sinking lower and lower until eventually we both fell over.
On Wednesday we tried Putting on the Sock, which I would describe except it’s a bit too complicated. Suffice to say it didn’t work.
On Thursday we tried the Milk and Honey Embrace, me sitting on top of Adam, my back to him, and I loved this, but he moaned that he couldn’t see my face.
On Friday we gave up and went back to our usual lovemaking, punctuated with moans of pleasure and occasional soft laughter.
No. I’m not going to think about this anymore.
22
What I don’t need, what I really don’t need just as I’m blow-drying my hair and feeling sick with nerves about my impending night of passion with Andrew, is Mel.
But of course the phone rings and it’s Mel on the other end, Mel who I love more than anyone, Mel who I don’t want to deceive.
We’re still going through this, glitch, in our friendship, a tiny rough patch if you like, a time when we’re not able to be completely honest with one another, when we feel more like acquaintances than friends.
But it will pass, I know it will pass because it has happened before. I have had arguments with people in the past, and for the longest time I was terrified that it meant the end of our friendship, but time and therapy together have taught me that when you truly care about people, your closest friends and lovers, arguments are important, because they’re about being honest with one another.
And arguments always recede into the past, strengthening the friendship if you’re lucky, and at the very least adding a new dimension.
And Mel and I didn’t exactly argue, she just disapproves of what I’m doing, so, much in the way I held back from Louise, I’m h
olding back from Mel. Hey, I still have Andy to confide in. And you.
“Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?” Mel sounds like the old Mel, only slightly more tentative, slightly unsure. And I would love to come over for dinner tonight, except tonight is the night I will be seducing Andrew, tonight is the night I have been looking forward to, and dreading, in equal measure.
“Oh damn, I’d love to but I can’t.” Quick, think, think. “I’m going out with some of the girls from work.”
“What a shame. Oh well, never mind. How are you, anyway?”
“OK. Up and down, you know how it is.”
“Mmm. Have you . . . spoken to him?”
“To Adam?”
“Yes.”
“No. I’m still confused, I think it is over, but I don’t quite know how to tell him.”
“Maybe that’s because it’s not.”
“Maybe.” What else can I say? “So how’s Martin?”
“Oh lovely as ever, and cooking tonight, which is a treat.”
“I’m sorry I can’t make it. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Sure thing.”
It’s a nothing conversation. A conversation of small talk, of inanities that serve to keep our friendship on the straight and narrow, but only just.
So we say good-bye and I look at myself for a long time in the mirror without moving. I move my face so close to the glass that my features become indistinct, it’s not me, it’s just a series of swimming shapes, and I have to shake my head vigorously to remind myself who I am.
“I am a woman with a mission,” I tell my reflection as I pick up the lipliner and slowly draw pinky brown lines around my lips, blending them in with a matching lipstick.
I feel like everything is happening in slow motion, like it’s not really happening to me. I’m a character in a film, I tell myself as I tip my head upside down then whip it back, running my fingers through my hair and scrunching it to give me a wild, abandoned look.
I’m a character in a film with the plot already finely tuned. All I have to do now is follow the script, act the part, listen to the director inside my head.
And when my makeup is ready I open my drawer and pull out my new underwear. My ultra-feminine, frothy, lacy, delicate concoction of matching bra and knickers, and I have a confession to make. I don’t believe in spending fortunes on underwear as well you know, but I made an exception in this case.
I bought this on Saturday, at a small boutique that Andy dragged me to, a boutique I’d passed many times but had never thought of going in.
“Sometimes you have to spend the money,” she insisted, shoving me through the front door. She wanted me to buy La Perla, but I put my foot down, and in the end she agreed that the set I chose was stunning, albeit a make neither of us had heard of. It was a hundred fifty, what a ridiculous price for such tiny pieces of clothing, but Andy kept insisting, “Think what he’ll think when he sees it, and think how you’ll feel.”
And when I got home and tried it on, I did feel sexy, the cut was so flattering, high on the hips, swooping down low over the cleavage, pale, pale peach lace, and I smiled. Jesus, if I was a man I wouldn’t be able to resist this either. And I thought of Andrew and I smiled again.
Not once did I think of poor Adam who was quite happy with my once-white-now-pale-gray cotton knickers draped all over the radiators in my flat. Not once did I think how Adam would have liked this underwear, would have reveled in its sheer luxuriousness. Not once did I, in fact, think of Adam.
Nor did I think of the expense of this seduction. One fifty for the underwear, three hundred for the hotel room, but it will be worth it, I tell myself, blanching slightly, it will be worth it for the best fuck, the best night of passion I have ever had.
I open my closet and pull out my seduction outfit. Nothing too over the top, can’t have him knowing instantly what’s going on. So instead it’s a dress, a long floaty dress with a slit up one side that nearly reaches my hips, and tiny buttons down the entire length of the front. A dress that whispers as it walks. A dress that caresses my body yet leaves everything to the imagination.
A toothbrush goes into my bag, clean knickers, a hairbrush, and then I’m ready. A few admiring glances in the mirror and I’m out the door, running to the car, not quite believing that this day, this night, has finally arrived.
And luck is on my side, a parking spot right outside the hotel, walking sedately up the steps and into the cool, dark, plush interior. No need to check in now, I can do what they do in the films, excuse myself from Andrew at the crucial point and discreetly check in without his knowledge.
So I walk through the hotel, ten minutes late, my heels tap, tap, tapping on the marble floor, and then sinking into thick carpet as I walk into the coffee area.
Large comfy sofas, small mahogany tables, discreetly placed in corners of the room. Whispered conversations, private, quiet, relaxed. And then I spot him, my heart plummets, and he looks up from his cup of coffee and stands up to greet me.
I smile, suddenly feeling shy. “Hello,” he says, kissing my cheek. “You look lovely.” And I relax because this was the moment I had been so nervous about, how would he greet me, would he be embarrassed, would I?
But of course it is Andrew. Shining, confident, good-looking Andrew, and he has probably never suffered a moment of embarrassment in his life, and certainly not over a woman he kissed passionately the last time they met.
I sit down, aware that my skirt has fallen open, the slit revealing a smooth, tanned thigh, and I shift slightly so I am slightly more covered but I note that Andrew glances at my thigh. Again. And again.
He sits back and looks at me shaking his head, and I know what this means. It means I still have an effect on him, it means he knows we shouldn’t be here, it means we both know what the outcome of this evening will be.
And I start to feel more confident. Shit, I start to enjoy myself, myself in the role of seductress, and I know I can do this, I can make this happen.
“So,” he raises an eyebrow, still looking at me, “you don’t look like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”
“Now where would you get an idea like that?”
“You did say you were confused, you wanted to talk. But you don’t look confused.”
“Oh really? How do I look?” Flirtatious, leading.
“No,” he says gently. “I’m not here to flirt.” Damn. Knockback number one, but I won’t be stopped that easily.
“Neither am I, Andrew.” My voice is serious, I step out of the role of seductress and into the role of a woman needing sympathy. “I wanted to meet you to let you know that it’s not your fault. That I know what happened between us should never have happened, but that my relationship with Adam wasn’t what it should have been. What happened between us was just the catalyst, and I didn’t want you to feel guilty.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me, waits for what I’m going to say next, but shit, I don’t know what to say next, I don’t know how to tell him what I’m feeling, and yes, for your information I’m still feeling it.
God, you must think I’m a heartless bitch, but even while I’m lying through my teeth about my relationship with Adam, I’m thinking, I want you, I want to see you with no clothes on, I want to smell you, I want to fuck you. Jesus, how I want to fuck you.
And then he shakes his head to himself and sighs.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, leaning forward to check he’s OK, knowing that my dress will slip forward and if he chooses to look he’ll get an eyeful of cleavage.
He looks. “We shouldn’t be here,” he says.
“Why not?” As if I don’t know.
“You know why not.”
“No I don’t. Why not?”
“Because Adam is my friend and I’ve already done enough damage. Because you know the effect you have on me. Because I knew, before I even came out, where this would end.”
Yes! I’ve done it, I’ve got him exactly where I wan
ted him and look, we’ve only been here twenty minutes. Not even that. Shit, this was much easier than I thought.
“And where will this end?” Provocative? Me?
“Where do you think?”
“I think you might be presuming a little too much.”
“I don’t think so.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why don’t we have a drink. What can I get you?”
I stand up and walk to the bar, knowing he’s watching me, watching my hips sway as I sashay over, back straight, bottom in, tits out, a woman about to be fucked, a woman no man can resist.
And I walk back to the table looking straight ahead of me, not wanting to meet Andrew’s eyes, because I won’t know what expression to wear, and as I sit down he takes the drink from my hand, and as he does so his hand touches mine and I swear to God, it feels like a bolt of electricity. I jerk back my hand in amazement. Jesus. This is what it’s all about. This is what I’ve been missing.
“Excuse me,” I say, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and I walk out of the room, hoping to God he won’t notice that I’ve walked straight past the loos and I’m heading to the front desk.
“I’d like to check in,” I tell the clerk.
“Certainly, madam,” he says obsequiously. “And your name?”
I check in, and walk back to the table, slipping the credit card key to the hotel room into my bag without Andrew seeing. A quick glance in a mirror on the way back confirms that my hair is still having a good day and my skin is still matte, no powder needed as yet.
We sit there for two hours, talking about our lives, our feelings, our relationships. I learn that Andrew hasn’t ever had a serious relationship, that now, at thirty-five, he’s looking to settle down, and I have to constantly push away the lingering thought that it could be with me.
I learn that he has a penchant for blondes, and as I wonder whether he means natural or highlighted, he looks at me coolly, reading my mind, and adds, “Real or otherwise.”
I learn that he has many admirers, but being one myself I am hardly surprised, and I learn that he believes his expectations are too high, which is why he has not, as yet, found the right woman.