This information had a strange effect on Craig. A light bulb seemed to go off in him and he physically sat forwards in the chair. ‘Yeah, course. It’s quite obvious if you think about it.’
I frowned, put down the kettle, stirred the tea. ‘What do you mean it’s obvious?’
‘Well, that’s what you do, isn’t it? You subliminally advertise sex.’
The spoon slipped from my fingers. Huh? How had he come to that conclusion? Wasn’t I the one who hadn’t had sex in over six months, and who had accepted the most exciting my life was going to get was through trying a new hair conditioner? And had Craig actually looked at me? Apart from today, which was a glitch in the otherwise normal wardrobe, I had an asexual way of dressing. I wore combats and jeans. Long-sleeved tops. All right, so I wore big hoop earrings and I occasionally slicked on lipstick, but I in no way advertised sex, subliminally or otherwise. Pamela Anderson had nothing on me breast-wise, but there were hoards of men who would swear on the continued longevity of their penises that the last thing that came to mind when they looked at me was sex.
‘I don’t,’ I stated with a frown.
‘You do,’ Craig replied. ‘You make me want to have sex every time I see you.’
The spoon, which I’d picked up, slipped from my fingers onto the side again. ‘What?’
‘You make me want to have sex every time I see you.’
I stared at him. ‘It’s true,’ Craig shrugged.
‘Craig, have you seen me? I’m hardly Baywatch material. Apart from these babies,’ I said, pointing at my chest, ‘I’d probably be turned down for Readers’ Wives.’
Craig shrugged again. ‘I don’t know what it is about you. You don’t show flesh, except for that little bit of curved abdomen where your tops never quite reach the top of your trousers. And your bum’s not exactly pert, but it’s juicy and round. And your breasts, always encased in jersey tops, but . . . I don’t know, I really don’t. Maybe it’s the way your hair’s so black and the way it touches the nape of your neck, or the way you smile and show all your teeth . . . to be honest, Ceri, I don’t know what it is, but I can guarantee that after I’ve seen you, I’ll have sex with my ex-girlfriend. Most of the time I can hardly bring myself to talk to her, but I’ve been with her almost every day since you started. We even have a laugh together.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘It’s true. I don’t know why, but it’s true. I mean, before, I hated her. Really hated her. I’d go out of my way to avoid her or anywhere she might be, but I swear to God, since you started working here, I can’t keep away from her.’
I picked up the teaspoon, ran it under the tap. I dipped it back into the cup of brown liquid, an oily film had formed and when I withdrew it, clumps of the film stayed on the spoon.
Without thinking, I poured milk into my tea. Stirred. I put the cup to the lips, the strong scent of peppermint stopped me drinking. I looked into the cup, it looked horrible, it would’ve tasted worse.
‘Anyway Ceri, got to go, but good luck with the research.’
‘Mmm?’ I replied, looking up. Craig was halfway out the door with his papers in his arms.
‘See ya,’ he called.
‘Oh, yeah, see ya.’
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Drew said to me on the phone. ‘He fancies you.’
‘No he doesn’t,’ I said. Drew now knew the conversation with Craig word for word and I’d waited with baited breath for his opinion. He came next in the list of people to consult when I had a dilemma. Jess, with her several trillion degrees came first, she was the smartest person I knew.
Drew, who went under the moniker of ‘my other best friend’ only seemed to be contactable via phone nowadays even though we worked in the same city – in fact, I saw him more when I lived in London.
‘Only a man who fancies you notices all that about you,’ Drew added.
I sighed. ‘Will you stop. He doesn’t fancy me. It was only when I told him about my research that he brought it up. I mean, I’d told him I was single before, he never leapt on that. It was only the subliminal bit that got him to say that. He was obviously speaking as he thought, not flirting.’
‘Oh.’
‘Anyway, it’d be a pretty bad way to flirt with me, wouldn’t it, saying he was still knocking off his ex-girlfriend?’
‘True.’
‘And he’s not the first person to say it to me. Someone else said the same thing but not in the same way. And they certainly didn’t fancy me.’ That’s what had freaked me out about what Craig said, it reminded me of Jess saying that I made men fancy her. I made people do things and that couldn’t be right. I had to get a third opinion. Hence the calling of Drew at his management consultancy conference, which I’d never do unless it was a real emergency. Which this was, in a way. ‘Do you want to have sex after you see me?’
Drew thought about it for a few seconds. ‘No. Can’t say I do. Sex doesn’t even enter my mind.’
Big foamy waves of relief washed over me. I wasn’t a freak. I didn’t send people scurrying off to satisfy their lusts elsewhere. Then I was completely affronted. The Git. After flirting with me for all those years, after cuddling up to me and having pornographic conversations with me, sex didn’t even enter his mind. He really was an affection tease, wasn’t he? Or, horror of horrors, had I always been so sexually uninteresting to him that he could flirt with me by rote? That thought made me shudder.
‘Tell you something, though, I did always pull with you around,’ Drew’s voice said thoughtfully.
‘What?’
‘Yeah, thinking about it now, whenever we went clubbing, I’d always pull. Always. It was weird. It never happened when I went out without you.’
‘WHAT?!’
‘It’s true, you were like my lucky charm. I couldn’t get a girl to look twice at me when I went clubbing without you, but with you, I was like the most popular man on earth.’
‘So how did you pull Tara then?’
‘That was a fluke. And she didn’t go for me for my looks, it was my personality that attracted her.’
‘I didn’t realise just how bad her taste was.’
‘Funny. Anyway, are you sure this guy wasn’t coming on to you?’ Drew asked.
‘No. I mean, yes, I’m sure he wasn’t coming on to me. At least I think he wasn’t.’
‘So you admit the possibility?’
I thought about it. It was a possibility that Craig was coming on to me. So slim a possibility it didn’t even qualify as a poss. ‘It is possible. Less possible than, say, me marrying Angel, but a possibility.’
‘You’re a freak, you know that?’ Drew replied.
‘And that’s why you love me, right?’ I said.
I could hear him smile down the phone. ‘Absolutely.’
‘But what does it mean?’ I said, flopping back into the office chair.
‘Don’t know,’ Drew replied, the line rustled as he switched his mobile from one ear to the other. ‘Maybe you just appeared in one of his dreams – of the moist variety.’
I sighed. ‘It didn’t sound like that.’
‘Or maybe it’s an X-file. Y’know, one of those mysteries we’ll never work out, like how you, an almost thirty-year-old woman, could still believe you’re going to marry Angel.’
‘You know, sod you Drew, time will prove me right on that. And when it does, you’re going to be a bridesmaid – and wear a dress.’
Drew laughed.
‘Oh, you laugh, but you will.’
Drew laughed some more. ‘Anyway gorgeous, gotta get back to it. Talk to you soon?’
‘Yeah, talk to you soon.’
‘And don’t worry about what that bloke said. He probably just has a very poor flirting style. You know, trying to get you into bed by being clever. He wouldn’t be the first, that’s for sure.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ I said. A voice at the back of my head said, He’s not right, you know he’s not right.
chapter
twenty-two
Good Enough
The day of Ed’s Big Date dawned and I was nervous.
Actually I was shitting myself, for want of a better expression. This was Ed. This was his one big chance to impress the gorgeous Robyn. And I’d been the one who’d pushed him into doing the deed.
Oh God, what if this all turned nasty? What if she was a nightmare and she made his date hell? Who would he blame? Who would he have every right to blame? Me, of course. Then what would I do? Find him another woman to lust after? Yeah, right. Most people needed love in their life. And if not love, then someone or something to lust after. Robyn was Ed’s raison d’être. The reason he got out of bed most mornings. The reason he’d hacked off his hair and retired his lumberjack shirt. And I’d practically held a gun to his head and forced him to ask her out. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned that very same gun on me and blew my brains out.
He’d have every right. I would, if he took away my raison d’être. My purpose, the one thing that kept me believing in love and happy endings. There were times, during those barren weeks, months and years where all you had to keep you going was seeing that one person, that perfect computer, those exquisite shoes – that one thing that made the rest of the bad times that plagued your existence worthwhile.
Case in point: my obsession with Angel.
I was enough of a psychologist to know that it’d gotten out of hand, that I’d started to believe he and I were meant to be together for ever because I hadn’t seen a man or a computer or a pair of shoes that gave me the same kick. Nothing got my undivided attention like him. Nothing made my heart beat faster, or my stomach tingle or my face smile like he did. Consistently.
But, finding out that your perfect shoes would, over time, amputate your little toes; that the computer would give you incurable RSI; or that person you loved was actually sent to this earth to make you suffer a lifetime’s worth of indignity (or, after one shag would lose their soul, then hunt down and kill all your friends, oh, wait, no that’s Angel) was information you could live without. And you usually only found out the downside of your dream when you got the thing you wanted, in other words: be careful what you wish for, it may come true. In Ed’s case, going on a date with Robyn.
I went to work on that Wednesday morning as usual, but I left after my last lecture. Didn’t hang around in the library or work in my office or go anywhere near the Senior Common Room to get my weekly dose of Gwen. I came straight home and spent the entire bus journey offering up a prayer that Robyn would like the posh restaurant he’d planned to take her to. That she’d laugh at his jokes. She’d appreciated the sacrifice he’d made with his hair. That she wouldn’t lurch with disgust if he tried to kiss her. That she would see past anything that could possibly put her off and realise what a genuinely decent guy Ed was. He and Jake had gone out of their way to make me the third wheel on their Stanmore Vale tricycle. They didn’t have to, they just did because the pair of them were good people. Please God, let her realise that.
Ed was in his room when I got home. I didn’t disturb him, didn’t want to add to any anxiety he might have with anxieties of my own. I pottered around the kitchen, attempting to cook but getting distracted by thoughts of Ed coming home after his date a broken man with nothing left to live for. Every self-help book I’d read and started to read had mentioned something about visualisation – visualising the result you wanted from a situation, seeing it in your head helped it to come true. Would it work for other people? Who cared? I settled myself on the sofa nearest the window.
OK. Ed and Robyn. Had to visualise something great. The perfect date.
I didn’t know what she looked like, Ed’s description – ‘an angel on earth’ – hadn’t been particularly helpful, so in my mind’s eye she became Halle Berry, a gorgeous woman, no mistaking.
Right, visualise Robyn/Halle and Ed sitting in Teppanyaki, that Japanese restaurant in town, he tells her a joke. And she . . . she tuts and carries on eating. No. No. She . . . tuts and carries on eating. OK, change scenario.
Ed says he’ll see her home. She smiles, agrees, says most blokes just put her on the bus. They get to her front door, which bears a remarkable resemblance to our front door. Once there, Ed says he had a great time, can he see her again? She smiles and says yes. Ed asks if he can kiss her, she replies: ‘Euck, no!’
Noooo, that was going so well.
I opened my eyes. Ah, sod it. If she upsets him, I’ll just do away with her and visualise my way through the perfect murder.
I answered the door to Robyn at seven-thirty.
And double-took at her. Halle Berry had nothing on her. She was so stunning, I had faint stirrings in my loins. Her hair was plaited to waist length (when I had plaited extensions, they never looked that perfect) and framed her slender face with its wide nose. She had dark brown eyes, full lips and styled eyebrows. And her skin, flawless. It could’ve been make-up, but I was sure it was natural beauty. And probably not drinking, not smoking and doing the gym thing. Her and Ed would make a great couple: her, all slender limbs and poise; him, tall and, when he stood up straight, he looked quite manly. At least she’d made an effort, I thought with relief. Having said that, she didn’t seem the kind of woman who’d leave the house without making an effort. She certainly wouldn’t do a Ceri D’Altroy and leave the house to get a newspaper and bottle of water with her uncombed hair squashed under a scarf, wearing crumpled clothes, an uncleansed face and unbrushed teeth.
‘Come in,’ I said, stepping aside to let her in.
She stepped in, headed straight for the living room, like she’d been invited to do so. She certainly knew how to own a place by doing something as innocuous as walking in to it. Probably something she learnt in acting class. She was an artist, darlink.
‘Would you like a drink or something while you’re waiting?’ I asked, with a smile. ‘Ed shouldn’t be too long.’ I was on my best behaviour, didn’t want to do anything to ruin Ed’s chances.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’d rather we got going.’
‘Oh, Ed won’t be much longer.’
She moved her face as if to say, He’d better not be, then sat on the left-hand sofa, instantly brightening it up.
‘Music?’ I said, moving to the stereo.
‘Do you have any acid jazz?’
What, that music that makes me think of bad and lengthy elevator music? ‘Er, no. I’m sure I can find a radio station that plays it though.’
‘Don’t bother.’
Right. ‘What about telly? Corrie’s started.’ I had one hand ready to hit the ‘on’ button.
‘I don’t watch Coronation Street. I went for an audition once and I didn’t get it. It upsets me to watch it.’
H’OK. I withdrew my finger. I stood by the television, with this incredible urge to twiddle my fingers and hum out of tune. Minutes passed. More minutes passed. I knew Ed would’ve heard the doorbell. Even he wouldn’t be stupid enough to keep her waiting. Not if he wanted the date to start off well.
Robyn’s dark eyes flickered over me, giving me the distinct impression it was my fault Ed wasn’t in front of her.
‘I’ll just go see what’s keeping him,’ I said to her.
She hinted at a thin smile of gratitude with her lipsticked lips, then decided not to bother.
Ohhhh, does she not like me. She’s not the first woman not to like me. I doubted she’d be the last. Just like I didn’t particularly like girly girls; girly girls didn’t particularly like ungirly girls. Which was cool. As long as we both stuck to our respective areas of expertise – her: hair, make-up, boys: me, science fiction, psychology and using my brain.
I pegged it up the stairs, turned the corner, sped to Ed’s door and tapped on it.
‘Ed?’ I whispered loudly through the door. The living room door was still open, I didn’t want her to hear.
No answer.
I tapped again.
‘Ed! Ed, Ed, what you doing? She’s getting really wound up down there.?
??
Nothing in reply. I knew he was in there, I could hear him walking around. Pacing, whispering.
‘Ed. What are you doing in there?’
Nothing. Pacing, whispering. I tapped the door again, louder. ‘Ed, open this bloody door,’ I hissed. ‘What are you doing?’
The door unlocked, his head appeared in the fraction he opened it. ‘I’m stuffed, Ceri.’
His blue shirt collar stood on end on one side, horizontal on the other side. His tie was tied over it, his face flushed, his eyes wide and desperate.
‘What do you mean, stuffed?’
He was breathing hard, a possessed man who still had the devil at his heels.
‘She’s going to leave if you’re not careful,’ I said.
His terrified eyes searched mine. ‘I’m stuffed, Ceri, I’m stuffed.’
‘Stop saying that! You’re not. Tell me what you mean.’
Ed jerked the door open. ‘I mean, this.’ He pointed to his lap. I followed his pointing finger.
Outlined in his trousers, loose as they were, was a long, thick shape. The material of his loose trousers was taut around it emphasising it. You couldn’t miss it. I tore my eyes away, thinking, Who’d have guessed that skinny Ed was so big?
He grabbed my wrist, pulled me into the room, shut the door behind him. ‘I can’t get rid of it,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I can’t get rid of,’ he pointed southward again, ‘IT!’
He paced the length of his room. ‘I’ve tried everything I know. I’ve tried playing with it, orgasms, ignoring it, cold showers, flicking the top of it . . . nothing works. I can’t get rid of it.’
‘Not even flicking the top of it?’
He shook his head.
‘How hard did you flick?’
‘Hard! Fucking hard! It hurt. It bruised, but it wouldn’t die. I can’t go on a date like this. She’ll think I’m a sleaze. And I can’t even change cos these are the biggest trousers I’ve got apart from my jogging bottoms.’
He was indeed, stuffed.
‘And, and, I swear, it’s got bigger. It was never, well, you know.’