film. He destroys her, even though he loves her.’
‘I can barely watch it,’ I say. ‘Such cruelty …’
For the rest of the drive home we discuss music and film and TV and we sing the theme tune to The Muppets, and talk about how much we love that scene in Airplane! where the girl is on the drip, and before I know it, we are pulling up outside my block of flats.
‘Thanks for the ride,’ I say, raising my eyebrows.
‘I’m coming in,’ he says.
‘Coming in where?’ I say.
‘To your flat.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s my flat. Where I live.’
‘Yes,’ he nods. ‘I know that.’
‘Why are you coming in?’
‘Because.’
‘Because what?’
‘Because I want to.’
‘You want to.’
He nods.
‘What, just for a cup of tea, to pass the time?’
‘No, not just for a cup of tea, to pass the time,’ he says.
‘Because if you really just want something simple – like a cup of tea – to pass the time, you could just go to the tea shop round the corner. You know that, right?’
‘I don’t just want a cup of tea, Sophie,’ he says, and opens the car door and gets out.
And we both fully understand the significance of this conversation, even though the words remain unspoken.
That night we have a lot of sex, and at first I feel a self-loathing that makes me weak.
‘What is it, what’s wrong?’ says James.
‘I feel like I’m on death row,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘What if you turn around in five minutes or five months and say exactly the same thing …’
‘So what if I do? People break up for a million reasons.’
‘If I take you back and you pull this shit again, I’ll blame myself, as well as you. Fool me once …’
‘Soph, you have got to let your guard down. This is never going to work if you’re going to be all defensive.’
‘No, you should be the one trying to prove that you’re good enough for me,’ I say.
He shrugs: take it or leave it.
If I could zap away all my painful memories, I’d probably do so at exactly this point, in this conversation. That, or head straight for the lobotomy.
‘You’ve got to take a risk,’ he says.
Yes, I agree. But all the risk is on my side.
And then I think of being a horse stealer and how I can take on the world and I think: I know I am more than good enough for this man. I can win this.
A week after the ‘outburst’, as he has coyly named it, James asks me, nervously, if I’d like to come for a drink with his friend Mallard.
‘Mallard?’
‘Gary. He’s one of my oldest friends from uni.’
‘Why Mallard?’
‘A particularly drunken incident at the Nottingham Fresher’s Fair, 1982 …’
‘Is he married?’
‘Divorced. Twice.’
‘What happened?’
‘Mal’s got a rather different definition of fidelity than either of the women he married.’
‘Nice.’
‘You know how it is. He’s a bond trader, those guys work hard, play hard …’
‘Kids?’
‘Five.’
‘By the wives?’
‘Two, one, and two by his secretary. You’ll like him, he’s fun.’
What’s that line about judging someone by the company they keep? Still, wouldn’t be too much fun if all his friends were of the cloth …
The following Saturday night we are in the bar at the Soho Hotel, eating the ‘free’ spicy peanuts that accompany £11 glasses of wine, waiting for Mal and his new girlfriend to join us.
James has eaten handfuls of nuts and pushes the bowl in my direction. I carry on eating them.
‘Don’t ruin your appetite, gannet,’ says James.
I feel myself turn scarlet, but Mal and his girlfriend arrive arm in arm, giggling, before I can pick him up on it.
I’ve imagined the girlfriend would be some young bimbo but she is nothing of the sort. She has intelligent eyes, bobbed brown hair, glasses. She’s at least forty, very natural, looks like an optician. She is wearing a simple black dress, flat shoes, discreet silver earrings.
‘I’m Julia,’ she says, extending a hand to James, who looks
‘I can barely watch it,’ I say. ‘Such cruelty …’
For the rest of the drive home we discuss music and film and TV and we sing the theme tune to The Muppets, and talk about how much we love that scene in Airplane! where the girl is on the drip, and before I know it, we are pulling up outside my block of flats.
‘Thanks for the ride,’ I say, raising my eyebrows.
‘I’m coming in,’ he says.
‘Coming in where?’ I say.
‘To your flat.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s my flat. Where I live.’
‘Yes,’ he nods. ‘I know that.’
‘Why are you coming in?’
‘Because.’
‘Because what?’
‘Because I want to.’
‘You want to.’
He nods.
‘What, just for a cup of tea, to pass the time?’
‘No, not just for a cup of tea, to pass the time,’ he says.
‘Because if you really just want something simple – like a cup of tea – to pass the time, you could just go to the tea shop round the corner. You know that, right?’
‘I don’t just want a cup of tea, Sophie,’ he says, and opens the car door and gets out.
And we both fully understand the significance of this conversation, even though the words remain unspoken.
That night we have a lot of sex, and at first I feel a self-loathing that makes me weak.
‘What is it, what’s wrong?’ says James.
‘I feel like I’m on death row,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘What if you turn around in five minutes or five months and say exactly the same thing …’
‘So what if I do? People break up for a million reasons.’
‘If I take you back and you pull this shit again, I’ll blame myself, as well as you. Fool me once …’
‘Soph, you have got to let your guard down. This is never going to work if you’re going to be all defensive.’
‘No, you should be the one trying to prove that you’re good enough for me,’ I say.
He shrugs: take it or leave it.
If I could zap away all my painful memories, I’d probably do so at exactly this point, in this conversation. That, or head straight for the lobotomy.
‘You’ve got to take a risk,’ he says.
Yes, I agree. But all the risk is on my side.
And then I think of being a horse stealer and how I can take on the world and I think: I know I am more than good enough for this man. I can win this.
A week after the ‘outburst’, as he has coyly named it, James asks me, nervously, if I’d like to come for a drink with his friend Mallard.
‘Mallard?’
‘Gary. He’s one of my oldest friends from uni.’
‘Why Mallard?’
‘A particularly drunken incident at the Nottingham Fresher’s Fair, 1982 …’
‘Is he married?’
‘Divorced. Twice.’
‘What happened?’
‘Mal’s got a rather different definition of fidelity than either of the women he married.’
‘Nice.’
‘You know how it is. He’s a bond trader, those guys work hard, play hard …’
‘Kids?’
‘Five.’
‘By the wives?’
‘Two, one, and two by his secretary. You’ll like him, he’s fun.’
What’s that line about judging someone by the company they keep? Still, wouldn’t be too much fun if all his friends were of the cloth …
The following Saturday night we are in the bar at the Soho Hotel, eating the ‘free’ spicy peanuts that accompany £11 glasses of wine, waiting for Mal and his new girlfriend to join us.
James has eaten handfuls of nuts and pushes the bowl in my direction. I carry on eating them.
‘Don’t ruin your appetite, gannet,’ says James.
I feel myself turn scarlet, but Mal and his girlfriend arrive arm in arm, giggling, before I can pick him up on it.
I’ve imagined the girlfriend would be some young bimbo but she is nothing of the sort. She has intelligent eyes, bobbed brown hair, glasses. She’s at least forty, very natural, looks like an optician. She is wearing a simple black dress, flat shoes, discreet silver earrings.
‘I’m Julia,’ she says, extending a hand to James, who looks
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