The image of you, p.27
The Image of You, page 27
‘I thought it was crazy. You did warn me that Zoe can be crazy, say crazy things,’ he justified himself.
‘I did, didn’t I?’ Anna looked directly into his eyes.
There was something too searching and intense for him to bear. He looked around for a bin; he wanted to throw away his half-eaten ice cream, he really didn’t have an appetite. Anna watched him glance about. Helpfully, she pointed to a bin just peeking out from behind a tree, a few metres away. He didn’t know how exactly she’d read his mind, predicted his needs, but he was grateful. It struck him how simple and pleasant his life would be if he spent it with Anna. She’d make a serene and marvellous wife. He imagined she’d be an organized and tender mother, a careful, considerate hostess, a thoughtful and decent daughter-in-law. Again he felt the tide change, as he vacillated. He couldn’t let her slip through his fingers. It would be madness. His successful career in the City was based on taking gambles, yes, but only after carefully weighing up all of the pros and cons, all the possible advantages and potential risks. If he weighed up Anna against Zoe, then the choice was a simple one. Zoe would be an irrational and demanding wife, if she ever became anyone’s wife. Mother? Hostess? Daughter-in-law? These were not roles he could imagine Zoe ever being interested in playing.
It was Zoe he had to leave, to lose.
The decision made, it ballooned in his head, filling him with temporary optimism and relief. It was still possible: a decent, happy future with this thoughtful, honest woman. He simply had to step away from the giddy excitement, thrills and chaos that Zoe offered. It could still all be OK. He was on terra firma with Anna. Honesty was so important.
‘Yes, I was married before.’
The world tilted.
‘What?’ He saw everything he thought he knew, and could count on, slipping out of place. As though he was living in a doll’s house and a child had just upended that house, the furniture—so carefully arranged—was now spilling, sliding, landing in a tangled heap against a make-believe wall or ceiling. A full-on Inception movie moment. He’d fully expected her to deny it. No, he didn’t need her to deny it, he’d assumed Zoe had made it up. He stood dead still and stared at her but she kept walking, carefully licking her ice cream. ‘When? Who? For how long?’ he demanded. ‘Was it that guy at Yale you told me about?’
She shook her head. ‘Nope.’
‘Then who? You’ve never mentioned anyone else that you were serious about.’
‘Well, you didn’t seem the type who wanted to listen to too many gory details about exes.’
This was true and accurate; oddly Nick felt it was all the more unreasonable for that. Anger simmered in his gut.
He was not going to take the blame for this. ‘I’d have listened.’
‘No, you’d have run. Imagine on our first date if I’d casually mentioned I was a divorcee.’ She stared at him, eyes wide and pleading.
He took a deep breath. ‘I’m listening now.’
Calmly, as though it wasn’t a big deal, she began to explain. ‘I started dating him when I was twenty-three. I should never have agreed to go on a date with him because, actually, I was still in love with John Jones; he was the guy from Yale.’ She explained casually, in a tone more befitting a first date. ‘I only agreed because, in the end, it was easier than saying no. He was the son of a family friend. A Harvard graduate, my parents loved him. Everyone loved Larry Morgan. Except me.’
‘But you married him!’
‘Yes. I was working as an admin assistant in a carpet-cleaning company.’
‘What?’ That wasn’t the career of a Yale graduate.
‘I’d dropped out so I had limited choices.’
‘You dropped out?’
‘Didn’t I ever tell you that?’ she asked breezily. ‘My future didn’t look exactly sparkling. I guess I saw him as some sort of option.’
‘Was it a whirlwind thing?’
He didn’t know how he wanted her to answer this question. Part of him wanted to hear her dismiss her marriage as brief, fleeting, insignificant because that might just explain why she’d never mentioned it. But then they were a whirlwind thing. Did she have form? Were they brief, fleeting, insignificant?
‘No. We dated for a year, got engaged, had an eighteen-month-long engagement. A respectable amount of time, I guess.’
‘You were really serious about him.’
She paused, tilted her head. Her eyes swung slowly left to right, as though she was really trying to weigh up the question and answer it as honestly as possible. ‘No. Well, yes. He seemed kind. A good man. I thought he was a safe pair of hands. People kept saying I could do worse. Retrospectively, I see that’s pretty damning praise,’ she shrugged, apologetically. ‘. I suppose, subconsciously, I believed he was too dull to be cruel.’
It was a lot to take in. Nick looked around him. People were still going about their business: riding bikes, feeding ducks, slouching about in the heat. That seemed odd to him. ‘How long were you married?’
‘Three years.’
Crap. He was doing the maths. They’d been together five and a half years. That accounted for the huge gap in her dating CV. He’d thought she had just been picky during those years but in fact she had been married.
He forced himself to ask, ‘What went wrong?’
‘Same old, same old. He had an affair.’
That’s what Zoe had said; she’d told him the truth. He noticed that the ice cream had melted down the cone and on to Anna’s hand. They both looked at it; she seemed surprised. She didn’t like getting into a mess. She walked back to the bin, dropped the sloppy cone and then rooted in her bag for a tissue. Carefully she wiped between her fingers.
‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’
‘It’s complicated,’ she sighed.
‘No, no, it isn’t.’
‘There was never a right time.’ She stretched out her hand as though she was going to touch his arm but then stopped.
He wasn’t sure if this was because she was worried about her sticky hands, or because she’d lost confidence in the act.
‘And that’s it? He had an affair, you left him.’
‘More or less.’ She shrugged, almost casually.
The woman Nick had fallen in love with, her all-encompassing desire for honesty, sincerity and simplicity, faded before him. He stared at her but couldn’t see the detail of her. It was like looking at the photos on his mother’s sideboard that had been burnished by years of sun. He forced his head to adjust. A messier Anna was more accessible, right? More real?
He wasn’t sure.
‘So you divorced just last year? When you were living in the UK?’
‘I divorced three years ago. The marriage ended April seventeenth, 2014. Paperwork adds a few more months but that was the day it died.’ Her eyes narrowed, breath tightened a fraction.
He was confused. Such a precise reply and yet the maths didn’t work. ‘But you met him when you were twenty-three, you were together for over five years.’
‘Oh,’ she nodded briefly. ‘I see why you’d think that. I’m not twenty-nine, Nick. I just said that on my profile because Zoe was certain men wouldn’t respond if they knew I was thirty-one.’
‘You’re thirty-one?’
She nodded.
She was thirty-one. That was a year older than he was. It didn’t matter, as such; he didn’t care what age she was. But it was another lie.
‘Thirty-two in September. I’m so glad we’ve slipped the wedding through before I have to blow any more candles out,’ she added cheerfully. ‘I’d totally forgotten that I’d fibbed on the profile.’
‘I can’t believe you did.’
‘Really, Gus?’ She was laughing now, not meanly, but with great amusement, as though she thought the whole thing was funny, even a bit silly. ‘I’m so glad I did. Admit it, Nick, you would not have pressed ‘wink’, you’d have considered me middle-aged.’
He wanted to deny it, and yet she was right. He’d never even have met her because he’d set his automatic filter to cut off at thirty.
She took his hand now, hers still sticky with ice cream despite her efforts to clean up; his was sweaty with heat. ‘I’m glad that’s out in the open. I feel so much better, now that we no longer have any secrets. Don’t you?’
His head was about to explode. It was all too much. Too messy. Too irregular. He couldn’t process all this cleanly or efficiently. He blurted, ‘Is Zoe an alcoholic?’
It was a stupid question to ask. Non-sequential and therefore likely to arouse suspicion, even in trusting, naive Anna. As the thought formed in his head he shoved it away, irritated, because was Anna so trusting? She certainly wasn’t as honest as he’d thought. Even if her deception had come from a simple mistrust of internet daters (a justified mistrust, admittedly), it was still a deception. Momentarily, he lost his bearings. The world slowed about him, voices echoed and slurred. He felt he’d dived into an icy pool, plunged too far underwater, and only with effort could he break the surface.
‘She certainly likes a drink,’ Anna replied. She looked puzzled. ‘Why do you ask? Did she get drunk the night you met up? Did she make a show of herself?’ Anna’s eyes widened with horror and realization. ‘She did make a pass at you, didn’t she?’
‘No, no, of course not. Why would you say that?’ Nick batted away her slow-dawning suspicion; he regretted mentioning Zoe at all.
‘That would be just like her. To get drunk and then silly.’
‘No,’ he declared firmly. Was that it? Was that all? Drunk and then silly. He clamoured for some composure. ‘I just want to know. You said she was an alcoholic. Now you’re saying she likes a drink. There’s a big difference.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you.’ Anna’s face expressed true regret. ‘I’d say Zoe is an alcoholic. A lot of experts would and have agreed with me. She’d say she isn’t.’
‘You said she was on the steps programme.’
‘That’s what she told me.’
‘I googled it. You’re not allowed to drink at all if you’re on that programme.’
‘No.’
‘But she does. She did. That night we were out.’ Nick wasn’t sure why he was pushing this point. He’d do better to stick to his policy of never mentioning Zoe to Anna at all. This was dangerous territory but he felt he needed to know, and he had no one else to ask. He hadn’t met any of Zoe’s friends or colleagues. They operated in an isolated pocket, away from the distracting claims of others.
Anna looked heartbroken. Deflated. A little less buoyant and whole.
‘I’m really sorry to hear that. I wish you’d told me at the time.’ She said it quietly. No roaring recriminations. No anger. Just a quiet disappointment.
He’d let her down. Of course he had. He knew he had. In a far bigger and messier way than she was aware.
‘That’s important stuff. You should have said something to me. I wonder whether staying on in the UK has anything to do with the fact she’s drinking again. I doubt she’s going to meetings here. It starts with drink and then next it’s...’ She trailed off; it was obviously too painful to articulate. ‘Poor Zoe.’
And the fact Anna had once been married to a man called Larry Morgan receded. Apparently that wasn’t important stuff. Nick felt bitter and wrong-footed. Those emotions sat alongside his now perpetual sense of guilt and confusion. The swell of uncomfortable, difficult feelings festered deep inside him.
Like a poison.
Thirty-Seven
Zoe
He is there when I arrive, of course he is, that’s why I forced myself to be late, to walk around the block at least twice so as to make sure he was waiting for me, even though I’m in high heels, even though two separate groups of men called out to me, crudely offering up their services in a way that insulted rather than flattered; how can they think catcalling is ever anything else?
Being late is a subliminal and important message. He waits for me. I wait for no one. The moment I spot him lingering by the bar’s entrance, it feels like the world grinds to a halt. He clocks me, grins and then the world shudders on. Keeps turning. How crazy is that? Every time I see him I’m newly shocked by the effect he has on me. I don’t like it. The fact he hijacks me in this way. It leaves me feeling exposed. Open. I wonder what this is now. This thing we have going on. I honestly don’t know. I don’t like that either. Not knowing things. Normally I’m a step ahead. Obviously, I’m no longer seeing him to test him for Anna. That experiment has a conclusive, indisputable result. I should have just got Anna to face this, dump him, move on. I didn’t. I thought I wanted him to fall in love with me. I did. I do. Has he? Maybe. Yet, something different has happened here instead. Something much more dangerous and risky. I’m not saying I’m in love with him too. I won’t say that. That’s not very me. That’s Anna’s thing. Trusting, doting, etc.
But.
He’s delicious to look at, no one would argue with me there, yet it’s more than that. He’s intelligent enough; interesting—obviously; complicated—undoubtedly. But none of that is as rare as women like to make out; I’ve had plenty of that sort of men. The difference is I’m drawn closer; I can’t walk away. He looks to me for a deeper connection and, despite my better judgement, I find I respond. He wants me to know and accept all his magnificence as well as his shameful secrets. He looks to me for excitement, thrills and then forgiveness. The things Anna can’t or won’t dole out. I respond. I want to give him this. All this and more. Everything. I want to feed his needs, like sticks feed a fire; I’m prepared to be consumed. It’s unhealthy. He’s my latest unhealthy addiction; it’s what I like most and least about him.
He kisses me on the lips in greeting; a territorial, hungry, almost unseemly kiss. Then he strides inside; I follow, not my normal position in life. He confidently peruses the bar with a professional, demanding eye. Of course the place is sleek, modern, fast and fun. Later it will morph, dissolve into something where the air is stained with hedonism, indulgence, menace and thrill. I know that he takes Anna to country pubs, to art-gallery cafes, and that they have picnics in the park; they sit and eat shepherd’s pie amongst hillwalkers, drink tea next to middle-aged ladies with opinions on Annie Leibovitz (which are entirely formed by the Sunday supplements) and eat deli-bought sandwiches alongside young mothers with strollers full of noisy kids. We never consider frequenting such wholesome sorts of places. We go to bars, restaurants and nightclubs. Places populated with those who make deals with the devil. Dark venues where people are high on drugs and wealth, where clubbers dance until they sweat and people drink until they are sick. We find dim and shadowy corners to indulge in our own compulsive craving: each other. I usually like the bars he selects; normally they are upmarket and discreet about their purpose—the provision of sin. Tonight, this bar hits a sour note. There’s a little too much gold and leather decor; the laughter isn’t flirtatious, it’s harsh; and the women are way too skinny, hungry-looking, ill. They parade around and around the room, as though it’s a cattle market or they are performers at a circus.
Even so, we find a couple of stools by the bar and perch. I sit with my back ramrod straight, tits proud, legs crossed. He sits legs open, facing me. He is especially handsome—no, exquisite. I notice it, over and over again. Am struck. We’re quite the couple. Men chuck discreet but envious glances in our direction, taking in both the quality of Nick’s suit and my face and figure, in one efficient look. They try to catch my eye but I steadfastly stare at Nick; if he notices them prowling he doesn’t acknowledge as much. Doesn’t see a threat. His arrogance excites me. I see other women turn and throw him appreciative or longing glances. I dismiss them with a slow, intimidating flick of my eyelids. The under-confident types sensibly scurry on by; the bolshie bitches flick back—the middle finger—often as not. I show my disdain in a powerful, practised glare. Designed to frighten. It’s usually enough.
This evening a skinny, hard-looking woman emboldened by drink has the gall to stand between Nick’s open legs, back to me, blocking me. ‘When you get sick of her, call me,’ she slurs, making an unsuccessful grab for his phone in his pocket, presumably so she can programme her number into it. She narrowly misses snatching at his crotch; I don’t believe her grope is altogether accidental. Nick smiles, half-heartedly, good-naturedly. He waits for her to move along.
I see she has no intention of doing so; I lean forward and whisper in her ear.
She turns to me, scared. Weighs up the threat and then scampers away; off to cause trouble elsewhere, I don’t doubt.
Nick laughs, ‘What did you say?’
‘I told her we were engaged,’ I reply with a smile.
‘Did you really?’ He’s still laughing but he looks a tad embarrassed too. After all, he is engaged. Just not to me.
‘No. I told her I’d smash a glass in her face if she spoke to you again.’
He stares at me, unnerved now, not sure which to believe. Not sure which scenario makes him more uncomfortable.
He orders vodkas. I like it that he’s gone straight to the hard stuff, it shows a certain determination to obliterate. In the beginning he demurred about offering me alcohol. Anna’s scary stories about my recklessness, my abandon, my dependency had obviously spooked him. I suppose he must have decided that I can manage better than she professes, or perhaps—and this thought pleases me most—he’s happy to accept, even embrace, my recklessness, my abandon, my dependency.
Or perhaps he just needs a stiff drink.
‘Did you talk to Anna today?’ I ask.
He nods stiffly.
‘About her marriage?’
Another nod. Small, sad.
I told you so is unnecessary.
‘Why didn’t she tell me?’ he asks.
I shrug. Presumably she never found the correct moment, presumably she was so desperate to impress him and secure him she didn’t want anything to muddy the waters, presumably as time passed she didn’t know how to drop it into conversation. But it’s not up to me to defend her. She can tell him all of that herself if she wants to.
