John

I chose to meet on a Wednesday as there's no pressure attached to a Wednesday. Thursdays and Fridays are clearly date days. Mondays and Tuesdays are the days you use up putting in a bit of extra time at work or seeing someone you're not that bothered about. Wednesdays are neutral.

I arrive in good time. I have money on the fact that she'll be late but if she arrives before me she'll turn around immediately. I know she'll turn up. Once, at the very beginning, she ran away from me. After that she always ran towards.

I watch her stride into the pub. She's wearing her leather coat again but this time with heels. Good girl. She's in full make-up and looks great. Chin up, she scans the room; when she spots me, she frowns a little but heads straight over.

'Jesus, Greenie, of all the bars in all the world,'I say as I lean to kiss her cheek. There's a moment where I think she might pull away but she doesn't.

'You've misquoted.'

'I'm not one for detail.'

'You never were.'

It's great that we fall straight back into the sparring. I think I liked her mind just as much as her body. Before she turned psycho, that is. Then all I was interested in was her t.i.ts and bits.

'But us b.u.mping into each other at the school gate is like something out of a film, isn't it?'I comment. 'Like one of those great old black-and-white films where the protagonists'lives criss-cross over and over again. Like they were fated, or destined, or something.'She looks sceptical, or at least wary. I'm warming to my theme. 'It's fate, Greenie, that Craig is the headmaster at your kid's school.'

'That or a horrible coincidence and a vile inconvenience. I guess it depends upon your viewpoint.'

'Don't be like that. We were supposed to meet again.'She always believed in fate. Despite her cool words I see her mentally struggling. She undoes her coat and sits down on the bar stool next to me. 'You still believe in fate, don't you, babe? You always did in the past.'

'As somebody once said, "The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there."'

Connie orders an orange juice and asks me what I want. I order a pint and a whisky chaser but insist on paying. I'd have preferred it if she'd ordered alcohol too. I was counting on her needing a drink. Her new confidence is somewhat disconcerting. Jesus, I hope she's not teetotal now. I mean, I like a challenge but that would be off-putting.

'Greenie, I have to say it, and don't take this the wrong way, you are looking hot, babe.'I lean forward and let my knee nudge hers. I feel a jolt of s.e.xual tension, which is cheering because I believe those things are always two-way.

Connie looks uncomfortable. She gets off her bar stool and drags it a few centimetres away from mine. I see the point she is making. Stevie Wonder would be able to see the point she's making.

'I'm not Greenie. I'm Constance Baker,'she says primly. 'You know, I was even when we met for the very first time.'

'Not to me, you were always Greenie, always will be.'This isn't true. I often think of her as Connie, or even Constance, but I've rarely called her that. Funny that first names appeared overly intimate back then, considering the other intimacies we shared.

'Could you call me Connie? Everybody does.'

'But I'm not everybody, baby.'

She stares at me coolly. I study her face and try to discern whether it's dislike I can see festering there. Or anger? Or disappointment? They are all a possibility.

'You're right, you're n.o.body,'she says.

'No, darling, I'm your somebody and we both know it,'I grin, unperturbed.

She looks indignant and snaps, 'I don't know why I'm here.'

'Yes, you do.'I wink at her.

'No, I don't,'she counters, firmly.

'Where else would you be?'

This question offers Greenie a choice. She can choose to interpret it at a purely basic level a genuine enquiry about her busy schedule thus breaking the obvious tension between us. Or she could choose to interpret it as a more metaphysical question. Where else should Greenie be except by the side of her Hardie? If she wants to flirt she'll opt for the latter.

'I have a million things I should be doing. Invoicing, watching The Bill, ironing.'

OK, if that's the way she wants to play it, I won't push her. I interrupt her before she lists darning socks as an essential must do.

'Oh yeah, you're a mother now. How's all that working out for you? What have you got? A girl and a boy? The set?'

'Two girls. You met them, remember?'I do remember but I want to give the impression of disinterest. 'We might try for a third soon,'she adds.

Women say this sort of thing as code for, 'We are happy. My husband and I have a healthy s.e.x life. Back off.'It's not always true.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Greenie. What's the plan? Are you trying to single-handedly populate West London?'

She's looking good on it though, motherhood suits her.

Connie has a thinner face now than before. Age does that to some women. Her skin is almost transparent, she looks delicate. Age has not withered her, etc. etc. She's a regular Cleopatra, more stunning with the years that pa.s.s. She used to be c.o.c.ky and flirty and that was irresistible then. Now, she's deeper. More complete, and it shows in her face. And I find her oddly compelling. I could look at her for hours.

'Let me buy you a proper drink, Connie. A bottle of champagne. For old times'sake.'

She looks at her orange juice with something approaching despair, certainly boredom an expression that regularly used to flash across Connie's face.

'Go on then. I'll have one gla.s.s. But it's not for old times'sake. It's to celebrate the fact you've just called me Connie.'

I ignore her request for a gla.s.s and order a bottle. She used to be known as 'Green the Champagne Queen'. She can't resist champagne. In fact, Connie is pretty hopeless at resisting anything much at all.

She takes a sip of champagne and then she's off. Like a horse out of the traps, she gallops on; I'm barely able to keep up. She starts to chat about motherhood, as she's taken my casual enquiry to be a genuine request for insight. She talks about her photography. She fills me in on what a couple of her mates are doing, ones I came across way-back-when. She mentions her husband from time to time, quite naturally, as though she does not remember that between us we made him a cuckold. She doesn't ask me anything at all. Can she be that disinterested?

I used to be a bit afraid of her. Can you imagine that? Me afraid? Problem was I saw her for exactly what she was. Too like me. Too wild and selfish. She used me just as much as I used her, although she'd never admit it. It doesn't sit with her romantic image of herself. I wanted to possess her firm a.s.s and tiny t.i.ts. Like I want to possess most firm a.s.ses and tiny t.i.tties that I come across it doesn't mean anything I'm programmed that way. She wanted something to perk up her middle-cla.s.s existence. The early days of her marriage were stultifying and she wanted to shake up her dope of a husband, who had lost sight of her. I often thought that's all I was to her, a big yellow warning card issued to her husband.

And yeah, we had the laughs. She was funny, in a mental sort of way, and that really can be a turn-on. And Jesus, wow, she really was fairly unique with her happy confidence to do just about anything in the sack. Or out of the sack, for that matter. She was far braver than I. Happy to drop to her knees in a back alley if I expressed a whim to wear my trousers around my ankles. I don't usually have the b.a.l.l.s for that sort of stuff unless I'm drunk. But then, we were often drunk. Thing is, I'm a victim of slum prudery. The old-school working cla.s.ses have quite high morals on public s.e.x and that sort of stuff. We don't take that type of personal risk. We prefer our p.o.r.n in the privacy of our own pad. It's only total louts and chavs that f.u.c.k in bars in Ibiza. But Connie isn't a chav. Never was. It wasn't sleazy, it was necessary. Instinctual. Animalistic.

But did she ever love me? I keep returning to that. b.l.o.o.d.y Craig. I'd never thought about it. Not really. What bloke does? But now I can't get his question out of my head. And I want to know. I want to know if Connie ever loved me. I need to know. What the f.u.c.k's that about?

It doesn't matter. It really doesn't. What difference does it make if she fell for me with her head and her heart, too? I got a free pa.s.s to her wet and willing vag, didn't I? But recently I've found myself wondering, could I have tamed a woman like her? That's what women try (and fail) to do all the time, isn't it? They find a bad boy, fall for him (because he is intrinsically bad) and then spend forever convincing themselves that they alone can hammer out the deviant and turn him into some p.u.s.s.y-whipped shadow. I know loads of birds have tried that game on me, including my ex-wife. I've always thought it was the ultimate in stupidity. I've always pitied and been disgusted by their clingy, c.r.a.ppy wish to be normal, to settle down, but now I'm finding myself understanding it a little more.

Connie is a bright woman, creative, fiery, difficult to please, and now I see her oozing contentment and genuine shiny, b.l.o.o.d.y happiness and I wonder could I have ever brought that to her? Could I have made her give up the flirting and the risk-taking, the way Luke did? I always think of him as some big sap. But maybe he is the better man. Maybe she chose him.

I dumped Connie, right. I want that noted in our history. She was all clingy and addicted and messy. Too messy actually, which is why I had to say enough is enough. One night she rang me eight times. I'd said I'd see her, told her to meet me at my place and she couldn't find my flat or something. She'd never written down my address and she'd never arrived there sober. Jesus, the messages she left on my phone, a madwoman. In one message she accused me of s.h.a.gging someone else while I waited for her, like I'd have the energy for that! In another message she sounded close to tears. In another she was shouting hysterically, yelling that she wouldn't be avoided; insisting that I had to call her back and tell her where the flat was. In her eighth message she changed tack and said coolly that although I was a good f.u.c.k, I wasn't that good (which is a lie) and she wasn't prepared to drive around East London all evening trying to track me down.

Silly cow.

She'd managed to have a full row with me, go through the entire spectrum of emotions, without my actually picking up the phone.

Yet there were times when I sent her texts, flirty, jokey ones or ones asking her to meet up, and she never even replied. Cool cuc.u.mber or mad as a hatter? Thin line.

We had big talks. Some of the things she said to me will stay with me forever. They were so precise. They caught the essence of me, so there were times when I thought she knew me better than anyone in this world has ever known me. Even myself. She seemed to be able to mine a direct line to my deepest insecurities, my strongest pa.s.sions, the moments I am intensely proud of and those that make me squirm in shame.

I felt known. And liked.

And then other times she didn't have a clue.

After about an hour of her constant chatter and my odd interjection where I bring her up to date about the things in my life, I note that we've drunk the entire bottle of champagne. Now seems as good a time as any.

'Were you in love with me, Connie?'I ask.

She immediately pulls away from me and is wearing an expression I'd expect if I'd just spat at her.

I've been thinking about how to phrase this question all week. I considered asking, 'Did you love me?'But dismissed that approach as too vague. It would then be so easy for her to spit out the standard response, 'I loved you but I wasn't in love with you.'A great loophole, which means s.h.i.t. I know I've used it on more than one occasion. I could have asked, 'Were you ever in love with me?'But that sounds a bit desperate. Or a statement: 'I know you were in love with me.'Too arrogant, and it doesn't specifically necessitate a response. She sighs. Her face is full of fear (who is she afraid of, me, herself, Luke?) and regret (Oh so many regrets, rammed cheek by jowl, where to start?) but if I look carefully her face also shines with opportunity. Has she waited six years for me to ask that question? Probably.

We never talked about love. We talked about s.e.x, desire, experience, films, families, dreams, all the stuff that is used as consolations and props and avoidance techniques as we live our lives and especially when we lie in strangers'beds. Tangled in sheets and sweat, we screamed 'f.u.c.k me', 's.h.a.g me', 's.h.i.t that's good'. But we never said the really filthy four-letter word. Love.

She does not meet my gaze. People often say liars can't meet your gaze. In the company I keep it's telling the truth that often shames us the most.

'My friends think I was in l.u.s.t,'she says. Her voice sounds unfamiliar, she's breathing too shallowly.

'You've never been one to bend to peer pressure,'I point out, digging deeper and complimenting her independence of spirit at the same time. Connie is vain and responds as I hoped.

'No, I'm not.'

'So?'

She waits and waits. About a million years, then, 'Yes. I was in love with you.'

Now she can meet my eye. The words are out. The truth is out. She's staring at me now, challenging. Waiting for my response. I don't say anything, so she goes on.

'I was deeply in love with you for a very short time. I experienced the whole shebang. I could not sleep, or eat, or work.'She says these things very slowly. Normally she speaks too quickly, gabbling her words. But she wants to be as plain and clear as possible. Her chest rises and falls. 'You were my waking thought, my last thought; you filled all the moments in between and my dreams. For a brief time there was nothing I would not have done for you, including perhaps leaving my husband.'I believe her. 'You talked about fate earlier, John, and you are right, I do believe in fate. You were supposed to come into my life. You changed everything. You woke me up. I was sleepwalking until Paris. I was living a half life. Not seeing what I had. Not knowing what I wanted.'

I've heard it all before, but never from these lips and as I watch her lips (pink, plump and wet) tip out this confession my c.o.c.k stirs, almost shudders. And more unusual yet, there's a tightening in my chest. I wonder whether I should kiss her. I watch her lips move. Temptingly. Tauntingly? What's she saying now?

'But that was then and this is now. You completely destroyed what I felt. I'm not in love with you any more and I never will be again.'

She stares at me with the gaze of one who owns an uncomplicated soul. Where has her tortured soul gone? When did she work everything out? When did she still the longings and find the answers? Why haven't I yet? A wave of excitement begins to slosh over me. It starts at my toes and seems to swell and build until, by the time it rises to my chest, it overpowers me.

I watch Connie gather up her bag. She fishes out some notes from her purse and leaves them on the bar, insisting that this bottle of champers is on her. She walks out of the bar with the jaunty step of a free woman. She thinks she has just closed a chapter. She's finally had the opportunity to say her piece after it festering for years. She thinks she's just got even. She's generous enough to be happy that she's paid me the compliment and I'm that bit closer to knowing and understanding her. Women have complicated thoughts like that. And she's thrilled that now it's all over.

But she's wrong.

By admitting she was in love with me, she has not slammed shut the door and drawn the bolt, as was her intention. Instead, she's just pushed the door ajar. Opportunity scuttles in like a determined c.o.c.kroach.

If she was once in love with me, she can be in love with me again. And now, for the first time in a long time, I know what I want. What I need. What I must have. Connie.

22.

Thursday 5 October

Lucy

'We should go on holiday,'says Peter.

There, that's why I love him. He knows me so well. He's always with me. No, he's a step ahead of me. A holiday is just what we need.

'Alone,'I say. I'm trying to remember when we last got away alone and I mean truly alone, without nannies or Auriol, or the twins or even a BlackBerry. Peter has wandered through to the bathroom and is splashing water on his face to remove the day's grime. He clearly hasn't heard me.

He says, 'Auriol will love it.'

f.u.c.k what Auriol will love. Auriol would love staying at home with Eva if we left her enough DVDs and Smarties. I realize that this would be a terrible thing to say to Peter so I try another tack.

'Do you remember the Maldives?'I call through to the bathroom.

'Oh G.o.d, yes, it was beautiful there. I loved the Maldives.'

We went a year before Auriol was born. We stayed at the Banyan Tree. It was beautiful, relaxed, spoiling and sophisticated. I spent the entire holiday wearing skimpy bikini bottoms and not much else. That was when cellulite was still something that only other women had to worry about.

Peter re-emerges from the en-suite, sits on the edge of the bed and takes off his socks; he starts to cut his toenails. I hate it when he does this in the bedroom. I've spent a great deal of time and effort creating a love haven but no amount of chocolate velvet throws, walnut floorboards and slate-grey lacquer consoles can battle against the reality of treading on toenail clippings. It's a pa.s.sion-killer, no questions. Before we married I never saw him cut his toenails. Or sniff his armpits. Or scratch his b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Or check for dandruff. He had standards. I push this extremely irritating line of thought to the back of my head and try to concentrate on w.a.n.gling the holiday I desire. At all costs I must avoid a week at the middle-cla.s.s equivalent of Butlins, an all-inclusive break at Center Parcs en famille.

I kneel behind him on the bed and wrap my arms around his neck. I'm wearing matching Agent Provocateur bra and pants and a short silk wrap he must have noticed. If he hasn't, he certainly will when the Visa statement arrives.

'It was so hot in the Maldives, I hardly had to pack a thing,'I whisper into his ear.

Peter thinks about it and then a slow smile stretches across his face. He's taken the bait and chosen a jaunt down Memory Lane. No doubt he is remembering undoing the side ties of my bikini bottoms with his teeth, as we made love on the private beach our rooms backed on to. Men are very simple.

I start to nibble his ear. I can almost hear the sea lapping the sh.o.r.e as I remember his kisses. Back then, they still varied in intensity, hastening from dreamy to devilish. Nowadays kissing stays pretty neutral; I sometimes have to remind him to use his tongue. And we didn't worry about the sand getting in uncomfortable places, or being spotted, or being bitten by mosquitoes. In those days we never worried about anything much. If I close my eyes now I can almost feel his careful caress, the exciting frisson. In the Maldives we made love on the beach, in the hotel room and on the veranda and we made honest love. We honestly made love.

I clearly remember Peter confidently and expertly easing me from one position to the next, leaving me feeling fragile and cherished, while making him appear vigorous and robust; a cliche but a delicious one. Of course he was stronger then, no sign of a paunch. In those days he dared to confidently drag his T-shirt over his head in one, swift, practised movement. Now he's more likely to want to turn off the light; he often sleeps in pyjamas.