It Was You Page 17

  I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, but whatever silent response he made to her statement provoked laughter around the room. I turned the pages of my book unseeingly, feeling increasingly hurt. So, he delighted in everybody else’s interest in Suzanna, but not in mine. It was perfectly OK for everybody else to prompt discussion and to ask questions but not me. With hindsight, I was disappointed with myself for being so defensive and apologetic on the night of Eleanor Black’s party. It was now clear that Jon didn’t have a problem with talking about Suzanna. He simply had a problem with talking about Suzanna to me. Obviously, he had decided that I lacked the necessary depth and sensitivity to engage in that kind of conversation.

  I was aware that discussion in the room had now moved on, but I was clueless as to the topic. I tuned back in only when Sophie gently placed her hand on the book in my lap. She disguised the action by leaning across me to talk to Miriam, but when I looked down, I realised that I had been neatly tearing the pages of Flaubert’s A Simple Heart from their cover. I took a deep breath, closed the book, and refocused just in time to hear Abs asking if I would like to start the discussion.

  I looked up. ‘My basic conclusion was,’ I began, ‘that Felicité needed to pull herself together and get a life. She let herself be walked all over and I found her intensely irritating. She needed a good shake and a slap.’

  ‘No, come on, Alice,’ laughed Sophie. ‘Don’t mince words. Tell us what you really thought.’

  And with objections being raised by both Miriam and Abs to my wholesale dissing of poor Felicité, a livelier and lengthier literary debate than usual ensued.

  * * *

  It was well past eleven by the time I got up to go. Spurred on by the enthusiasm shown for discussion of A Simple Heart, and taking into account a longer gap between meetings than usual, thanks to the anniversary dinner, we had agreed to Sophie’s initially-shocking suggestion that we attempt a longer book as our next read. The proposal had at first been met with extreme scepticism as to the ability of anyone, other than Jon, to get through any novel over half an inch thick. However, when Sophie explained that her idea was that we should choose a book which, for most of us, would be a second-time read, we agreed. She suggested three novels which she thought most of us would have read: Great Expectations, To Kill a Mockingbird and Jane Eyre. I felt pretty sure that Harper Lee would have won the day had not Connie turned pink at the mention of Jane Eyre and quietly declared it to be her favourite book ever. Of course, everyone then voted for it, Jon being the only member who had never read it and, I’m sure we all suspected, the only member who would get through it in time for the next meeting.

  Book selection at an end, Miriam and Sophie, who were car-sharing, said their goodbyes. A few minutes after they left, I stood up, thanked Abs for having us and went into the hallway to fetch my things. From there, I heard Connie saying that she too must be on her way, and then Jon declining her offer of a lift, explaining that he needed some exercise after a day behind a desk. Connie subsequently emerged from the lounge alone, just as I was buckling my helmet.

  ‘Well, I did so enjoy that discussion,’ she said, removing her jacket from the end of the bannister. ‘Who would have thought that such a seemingly plain little tale could provoke such feeling?’

  I smiled. ‘I often think that the shorter the book, the better the chat, don’t you?’

  She nodded in agreement, before glancing furtively over her shoulder. ‘Alice,’ she said quietly, placing a hand gently on my arm, ‘I’ve been meaning to call you. I wondered if you had had any more thoughts about Stephen.’

  I frowned. ‘Stephen?’

  ‘Greg’s work colleague,’ she said, raising an anxious hand to her mouth. ‘Do you remember? I’ve only met him once but he seems very charming and Greg speaks very highly—’

  My expression cleared. ‘Ah, Stephen. With the Morgan. I’m so sorry, Connie. Of course I remember.’

  ‘That’s right!’ She smiled and looked relieved. ‘Well, his flat is on the market now and he’s looking forward to moving but has few friends here and I just wondered whether… whether you might like to meet him. But if you’d rather not…’ She paused and looked over her shoulder as the sound of Jon’s laughter escaped from the living room. She turned back to me and lowered her voice still further, ‘…that’s totally fine,’ she said, now barely audible.

  There was another burst of laughter from Jon.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I’d be delighted to meet him,’ I smiled. ‘Perhaps Greg could give him my number.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Connie. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, Connie,’ I smiled, turning away from her and beginning to open the front door before pausing with my hand on the latch. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting him.’

  ‘Ooh! Who?’ I looked over my shoulder to discover Abs and Jon now standing behind us in the hallway. Abs beamed, as Jon reached for his jacket and Connie appeared pained.

  Abs looked at Connie. ‘Oops,’ she said, her face falling, ‘did we overhear something we weren’t meant to? I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ I smiled. ‘Greg has a work colleague who’s moving to Bristol and we’re going to meet up.’ I glanced at Jon as he focused on buttoning his jacket. ‘Maybe I should bring him along to Oliver!. I’ve got a spare ticket after all.’

  ‘That would be just amazing!’ gasped Abs. ‘If you do, please bring him backstage!’ She looked at Connie and Jon. ‘You too. You must all come backstage.’

  We of course promised that we would and then, having each kissed her goodbye in turn, we made our way down the short garden path, as she closed the front door behind us. I waved goodbye to Jon and Connie and then placed my abused book in my saddlebag and unlocked my bike. I had just wheeled it to the edge of the pavement and switched on my lights, when I jumped at the sound of my name.

  ‘Alice.’

  I turned quickly and put a hand to my chest. ‘Oh it’s you, Jon,’ I exclaimed, laughing with relief. ‘You scared me. I thought you’d gone.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He didn’t smile. In fact, he looked incredibly serious. ‘I know it’s late but I’d like to talk to you, if that’s OK.’

  I felt a knot begin to form in my stomach. ‘Sure,’ I said, managing to maintain a smile.

  He looked at me, his expression unreadable. ‘I think there’s a lot of tension and irritation between us at the moment, don’t you?’

  I blinked up at him, completely taken aback by this abrupt, unsmiling approach from someone usually so measured and warm.

  ‘Well,’ I said, recovering and bristling slightly at his tone, ‘evidently you’re irritated by me, or you wouldn’t have made the statement. And,’ I bent over and checked my newly re-inflated tyre, as a means of breaking the eye contact with which I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, ‘you’re certainly making me feel incredibly tense right now. So, yes,’ I straightened up and shrugged, ‘I agree.’

  He didn’t speak and I widened my eyes questioningly. ‘Is that it? Or is there more?’ I thought I saw his jaw tighten but still he said nothing. ‘OK, well, can I just ask then if this is a recent thing for you? Or have I always been irritating and you’ve just reached saturation point?’

  ‘I thought it might be helpful—’

  ‘Oh,’ I interrupted, ‘so there is more.’

  ‘I thought it might be helpful,’ he began again, speaking more slowly this time, ‘for us to discuss what you agree is a shared problem,’ he said.

  I spoke in deepened tones, mimicking his voice. ‘…to discuss what you agree is a shared problem.’ I forced a laugh. ‘I’m not one of your clients, Jon. You’re not in the office now, you know.’

  ‘I hoped we could discuss this calmly,’ he said, ‘and like adults.’

  I stopped smiling. ‘The implication being that I am not a grown-up?’

  He turned to look for a moment at something unseen to his right, before returning his attention to me. ‘I just
thought it would help to talk about it.’

  He exuded a cool calm, which had the unexpected effect of infuriating me even further. I remembered his total control of our conversation, and my failure to self-assert, at Eleanor Black’s party. I decided not to make the same mistake twice.

  ‘Yes, well, as you yourself have pointed out in the past, there are some things which it is better for us not to discuss. And I’m afraid that on this occasion, I’d rather not discuss the topic of why you find me irritating.’ I looked up at him, pushing back my bicycle helmet. ‘Because, as fun as listing my personality defects might be for you, I’m afraid it would all be a bit of a bore for me, because I can list them quite readily all by myself.’

  He looked at me steadily. ‘I’ve raised this at the wrong time,’ he said. ‘Let’s just leave it. I think we both need to calm down.’

  ‘I don’t need to calm down,’ I snapped, turning my back on him and climbing onto my bike. ‘And this isn’t anything to do with timing. It’s simply that just as there are conversations you don’t want to have with me, I don’t want to have this one with you. And, you know what, Jon,’ I added breathlessly, now forcing myself to look at him, ‘if something is really that irritating, then discussing and dissecting and intellectualising doesn’t actually help anyway. It just makes things worse. I think what you really need to do in that kind of situation is act: turn off the dripping tap, swat the mosquito, find yourself a new friend.’

  He stood motionless, staring at me, clearly as shocked as I was by the conclusion to my sentence. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, which might retrieve the situation, but found myself either unable or unwilling to do so – I wasn’t sure which.

  ‘Ride carefully,’ he said quietly. And, with that, he turned and walked away.

  I watched as he headed towards the corner of the street and then disappeared out of sight. I continued to stare down the deserted road for a minute or two, with some desperate sense that he might return. When it was clear that he wouldn’t, I put my hand to my face, wiped away newly-sprung tears with the sleeve of my jacket, and headed home.

  Chapter 23

  After a largely sleepless, night, I made up my mind to call Jon. Keen to make contact, but unable yet to face the idea of a conversation, I decided to phone him at home, while he was at work, so that I could leave the brief statement which I had perfected at around 4am that morning. Determined not to worsen the situation with a rambling off-the cuff message, my aim was to be concise and conciliatory, without apologising for a distressing situation which I still felt was entirely of his making. Both Sophie and David were out of the office all morning, allowing me ample opportunity to read and practise my three-sentence speech numerous times before actually dialling Jon’s number. However, despite this considerable level of preparation, my A4 script still shook slightly in my hands, while I waited for his answer phone to kick-in.

  The phone seemed to ring for an eternity before a pre-recorded Jon finally answered.

  ‘I can’t get to the phone at the moment, but if you leave a message, I’ll call you back.’

  I began to read. ‘Hi Jon, this is Alice. I just wanted to say that I am disappointed that we argued last night. But hopefully now that we’re both aware of a problem, we’ll each think more carefully about how we behave and be able to move on. Bye.’

  I pressed the hash key and listened to my message. Surprised at just how self-assured I sounded, I pressed ‘4’ to deliver the message and flopped back in my chair, feeling emotionally and physically exhausted.

  Unable to think of anything other than my argument with Jon, I spent the next few hours reliving it and hypothesising regarding his feelings and what he would say when he called. That he would call, I had no doubt; it was just a question of when, and of how that conversation might go. If he was apologetic, I was ready to be gracious. If, on the other hand, he called simply to say that the whole thing was best forgotten, then I would be non-confrontational, welcoming his statement and firm-up our arrangements for tapas that Friday after work. I both longed-for and dreaded his call, but by the time David and Sophie returned to the office at 3pm, I had accepted that he was unlikely to pick up home messages from the office, and would probably now call me at home that evening.

  My colleagues had returned from their meeting somewhat subdued, although each had insisted it had gone well. They immediately began working on their return and, as I was still pre-occupied by the disagreement with Jon, the office was a much quieter place than usual that afternoon.

  I left work on the dot at five, keen to discover whether he had left a message on my landline, as I had on his. However, a review of my messages when I got home at 5.30pm, threw up nothing more interesting than a reminder from a sash-window company of a visit the following week.

  The evening dragged and I found myself checking either the kitchen clock, or my phone, every ten minutes. When Jon hadn’t called by seven o’clock, I told myself that it was not at all unusual for him to work until seven or seven-thirty and therefore, allowing for travel time, he would be unlikely to call before eight. At eight-thirty, I began to wonder whether he had gone out with Suzanna or a client after work. At 10pm, I decided that must be the case and at midnight I assumed he must be too tired to call, or text, or was not alone. By 1am, I was thoroughly miserable, desperate to speak to him and wondering why on earth I had chosen to leave a message, instead of developing a backbone and phoning at a time when, no matter how distressing or uncomfortable, we could have had an actual conversation. I still felt hurt and angry about what he had said and wasn’t at all ready to apologise or back down. But my overwhelming feeling was of a desperate need to make things better. As it was, the ball was well and truly in his court. I had served and now it was up to him to lob, volley or smash. Short of calling again, which a lingering reluctance to appear vulnerable or in the wrong prevented me from doing, I simply had to wait.

  At 1.30am, I closed my copy of Jane Eyre, knowing that not one word of the thirty-two pages I had looked at had actually entered my consciousness. I switched off my bedside light as the alarm clock read-out changed to 1.33am, but it was at least another hour before my brain ceased whirring and I finally fell asleep.

  Chapter 24

  I was horrified to wake at nine-fifteen the next morning, having slept through my alarm; something I never did, unless aided by significant quantities of alcohol. The subsequent frantic and unthinking rush to shower, dress and get to work left me unable to focus on anything but the clock until I stumbled through the office door at just after ten.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry!’ I called, as I hurried to my desk, flung my jacket at the hat-stand and switched on the Mac.

  ‘Well, good…’ Sophie paused theatrically and turned to look at the mantle clock, ‘…morning,’ she concluded. ‘Yes, it is still morning.’ She looked at me and grinned. ‘So what happened to you then? Ten more minutes and he,’ she pointed towards David’s office, ‘would have had me calling the Bristol Royal Infirmary.’

  ‘I slept through my alarm.’ I ran a hand through my hair.

  ‘And your phone,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  She pointed to the phone on her desk. ‘I called you. Twice. Once on your landline and once on your mobile.’ I picked my phone out of my bag. Two missed calls, one from the office and a second from a number I didn’t recognise; no messages.

  ‘I must have been really out for the count,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Must’ve been,’ said Sophie. ‘Heavy evening, was it?’ She made a drinking gesture with her right hand.

  ‘Didn’t touch a drop,’ I said. ‘I guess I was just exhausted.’

  ‘And everything’s OK?’

  I looked at her. She was still smiling, but the mischief had gone from her eyes.

  I nodded. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s good to hear,’ said David, emerging from his office.

  ‘I’m so sorry, David…’ I began.

 
He held up a hand. ‘Oh my goodness, don’t apologise. We’re just pleased to see you. The number of extra hours you linger here in the evenings has earned you a late start. In fact, I think we should perhaps introduce official late-start days.’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘How you run a profitable business is completely beyond me,’ she sighed. ‘You pay us too much and now you’re planning to add official being late days to our terms and conditions. Christ, David, you shouldn’t be allowed out of the house without a minder. You’re just way too…’ she hesitated, searching for the right word, ‘…affable… too generous. I bet the woman with the Red Cross tin outside Waitrose has an orgasm every time she sees you coming.’

  An increase in the rate at which David blinked, betrayed the fact that he was thrown by the sudden sexual reference. Nevertheless, he valiantly attempted a retort. ‘Well, I think you two earn your salaries and as for charity,’ he cleared his throat as he struggled to recover his composure, ‘I do believe we reap what we sow.’

  Sophie smiled but didn’t look up from her computer. ‘I bet you give her twenty quid a month.’ she said.

  He turned and headed back to the safety of his office. ‘Closer to forty, and she’s binned her vibrator,’ he said, barely audibly, as he clicked the door shut behind him.

  Sophie looked up and stared open-mouthed, first at David’s door and then at me. ‘Did you hear that?’ she said. ‘Did you hear what he said? He said the word,’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘vibrator.’

  ‘Yes,’ I acknowledged. ‘That was rather a departure.’ I looked at my screen.

  She paused. ‘But he was being bold, Alice.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t be so surprised about that if you’d seen him put Eleanor Black in her place,’ I said, absently, whilst looking in dismay at the long list of emails awaiting my attention. It had been my morning to open the paper mail and I noticed with gratitude that Sophie had taken care of a fair proportion of it. ‘Thanks so much for doing the admin,’ I said. ‘I’ll do the Monday log-in for you.’