Even though we’ve been seeing one another for around a year, we both have busy careers, and often weeks will pass without us even managing to catch up. It hasn’t escaped my notice that this doesn’t bother me in the slightest, and my sister Claire has plenty to say on what this reveals about our relationship.
I’m not sure what prompted me to arrange to see Eleanor tonight. Certainly not the overwhelming desire for her company. But I’m aware the lacklustre nature of our connection is at least half my fault. Maybe all it needs is for me to try a little bit harder to ignite the spark.
“It’s been crazy at work lately. How are you?” I notice how smooth and tidy her hair is, falling neatly to her shoulders, framing her delicate jaw. Odd, but I have never realised how delicate she is.
“Don’t even mention it. I understand how busy you are. Things have been hectic for me too.”
I hold up the bottle of wine, indicating her glass, and she nods, folding her hands in her lap and crossing her legs. It’s all so neat and perfect.
As she takes a sip of her wine, I notice her perfectly manicured nails. No strange green and blue stains, nothing but pale pink polish and one small, tasteful ring. Strange how I’ve never noticed before how short her fingers are.
Neat. That’s Eleanor. Neat and proper. Very, very proper. The right family, the right school, the right job. A very neat and proper fit for me. For an aspiring politician. On paper, perfect. And yet …
Our sex life—occasional as it is—is all very neat and proper too. Luke warm at best. I know she is expecting some sort of commitment from me. In large part due to the interference of my mother, who is undoubtedly the one who put the idea in her head. There’s a reason we call her Meddling Mary. Yes, Eleanor would make a very proper wife. And yet …
For reasons which escape me Eleanor picks up the menu. We always come here. And she always orders the same thing. Entrée size. With dressing on the side.
Dinner arrives and Eleanor picks through hers, finishing not much more than half of it. Very different from The Interloper, who ordered a pasta dish when we had lunch and ate with gusto. Although why I should think of her right now, I have no idea. I can’t help but feel I’d rather be home eating pizza and reviewing briefs.
Eleanor’s glass of wine remains half full by the end of the meal, and she shakes her head with an almost-smile when I suggest dessert. For the life of me, I can’t recall what we’ve talked about, but it was no doubt pleasant. Eleanor is an intelligent and well-informed woman, but it all just feels so pointless. Rather like the whole relationship.
We’re finishing our coffee when I realise it’s now or never. Music is one of my few passions outside of work, and Will has been telling me about this amazing young English guy producing incredible work out of his bedroom. As it happens, he’s playing at a bar in the city tonight.
I slide my credit card into the bill folder and hand it off to the waiter.
“I hear there’s this great new jazz musician who’s playing at The Back Lane tonight. I thought we might go and check him out. What do you think?”
“The Back Lane? Isn’t that a dive bar down in The Rocks?” Eleanor screws up her face like she’s stepped in something disgusting, which is on the cards if we go to The Back Lane. It’s pretty seedy, I gather, although I’ve never been. But some of the best musicians in the city play there. And it’s time I tried something new.
Eleanor glances around as if fearful of being overheard. “I believe they were raided for drugs recently.” It comes out almost as a hiss.
“That was months ago, and it was blown out of proportion. A couple of guys were smoking a joint in the back lane. And this guy sounds amazing. Plays every instrument on his tracks. Including the double bass.” It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes at Eleanor’s reaction.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be seen going to that kind of bar. What if the press got hold of it?”
I sigh. I could have foreseen this. I did foresee this. It was pointless hoping for … more.
“It’s not illegal to go to a bar. It was just a thought. Let’s forget it. I’m going to the bathroom. Won’t be a minute.” As I stand, I throw back the last of my wine in one slug.
I lean on the long marble sink, taking a few deep breaths. My collar feels too tight and I splash water on my face. Eleanor refusing to go to the bar is such a small thing. But it feels much bigger. Like a metaphor for our relationship. For my whole life. And I know I can’t do this anymore.
When I return to the table, Eleanor puts her hand on my arm. “Would you like to come back to my place, Nicholas? It’s been such a long time since we spent any time together.” What she means is it’s been a long time since we had sex, and her suggestion feels like a consolation prize for not going to the bar.
I know she expects me to say yes. Eleanor is a beautiful woman, without a doubt. But as I look down at her, there is not a single thing inspiring me to spend more time with her, and certainly not in her bed. It occurs to me that although we’ve been seeing each other for quite a while, I don’t know her in any real sense.
I push back my chair, getting distance from her, both physically and metaphorically.
“I don’t think so, Eleanor. I’ve had a crazy week and have a lot of work to get done tomorrow before the races.” This, despite the fact that moments ago I was suggesting we kick on to a bar. By reflex I start to suggest a raincheck, but something stops me. It could be the expression on her face—somewhere between relief and annoyance—or her refusal to step outside her comfort zone, but the feeling of now or never I started the evening with overcomes me and I know it’s never.
She jumps into the silence. “I understand. Next time perhaps.”
“I think probably not, don’t you?” I say, without giving myself the opportunity to swallow my words. She looks slightly startled but makes no move to speak. “We both know this isn’t going anywhere, so let’s call it a day now.” I don’t relish the idea of hurting anyone, but I find I can’t continue this charade. Deep down, I know she won’t be truly hurt. Annoyed at the wrinkle in her plans perhaps, but not hurt.
“Is this because I don’t want to go to a ghastly club?” Annoyance slips through her usually serene exterior. I have only occasionally caught sight of a nasty side to Eleanor, but I’m well aware it’s there under the polite mask.
“No. Of course not. We both know this has been coming for a while.”
Clearly rattled, Eleanor is uncharacteristically inarticulate. “Oh. I had thought, I mean, your mother said …” And there we have it, confirmation Meddling Mary has indeed put ideas into Eleanor’s head. I have no doubt Mary has promised her the position of politician’s wife. It would be a good fit for Eleanor. But I don’t believe I would be a good fit for her. Or her for me.
