I don’t envy Lizzie’s heartache, but her deep pain has made me realise my love life has been tame by comparison. I was positively relieved when my last relationship came to an end a few months ago. I’d been going out with Christian Gibbons for five months. Christian worked in finance, like my brother – a bad start. ‘At least he’s ahotbanker,’ Lizzie had said. Even more strange, he was incredibly kind and in touch with his emotions. When I’d told him about my parents’ death it brought tears to his eyes. He said he loved his mother with all his heart and couldn’t imagine a world without her, which I found touching. Another bonus, he was generous, never allowing me to pay for a thing, which was lucky because I could barely afford a starter at the restaurants he chose.
It was bliss at first. The sex was great, conversation lively, we partied all night and he was a good dancer. When he introduced me to his mother and father after only a month, I assumed it was serious. Christian’s mother wore the trousers in their family. Her husband could barely get a word in edgeways, and when I asked why their fridge was padlocked, Christian explained that his mother had put Dad on a strict diet. Alarm bells began to ring when Christian wanted to visit his parents every weekend for Sunday roast. They lived in Islington. ‘No one makes bread sauce like Mummy,’ he’d say. I began to dread these lunches, Christian’s older sister staring at me from across the table (I think she believed I was only after Christian for his money) and Christian’s mother slapping her husband’s wrist when he tried to steal a roast potato without her looking. ‘A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips,’ she’d say. I wanted the father to kick the table over and tell her to stop treating him like a child, but he was so submissive and weak. When I suggested to Christian that maybe one weekend we could go away or do something different, he’d say, ‘But Mummy’s expecting us’. Over the next few months, much to my friends’ annoyance, and mine, my weekends were tied up with his parents; even my birthday was spent with them. I became increasingly unhappy, but the final straw came nine months into our relationship, when he wanted us to go on holiday with them. ‘No, we need space,’ I’d said, determined not to give way this time. I also wanted to tell him that being a mummy’s boy was a massive turn-off. We were in his flat, in his bedroom. I’d walked up to him and slowly begun unbuttoning his shirt. ‘I want it to be you and me, alone, wandering around naked in our apartment,’ I said, now running a hand slowly down his chest. ‘I want to go out and get drunk and behave veryvery badly.’
‘But, Jan, Mummy’s already booked the hotel in the Algarve.’
I withdrew my hand. That was it. I couldn’t make him choose, and even if I had, he wouldn’t have chosen me.
My grandparents have raised the bar when it comes to relationships. I want what they had; someone who makes me laugh, cry, someone for whom I will go to the ends of the earth and back.
I glance outside. It’s still grey and pouring with rain. Come on, Lizzie. You could at least call me. A tall man enters the cafe, light-brown hair and brown eyes to match. Fit. Good figure. I notice a couple of women gaze at him, before whispering to one another across the table. He scans the room before clocking the free table next to mine and pouncing on it before anyone else can, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair. He calls the waitress and asks for a black coffee, sits down and picks up the mini blackboard with the specials. He’s tapping his foot against the floor as if he’s had one too many cups of coffee already.
‘Lizzie, it’s Jan,’ I say when I’m put through to her voicemail yet again. ‘I’m worried. Call me.’
As I hang up I’m intensely aware of his presence. He’s now reading the sports section of his newspaper. I return to my script, pretending to read, but then a terrifying thought occurs to me. What if Lizzie has done something stupid? No, she wouldn’t have – would she? The most likely explanation is she’s forgotten about our lunch date, she’s at my flat watchingLoose Womenand her mobile isn’t charged. Since returning to London she hasn’t found a permanent job. She’s been sleeping on my sofabed and working night shifts in our local pub while she circles ads during the day.
The man sitting next to me is on his mobile now. ‘He’s cancelled?’ Pause. ‘Why?’ Pause. ‘Fine, I’ll be back later.’
I can’t help stealing a look. He is impossibly handsome. His coffee arrives. ‘Thanks,’ he says, flashing an easy smile at the waitress. He looks my way and I feel heat creeping up my neck. ‘Hello.’ His eyes light up. ‘Are you an actress?’ He gestures to my script.
‘Oh no. No.’
‘Why do you say “no” like that?’ There’s a sparkle in his eyes, an air of mischief in his expression. Next thing I know he’s getting up and sitting opposite me. ‘Have you been stood up like me?’
Flustered, I shuffle the script into a neater pile. ‘Yep.’
He opens a packet of brown sugar, pours it into his coffee. ‘His loss my gain.’
I decide against correcting him.
‘So, if you’re not an actress, what do you do?’
Briefly I tell him about my work. ‘Trying to find the next John Grisham.’
He tries to get a good look at the script.‘The Man with Hollow Eyes,’he reads out loud. ‘Any good?’ He’s so close to me now that I can hardly concentrate.
‘I haven’t got into it yet,’ I mutter.
‘Another coffee?’ he says, registering my empty cup. As he calls the waitress over I notice a patch of eczema on his hand before he looks at me again with that angelic smile, as if he’s just found a fifty-quid note in his pocket. This man has put some fizz into my otherwise bubble-free lunch hour. ‘I’m Dan by the way.’ He holds my hand for a second too long, his skin warm.
He waits. ‘And you are?’
Concentrate, January. Yet all I can think about is how edible this man is. Can I order him for lunch? ‘Er, January.’
The corners of his mouth curl into a smile. ‘I didn’t ask which month we’re in.’
‘It’s not a joke.’
He cocks his head to one side. ‘Did your mother hate you?’
I don’t answer that, never sure when it’s a good time to kill a conversation by telling someone I never knew my mother or father.
‘My parents met in January,’ I explain. I’m aware that he’s tall since his legs are stretched underneath the table and his foot just brushed against mine, either by mistake or not. Either way, I don’t mind.
‘My parents met in…’ he narrows his eyes, as if working it out, ‘in June, but I’m glad they didn’t call me that.’
I laugh, enjoying his undivided attention, so much so that when I see a blonde woman entering the cafe I’m relieved it’s not Lizzie.
‘So, what do you do?’ I ask him.
