‘Hey, I’ve been thinking.’ She is gazing at me now, chin resting on cupped hands. Her red hair drapes in waves down the front of one shoulder. ‘Tomorrow, you should get out there and network. I can introduce you to whoever you want.’
I always feel vaguely uncomfortable about being professionally associated with Andrea. I’d hate anyone to think I’m trying to piggyback off her talent. Me, the unknown nobody; her, the literary giant. Andrea always scoffs at this, tells me that everyone networks, that refusing on principle is senseless and short-sighted. And, realistically, I can’t disagree. If I’m going to get to where she is, I need to start taking her advice on all this stuff.
That said, I have been wanting to suggest an alternative way to spend some of our free time while we’re here.
Google tells me Torrevieja is only a couple of hours away by car, which has made me wonder if we could find the time to try to see Wilf. We could take a trip there together. Hire a convertible, grab coffees, drive the coast road.
But Andrea is still unaware that Wilf was the pill’s inventor, and I haven’t quite squared yet what I’d say if it came up. So perhaps that’s why the suggestion eventually stalls in my throat. Andrea and I have disagreed over Wilf before: she insists I’m too sentimental about him, this friend who purportedly left the country for no reason and abandoned all his friends. She tells me I should cut him off for good.
I both admire her ability to jettison anyone who has crossed her, and deeply fear it.
So, instead of proposing a road trip, I suggest doing something else. Something I’ve been thinking about for a while.
‘Move in with me. When we get home.’
In the eighteen months we’ve been together, Andrea and I haven’t discussed the future much. She’s really a here-and-now type of person, which so far has suited me fine.
I did take off my wedding ring just two days after we met, though. This might sound long overdue, especially since Rachel and I were already divorced. But, to me, it was a big deal. I’d never wanted to do that for anyone other than Andrea.
If she’s surprised by what I’ve just suggested, her face doesn’t betray even a flicker of it. She lifts her champagne glass, silver jewellery sparking in the candlelight. ‘You know I said I’d never live with anyone again.’
True – she has told me this before. She’s written entire magazine articles about how badly her divorce burned her. But, if I know one thing about Andrea, it’s that she’s a risk-taker. So why shouldn’t she roll the dice on me, too?
‘For the rest of your life?’ I say. ‘For fifty-plus years, you’re not going to live with anyone again?’
She tilts her head. ‘What’s so radical about that? And more to the point, why are you killing me off in my eighties?’
She’s playing for time. ‘Is it my age?’
‘What?’
‘Does the eternal youth thing bother you?’
‘No. You know I find it fascinating. The never-ageing man.’
She calls me this occasionally, and it makes me flinch every time.
Andrea leans towards me, tapping a fingernail on the table as if we’re resuming the debate we had last night on metafiction – which I lost, obviously. ‘I’m actually looking forward to spendinga lot of time with you, Josh. Especially if I’m going to get older while you’re keeping fresh as a peach. But I just don’t want a conventional life. Cohabiting. Marriage. Kids. All that stuff.’
Most of the women in Andrea’s novels rail against the patriarchy, any kind of traditional existence. So I already know I’d have to be an idiot to attempt to talk her into any of that.
But the truth is, that isn’t what I’m trying to do.
For a long while, I agonised over what Darren and Giles said to me two and a half years ago.You always wanted a family. You’ve got time.Infinitetime.
In theory, that remains true. But I think, for me, the dream of fatherhood is probably over now. Maybe because my brain is still wired to believe that, even for someone with a limitless lifespan, the window for having kids – maybe twenty-five years or so – eventually closes. I’m just not sure humans are supposed to hanker after procreation indefinitely.
Anyway. The only girl I ever really wanted to do that with is gone.
But can’t living with Andrea just be about wanting more of each other? My flat feels empty whenever I’m in it without the company of her rolling laugh, her salty wit. Time seems to tick by a little slower. I love listening to her chatting to friends as she cooks, humming as she emerges from the shower, even arguing with her agent over the phone. On the nights we spend apart, I miss kissing her and craving her, the take-charge way she fucks.
She rests her feline eyes against me now, affects a small pout. ‘Were you expecting an answer straight away?’
‘Well, maybe a holding response, at least.’
A smile feathers her lips. ‘All right. I’ll consider it. But in the meantime I think we should go and find out if oysters really are an aphrodisiac.’
‘You must already know the answer to that.’
