13 Dates, page 25
And while I know I should probably call her and apologise, there’s a bigger part of me that wants her to come running to me, to tell me she’s finally seen sense, that what I said was, in fact, the right thing to do, and that she’s booked in for her transplant next Tuesday, though as the week drags on, that starts to look more and more unlikely.
Besides, I’ve got some thinking to do, too. For the first time since we met, I’ve had to actually face up to the fact that I’m marrying someone who might die. And while I know that’s true for everyone who gets married, when it’s an actual, tangible chance it makes a difference. Perhaps it’s something I won’t be able to come to terms with. Or even worse, like I told her, Angel’s refusal to do anything about it might be something I start to resent. And resentment is the last thing a relationship needs.
If she does die – at the risk of sounding callous (and without getting into some huge debate about the afterlife) – she won’t know anything more about it. Won’t have to deal with the aftermath. The consequences. Whereas I will. Every single day. And that’s a pretty big deal.
‘You win,’ says Marlon when I tell him what happened. We’re supposed to be going through Angel’s colleague Nick’s portfolio, and while he’s really good – just the kind of young artist I love to exhibit – it’s the exhibition I made of myself in front of Angel, or more importantly the reason for it, that’s dominating the conversation.
‘How do I win, exactly?’
He holds both hands up, like a fouling footballer protesting his innocence to the referee. ‘I’ve been out with all sorts of women, but never one who might die.’
‘Well, technically that’s not—’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘So what should I do?’
Marlon folds his arms, and stares contemplatively out of the window. ‘You should think about dating someone else,’ he says, after a moment.
‘What?’
‘Whenever I’m seeing someone, and I’m not sure about them, I go out with someone else, just to see how I feel about the first one. Clarifies things.’
‘You go out with different people all the time!’
‘Proves my point. If I’d met the person I wanted to settle down with, then I wouldn’t.’
I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again, because Marlon’s already flicking through his phone contacts list. ‘So,’ he says, ‘let’s see how you get on with . . .’ He stops scrolling, though I hope it’s not randomly. ‘April.’
‘Who?’
‘April. She’s a friend of mine. You’ll like her.’ He jabs at the screen. ‘I’m setting the two of you up on a date.’
‘Um . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, excuse the obvious question, but you do know I’m getting married in . . .’ I look at the date on my watch. ‘Four weeks?’
Marlon laughs. ‘Doesn’t look like that from where I’m sitting. Besides, you might need a—’
‘Back-up? In case Angel suddenly drops dead?’
Marlon’s grin fades. ‘No. Although now you come to mention it . . .’ He perches on the end of my desk. ‘I just don’t want you to be blinded by the situation.’
‘The situation?’
‘Angel’s situation.’
‘Are you suggesting this is some kind of . . . mercy relationship? I’ve met a pretty girl with the biggest sob story you can imagine, so I’m doing her a favour?’
‘No. But you might think you can save her.’ He shakes his head. ‘I just think you should take a step back and think about what it is you really want. And one way to do that is to remind yourself what it’s like to go out with someone normal.’
‘Angel is normal. Ish. Besides, I suspect that’s been my problem.’
‘You know what I mean. You might just find it’s a bit less . . . hassle, going out with someone who doesn’t bring her kind of complications to the table.’
‘I like her complications. Most of them.’
‘Noah, relationships can be difficult at the best of times. A relationship with Angel, given her situation . . .’ Marlon smiles. ‘I just think you need to be sure that this is what you want.’
‘And going out with someone else will help me decide?’
Marlon nods. ‘I never said all thirteen dates had to be with the same person. So, I’ll set it up?’
‘No!’
He sighs. ‘Okay. How about I arrange to meet her for a drink. You “happen” to bump into me, I’ll invite you to join us and you see what you think?’
‘I’m not sure—’
‘Just talk to her. Spend a bit of time in the company of someone else.’
‘That’s all?’
‘One drink. No pressure. Just think of it as window shopping. Or test-driving a car. Tasting the wine before you actually order a bottle. Or not even tasting it – sticking your nose in the glass and scenting the bouquet . . .’
‘Okay, okay. One drink. But just to be clear, I’m not sleeping with her.’
Marlon looks at me for a moment, then bursts out laughing. And while I can perhaps see why, right now, I’m not finding any of this funny at all.
April’s what most tabloid newspapers would call a ‘stunna’ – model-pretty, with long dark hair, and an amazing figure that the short, low-cut, so-tight-it’s-amazing-she-can-breathe blue dress she’s wearing gives me a comprehensive view of. She’s so obviously out of my league – no, in a different league, and one where they play a completely different sport – that I’d have been in danger of not realising it was her at all, if not for the fact that, sitting next to her at the bar, is Marlon.
For a moment, I consider turning around and leaving. Not only to spare myself the embarrassment of April ignoring me all evening in favour of Mister Smooth, but also because there’s a part of me that suspects Marlon’s planning to give me a full rundown afterwards on my ‘technique’. But I can’t, because he’s probably right – in the light of my situation with Angel, I could do with a yardstick – and also because his loud ‘Noah! Come and join us!’, coupled with some overenthusiastic waving, means I’ve already been spotted.
We’ve chosen a pub in Twickenham, on the river, and about as far away from Angel’s normal stomping ground as possible (on my insistence, to reduce the chances of me being ‘caught’), but even so, I check she’s not here before giving them a quick wave back. I nod towards the toilet, tap my watch and do an anxious little dance to suggest I’m desperate – though the only thing I’m actually desperate for is to be anywhere but here. Then, after a quick freshen-up, I take a deep breath, head back out into the bar, do my best to walk over to where they’re sitting without tripping over anything and climb a little awkwardly up onto the stool Marlon’s leather jacket’s been guarding.
‘Noah!’ says Marlon, leaping off his stool and enveloping me in a hug, as if I’m his long-lost bestie rather than someone he finished work with an hour ago. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
‘Marlon.’
I’m in my newest, trendiest suit, my most expensive watch is on my wrist, and I’ve even polished my shoes as per his instructions – but though I’m in my Sunday best, I probably don’t compare to even a Monday-morning April.
‘April, this is my friend Noah,’ he says. ‘Noah, this is April.’
April extends a perfectly manicured hand towards me, and I’m not sure whether to shake it or kiss it. ‘Hello, Noah,’ she purrs, in a voice that’s part public school, part forty-a-day. ‘Marlon’s been telling me all about you.’
‘All about me?’ I say, going for the safer ‘shake’ option while trying to hide my disappointment that I’ve been in the toilet for all of two minutes, and that’s still long enough for him to divulge my life story.
‘That’s right.’
I raise both eyebrows at Marlon, wondering whether that included the ‘Angel’ part. ‘I hope he’s left us with something to talk about?’
‘I’m sure we’ll find something. Even if it’s only me!’ April lets out a honking laugh, and my nerves make me join in as if it’s the best joke I’ve ever heard.
‘Can I get anyone a drink?’ I ask, just as I spot they’ve both got full glasses.
‘I think we’re fine,’ says Marlon, then he slips his phone out of his pocket and frowns at it. ‘Oh no!’
‘What?’
‘I’ve just remembered; I’ve got a thing.’
I do a double take, then realise he can’t mean a ‘thing’ like Angel’s. ‘What?’
‘You have to go?’ says April.
‘Really sorry, babe. Completely forgot.’ Marlon gives me a look, then jumps down from his stool. ‘Noah, you wouldn’t mind keeping April company while she finishes her drink, would you?’
‘What?’ I say, in the split second before I realise what he’s up to, and that there’s not much I can say except for: ‘Of course not.’ Even though, by the looks of her, April wouldn’t be on her own for very long.
‘Thanks,’ he says, sliding his untouched beer across to me.
‘You can’t even stay for five minutes?’
I must sound a little panicky, because for a moment, Marlon looks like he’s considering it. ‘No. Sorry. Much as I’d love to hang around and play gooseberry,’ he says, his expression suggesting that actually, he would. ‘I’ll leave you two to get to know each other. Have fun!’
With a wink in my direction, followed by a hug and a kiss on the lips for April, he saunters off, and as she watches him go as if he’s the last train home she’s just missed, I shrug in a ‘circumstances, eh?’ kind of way.
‘Well, this is awkward.’
‘Isn’t it?’ April takes a sip of her cocktail – probably one of those ‘slippery nipples’ or ‘screaming orgasms’, though I don’t dare ask. ‘So, Noah . . .’
‘So?’
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say we’ve just been set up.’
‘I’m not sure he—’
‘Marlon tells me you’re an art dealer?’
‘That’s’ – I hesitate, although I suppose it’s true. The Hanksys have been selling. Though as to whether they’re actually art – ‘right. And what else has he told you, exactly?’
‘Not much. Art dealer . . .’ She begins counting things off on her fingers. ‘Sports car driver, horse rider, rock climber . . . Quite the gentleman. Or should that be action man?’
I narrow my eyes, only now realising how exactly Marlon’s managed to convince April to hang around this evening – on the basis of that description, I’d probably be interested in meeting me too. ‘Well . . .’ Marlon’s beer is looking increasingly tempting, so I gulp a third of it down, then think what the hell? ‘Guilty as charged.’
‘And how do you know Marlon?’
I’m tempted to say he’s a soon-to-be ex-employee who’s set us up because I’m having doubts about my fiancée, and put an end to this little charade right now. ‘We work together. You?’
‘Oh, we don’t work together.’ April laughs. ‘Though I suppose you’d know that. Seeing as you and he do. We dated. For a while.’
‘Right. And . . . ?’
‘It’s complicated.’ April honk-laughs again, though the sound’s beginning to get a little annoying. ‘And are you seeing anyone right now?’
‘Like you said. It’s complicated.’
‘How so?’
‘Pardon?’
‘How is it complicated?’
I down the next third of Marlon’s beer, mainly to give me a bit of thinking time. Normally, ‘it’s complicated’ is something you say, and it’s accepted, and you move on. You certainly don’t expect to be called on it, or have to explain yourself.
‘I suppose . . . well . . . that’s a good question.’
‘And the answer is . . . ?’ says April, when I don’t say anything further.
‘She . . . I’m just not sure if there’s any future in it.’
‘And a future’s important to you, is it?’
‘Yes, actually. It is.’
April pulls the cocktail stick out of her glass and – making eye contact the whole time – slowly pulls the cherry off with her teeth. ‘Not into one-night stands, then?’
I almost drop my glass in shock. ‘Well, um . . .’
‘Relax, Noah. I’m teasing you.’
And this is how the evening goes. We have another drink, I do my best to maintain the action-man, art-dealing, fake Noah that Marlon’s created, while April flirts with me (or rather, him) and quizzes me patiently about the girl I’d rather be here with. And the problem with this is, the more I talk about Angel – though I’m careful not to mention her by name – the more I know this evening’s a mistake.
Eventually, April downs the last of her cocktail, reaches across the table and pulls my sleeve up.
‘Is that a new watch?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Only you keep looking at it. So either it’s new, and you’re admiring it, or you’re bored. I’m choosing to believe it’s the first one.’
‘I’m sorry, Angel. I—’
‘What did you call me?’
‘Um . . . April?’
‘No you didn’t. You called me Angel. So either that’s a pet name you’ve come up with for me this evening – and trust me, it couldn’t be more inappropriate – or it’s the name of your “complication”.’
‘I don’t think I—’
‘Noah, please.’
‘No, you must have misheard. Or perhaps it was a slip of the tongue. I mean, they’re so similar. Listen . . .’ I repeat ‘Angel’ and ‘April’ several times in succession, like a child trying to confuse themselves with ‘red lorry, yellow lorry’. ‘See? Easy mistake to—’
April sighs loudly. ‘Sure,’ she says, then she slips, snake-like, down from her stool and gathers up her coat.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Home, Noah.’
‘Why?’ I say, hoping I don’t sound too relieved.
‘Because of the way you’ve talked about her all evening.’
‘What? I’m sorry. I—’
April rubs my upper arm as if trying to console me. ‘It’s okay, Noah. You’re obviously still in love with her.’
‘That’s not . . . Do you think so?’
April smiles. ‘A girl can tell.’
She stands on tiptoe, kisses me briefly on the cheek, then turns and walks – no, glides – out of the bar, and as I watch her go, I realise something important. April is funny, and smart, and beautiful, and sexy, and interesting, and fit, and probably not about to die any time soon – all the things I, or anyone, would normally look for in a woman. But there’s one thing she isn’t – she even said so herself – and it’s the most important aspect.
She’s no Angel.
25.
I ring Angel’s work first thing, but there’s no answer on her extension, and when the receptionist tells me she’s called in sick, I initially start to panic, before realising that if she was that sick, she’d hardly be calling in.
When I eventually drag my miserable self downstairs, a preoccupied-looking Mary is waiting for me in the front room, though I don’t get a chance to check what the matter is, because her ‘Is everything all right?’, said in the tone of someone who can see that, quite clearly, it isn’t, quite unbelievably sets me off crying.
‘It’s Angel,’ I manage, after a moment or two.
‘She’s okay?’ says Mary quickly.
‘Oh, it’s nothing like that. Though that would almost be easier to deal with.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’
I blow my nose on the tissue Mary’s produced from the constant supply up her sleeve, and flop down onto the sofa. ‘We had an argument.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It was a pretty bad one. I said some things . . .’
‘Can you take them back?’
‘I don’t know. Even if I could, I still meant them. And she knows that.’
‘Was there any justification in what you said?’
I nod. ‘I think so.’
‘And did she have a valid response?’
‘I suppose.’
‘So it was a difference of opinion. Not an argument. Which means you can just talk about it. Put it behind you. Move on.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
Mary hauls herself out of her chair, walks slowly across to where I’m sitting and lowers herself carefully down onto the sofa. ‘Well, in that case, just apologise. Tell her you were out of order. Sometimes “sorry” is the most useful word.’
‘Even though I’m not?’
‘Oftentimes, we just have to accept people, Noah. Faults and all.’ Mary smiles. ‘I’m sure Angel knows that too.’
‘But why does it hurt so much?’
She reaches over and pats the back of my hand. ‘Because you’re in love.’
‘I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘No, but . . . To have this feeling, and then face the prospect of it being taken away from you, and there’s nothing you can do about it . . .’
‘You don’t know what’s around the corner. No one does. And if there’s one thing life has taught me, you’ve got to take your chance at happiness the moment it comes. Even if it does only last a moment. So find her. Talk to her. Apologise. Do whatever it takes.’
‘Okay, okay.’ I sigh. ‘That’s assuming she ever speaks to me again.’
‘I’m sure she will. Remember, the course of true love never runs smoothly.’
‘Is that another Shakespeare quote?’
‘Actually, I think I heard it on Downton Abbey.’ Mary lets out a short chuckle. ‘You two were meant to be together. Something happened when you met. And you’d be silly not to give it another chance.’
‘Even with everything stacked against us?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, for one thing, she might hate me. I’m already pretty sure her dad hates me. Mine will probably hate me when they find out I haven’t told them she might die at any moment. And the worst thing is, she might.’
Mary smiles, then waves all my arguments away. ‘Just ask yourself one thing,’ she says. ‘Do you love her?’
I nod.
‘Well, in that case,’ says Mary, ‘you know what you have to do.’
