The Impossible Us, page 28
Never commented on my weight.
Never complained when I left my clothes lying on the floor or remarked that my side of the bed resembled a discarded underwear and tissue war zone.
Always hung towels up in the bathroom. Always put the seat down.
Listened to me when I needed to vent about work. And really listened, didn’t just pay lip (or ear) service.
Really did treat me as his muse: we could spend hours discussing and debating character traits or plot twists, and he never once told me my ideas were shit, even when they clearly were.
Like me, preferred to flump in bed and watch crappy box sets rather than go out (he once sat through a Project Runway binge session and didn’t whinge once).
Was politically engaged. More so than me, which gave me a much-needed kick up the arse.
Was a caffeine psychic: he’d bring me tea or coffee just when I was thinking of getting up and putting the kettle on.
When he was writing, he’d wave a hand or cock his head, as if he were acting out the way one of his characters might move, which I found endearing.
Nick Nights and covert messaging aside, I never felt like I had to watch what I said around him.
He encouraged me, without being pushy or controlling, to farm out some of my finishing work to a seamstress in Hammersmith, which really helped take off the strain.
Even though whole days would go by where we were both so lost in work we barely said a word to each other, he didn’t bore me.
If I had a client coming over, he’d decamp to a café, or offer to sit with Jonas so that Magda could have a few hours to herself (that kindness again).
Our first fight was our only fight. When he returned that day, me still shaken by Becca stress, he apologized first even though I was the one in the wrong.
He always smelled nice.
He wasn’t tight with cash. Within a week of moving in, he offered to split the rent, despite still paying the mortgage on his own flat.
He made my life . . . easier.
CONS:
He wasn’t Nick.
That was it. The only con. It was as if Nick and Bee worked because we had an extra, mystery ingredient that was lacking in the Nicolas and Bee stewpot: the equivalent of a sprinkling of parsley. An extra clove of garlic. I’d convinced myself the cracks would fade when Becca and Nick closed the circle, and despite this no longer being an option, they were fading. But that had never been the real issue. And it was too late to add in that extra seasoning: the meal had already been served.
One con. Not enough to throw everything away for. We worked on every other level. In every other way. In any other circumstances, it would have been perfect. It was perfect.
So, when it happened, I shouldn’t have been surprised.
Thursday night was can-crushing night. Nicolas and I had got into the habit of timing Magda as she rolled and stomped. Whoever guessed to the closest minute how long the task would take, would get to choose that evening’s Deliveroo order. It had become a silly tradition. But just as she got underway, Nicolas said: “Get your coat. We’re going out.”
“Eh? But it’s timing and takeout night. Oh shit . . . do you have a book event or something I’ve forgotten about?”
He grinned. “Nope. It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“Yeah, you do.”
I was in my work clothes, makeup-free, a scarf tied, Magda-esque, around my unwashed hair. “Do I need to get changed?”
“Nope. You’ll do. Come on. The Uber is here.”
As the taxi ferried us along, he refused to tell me where we were going. He was thrumming with tension: excitement, and something else.
The cab pulled up outside what I still thought of as Satchel Man’s restaurant. “What the hell are we doing here?”
“It was where we had our first date.” I should have figured it out then. He swept me inside, and to the booth he’d reserved—“our” booth, opposite that ridiculous elephant head. Instead of lager, he ordered a bottle of champagne.
“What are we celebrating? Did something happen with the book? Were you shortlisted for that Dagger award thingy?”
He took my hands in both of his. “Bee. I’ve never felt like this before. What we have—it’s rare. I love you.”
“I love you too.” Did I though? A question I’d asked myself countless times. Did I love him on his own terms, and not just as a proxy for Nick? They were the same, but also not the same. Nicolas was a touch needier. Less cynical, as if Nick had needed to fail and struggle to form that part of his character. Was this the missing ingredient? One con. ONE.
“What I’m saying in my convoluted way is: will you marry me?”
* * *
—
I TOLD LEILA halfway through a gin-walk, dropping the news while we were admiring the Gnome Home’s old-fashioned roses, which were reaching the end of their summery bloom.
She let out a semi-scream, then said: “I cannot believe you let me bollock on about the twins when you had this news.”
“So? What do you think?”
“Isn’t it obvious what I think?” Forgetting she was holding the can of gin, she threw her arms around me, spattering us both with froth. “Shit. Sorry, Bee. But hey, think of it as poor woman’s champagne. Christ. This is fast, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Too fast?”
“Hey, when you know, you know.” She gave me a Leila look. “And you do know, right?”
Yes. No. Maybe. “I know.”
She assessed me again. But her happiness for me—and herself—overrode her usual perspicacity. A wedding signified an end to her messy friend’s messy life. “I know we’re feminists and shouldn’t get excited about this stuff, but any thoughts on the wedding?”
“Not yet. But neither of us are into big affairs. The smaller the better.”
“Don’t blame you. Mine was a nightmare, remember? Relatives from three continents creeping out of the woodwork like cockroaches. And who could forget the halal fuckup? Lev’s mum still brings it up.”
“It wasn’t a nightmare. It was lovely.”
“Yeah well, we’re still paying it off, so it bloody well should have been.” She nabbed my can and took a sip. “But small or not, can I help plan it? Please?”
“Don’t you have enough on your plate with the boys and saving the planet?”
“Yeah, but this’ll be fun. Please?”
“We haven’t even talked dates yet. Probably won’t even start doing that until next year.”
“Can I, though?”
“Of course. It’s all yours. But no Cinderella carriages, butterflies, or doves.”
“How about a trained swan as a ring bearer? Just the one.”
“Fuck off.”
“Spoilsport. What about the dress?”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, humor me.”
“I’ve still got Mum’s.”
“She would have loved that, Bee. And she would have loved Nicolas.”
And Nick. I drained the can to take my mind off meetings that would never happen, in any worlds.
“And kids?”
“The twins are welcome to come.”
“I didn’t mean them! Although seriously, if you decided to choose a destination wedding somewhere non-kid-friendly, you’d have my undying gratitude. God, I need a break.”
“What happened to ‘never flying again’ and shrinking your carbon footprint?”
“I’ll offset it. Or you could choose a venue in the UK that hates kids. Anyway, I meant you and Nicolas. You have had the kid talk, right?”
“Not yet.” God knows why not. It’s pretty much fundamental, to the extent that it’s a question on every dating app. More important than “Are you a member of a cult?” or “Have you ever murdered someone?”
“You should let him know you don’t want any. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“I haven’t.” I hadn’t. I now understood Becca’s decision—or thought I understood it—and I knew I had it in me to be a good mum. But knowing Scarlett was out there in the universe was more than enough for me.
“Have you told your dad?”
“No. I don’t want to risk him flying over and insisting on giving me away. He loves all that patriarchal crap. I’ll think about that when the time comes.”
She gave me a sympathetic arm punch. “So, who else knows?”
“Just you, Magda, and Jonas. The people who matter to me.”
Not true, of course, because I hadn’t yet told the person who mattered the most to me. I was building up to that. Once again, I was facing a moral crossroads. Like the Dylan news, it was something I could keep to myself. He would never have to know about it. What are you doing this weekend, Bee? Oh nothing, just going away with Leila and Lev. But I couldn’t do that to him. He knew when I was hiding something.
From: Bee1984@gmail.com
To: NB26@zone.com
I don’t know how to tell you this, Nick. Written it and deleted it more times than I can count. OK. Here goes: Remember when you said if I didn’t watch out I’d be married by Christmas?
NICK
MARRIAGES TYPICALLY SYMBOLIZE the ending of the story. The happily ever after. There’s a reason why no one wants to see Cinderella 2: The Divorce. Or Beauty and the Beast: The Battle for Custody of the Candlestick or whatever the fuck that thing was. When Bee broke the news, that was the first thing that popped into my head: So that’s it, then: the end of our story.
Misery loves company. After I got the news, I thought about traveling to Leeds to see Lily or Poll and Jez, hopping on a train to Birmingham to cry on Dylan’s shoulder; I even—God help me—very nearly contacted Geoffrey. In the end I called Leila 2. I needed to talk to someone in person, confide in someone who was in on Operation Doppelgänger, but was more level-headed than Geoffrey. We met at the pub where I’d truth-bombed her.
“Getting married, huh?”
“Married.”
“Married to you, if you think about it.”
“Yeah. Not really.” Married to perfect Nicolas with his perfect life.
“Well, send my congratulations.”
“You could do that yourself. Use my phone. Send her an i-mail if you like.”
She grimaced. “No. Talking to her last time . . . afterward . . . it sort of freaked me out. Too uncanny. You know, since you first dragged me into this situation, I’ve been doing a lot of reading.”
“Good for you. Everyone needs a hobby.”
She gave me a “ha bloody ha” look. “Research reading. Into what’s happening here. What’s going on with you and Becca—Bee, I mean. Even messaged a woman who specializes in this stuff and posited the scenario, although I reckon she must have thought she was dealing with a conspiracy fanatic or a shitty writer trying to fix a last-minute plot hole. She described it as being ‘beyond physics.’ I mean, the implications . . . they’re endless. This is definitive proof that there are other dimensions out there. It could fundamentally change our understanding of the universe. Don’t you feel like you have a responsibility to get this out into the world?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. But apart from the Berenstains, who would believe it? All we have are the i-mails. There’d be no way to prove we hadn’t faked them.”
We drank in silence for a while.
“Lev and I broke up.”
“What? Why?”
“No real reason. I’m just happier by myself.”
“Really? Because people always say that when they actually aren’t.”
“Not the case with me. Maybe one day that’ll change. But for now . . .” She shrugged.
“Me too.”
“Me too what?”
“I’m happier on my own.”
“You clearly aren’t.”
Another round of pity-drinking.
Leila caught my eye. “We could always have misery sex.” One of us had to say it.
“I’d kind of feel like I was cheating on Bee. Even if she is getting married.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I could see why she was Bee’s best mate. “So. When’s the big day?”
“Bee says they haven’t set a date. Next year maybe.”
“I suppose my other self will be the maid of honor. I used to love going to weddings, but now they make me feel kind of empty.”
“Me too.” I didn’t want to say it. But out it came anyway. “And I’m pretty sure I know who the best man will be.”
“Who?”
“My mate Jeremy. Jez.”
“So?”
“In our world he ran off with my wife.”
Leila bit her lip, looked away, her shoulders shaking. I thought she was crying at first, then realized she was trying not to laugh. “I’m sorry, Nick. It’s just . . .” She couldn’t hold it in any longer. I joined in. Because at the end of the day, if you can’t laugh, what else can you fucking well do?
From: NB26@zone.com
To: Bee1984@gmail.com
Us carrying on being us doesn’t seem like the right thing to do anymore. Not now you’re getting married. I know how much you struggle with the guilt of all this.
From: Bee1984@gmail.com
To: NB26@zone.com
It’s not just me. It’s hurting you too. I know it is. And it’s not fair on Nicolas. It’s not fair on any of us. But GOD I don’t know if I can stop. The thought of you not being there . . . I’m already feeling like I’m about to have a panic attack. And what about Geoffrey? He’d be lost without those updates.
From: NB26@zone.com
To: Bee1984@gmail.com
I feel the same way. But however you spin it, this is an emotional affair. Can you live with that?
From: Bee1984@gmail.com
To: NB26@zone.com
Can you? You should be out there meeting other people. Dating other people. Why aren’t you doing that? I WISH I could write to Becca and tell her to change her mind.
From: NB26@zone.com
To: Bee1984@gmail.com
How about this: let’s slow things down. See how it goes. Play it by ear like we always do.
BEE
WE DID TRY to slow it down. We did try to stop. The longest we lasted was twenty-four hours. Then in would come a
The “big day” was a nebulous thing. Set for sometime in the future: next year, the year after that. It didn’t feel real. I suppose that’s why I enjoyed, to some extent, discussing it with Nicolas.
We decided we’d continue living here for a while, he’d sell his flat, and then we’d think about pooling our resources and relocating. We both worked from home, so there were no geographical restrictions, although I did feel an initial gasp of panic at the thought of moving too far away from London and Leila. Still, I enjoyed scrolling through Rightmove, indulging in property porn and imagining future alternative lives. Unthreatening, nebulous future lives. We agreed on everything. Neither of us wanted a big wedding. It would be just us, our closest friends (Leila and Jez), at an intimate venue sometime in the nebulous future.
The only sticking point came up while I was pressing the sleeve of Jenny’s nearly completed jacket (the tailoring of which had been easier this time around), and Nicolas turned around from his laptop and blindsided me with: “How do you feel about kids?”
Uh-oh. Here it was, finally. The Conversation.
I tried to keep it light. “In general? I think they’re fine, as long as you can hand them back.”
“Does that mean you’re against us having one?”
“How important is this to you, Nicolas?” A slippery, sneaky voice whispered: This could be an elegant exit if you wanted to take it. Most of the time, the exit light above that particular door was switched off. But occasionally, mostly late at night, or when I was illicitly messaging Nick, it would blink on and tempt me with its greenish glow. (
A shrug. “It’s not a deal-breaker. Never felt the urge before. That was one of the reasons I broke up with Jodie—she wanted kids, I didn’t. But now . . .” Another shrug.
“How about we compromise and get a dog?”
He wavered, then said: “Always wanted a dog.”
* * *
—
TIME STRETCHED LIKE elastic into the future, only elastic has a way of snapping back at you. Because then Leila went and spoiled it all by rocking up unannounced at the flat and saying something stupid like: “You are not going to believe this.”
I don’t blame her. How could she have known? And ever since I’d agreed to let her take charge of the plans, she’d been flooding my inbox with venue suggestions, mood boards, and “D.I.Y. intimate wedding” Pinterest links.
She got straight into it without even waiting for me to pour her a drink.
“I know you guys were thinking of sometime next year. But that amazing venue in Cornwall I told you about—you know the one, Bee, I sent you the pics—they’ve had a last-minute cancellation.”
My face must have been a picture. Neither noticed, because by then Leila had her MacBook open and Nicolas was looking over her shoulder while she scrolled through the pics. Okay—admittedly it was gorgeous. A series of artfully decorated stone cottages on a cliff top, overlooking the ocean. “Perfect, isn’t it? I’d put it at the top of the list, but didn’t hold out much hope as they’re booked up for two years.”
