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‘Don’t be stupid, you’ll get a call-back because you’re talented not because you’re injured.’
‘Luke!’ I nudge him on the leg. ‘What have I told you about being overly supportive of my non-existent career?’
‘Sorry, I’m afraid it’s in my genes. Despite inventing the drinking game, Show us your rack, Sheila! …’ He smiles pointedly at me, knowing full well it winds me up when he uses Australian slang. ‘… us Aussies are extremely sensitive. It’s a fact.’
But I smile back at him, because here’s the thing. Despite the obsessive timekeeping, low-level buzz of neediness and his place of birth … Luke is hot. If he was in a boy band, he’d be the tall one at the back who never gets to sing lead vocal but is on hand to do some decent break-dancing moves and point at the fans a lot. He was born in the eighties, at the nineties end … so when he was in a cot, I was in a bunk, not a grown-up bed. He would be even hotter if he cut his hair, used some basic grooming products on his skin to protect it against the elements, and wore some better clothes. I don’t mean expensive, but just something that fitted properly, with possibly a hint of tailoring or edginess. Just because he has an athletic physique, doesn’t mean that sweatshirts should be the only option. I don’t badger him about this sort of thing, though, because I wouldn’t expect him to change himself for me, as it’s not as if I would change myself for him. I think that’s why it’s lasted twelve months. We’re together, but there isn’t any grand plan for us; we’re having a laugh. When we stop having a laugh we’ll go our separate ways.
‘Did you know the person who clobbered you?’ he asks, as he chews.
‘Kind of. It was Maximilian Fry – the actor.’
‘Maximilian Fry?’ He repeats his name out of surprise, not because he is remotely impressed.
‘Uh-huh. He was trying to have a pop at Clint Parks.’
‘Who’s that?’ Luke doesn’t look at any of the tabloids. He buys the Guardian and reads it on the building site at lunchtime.
‘The gossip columnist on News Today. As soon as Maximilian saw him leave the Gents he pelted towards him, I jumped in the middle and pow … he thumped me.’
‘So did the cops pitch up and bundle him into the back of a police van?’
‘God, no. His PR rep arrived within minutes and ushered him through the fire exit into the back seat of an air-conditioned people carrier.’ I had missed all of this, though, because I had to go and look after Tabitha who was upset about seeing me get hurt. ‘Have you fed Monday?’
The second I say that, my cat’s big orange face appears in the doorway. He does one of his mammoth over-exaggerated yawns (similar to how a cobra dislocates its jaw to swallow a whole deer), and then blinks slowly as he scans the room, assessing the current situation. Monday has got blinking down to a fine art. He can say so much simply by shutting his eyes and opening them again. If he is feeling particularly narked he also raises his eyebrows. For example, if someone offers him fish. He can’t stomach seafood.
Luke nods. ‘Yeah, he’s been fed, but I think he may have been upstairs for a snack first because he smelt of bratwurst. Anyway, I got him some chook from that butcher’s round the corner. You know, the posh one where they pride themselves on the non-stressful conditions the animals are reared in? Apparently, this particular bird was allowed to hang around in the barn all day wearing his dressing gown and playing the most recent Grand Theft Auto on the Xbox. Wasn’t it, little mate?’ He gives Monday a thumbs-up. Monday pads over to him and rubs his head on Luke’s shin.
Luke adores Monday and Monday seems to like Luke a lot too, which is saying something as in the eleven years since I collected him from the Cat’s Protection League he has found fault with most of the men I’ve been with. Yes, I’m aware that the words, ‘Men I’ve Been With’ aren’t likely to inspire Danielle Steel’s next romantic bestseller, but it’s the closest I can get to describing the connection I make with members of the opposite sex. I am with them, and then I am not. Not in the way that Adele is. She is an emotional car crash. I’ve never even come close to having a minor prang let alone careered into a major pile-up. This is because I am always in the driving seat and plan exactly where I am going. Adele instantly hands over the keys and never bothers with GPS.
‘That Fry bloke … was he on speedo?’
I make a face at Luke for using another annoying Aussie-ism. ‘Speedo’ is what he calls cocaine … because it speeds up time.
‘No, he’s just come out of rehab.’
‘But he managed to apologise for hitting you?’ asks Luke.
‘Nah …’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t have expected him to.’
He laughs. ‘Oh right, is that one of the rules of joining a private members’ club, then? You have to behave as rudely as possible at all times? I would sign up myself but I may only be able to manage “faintly offensive” during opening hours. “Wholly insulting” could take some practice.’ Then he mutters to himself, ‘What a pretentious wanker.’
This is classic Luke. Maybe it’s because he grew up on the beach in Sydney where life was one long fun-packed family barbi, but he is so grounded. He is entirely unaffected by everything that everyone else I know is affected by. He doesn’t concern himself with what people do, how they live or what they look like. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks about what he is doing either, as long as he is content within himself and sticks to his plan. Case in point, he graduated from university in Australia with a first-class degree, and then worked for five years in an ultra-dull-sounding recruitment job, just so he could save up for a deposit on a property in Sydney to keep as an investment for the future. Then he travelled over here to fulfil his ultimate dream: becoming a DJ. Not because he eventually wants to be the idolised centrepiece of wild parties where the crowd scream his name and supermodels nosh him off behind the decks – which I thought was the whole point of deejaying – but because he is genuinely into the music and wants to ‘share’ this passion. It goes without saying that when we very first met, I warned him that his plan was unlikely to work out. After all, for nearly two decades it has been mandatory for every bloke under thirty inhabiting the hipper UK towns to know how to mix, run club nights and produce their own tunes on set-ups in their bedroom. Everyone is a DJ, or a promoter, or a producer; other typically young male-dominated industries have suffered as an effect. You can’t get a decent plumber for love nor money over Hackney way. Anyway, Luke ignored what I said, found work on a building site so he had a reliable job that required no overtime and then set about finding some gigs.
To be fair, he has managed to land a few. Mainly through his flatmate, Warren, who knows everyone in Clubland and also throws the odd party himself at an underground venue in South London. (That’s underground as in literally below street level, not underground as in madly cool.) But Luke always has to play the thankless slot at the very beginning of the evening when punters are thin on the ground. It’s the bar staff turning up for their shift who tend to congratulate him on his set. This does not bother him in the slightest; he’s thrilled to be part of the environment. For me this would be like meeting someone for a drink at Shoreditch House who enjoyed full membership all year round, whilst you were still waiting for your application to be processed and approved. Which I am. Small acorns have grown into large oaks since I’ve been on their sodding waiting list. Roughly, twice a year I get to the top and am offered a contract, but I can’t afford the fee because I will have just spent/be planning to spend an eye-watering amount of euros at the Ibiza opening/closing parties. So, I go back to the bottom.
‘Are you hyped for Saturday night, then?’ asks Luke, as he puts his knife and fork together and pushes his plate away. He hasn’t eaten all his potatoes.
‘That depends on what we’re doing.’
‘We’re celebrating your birthday.’
‘Yeah, I know. But how?’
‘It’s a surprise,’ says Luke, then he winks at Monday. ‘Isn’t it, little mate?’
Monday blinks at him and kneads the carpet with his two pristinely white front paws.
‘A surprise …’ I repeat.
‘Yeah, a surprise!’
‘Putting an inflection on the end of the word doesn’t make it sound more appealing.’
‘Everyone likes surprises,’ Luke argues.
Not me. I don’t even put my MP3 player on ‘shuffle’. In fact, I like surprises even less than birthdays. Combined? No, thanks.
‘I’d prefer to know where we are going, Luke.’
His face crumples slightly but he pulls it back. ‘And the award for most ungrateful reaction to the news that someone has gone to the trouble of organising a nice treat goes to … Vivian Ward! Jesus, you can be such a witch sometimes. You’ll have a great time, I promise, not that you deserve it,’ he says, and pulls off his T-shirt over his head. ‘Now, I suggest you make some amends by getting your kit off.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I want to have some of that really bad nookie we’re so good at.’ He reaches into his pocket, fishes out a condom and Frisbees it into my lap.
‘Ok-aaaaay.’ I pick up the sealed plastic pouch faux-wearily and shove the trunk with my foot to get the leftover potatoes out of my line of vision. One of them has a large blob of mayonnaise next to it. ‘But please, let’s make sure it is a whole different level of unsatisfactory this time. Dull, perfunctory humping only. Do you mind if we have the TV on in the background?’
‘Nope, we’ll switch it on when we’ve finished … then we’ve got something to look forward to,’ says Luke, dexterously unbuckling his belt and jeans with his left hand. With the right he throws his T-shirt towards the doorway where it drops on Monday’s head, making him look like a furry-legged ghost. ‘Sorry, little mate, this is not for your eyes.’
I wriggle out of my skinny-leg trousers, which are almost identical to the ones that arrived today, and lie back on the sofa. ‘Let’s press on. Try to keep it under five minutes, yeah? Then we can actually enjoy what’s left of the evening.’
‘Got it.’ His jeans come off.
And then so are we. No awkwardness, no hesitation, no more admittedly fairly laboured sarcastic build-up, which I am well aware is only funny if you are us, just no-holds-barred, relentless shagging accompanied by some slightly feral grabbing, licking, sucking, biting and maybe a bit of light (non-scab forming) scratching. This is certainly not the Calvin Klein approved, black-and-white lurve-making that goes on in advertisement for Eternity. It’s full-on fucking; the purely-for-pleasure stuff my mother would warn me against as a child. Corinthians Chapter 6 Verse 18; Flee fornication. Every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body. There is no gentle whispering or delicate contemplation, just ecstatic yowling and frenzied gulps for breath. It’s been like this since the moment I met Luke; one knock-out session after another. The sort you might want to record for posterity … so on occasion, we have. When I watch the footage back, I am always amused – and rather impressed – by the assorted surfaces we manage to utilise.
Tonight, we end up on the new island unit in the kitchen, possibly the most uncomfortable material in the flat – no, Europe – but Luke likes it. Probably so he can give me a knowing smile whenever Adele is using it to assemble one of her authentic ethnic dishes, as if to say, We both know it’s not just cumin seeds that have been pummelled up there … It’s good. Really good … and when it’s over, we stay sprawled on the granite, the endorphins that are pelting round our bodies easing the pain in Luke’s spine and my cruciate ligaments. That’s when I look across at him – his unkempt hair in an (entirely unintentionally) sexy mess – and at that very moment I think about what a nice addition he is to my life right now.
Then I look over to the fridge and stare at the photograph stuck to the refrigerator of Adele and James grinning manically as they cradle an orphaned baby orang-utan in the Bornean rainforest. It reminds me that I must must must remember to remove her stone-coloured Max Mara tank top from its dry-cleaning cellophane, unpin the yellow ticket from the care label and replace it in her wardrobe. Ditto her LnA white V-neck tee. And grey Equipment shirt. (Adele’s closet is a haven of high-quality basics that I like to borrow – without asking – on a regular basis.) I also need to sweep up the fag butts on the patio, buy some Pantene shampoo and conditioner to put in the shower so she doesn’t think I’ve been caning her Aveda Colour Conserve, and then I need t—
‘Vivian?’
‘Mmmm?’ I twist to face Luke. ‘Christ!’ His eyes are one centimetre away from mine. ‘You gave me a shock.’
‘Sorry.’ He pulls back a little awkwardly. ‘I was figuring out whether I should talk to you about something. Something quite … serious.’
‘Serious? Like what? You’ve acquired an STD …’
‘Ha! No, nothing like that.’
‘You’ve got a wife back home in Australia and she drives a “yoot”…’ I smile.
‘I don’t.’
‘You’ve been to prison?’
‘Would that be a turn-on?’
‘Possibly, if it was an act of selflessness that got you sent down – like Wentworth Miller in Prison Break. But if it was manslaught—’
He interrupts me. ‘What are your feelings about reproduction?’
‘Reprod …’ I tail off.
‘… uction. Reproduction.’ He visibly relaxes as he says the word a second time and stares directly at me.
I tense and look away. ‘The heavy wooden French furniture, you mean?’
‘Not that, Vivian. Human reproduction, as in the creation of another being. It’s something that I’ve been meaning to get your thoughts on for a while,’ he says, as if he were casually requesting my opinion on which actor has been the most convincing James Bond. ‘Well, not a while as in ages and ages, we’ve only been together for a year so it would be pretty scary if I had been thinking about it for too long. Don’t panic, I’m not some sort of psycho-sperminator who’s simply been biding his time for the right moment to impregnate you.’ Definitely not Pierce Brosnan – too self-conscious. Or Timothy Dalton – too self-righteous. ‘And even though I said it was a “serious” subject, it doesn’t mean I “seriously” want us to think about doing it right now, but it would be good to know your feelings about the subject, generally.’ I know this is controversial but I wasn’t mad about Sean Connery – too hairy, and I can’t even remember the name of the actor in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. George someone? ‘I can tell you’re a bit surprised, but I’ve surprised myself by even wanting to approach the whole issue. I certainly didn’t think I’d be asking you about it tonight, but …’ Lazenby! George Lazenby, that was it. As for Daniel Craig – way too shaggable. Distractingly so, it’s impossible to concentrate on the plot. ‘… sometimes it’s hard to plan when you’re going to talk about the things in life that need the most planning, and you don’t get something that needs more planning than a … baby.’
ROGER MOORE! There’s your answer. He was the best 007. Yes, he was cheesy, but I like cheese. (The sentiment not the dairy product.) Plus, he made my favourite movie of the entire franchise …
Luke shakes his head at me. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
‘Moonraker.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_bdd5773e-f58f-5f2d-a9d3-574ece58f99f)
‘Eh? Moon-what?’
Luke is confused. I go into the lounge and stand in the nude for a few seconds staring aimlessly round the room, before grabbing his grey hooded top and putting it on. It’s long enough to reach past my mid-thigh but I still feel weirdly bare, so I find my knickers and put them on too. When I return to the kitchen Luke is aimlessly opening and shutting cupboard doors.
He stops when he sees me and smiles, tentatively. ‘I’m guessing by that reaction you would have preferred it if I was actually diseased, hitched or an ex-con. I’ve caught you unawares, haven’t I? Maybe it would have been best to wait.’
‘Wait?’
‘Yeah, wait.’
Or rather … weight. Because that’s what you actually gain, isn’t it? As well as a child, I mean, you gain weight during the storing and development of the foetus. Even if you have the dollars to pay an illegitimate Miami surgeon to perform one of those sneaky Caesareans where Junior gets whipped out six weeks early to avoid Mom piling on the last trimester of bulk, for the other six and a half months hormones will send your taste buds loony tunes. Some women are lucky. They get savoury cravings along the lines of pickled onions or gherkins. (At least over-consumption can have a laxative effect.) Some not so, and spend the entire gestational period with their head in a catering-sized pot of peanut butter. Or maybe even that special variety – based on Satan’s own recipe – which comes with swirls of milk chocolate spread woven through it. After the expulsion of the fully formed anthropoid, the only way they are going to ‘ping’ back to their pre-baby size is to surround themselves with a crack team of nutritionists and exercise specialists like the top models do. Miranda Kerr’s were fucking efficient. When she stalked down the catwalk at Paris Fashion Week for Balenciaga eight weeks after giving birth, she didn’t even look as if she’d had a bowl of porridge, let alone a son.
But obviously I don’t say any of this to Luke. He wouldn’t understand what I was saying. Nor would I want him to try. Because then he may try to understand something else. Me. I clear my throat to buy myself some time to think. I am baffled as to why he would have even thought to approach this subject. At some point, I must have started behaving in a way that has triggered him to start seeing ‘us’ in a way that was not intended. This unnerves me, because none of the other ‘Men I’ve Been With’ have misread the signals. I am angry with myself. So, obviously, I channel the anger towards him.
‘Are you completely fucking unhinged, Luke?’
He doesn’t reply to my question. He shakes his head at me and stomps into the lounge. I follow him in and watch as he puts on his boxers inside-out, yanks on his jeans and buttons them up incorrectly, then puts on his T-shirt back to front.
‘And you reckon you could handle a nappy?’ I taunt.
‘Forget I even mentioned it, Vivian. We need to clean up. I’ll turn the sofa back round and you do the cushions. You’d better get a cloth too. There’s Dr Pepper all over the carpet,’ he mutters.
‘Don’t sulk, Luke. You can’t just blurt out that you want to get me knocked up—’
‘Knocked up? Nice choice of words.’
‘Whatever you want to call it … and then go off into a strop when I don’t immediately suggest we start stocking up on sterilisation equipment.’
‘That wasn’t what I was saying. You weren’t listening properly. It was only meant to be a discussion about the subject.’ He pushes the couch back on its legs and turns round. His face is fully crumpled. ‘Jesus, Vivian. You can be such a …’
‘… witch. We’ve already established that.’ I make a concerted effort to soften my voice. ‘Okay, I’m sorry, go from the beginning. What made you start thinking about all this?’
‘I suppose it was because your birthday is coming up.’
‘My birthday? Well, it was really sweet of you to consider the gift of life as a present option but vouchers for Space NK are fine … then I can get some decent eye cream. Adele doesn’t keep hers in the bathroom any more – so selfish, how am I meant to stand defiant in the war against puffiness and dark circles on my rubbish wages?’ I force a laugh, but Luke’s face remains crumpled. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry … again. Go on, explain. I’m listening.’
He sits down on the sofa and sighs. ‘I suppose I’ve been thinking about you turning thirty-five.’ He shrugs. ‘If you wanted to have kids, then I figured now would be the time you would be starting to examine what’s involved. Clearly, you have a very thorough understanding of the initial phase …’ He manages a small smile. ‘But the rest of it can be more complicated, especially as you get older.’
‘Older?’ The word judders through me. ‘Cheers, Luke. That’s the second time today someone has brought up my advancing years. Roger was going on at me earlier for not having a pension plan. I had no idea that come Saturday I am an official shambles if I haven’t got the blue print for the rest of my time on earth signed off.’
‘I’m not saying that at all,’ he replies plainly. ‘I was thinking realistically. The fact is it does get more difficult and dangerous to have babies after thirty-five. It’s basic biology.’
‘That’s bollocks. Jennifer Lopez didn’t have hers until she was thirty-nine. Twins.’
‘They were probably IVF.’
‘Actually, they weren’t. Going down the in vitro route would have been entirely against J Lo’s strict beliefs. She’s publicly said as much. Fortunately for her, though, she didn’t have any ethical guidelines in place about accepting a whopping six-figure fee for supplying pictures of the tots to People magazine … ha!’
But this information does not throw Luke off track. He simply picks up where he left off.
‘Actually, irrespective of your current age, I sort of assumed you might have already thought about the whole parenting thing. Without getting too deep, it’s a pretty common thing for people who have difficult relationships with their own parents to want to create a more secure unit themselves.’ He pauses. ‘What with you not having that much contact with your mum, obv—’
‘I do have contact with her.’
‘I know, but not that much.’
‘She’s busy with the church and her catalogues and … stuff,’ I retort. ‘It doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about me or vice versa.’
‘Vivian, I make sure I see mine three or four times a week and she lives in another continent.’
‘That’s different, you Skype her. I’m not going to go to all the hassle of utilising visual communication technology to contact my mother when she lives the other side of Milton Keynes.’
‘And you never see your brother or sister.’
‘Because we don’t get on. Oh, and believe you me, if you’d seen any of my sister’s children when they were babies, you wouldn’t want to risk me having one. I’ve seen more attractive beasts carved into the stone of French cathedrals. I might carry the same genes.’
Luke laughs and I think he is about to drop the subject. But he doesn’t.
‘Okay, but there’s the issue of your father.’
‘What issue? There is no issue. I’ve told you he’s not around.’
