Blind Dates Page 2

  ‘It’s such a shame, as Michael was perfect for Beth. He was just so…’ Victoria pauses, wiggling her fingers as she searches for the right word.

  ‘Good-looking?’ I offer, trying my best to rise to the moment, and to be generous.

  ‘Yes, he was. Oh my god, I would even go so far as to say handsome. Like a modern-day Darcy. He was caring, and thoughtful too. You’d almost want to put him in a bottle and sprinkle some of his goodness onto others. It turns out, though, that he was also a bit boring which is, I suppose, the distance between the fictional ideal and the humdrum reality. So disappointing,’ Victoria says. She shrugs, saddened by her own conclusion. The words ‘humdrum reality’ hang in the air, somehow flattening the moment; our situation; our lives at large.

  ‘They came for dinner about a month ago,’ Marcus starts.

  ‘He talked and talked. He was making us all quite sleepy. Beth yawned at one point,’ Victoria says, shaking her head again.

  ‘And you laughed,’ Marcus sniggers.

  ‘Marcus! It turns out, Tom, there’s still hope for you. Although even as I say that I know you won’t do anything about it.’

  ‘She’s got you there, mate,’ Marcus says.

  I shrug. I know they are right, and let it go, as in the nick of time Adam materialises besides us.

  ‘Ah, the third musketeer! Now your circle is complete,’ Victoria says.

  At five-foot-nine I am the shortest of the three of us. Adam is six feet, with dark, swept-back hair. An architect, a journalist, and a psychotherapist. All quite different but, until now, as close geographically—within a couple of miles of each other in North London—as we are as friends.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Something Changed’

  As we continue to stand in our little circle, I make a small announcement to the group.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ I start. ‘I invited Larissa tonight.’

  Victoria pulls a face, Adam nods thoughtfully and Marcus shakes his head. This is a not unexpected response to my announcement, given that Victoria doesn’t like Larissa and neither Adam nor Marcus understand why I hang out with her, since she is my ex-girlfriend and she dumped me not once, but twice. I know it sounds odd that I still see her. The thing is that, while we were a terrible couple, mismatched and with poor communication, I always liked talking to her.

  Maybe because she’s a serious girl (‘dour’, Victoria says) and her appearance is similarly ascetic; tall with long straight dark hair, almost black like night. She works as head of research for an advertising agency and loves classical music (Brahms and Chopin); and nineteenth-century literature. If you pushed her on the latter, she would say the Brontës and Russian novels were her preference. Like those bleak windswept Yorkshire moors and Russian winters, Larissa Snowe likes her stories to be austere. I embraced her passions with a good deal of reluctance. I think that is the way most of us embrace Russian literature despite claims otherwise, which is why War and Peace and Anna Karenina top those lists of books we claim to have read but never have.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ asks Victoria.

  ‘I’ll second that question,’ says Marcus.

  ‘I’ll third it,’ adds Adam.

  I offer my hands out.

  ‘I met up with her recently for lunch and I mentioned it. She only works around the corner, and she knows you all. I thought it would be nice,’ I say.

  ‘She’s awkward, and hard to speak to. The silences are not comfortable. You just know Larissa was one of those school swots with no friends, which is, FYI, also her adult demeanour,’ Victoria says.

  This is unfair—scathing, even. Besides, I am sure that what Victoria really means is that Larissa is posh, and went to Cambridge, which is ridiculous. Victoria is also expensively privately educated, went to Oxford and I am sure studied constantly, which I point out.

  ‘I bet that was you, as well,’ I say.

  Marcus laughs at this, highlighting a certain truth. Victoria sends daggers in his direction.

  ‘It is true, I worked hard,’ opines Victoria, eyes glancing to the ceiling. ‘In my case, though, it was because I was gifted academically. But I did other things too—excelling in sport and socially. It just all came naturally to me.’

  We all roll our eyes at this, to which Victoria smiles, basking in her own celestial light, which needs no illumination from Adam, Marcus, or me. Victoria ran for the county and is a talented athlete whose invitation to do a 5K Parkrun you should never accept, as she will leave you for dust.

  ‘What she means,’ says Marcus, ‘is that you and Larissa were poorly matched.’

  ‘No,’ says Victoria. ‘That isn’t what I mean. What I mean is that you were terrible together. So self-conscious, it was difficult to watch; I wanted to cover my face and look through my fingers. Like a square peg and a round hole. There was no symmetry. That is the only way I can describe it.’

  ‘Tell me how you really feel,’ I say.

  Victoria gives me a small hug, which I accept graciously. I know she is not being malicious.

  ‘She was too old for you, as well,’ Victoria says.

  I’m surprised to hear Victoria say this. Whatever happened to the sisterhood? Besides, Larissa was thirty-seven when we met last year, and I was thirty-three. Not a big age difference.

  ‘Four years is nothing,’ I say.

  Victoria smacks her lips together, looks up, and back at me.

  ‘Normally, I would agree, but she wanted children, and you, Tom,’ Victoria pauses, pointing a forefinger in my direction. ‘Well, I don’t know what you want. I do know that she was straight about wanting kids right from when you first met, and you came over in a cold sweat and started your non-committal babbling act in response.’

  ‘That’s simply not true,’ I protest.

  ‘Marcus told me,’ Victoria says.

  ‘Marcus,’ I growl under my breath.

  ‘Victoria,’ says Marcus. ‘That was in confidence.’

  Victoria laughs at this; she finds it hilarious.

  ‘We’re married, darling! Nothing is in confidence or off the record. Besides, Tom, I just want you to date someone who you might be suited to,’ Victoria says. ‘Like… anyone really.’

  I think for a moment, Victoria is going to say ‘Beth’, only she doesn’t, and I am not sure why. She wouldn’t be the first of my friends to suggest it, or to encourage me to act. It has never worked; I always pushed back against these encouragements, never bold enough, always too afraid.

  After talking about Larissa, our posse disperses, and we circulate. I chat to a few people I haven’t seen for a while. We talk about Marcus and Victoria and what it would be like to leave London. Most say they cannot imagine going, although we all acknowledge how hard it is to live here.

  While I am chatting, I get a message from Larissa. She is now, after all, not coming. She doesn’t feel up to it. I have a slight pang of guilt, and I wonder if this is down to me.

  When we met two weeks ago, it was on a Sunday in North London. We had been out in Crouch End for lunch, and after eating we’d taken a walk, browsing the second-hand bookstore and a little clothes boutique that Larissa wanted to look in. Then I saw a tiny sliver of a shop selling incense and crystals, candles, and quartz. It advertised psychic readings, which promised to ‘bring clarity to your life, and give you control of your destiny’. I love that mystical part of life, and even if it doesn’t really mean anything, I always want to try it. I tell myself I am keeping an open mind, and I like the idea that our lives might somehow be guided rather than simply subject to a random series of events. If nothing else, it gives us something to talk about.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ I said.

  Larissa looked warily at the shop. Its door stood at forty-five degrees from the street and faced an equally small old-fashioned tobacconist. It was the kind of place that only exists in the cracks of doorways, and stubbornly hang on against the march of time.

  ‘These places give me the creeps,’ she said. ‘You know it’s all fake, don’t you?’

  ‘Probably. I had it done once before at a work party. It’s weird, but she said I was going to meet someone,’ I said.

  Larissa laughed at this. ‘Anyone could say that, but okay, just for fun.’

  It wasn’t fun, though. Larissa took it seriously, and the consequences were dire. We went in and met a copper-haired woman named Lucy-Anne, who was dressed in a long floaty dress in shades of amber and orange, red and gold that looked like fire. So far, so cliché. But instead of a dark, musty place hung with tapestries, which I’d expected, the room where she did her readings was bright and white and rather professional. Lucy-Anne beamed reassurance, as if positive psychic energy flowed from her very being.

  Larissa went first, and the psychic said we could ask any questions we liked. Larissa jumped straight in with a serious question about something I knew mattered deeply to her—when I had been expecting something light.

  ‘This is what I want to know,’ Larissa said. ‘Will I have children?’

  I am not sure why, but I bristled when Larissa asked this question even though we were no longer dating. I knew the thought of children pressed heavily on her thoughts. Victoria was right; Larissa had told me when we first met, and I had reacted as she described. I was also surprised that she asked considering she saw this as little more than baubles, mirrors, and fakery.

  I fully expected Lucy-Anne to gush at this point, and after a suitable pause, to tell Larissa she saw two or three children in her future. This wasn’t what happened. Despite Lucy-Anne’s earlier smiles, it was as though Larissa’s question had caught her out. She took a moment to answer and stumbled, which put me on edge. It was almost like she didn’t want to respond to Larissa’s question.

  ‘Would you like
to ask another question first?’ Lucy-Anne asked.

  ‘No, that is the question I want to ask,’ Larissa said.

  ‘Maybe we should go,’ I suggested.

  Larissa shot me an annoyed look.

  ‘You wanted to come in,’ she said.

  I nodded. I thought it would be fun, now not so much. We were committed. There was to be no turning back.

  ‘It isn’t always definite,’ Lucy-Anne said, sugar-coating her answer. ‘I don’t see any children standing around you in the near future.’

  ‘What about further into the future?’ Larissa asked.

  Lucy-Anne did not answer immediately, and then dodged the question. What I didn’t understand was why she didn’t lie. It could only be that she believed in her own powers to look into others’ lives and see their futures unfold.

  ‘It is difficult to tell sometimes, today is one of those occasions,’ Lucy-Anne said.

  Larissa looked stony-faced at this and then, without a word, got up and left. Lucy-Anne called after her, and I offered a quick apology and rushed after Larissa, who was standing outside.

  ‘I told you that was a bad idea,’ Larissa said and began to walk at speed down the street.

  Larissa wasn’t the same after that visit to the psychic. It was my suggestion that we go in, so I can’t help blaming myself for what happened next, and I am sure it was the reason she decided not to come along to the leaving drinks.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Wonderwall’

  As the evening wears on, the bar begins to fill, and the conversation levels rise. I mingle, drifting around the room between groups. I always enjoy nights like this, full of unexpected conversation and the chance to see people whose paths we cross only at such gatherings.

  It reminds me of the house parties we went to in our twenties. Unexpected evenings when friends lived with three or four others located in disparate parts of the city, and a night out could involve a trek across London to a variety of locations from grand Clerkenwell townhouses to flats in Plaistow tower blocks.

  Now we gather in bars like this for birthdays and goodbyes, and catch up with each other, sharing recent highlight reels of life’s misadventures.

  I am coming to the end of one such update with a woman who is a friend of Adam’s called Rebecca. She once briefly dated Adam and Marcus, which had led to disagreement between the two. From this we learnt never to date people our friends have dated as it can create serious and unnecessary disharmony. Happily, this was water long since under the bridge, and we were all friends again.

  I am turning towards the bar as Rebecca begins speaking to someone else, when I see Beth come up the stairs.

  I am struck by how stylish she looks, dressed in a long plaid coat, jeans, boots, and cream sweater, complementing her willowy figure and blonde hair.

  When she sees me, Beth gives a small wave. I imagine she has come straight from home rather than the offices of The Correspondent where she is one of the paper’s political reporters.

  I walk towards her, as she moves from the top of the stairs, and we stop near the bar. It’s been ages, I tell her, and it has. It has been a few months now since we last saw each other, which is both unusual and not. Whenever one of us is dating we see less of each other until inevitably coming out of the other side like hibernating creatures reconnecting with the world and certain friends.

  ‘It has, my fault,’ Beth says. ‘We should do our traditional thing and see a movie or just sit in the pub.’

  ‘That’s a plan I can support,’ I say, before pausing. ‘Sorry to hear about Michael.’

  Beth eyes me for a moment, smiles, and I wonder if I said the wrong thing, or she detected a lack of sincerity in my words.

  ‘Yes, well, all good things…’ and she gives a measured nod. ‘It wasn’t right, although I am sure you have already heard the highlights from Allison or Victoria.’

  I smile and offer no comment. I order us drinks at the bar, and we shuffle along a little, so that we are standing tucked away. Beth’s mention of Allison reminds me that I haven’t seen her and her husband Paul for ages either. I wonder how they’re doing. Paul is an old friend of Beth’s who married Allison, who is a friend of mine, and my twin sister Sarah, from school. She is more Sarah’s friend, really, but she spent so much time at our house growing up that she is almost part of the family.

  I wonder how Allison and Paul are doing? We haven’t seen much of them over the last few months since they had their first baby. They are the first of our friends to have one and were the first to get married. So many firsts.

  ‘So, leaving London? Yes, or no?’ I ask, changing the subject.

  ‘Oh, is this the rapid-fire round?’ Beth asks.

  ‘It is,’ I say.

  ‘Then, I’d have to say leave, at some point, and talking of leaving, I would love to visit Marcus and Victoria once they’ve settled in. I’ve always wanted to visit that part of Yorkshire. You know it’s where Sylvia Plath is buried?’

  I shake my head. How, I wonder, did Plath come to end up there on some freezing northern hill? Beth, however, would know this. She is a huge fan of the writer, who she sees as some kindred spirit, a candle of her conscience.

  ‘I did not. We should go,’ I say.

  This is entirely like me; taken by enthusiasm for Beth and everything about her, and then being petrified twenty seconds later that she suggests an actual plan to do this. Beth looks at me, and there is an uncertain smile on her face that I cannot quite decode.

  ‘I would even consider such a move, but the problem with leaving London for us though, as journalists, is there are so few opportunities outside of London. We’d have to change careers, and I have no idea what I’d do,’ Beth says.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ I say.

  ‘Oh? Tell me.’ Beth is intrigued. ‘What conclusions have you drawn, and do you have a back-up career in mind? I really don’t. Writing is the only thing I love and can do. I’m useless at anything else.’

  ‘My only conclusion,’ I say, ‘is that I could imagine doing something else, and wouldn’t mind, I just don’t know what it is. You should write that book.’

  Beth has spoken about writing a novel. It is something a lot of journalists, including me, talk about, and most never act upon. I am in the latter category.

  ‘Oh, I have, and I’m finished,’ Beth says.

  I’m taken aback when she says this. I thought it was idle talk when it was clearly nothing of the sort. Beth has been busy and keeping quiet about it.

  ‘When did you find the time? And how have you managed not to mention it?’ I say.

  ‘I got up at five a.m. three days a week, set myself a goal. I didn’t want to say anything as, if I never finished, I’d just be another one of those hacks who talks at boring length about their great unfinished novel,’ Beth says.

  Before I get a chance to ask her more about her writing, Victoria appears, and hugs Beth and they begin to chat. I peel off after another a minute or two and come across Adam and then Marcus. The three of us find ourselves sitting down somewhere together as we always do.

  Before any of us know it, it is closing time, and Marcus and Victoria’s leaving London party is over. There is talk of going onto other bars, although it is a Wednesday and there is a general reluctance from everyone to embrace this plan. Besides, Victoria sensibly nixes the idea. Marcus is not going anywhere. He and Victoria are instead saying their goodbyes, touring the room, as friends leave. They are heading back home for their last night in London.

  Soon, only the five of us—the departing couple, Adam, Beth, and myself—remain. Marcus is asking us all when we will be visiting, which is something he has talked about often since the move north was announced.

  ‘Spring is a good time to visit,’ Marcus says. ‘Why don’t you all come then?’

  Victoria smiles, indulgent and approving. ‘That would be lovely,’ she says.

  ‘Sounds good,’ I say. ‘I’m for it. Hop on a train.’

  ‘It’s two hours,’ Marcus says. ‘No one believes it; they think the north is like another country and it takes five hours to get there, but really it takes no time.’

  ‘Count me in as well,’ says Beth.