Pear Shaped

According to Pete, there’s nothing untoward about James’s behaviour. My instinct tells me something is strange, but I can’t put my finger on it.

When James is with me, he’s highly attentive.

He notices everything. If I apply lip balm when he’s popped to the loo, he’ll notice as soon as he walks back in. Not gloss. Clear lip balm. Nick wouldn’t have noticed if I’d grown a Salvador Dali moustache and started speaking Aramaic, as long as I was still padding around the flat.

If I leave the room, James asks where I’m going.

When I’m cooking a meal, he’ll watch me, try to impress me, touch me.

When we’re in bed he is generous and energetic and passionate. He has the libido of a man half his age.

Afterwards we lie for hours having iPod shuffle conversations, flicking from time travel to Bernie Winters to why mosquitoes don’t get AIDS. We should be sleeping. Our combined age is seventy-eight, we both have work in the morning. It’s 3.47, 2.48, 4.15am. Neither of us ever wants to stop the conversation. Eventually we fall asleep, my hand curled around his fingers.

But when he’s not with me, I feel like ‘we’ don’t exist. The randomness of meeting someone in a bar, of having no mutual friends, of having entirely separate lives, is brought home. He could disappear and I would never cross paths with him again. Sometimes I wake up and wonder if he’s even real.

On days when we don’t speak, I feel laden down with the things I didn’t get to share with him. He won’t call for two, three days. Then, it’s like he has a CCTV on my psyche, and at the precise mid-point between when I’ve done a deal with the devil so that he’ll call, and the point at which I think fuck you, James Stephens, this is not acceptable, he’ll ring. My anxiety will be punctured, he’ll come round and we’ll carry on mid-conversation where we left off, and I’ll realise I am a paranoid, silly woman.

Come on, paranoid, silly woman – get out of bed. Go to work.

It’s four in the morning on Good Friday. James and I are at his house, lying in bed, facing each other. My head is resting on his arm. Everything feels so entirely natural and comfortable and right. I think we are falling in love. He looks at me intently. ‘What’s wrong with you, Sophie Klein? There must be something.’

‘Plenty.’

He shakes his head.

‘I’m impatient,’ I say. ‘I’m not very thoughtful. I never remember birthdays. I forget to send my godchildren cards at Christmas. I’m greedy. I’m sarcastic. Sometimes I get a bit depressed and can’t shrug it off.’

He shakes his head again. ‘No, you don’t. You’re generous. You’re a good woman.’ Why does that sound so church-y?

‘What’s wrong with you, James Stephens?’

He pauses and shrugs. He doesn’t answer. He will never show a weakness. He is a master at evading questions.

‘Say something.’ I mean say something nice. I feel like I’m trying to force a compliment out of him and I know this is bad but he’s looking at me like he adores me, but nothing is coming out of his mouth.

‘Who was the last person you went out with before me?’ I ask.

‘Svetlana.’

Beautiful Russians are two a penny in this city. James has a lot of pennies. I see these women slicing down Bond Street, hard bodies, steely eyes, spiky boots; russet-faced older men in bad jackets dragging behind in their wake.

‘How long did that last?’

‘Two years.’

‘Why did it end?’

‘It wasn’t going anywhere.’

‘Why not?’

‘I couldn’t talk to her the way I can talk to you.’

‘What did you do for two years?’

He raises his eyebrows and gives me a look that instantly makes me regret having asked the question. I turn to face the window and James’s arm wraps itself around my waist.

‘Sophie Klein. I haven’t felt this way about anyone in twenty years.’ I turn back to look at him. ‘I am truly myself with you.’

He is telling me the truth.

I love him, I love him, I love him.

I love the way he moves his fingers when he explains something. I love the way he loses his temper with an obnoxious waiter at exactly the same point that I would. I love the fact that I can flick a spoonful of spaghetti with meatballs at him and he doesn’t have a hissy fit that I’ve stained his shirt. I love talking to him and I love looking at him and I love thinking about him.

It is a rainy Saturday night in April and I’m teaching James the secret of a foolproof Yorkshire pudding, when my mother rings.

‘Have you spoken to your brother?’ she says.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re not going to believe what that lunatic girlfriend of his is up to …’

‘Go on …’

‘She’s booked a Caesarean for the third week in August.’

‘Isn’t the baby due at the start of September?’ I say.

‘Exactly!’

‘So how does …’

‘She’s having it two weeks early so that it’s the same star sign as her!’ No amount of italics can convey the utter disdain in my mother’s voice.

‘Jesus, what is wrong with her?’ I say. ‘Is that even safe?’

‘Apparently. Sheer lunacy. And your bloody brother’s saying he can’t see what all the fuss is about. I said to him …’

‘Mum, my Yorkshire puddings have just pinged … I can’t talk …’

‘I haven’t even told you what dreadful names they’re thinking of calling my first grandchild …’

‘It’ll have to wait.’

I hang up and explain Shellii to James.

‘All women are mad,’ he says, again. This time I can’t really disagree.

After dinner, James asks what’s for pudding.

‘An experiment,’ I say. ‘Step into my office.’

He follows me to the fridge. Inside are two large pots of custard sent by Will at Appletree, as Phase 1 of the new custard project Devron’s briefed me on.

‘Take your tie off and sit down….’ I wrap it round his eyes in a blindfold and he screams ‘Help!’

‘Just be quiet and focus on your mouth,’ I say.

‘Can’t we focus a bit lower down?’

‘Mouth first.’ I take the custards out and put a spoon in each. ‘First one – what does this taste of?’ I say.

‘Custard. I could do your job, Soph!’

‘Ha, funny. What else?’

‘Vanilla?’

‘And?’

‘Something with alcohol?’

‘Good. Bourbon! Now have a sip of water.’ I carefully pass over a glass, and he deliberately misses his mouth and pours half of it down his shirt, and then takes it off and drops it on the floor.

‘Would sir like a bib?’ I say.

‘Can’t we do this naked?’

‘Health and Safety 101! Ok, second custard – what does this one taste of?’

‘Custard,’ he says.

‘Very clever. What else?’

‘Maple syrup?’

‘Bingo. And does it make you want to eat anything else?’

‘You!’ he says.

‘Engage your brain.’

‘… maybe something crunchy?’

‘Ten out of ten! Your brain’s making a connection between the maple syrup and granola. So I might take this custard and create a dessert that has a layer of almond granola, then the custard, and then something lighter on top, three different textures. With this flavour profile I’d want something less sweet, that complements the custard …’

‘How about my cock?’

‘Great idea! Not sure it can feed 40,000 Fletchers shoppers each week …’

‘We’ll start with just the one, shall we?’ he says, taking his blindfold off, unzipping his fly and taking his pants down.

‘James, do not put your penis in my custard samples. I have to feed those to Devron on Monday. James! Stop it!’

‘You told me you don’t like Devron anyway,’ he says.

‘True, but I do like this custard!’

Too late.

My boyfriend is a custard-covered dick, and I adore him.

‘Devron, I’m sorry but the custard samples aren’t ready for tasting,’ I say on Monday morning.

‘Fine, what are you doing on May 3rd?’

Two weeks’ time – no idea. James is rubbish at forward planning, but as he invariably ends up asking to see me at the weekends, I’m now avoiding making plans with other people.

‘Why, Devron?’

‘I need you to do a quick New York inspiration trip. If I don’t complete last year’s number of trips within a month of year-end financials, I won’t get like for like in this year’s allowance.’

Cool. So, because you have to tick a box on a sheet, I get a free trip to New York! Devron, I’m warming to you.

‘Is there actually anything you need me to do out there?’

‘Yeah, go for a night, have a look at a few cakes and whatnot, take some photos.’

‘For one night?’

‘Budget’s only going to pay for one night in a hotel.’

I love New York too much for a one-night stand.

‘I’ll stay at a friend’s, then can I go for a bit longer? If I stay a Saturday night, the airfare’s always cheaper.’

‘Fine, go for a long weekend, just come back with an idea I can take to the board. I want to show them what success looks like.’

New York! New York! I email my old friend Pauly asking if I can stay at his place for a few nights, and a minute later he mails back a yes.

It’s Saturday night and I’m off to meet James at the pub. As I leave my block of flats I see someone waving at me as they’re getting out of a black cab.

It’s my neighbour, Amber: part-time sarong designer and full-time halfwit.

Amber has seen James and me get in to his car several times. Each time she has stared, looking confused.

Now she rushes over to me with her miniature schnauzer, Annalex, in tow, and grabs my arm. ‘Sophie, long time … who is that guy you’re always with? Is that your brother, is he back from the States?’

‘No. That’s my boyfriend.’

‘Really?! I never think of you as someone who goes out with a Porsche driver.’

Welcome to Amber-World.

‘It’s not a Porsche, it’s a Maserati 3200GT.’ I have not told anybody about James’s car because I am mildly embarrassed by his money, but I take pleasure in telling Amber. ‘Anyway, what do you mean by that?’

‘You know, you go out with struggling artist types. Does your boyfriend have any single mates?’

I think about Rob. Rob would love Amber – she is a size 4, has no body fat and sports a permanent Ibiza tan. Tonight she is dressed in cowboy boots, tiny denim shorts and a cutaway silver vest.

‘Yes, his friend Rob. He’s really handsome, thirty-six, he drives a Porsche, works for Goldman Sachs …’

Her eyes couldn’t be any wider if she’d necked a fistful of Es.

‘Oh. Sorry, Amber, I forgot – he’s engaged … Oh well. Anyway, aren’t you still seeing Ritchie?’

She shrugs. This shrug means ‘I am thirty-one, very soon I will have to stop dating sexy rock ’n’ roll wannabe music-producer cokeheads, and bag myself a pudgy older Notting Hill banker. He’ll give me shitloads of cash to do up a huge three-storey second home with a pool in Oxfordshire and then I can ride horses and shag the local talent while the au pair looks after the kids and Rory bankrolls my Moroccan scented candle business.’

‘By the way, remember that £100 I lent you …’ I say, as she hands the cabbie a £50 note.

This always works like a charm whenever I want to get rid of Amber and sure enough, as she takes the £30 change from the cabbie, she says, ‘Babe, I’m totally skint at the moment but I’ll pop round soon,’ and hurries into our block.

James and I are three months into our relationship and I haven’t met any of his friends yet, apart from Rob. Laura thinks this is sinister, but I don’t – he hasn’t met any of mine, apart from her. Most of his friends have kids. James says he doesn’t want to share me with anyone. We keep each other endlessly entertained.

But now Laura has made me feel paranoid. So at the pub on Saturday I invited James round for dinner with Pete tonight. Perhaps if I introduce James to more of my friends he’ll follow suit. Besides, he’ll get on well with Pete – they’re both juvenile, charming, fun. Maybe James might register that Pete has a residual crush on me – perhaps it’ll make him more vocal in his affections.

When James left my flat this morning I said ‘Pete’s coming at 7pm.’ He nodded. I haven’t heard from him since. Although I reason I’ll see him later, when he hasn’t rung by 7.40pm, I have a low ache in my stomach, and it isn’t hunger.

The chicken will be ready any minute. Pete’s asking if we should invite my sexy blonde neighbour instead.

James must be working late.

At 7.50pm I take the chicken out, put it under foil and call James.

‘Hello you,’ he says.

‘Where are you?’ I say.

‘At home.’

‘Are you coming for dinner or what?’

‘Sure, see you soon.’

‘That was weird,’ I say to Pete.

‘What? He’s coming, isn’t he?’

‘He is now.’

James arrives looking slightly nervous. The two shake hands and from their posture I sense a mild rivalry in the air.

‘So, are you a North Londoner too?’ says Pete. I’ve already told him all the facts about James, but I’ve forced these two together and Pete’s having to make small talk.

‘East,’ says James. ‘Woodford, born and bred.’

‘My cousins grew up there. What school did you go to?’

‘Forest.’

‘Do you know Alex and Adam Foster, twins?’

‘One of them amazing at football?’ says James.

‘Alex.’

‘Rings a bell.’

I am delighted that there is now a common link as it brings me closer to James.

With a glass of wine they relax and turn their conversation to cars and girls, as though I’m not here. James says Pete’s Saab is a weird choice for a bloke in his thirties, and Pete says Maseratis are for hairdressers and they both laugh. Pete says his ideal woman would be half Danish, half Brazilian, while apparently my boyfriend’s would be eastern European, definitely.

My grandfather was Polish. Does that count?

I ask Pete to help carve the chicken, and in the kitchen he whispers to me, ‘I was expecting some hunk. He’s just a normal looking bloke.’

‘Don’t you think he looks young for his age?’

‘No, he looks like a 45-year-old who eats a lot of cheese.’

‘You’re just jealous,’ I say.

‘Seriously, Soph, he’s punching above his weight.’

Because of James’s utter self-belief, the confidence that emanates from every pore of him, I always think of it as the other way round. Like I’m punching above mine.

‘Anyway, what do you think Pete?’

‘Seems alright.’

‘And?’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘… Don’t you find him fascinating?’

‘He’s just a man who sells socks.’

‘Shut up, he’s coming.’

‘Eat some more chicken, Soph, you’re looking too skinny,’ says Pete.

‘Do you think?’ says James, raising an eyebrow.

‘You need to put a bit of weight back on,’ says Pete, looking at my arms.

‘Don’t tell her that!’ says James.

Pete only thinks I’m too skinny because he likes big boobs. It’s true my boobs are smaller than they used to be, but that’s always the way when you lose weight. If only I could transplant the small handful of flab left on my bottom to my tits, I’d be laughing, but if I do lose any more weight, I’ll have no bust left, so I’m happy enough where I am.

I head back to the kitchen to take the ice cream out of the freezer and make coffee. When I return, Pete’s already putting on his jacket.

‘You’re leaving?’ I say, ‘we haven’t even had dessert …’

‘I’m really sorry, hon, I have an early meeting. We’ll catch up properly when you’re back from New York.’

He sends me a text on his way home: ‘Thanks for dinner. You seem very happy. I’m glad x.’

In bed later, I turn to James. ‘You’re a bugger to make plans with, you know that?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s infuriating, I mean I didn’t know if you were coming tonight or not.’

‘I said I was, didn’t I?’

‘You were actually quite non-committal. I feel like if I hadn’t phoned you, you wouldn’t have turned up at all.’

He shrugs.

‘And I never know when I’m going to see you next. What’s all that about?’ I say.

He looks back at me as if he’s keeping a secret.

‘What is it? Are you scared?’ It’s scary for me too, being vulnerable.

‘I’m not scared,’ he says.

I say nothing but he’s better at this silent tactic than I am.

‘What is it?’ I blurt, after what feels like a full minute.

‘I’m just getting to know you, slowly.’

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just get on with this? I think. You’re heading to fifty, I’m thirty-four this year – we’re not teenagers anymore. Does he not realise that?

I feel like I’m so far down the road of saying something that I might as well follow through, though I have to take a deep breath before I do.

‘Slowly, quickly … you’re either in it or you’re not,’ I say.

He nods, looks at me and smiles. His smile: beautiful.

On Friday morning James drops me at Paddington for the Heathrow Express. I could walk, it’s only ten minutes from my front door, but he insists.

‘You want to make sure I’m leaving town!’ I say. ‘You’re not out with Rob tonight by any chance?’

‘No, quiet weekend, honest, Guv.’ He holds three fingers up in a boy scout salute. ‘– Behave yourself with this Paul person …’ he says, frowning.

‘I didn’t know you were the jealous type,’ I say, taking his hand and running my finger along one of his knuckles. He has the tiniest scar, like a white eyelash, just to the right of the bone.

‘I’m not,’ he says. ‘I just know what men are like.’

‘You mean you know what you’re like,’ I say, raising an eyebrow.

‘Hurry up, you’ll miss your train,’ he says, grabbing my face in both hands and kissing me.

I hate goodbyes.

New York is great; New York always is.

I stay at Pauly’s apartment in Tribeca. I met Pauly seven years ago, queuing for a table outside Corner Bistro in the West Village. It was midnight. I’d hopped in a cab straight from JFK to West 4th Street. Pauly had staggered over from the White Horse Tavern, having just split from another poor girl who was at the tiresome stage of demanding a smidgen of emotional intimacy from him. We bonded standing in line with beers, then sitting with cheeseburgers. We carried on after at a dive bar in Chinatown where Pauly explained how the CIA and Sinatra and Castro killed Kennedy. I kissed him just to shut him up, then made out with him on the rooftop until 8am. (Pauly has some insane conspiracy theories, but he’s so hot and so good-natured, you can forgive him most things.)

Over French toast with strawberry butter the following morning, he explained how he’d never gotten over being dumped by Carissa, his volatile high-school girlfriend, the week before prom night, and how his whole twenties had been spent working through a series of beautiful women, trying to find crazy Carissa 2.0.

I realised quickly that Pauly would be a terrible love interest but a great friend. Like me he’ll happily eat a bowl of $4 hand-pulled noodles down an alley off Mott Street, then trek north twenty-five blocks to queue for an hour at the Gramercy Tavern for their $12 warm chocolate bread pudding with cocoa nib ice cream.

Pauly seems to have finally met his match in Giovanna who sounds like the perfect lunatic for him: she thinks George Bush engineered 9/11 and that there were no planes, only holograms. She designs erotic underwear, and is currently in Milan on a buying trip. Even though she’s only been dating Pauly a month, she’s currently got him living in her Nolita apartment over on Elizabeth Street, babysitting her Schnoodles, Basquiat and Warhol. This is a total result – not only do I not have to hang around with an insane woman who owns a pair of Schnoodles, but it means I have Pauly’s place all to myself.

Pauly works in the music business and his place is small but supremely cool, with a giant projector screen instead of a TV, and one sleek silver remote control that seems to govern everything from his state of the art espresso machine to the bathtub. Best of all, the apartment has one wall made entirely of glass with the most amazing views of Brooklyn Bridge.

I wish James was here with me, he’d love it, I think, as I hurriedly unpack the handful of clothes I’ve brought. Still, if there’s one city I know how to have fun in regardless, it’s this one. I head out the door and walk north on Broadway towards Soho.

It’s the first week of May, and the weather’s a perfect 75 degrees with cloudless blue skies. I’m so unbelievably lucky that this is my day job, I think, as I pull open the door of Dean and Deluca and feel the air-con start to cool me down. I’m meeting Pauly in a few hours up by the Lincoln Centre, so I grab a tuna sandwich for now. I dream about these sandwiches: the perfect softness of the white bread, the fineness of the red onions, the saltiness of the capers, the ratio of mayo to tuna, the little fronds of almost sweet fresh dill – I’ve tried to recreate these at home but they’re never quite the same.

I spend the next twenty minutes in the store admiring the packaging of the spices, another twenty in the fruit and veg section marvelling at the price tags. I then head west along Bleeker Street to Rocco’s for a chocolate chip cannoli, up to Chelsea Farmer’s Market to pick up some Fat Witch caramel brownies for Maggie, then hop on the subway uptown for a night out, Pauly-style.

We go to three tequila-soaked Cinco de Mayo parties, and end up wearing purple sombreros, eating guacamole and drinking pomegranate margaritas at Rosa Mexicana, where they make the best guacamole north of Mexico. I think I could live solely on Mexican food for the rest of my life: they put chocolate in their chicken casseroles, they eat avocados every day, and limes, chillies and burritos (my three favourite food groups) are the founding pillars of their national cuisine. Around midnight, we swing by the roof party of a rapper with diamond teeth – James will never, ever believe me – and after a final Old Fashioned at a Lower East Side dive bar, I call it a night.

I spend the following days mostly hung-over, visiting farmers’ markets and bakeries, restaurants dedicated just to puddings, and mobile Bolivian food-carts in Queens. I eat desserts from 3 boroughs, 4 continents, 26 countries, without ever leaving the city. In the evenings, Pauly and I go to gallery openings in Chelsea, secret late-night speakeasies in the East Village and one cocktail bar staffed entirely by Stevie Nicks lookalikes.

I am having an exhausting but amazing time, and yet I can’t wait to fly back and see James. I text him to tell him I’ve just seen a man feeding a giant Hyacinth Macaw an Arnold Palmer in Madison Square Gardens. He texts me back saying, ‘I’ll feed you my Arnold Palmer when you get home,’ and I snigger like Sid James. When I roll in drunk at 2am I send him a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge at night, its strings of light reflected in the East River. He sends me back a photo of his feet resting on the coffee table in his living room – Sainsbury’s ready meal in the foreground, Spurs on the telly in the background.

On my final night I take Pauly back to Corner Bistro for dinner to thank him for letting me stay. I want to take him somewhere fancier but he’s adamant he wants a burger. I don’t push it – I know there isn’t a burger in London that comes close.

I tell Pauly briefly about how things are going with James, how he’s so vague and non-committal with arrangements.

‘How old did you say this guy was? He’s older, right?’

‘Oh, old, forty-five,’ I say. ‘So what, you think it’s just a generation thing?’ I say, hopefully.

Pauly looks at me with pity. ‘No, sweetheart, I don’t think that’s it.’

‘Well what?’ I say, putting down my burger, feeling suddenly nervous.

‘He’s late forties, attractive and rich?’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘And you haven’t met his friends?’

‘He’s met a couple of mine.’

‘Not the same thing. You say he travels a lot?’

‘He does business all over the place, the Far East, Europe. All over. Factories, investors … what?’