The Park Bench Test

Maybe Drew Barrymore’s character had it good. To be able to feel that first longing for someone in the pit of your stomach every day. To never reach that point where they piss you off by leaving toenail clippings on the bathroom floor. To never reach that moment when you need to ask if something is ‘right’. That has to be good, doesn’t it?

We went to bed after that. And had sex for the first time in six weeks.

“The milk’s off,” I tell Fliss and Erin, sniffing the carton I have just pulled out of our illegal fridge. “I’ll nip out and get some fresh. Do you want anything?”

“Get us a packet of Hob Nobs,” Fliss says, handing me a £1 coin. “My treat.”

I’ll start my diet tomorrow.

When I return fifteen minutes later, Fliss and Erin are both on the phone and there’s a Post-It note in the middle of my computer screen, informing me Alex called – at 9.42am. It’s from Fliss. The neat handwriting and the reference to the exact time tell me that. And the Post-It. If Erin had taken the call it would have been a note scribbled on the back of a sweet wrapper saying ‘Al phoned’. Either that or she’d have forgotten to tell me altogether.

I move the Post-It to the side of my screen and dial Alex’s mobile number while I wait for the kettle to boil.

“I can’t talk long, I’m making tea for the girls,” I tell him when he answers. Priorities…

“Are you doing anything tonight after work?” he asks me.

“No,” I say, immediately regretting it. It’s always wise to find out why you are being asked before you give your answer, I find.

“Great. I’ve arranged for us to look at some of those properties we got details for.” He means the ones I hid. On the coffee table. Upside down. Underneath the newspaper.

See what I mean? Clearly what I should have said was “yes, I am going out, and I am going to be out all evening, tonight, tomorrow night and every night from now until next Christmas”.

Bugger.

I quickly consider my options. Option 1 – stay at work and tell him I had an urgent can’t-possibly-get-out-of-it last-minute meeting. Option 2 – tell him the car wouldn’t start and I had to get the AA out, but they got lost on the way. Option 3 – ‘forget’, and drag Fliss and Erin to the pub. Or option 4 – I could just go. Because I can’t put it off forever. Well, I suppose I could, but I suspect that might get a bit tedious before long.

“Great,” I say.

I’ll just have to say I hate them all instead. That I wouldn’t live in those hell holes if you paid me.

Which would have worked like a dream, had they not all been absolutely fabulous. Just what we’ve been looking for, in fact.

What are the bloody odds? We have viewed some right dumps in the last few months – dry rot, mould, nicotine-stained flock-lined wallpaper, carpets stained with cat pee…

Hence I didn’t think I was being unrealistic in thinking this lot would at the very least have a bit of damp or an avocado bathroom suite to speak of.

But no. Each and every one of the four properties we have just been to view were perfect. With a capital P. Our dream homes, you might even say.

They are all in ‘nice’ safe areas, all within our budget, and the most any of them need is a fresh lick of paint on the walls. One even has a brand new fitted kitchen and a brand new bathroom suite – both exactly what we would have chosen ourselves.

Bollocks.

“I think we should make an offer on that one in Maple Road,” Alex says when we get home. “That place isn’t going to be on the market for long.”

“I don’t think we should rush into it,” I tell him. “We still have plenty more to look at.”

“But it’s exactly what we’re looking for,” he laughs. “And we can afford it!”

He’s right. It is. We can.

“I don’t know,” I say, desperately trying to come up with something I didn’t absolutely love about it.

“The kitchen could be a bit bigger,” I venture.

“Says who?” he laughs. “You’re not the one who’ll be using it!”

He’s right. Again. As I said – I can’t cook. I don’t cook. Not if I can help it anyway. Not unless beans on toast counts as cooking. And even then I’d probably burn the beans. Or the toast. Or both.

In our last year at university when Katie and I shared a house, she and Alex tried to get me on Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook. I only found out when we got a phone bill with a premium number listed on it over and over again. Katie only admitted what she’d been up to when I accused her of phoning sex lines. I think I was actually a bit disappointed to discover my best friend wasn’t a secret sex addict after all.

I never did get on the show. I was probably too bad even for Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook.

“Okay, but let’s just wait a day or two and see how we feel then,” I say.

“Fine. But don’t blame me if someone else gets there first and we lose the house.”

“I won’t.”

I phone Katie on her mobile as soon as I leave the house the next morning.

“We’ve found a house,” I tell her, before I’ve even said hello.

“Hang on a sec, B, I’m just paying for a coffee…Thanks mate,” I hear her say. There’s a loud clunking noise as she puts the phone down on the counter. Then the noise of the zip opening on her purse, and coins dropping in…a big slurp of cappuccino froth.

Does she not realise I am in the middle of a crisis that requires immediate attention?

“B? Sorry, what did you say?” Now the sound of heels clicking along the pavement.

“We’ve found a house. Alex and I. It’s perfect it’s in a nice area it’s five grand under our budget it’s got a brand new bathroom and a brand new kitchen and it’s got wooden flooring in the living room the good kind not the shit kind what am I going to do?” I’m so desperate for her to tell me, I don’t even draw breath.

“What do you want to do, B?” Click, click, slurp…

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Katie…can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you ever think that Matt might not be the one?”

“No. Never…Becks, is this just about Alex?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there someone else?”

“No!” I shout, a little louder that I’d intended. “God no. I wish it was that simple. No, I just keep wondering if the thoughts I’ve been having are normal. Maybe everybody questions at some stage whether they are with the right person. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. But then you don’t question it, do you?”

“No. I know Matt is the one for me. I can’t imagine my life without him. I see myself growing old with Matt.”

I can see myself growing old with Alex. I can. I can see us sitting in our slippers, holding cups of cocoa, watching Countdown and re-runs of Heartbeat on UK Gold. But that means nothing really. I can see myself growing old with anyone if I look hard enough. Jude Law, for example, or Aidan from Sex & The City (lovely guy – can’t imagine what Carrie was thinking,) or that cute new doctor in Holby City. But just because you can see it, doesn’t mean it’s right, or that it’s going to happen – Jude might not feel the same way about me, for instance and, well, sadly Aidan isn’t even real.

But more importantly – not growing old with Alex – I can see that too.

I suddenly remember Katie on the other end of the phone.

“B?” she is saying. I think I’ve worried her. The clicking has stopped. So has the slurping.

“Yeah?”

“Do you still love Alex?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know for sure that he’s not the one?”

“Not for sure, no.”

“Then you need to find out. You could just be having a wobbly moment.”

“Yes, but how do I do that?”

“Maybe you should have some time apart? Maybe you could go and stay with Felicity for a few days?”

“But what about the house?” I ask.

“Forget the house. You can’t possibly consider buying a house with Alex while you’re feeling like this. It would be total madness. You’ll have to stall him.”

“How?”

“Can’t you just tell him you didn’t like it?”

“He wouldn’t believe me. It’s perfect.”

“There must be something wrong with it. Why are the owners selling?”

“I’m not sure. They’ve just had a baby so they’re probably looking for somewhere bigger.”

“There you go – tell Alex you want to wait and find something bigger.”

“But we can’t afford anything bigger.”

“Exactly. Tell him you want to wait and save up a bit more money so you can get something a bit bigger. So that when you have kids you won’t have to move. That’ll be enough to put the wind up him!” she laughs.

Now I don’t know what frightens me more – the thought of buying a house with someone who might not be Mr Right, or the thought of having children with him.

“It might work, I guess.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Let’s fall in love –

In our mid thirties

It’s not only

Where the hurt is.

…

We’ll make the whole thing

Hard and bright

We’ll call it love –

We may be right.

‘The Proposal’, Tom Vaughan

Great minds think alike.

On reflection, Alex thinks we should save for longer too. He thinks we should spend the money we have saved so far on something else.

On getting married.

They say there comes a point in your life when you know you’ve met the person you want to spend the rest of your life with.

By the same rule, I can now confirm there comes a point when you know for sure you haven’t.

And when your boyfriend is knelt in front of you holding out a sparkling platinum and diamond engagement ring and asking you to marry him is not, you might say, the ideal moment for it to happen.

Alex is not Mr Right.

Why?

I don’t know.

I just know.

CHAPTER NINE

My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

‘The Bargain’, Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)

Have you ever broken somebody’s heart?

It’s horrible. I think I’d rather have my own heart broken. I think it would hurt less.

Telling Alex I can’t marry him is without a doubt the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life.

I don’t have to say the words. My eyes tell him for me, when they fill with tears. Not the happy kind.

“You don’t want to marry me, do you?” he asks quietly, clutching the ring in his hand.

I shake my head.

“But it’s not because I don’t love you.” It seems like such a stupid thing to say. Do I think it will soften the blow somehow? A consolation prize of sorts? Hard luck mate, she won’t marry you, but on the plus side, she does love you.

“Then why?”

It’s a fair question.

“I don’t know. I just can’t.” As answers go it’s inadequate. But it’s the only one I have.

Of course, saying yes would have been easier. Because I do love Alex. And I know we could have a good life together. And I am scared I won’t ever meet that person I seem to have convinced myself I’m meant to be with – that person I think I might love more than I love Alex. But I also know if I did marry Alex, then I’d be settling. And we both deserve more than that.

The next day I move out.

CHAPTER TEN

The minute I heard my first love story

I started looking for you, not knowing

How blind that was

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere

They’re in each other all along

Jabal ad-Din ar-Rumi (1207 – 1273)

Fliss and Derek have offered me their spare room while I sort my life out. It’s quiet where they live. You can hear the slightest noise. The pipes creaking as the central heating cools down. An insect hitting the window outside. My own heart beating.

I can’t sleep. I’m not used to being alone in bed. I’ve spent nights away from Alex, of course, but it’s been a long time since I’ve slept alone because I am alone.

I haven’t told anyone yet – apart from Katie. I can’t face the questions. People who believe in Mr Right will be surprised because they thought I was happy and because they thought Alex was Mr Right. And people who don’t believe in Mr Right will just think I’m bonkers. And everyone will want to know why. But even I don’t know that.

At 4.30am, after waking on and off all night, I give up trying to sleep and go in search of the kettle.

I’m pouring water into a mug when Fliss walks into the kitchen.

“Oh I’m sorry Fliss, did I wake you?”

“No, no, I’m not a good sleeper these days,” she says. I look at the ungodly time on the clock on the oven.

“It’s my age,” she laughs. “I always wake up early.”

I hold up the hot chocolate. “I hope you don’t mind?”

“Don’t be silly. You must help yourself to anything you want while you’re here, lovey.”

“Do you want one?”

“That would be lovely.”

We take the drinks through to the living room and Fliss turns on a lamp.

Sitting on the sofa I pull my knees up to my chest and balance my drink on them in my hand, blowing on it gently.

A painting on the wall above the television catches my eye. It’s a woman sitting on a deckchair, holding a parasol. I lean forward to confirm what it is I think I’m seeing. The woman in the picture is Fliss, only much younger – about my age.

“Who painted that picture of you in the deckchair, Fliss?” I ask.

“It’s one of Derek’s” she says. “He did it on our honeymoon. We had such a wonderful time,” she smiles, remembering. “We went to Cornwall for the week. Had sunshine the whole time. It was perfect. He painted that picture on our last day. We didn’t want to forget.”

“I didn’t know he could paint. It’s fantastic. It looks just like you.”

I blow on my drink again and sip it tentatively.

“How are you doing, lovey?” Fliss asks. “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” I admit. “But I know it’s for the best.”

“Are you sure? Is there no way you and Alex can work things out?”

“There isn’t really anything to work out – that’s the problem. It’s not like one of us has cheated or anything – you know, something you can get over if you both really want to. It’s more than that.”

“Hmm.” She sips her drink. She probably doesn’t understand. Fliss is of the generation where a guy met a girl, they went out and then they got married. And they stayed together forever – for better or for worse.

I, on the other hand, am from the generation where one in three couples give up on a marriage. Which kind of makes you think twice about doing it in the first place, doesn’t it? Or at the very least it makes you more determined to find the right person in the first place – because surely then it can’t possibly fail – not if you’ve found that one person you are meant to be with.

Or maybe it doesn’t really work like that at all. Maybe there are lots of people out there we could make it work with. But we’re so busy looking for that one person that we can’t see all the other possibilities.

“I do understand, you know,” Fliss says, breaking my thoughts, reading my mind.

“If something isn’t meant to be, you won’t ever make it work. No matter how much you might want to.”

I sip my drink. It’s cooling down.

“Fliss…,” I say.

“Yes, lovey?”

“How did you know Derek was the one for you? How will I know when I have met the right person?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“When you don’t need to ask that question.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Jim’s split up with me,” Emma tells me the next day, when I phone her during my lunch break.

“He doesn’t love me,” she sobs down the phone. “He says he thinks the world of me, that I’m one of the loveliest people he’s ever met, and that he wishes he could fall in love with me. But that he just hasn’t and doesn’t think he ever will.”

Ouch.

“He says it’s not me, it’s him,” she says, her tone revealing exactly what she thinks of this particular explanation. “He says I am fabulous and that any man would be lucky to have me. Just not him, obviously. Oh B, what am I going to do?”

“You’ll meet someone else,” I reassure her. “You always do.”

“But I don’t want anybody else. I want Jim. I love him.”

“Really?” I ask. She said she really liked him but she’s never mentioned love. “Do you really love him, Em?”

“Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “I guess I just hoped he was Mr Right.”

But Emma doesn’t believe in Mr Right…

“But you don’t believe in Mr Right…”

“Maybe I do. Oh I don’t know. I just really liked him, B. He’s lovely. He makes me laugh. He makes me smile. Made me smile. And he was so bloody good in bed,” she adds, an afterthought that is followed by a fresh wave of sobs.

“Anyway, you rang me,” she says, composing herself with a big snort. “Was there a reason or did you just phone for a chat?”

“Alex asked me to marry him,” I tell her. “And I said no,” I add quickly, before she rushes to congratulate me.

Silence. And then…

“Oh my god B. I can’t believe it. And you let me go on and on about Jim!”

“That’s okay. You’re upset. I understand that.”

“But B. Oh my god. Are you okay? I didn’t think you were being serious the other day. I thought it was just a phase. I thought you really loved him.”

“I did love him. I do love him. Just not enough to marry him. Not enough to know I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“Well if that’s how you really feel then I guess you’ve done the right thing. But blimey, I still can’t believe you let me go on about Jim for so long.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

When I get to work the following morning Erin says Malcolm wants to see me in his office.

“He has a 9.30am meeting so he says can you go in before you do anything else.”

No cup of tea then.

“Did he say what it was about?”

“No. He probably just wants to make sure you’re okay.”

“Probably wants to make sure my mind is still on the job, more like.”

I’m being unfair really. As bosses go we could do a lot worse than Malcolm Hurley – Penand Inc’s sales director for as long as anyone can remember, including Fliss. Admittedly he makes our lives a bit difficult sometimes and demands account changes which virtually have us camped out in the office for days on end. And he wears the most shocking ties that require both a strong stomach and dark glasses. And he looks like a slightly better looking version of Shrek – although in fairness you can’t really hold that against him. But on the plus side he does give us generous pay rises and bonuses and always makes sure we have a Christmas bash to remember – even if it is for his not-quite-perfected plate spinning demonstration – with a free bar all night, which really shouldn’t be scoffed at.

But nonetheless, I’m dreading this. I’m already feeling wobbly. What if he’s mean to me and I start sobbing in his office? How embarrassing. Or, even worse, what if he’s really nice to me and I start blubbing because of that instead? It happens, doesn’t it? A few kind words from an unexpected source and, whoosh, enough tears to make Niagara Falls look like a leaky tap.

I knock lightly on his door. If he doesn’t hear me I can slope back to my desk and avoid him for the rest of the day.

“Come in.” Damn.

“Ah, Rebecca,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose as I enter his office.

“Thank you for coming to see me. I know how busy you girls are. Take a seat.”

I sit in the chair opposite him. I feel like I’m in a job interview.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” he asks.

Odd. He doesn’t normally offer hot beverages. Maybe this isn’t going to be as quick and painless as I was hoping.

“Erm, that would be great,” I say nervously, because I am a bit parched as it happens. I’m normally slurping my first cup of tea at my desk by now.

Malcolm buzzes through to his secretary and orders two coffees. I decide not to tell him I’m a tea drinker. He looks at me and smiles.

This is all looking very formal.

Maybe I’ve made some gargantuan cock-up with one of the accounts – given someone too much discount, perhaps, or given a £500,000 credit limit to a dodgy customer who has ordered his maximum and skipped the country with a lorry load of laptops?

Maybe he’s going to sack me. Do you think you’d get coffee if you were getting the sack? To soften the blow, maybe?

Hang on… maybe he is going to sack me. Excellent. If he sacked me then that would force me to do something else, wouldn’t it…?

“How are you feeling Rebecca?” Malcolm asks, interrupting my fantasy. Damn him. “I gather you’re having a few personal problems.”

“I’m fine,” I say, a little defensively. And then I feel bad because he is only showing concern. I think.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I repeat, a little softer this time.

“If you need to take some time off…”

“No, it’s okay, I’m fine,” I say quickly, hoping that will put an end to all this. Although, I would quite like to have my coffee before I go back to my desk. Malcolm drinks the posh stuff, none of your instant rubbish.

And then he leans back in his chair, takes his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose. He looks very serious. He looks like he’s about to offer me some words of wisdom on affairs of the heart or something. Oh please no….

Thankfully I am saved by the arrival of the refreshments, complete with a plate of chocolate Hobnobs. My favourite. Actually, that’s a fib. Jammy Dodgers are my favourite, but chocolate Hobnobs definitely come in a close second.

What? You hardly expect me to diet when I’ve just split up with my boyfriend? I need comfort foods. And somehow lettuce and celery sticks just don’t quite make the grade. Hobnobs, on the other hand, most definitely do. I take one and put it next to my coffee on the edge of Malcolm’s desk.

“So, Rebecca,” he says, putting his glasses back on. Back to business then.

I’m a bit nervous. I want to say “So, Malcolm.” I pick up my coffee and take a sip instead.

“As you know we had to let Hannah go last month.”

“Yes,” I confirm.

“For reasons I won’t go into,” he continues.

Who’s he trying to kid? It was the talk of the office.

“Of course,” I say, picking up my biscuit and taking a quick bite before it’s my turn to speak again.

“You have been acting senior account planner since then haven’t you?”

“I have, yes,” I confirm, wiping a crumb from my lip with my thumb.

“And have you been enjoying the role?”

“Oh yes, very much so,” I say.

Yes, I know it’s a big fat lie, but what do you expect me to say? “No, Mr Hurley, I can’t stand the bloody job. In fact, you can shove your rotten job up your bum”?

“It’s giving me some exciting challenges through which I can develop my skills and enhance my experience,” I add for authenticity, before taking another slurp of coffee.