State We're In Page 3

  ‘No way. This, my friend, is on me. Man to man. Buddy to buddy.’ Rogers had been flattered; it was clear that he – like most corporate marketers – thought the agency guys were where it was at. Especially Dean. Dean was quite a guy. Everyone said so. He was funny, a wisecracker, full of killer one-liners. And he was tough. Worked out. Fast, determined. He’d completed the Chicago marathon every year for five years, and although he was, obviously, getting older, he always improved on his time. He was the sort of guy people invited to their parties, and if he couldn’t make the suggested date, they would postpone the celebration. He was the type of bloke who might hold the lift for a woman and then ask, ‘Are you going up or down?’ and the women would beg to tattoo his phone number on to her breasts. He was a man who other men dreamt of becoming.

  Dean could almost hear the slot machines pounding. Ker-ching. Viva Las Vegas!

  ‘No. No, it’s not Rogers,’ his PA, Lacey, replied. ‘It’s a hospital. A UK hospital. Queen Anne’s in London. I didn’t catch the state.’

  ‘We don’t have states in Britain,’ said Dean with a sigh. His PA was hot but not sharp. He might have to reconsider his recruitment policy. ‘I’ll take it in my office.’ He hoped to God his sister Zoe and her kids were all OK.

  ‘Mr Dean Taylor?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘I’m Kitty McGreggor, a nurse at Queen Anne’s Hospital, Shepherd’s Bush, London.’

  ‘Is it my sister, Zoe, or the kids? Are they OK?’ he demanded.

  ‘Actually, I’m ringing on behalf of Mr Edward Taylor.’ The nurse had a gentle Scottish lilt to her voice. She sounded no-nonsense; firm, calm and in control.

  For a moment Dean could not compute the information he was being given. It was not the Scottish accent that was confusing him. It was the name: a dim and distant memory, not to be whispered, let alone said aloud. The words Edward Taylor struck fear and loathing into the core of Dean Taylor, the way the word Macbeth – said during rehearsals of any show – struck actors; it was sure to bring bad luck.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you, Mr Taylor, but your father has pancreatic cancer. It’s unfortunately spread to other parts of his body and …’ She paused, tenderness creeping into her voice. ‘And I’m afraid it’s terminal. In fact, he doesn’t have long left. It’s only right that you should know.’

  ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘We’re estimating a week or so, perhaps less. Perhaps days. There is no mistake.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the diagnosis.’

  ‘You are Dean Taylor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Son of Edward Taylor?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Then there’s no mistake.’

  ‘The mistake is him asking you to call me.’

  4

  Jo

  ‘I just can’t believe that in seventy-two hours Martin will be married. Married!’ I drag the words out of my dark and dingy subconscious and throw them on to the table for my big sister to examine closely, but Lisa is so obviously far more interested in the dessert menu. I understand: she’s a working mother of three children and so nights out require military-precision planning; she’s keen to have a good time, which includes ordering something lovely and indulgent for dessert. We’ve only managed to pull off this evening because I’m temporarily living with Lisa, and Lisa’s husband views the idea of getting me out of the house (with or without Lisa) as one less obstacle between him and the remote control, so he offered to babysit.

  ‘What do you think, chocolate soufflé or tiramisu? I think I’ll go for the tiramisu,’ says Lisa, closing the menu with an air of finality. She’s taking advantage of the fact that I’m her sister; she’d never order such an unfashionable dessert in front of her City analyst friends, but with me she can even drink Baileys in her coffee if she wants; sisters are forgiving about such things. I love her, but right now she’s driving me nuts, as she’s clearly reluctant to engage in the subject of my ex’s imminent nuptials – the only thing I can think about. I bang home my point. ‘Less than three days. Seventy-two hours, to be precise!’

  ‘But are you being precise? Is it seventy-two? Technically I’m not sure, what with the time difference and everything. I mean, Saturday afternoon in Chicago is different to Saturday afternoon here, isn’t it?’ points out Lisa. ‘Theirs is later, isn’t it? I think you are looking at about eighty hours.’

  I glare at my sister. ‘I think you’re missing the point.’

  ‘Am I?’ Lisa replies. She takes a sip of her white wine and feigns innocence. ‘What is the point, then?’

  It’s clear from her face that she regrets the question the moment she’s asked it. I’m aware that the entire evening’s conversation has an awful sense of déjà vu rumbling around it. I know that as well as she does; that’s exactly why I need her to indulge me.

  ‘It should have been me,’ I wail dramatically.

  ‘No, it shouldn’t,’ Lisa states emphatically. Not really grasping the concept of indulging.

  ‘Yes, it should. He asked me first.’ Even I know I sound like a kid in the school playground bagging her place in the dinner queue: I got here first!

  ‘But you didn’t want him,’ says Lisa.

  ‘No, not then, maybe not. But now. Now,’ I insist.

  When I say that this evening has more than a hint of déjà vu, that’s because three months ago – when I first received the stiff gold-embossed cardboard invitation to Martin’s wedding – Lisa and I had a similar night out; one where I poured out my heart to her and she accused me of rewriting history. That night, like this one, was steeped in indignation and self-pity. During that evening I’d initially tried to say all the things that I knew were expected of me. I pretended to be delighted that Martin had ‘moved on’ and met someone else, someone he cared about so deeply that he wanted to marry her. Then, when I’d had a glass or two of wine, I swapped the words ‘cared about’ with ‘settled for’ and ‘wanted’ with ‘prepared’. The third time I repeated the story (after I’d finished the vast majority of the bottle of Shiraz), I commented on the ‘indecent haste’ with which he’d rushed into this ‘unsuitable match’ and repeatedly muttered the words, ‘Clearly rebound’.

  ‘Well, it’s been nearly five years since you two split up. I don’t think that is indecently speedy in terms of recovery,’ Lisa had pointed out calmly (and somewhat irritatingly).

  I’d glared back. ‘Yes, but Martin only met this woman eighteen months ago.’ That piece of gossip had crawled all the way from America to London through a network of friends that we still shared. ‘It takes eighteen months to book a high-quality venue. His fiancée must have placed a deposit the night they met,’ I’d snapped.

  ‘Some people just know straight away that they want to be with one another for ever and don’t see any reason to hang around.’

  This is usually the sort of point I make, so it was difficult to argue; instead I’d suggested we buy another bottle. The night ended very badly. Drunk, I’d telephoned some other, less significant, ex and dashed over to his place for a bout of consolation sex. Lisa had been very concerned as she helped me into the cab that was to take me away.

  ‘There’s something about you that’s making me think of Paddington Bear,’ she’d commented.

  ‘Cute expression? Doleful eyes?’ I’d suggested, hoping I was hiding my slur pretty well.

  ‘More the helpless and confused stance, I think,’ she’d sighed. ‘I’m tempted to attach a note, Please look after this bear. She’s slighted and worried about dying alone, therefore vulnerable.’ Lisa had tried to smile, but I knew that what she was saying was serious.

  ‘No point. I’m not sure if all my ex-boyfriends can actually read,’ I’d joked. It was a sad joke really, because I think both Lisa and I know that since Martin, my standard in boyfriend selection hasn’t been too rigorous. Lisa once described my preferred sort of men to be ‘boorish, almost animalistic’. Certainly, I didn’t have the type of e
x-boyfriends who’d care about my motivation for turning up on a booty call; they’d simply want to take advantage of the fact I’d done so. That night turned out as you’d expect. I’d had careless sex with a careless man and woke up feeling worse, not better. Bruised. Not physically but emotionally.

  Lisa interrupts my thoughts now by saying, ‘Jo, you have to remember that you dumped Martin.’ She reaches for my arm and squeezes it. ‘You weren’t in love with him,’ she adds baldly.

  ‘Well, no but …’ I can’t bring myself to admit that now I’m thirty-five, almost thirty-six years old, practically staring forty in the face, I might not be so fastidious. So much has happened in the five years, two months since I split from Martin. Right now, all I can think of is the fact that I’ve attended seventeen weddings and currently have invites to three more. All I can say is, ‘Martin was kind and solvent, and tall.’

  ‘And dull. You were always going on about how you had nothing in common.’

  ‘I could have learnt to enjoy his hobbies,’ I insist.

  ‘I bet you can’t even remember what his hobbies were. Before you received the invite to his wedding, you hadn’t given him a thought in ages.’

  ‘I send him a Christmas card every year.’

  ‘You send all your exes Christmas cards every year. Honestly, I don’t know how you do, let alone why. You must have to start writing your cards in October.’

  ‘Ha ha. Funny.’ Her point is, I’ve clocked up an above-average share of exes in the past few years. Different people have different views on that; some of my friends who have been married for a dozen years or more think it’s exciting, others think I’m slutty. My mother thinks it’s disappointing. I think it’s heartbreaking.

  ‘I can’t imagine why he’s invited you,’ adds Lisa.

  ‘To gloat?’ I offer miserably. ‘Or maybe his fiancée has a string of exes that she’s inviting and he wants to prove he had a life before her.’ Depressed, we both stare at the highly polished table between us; neither reason is particularly heroic or appealing. Suddenly I’m struck by a more cheering thought. ‘Maybe it’s an SOS.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A cry for help.’

  ‘You think he wants you to help him?’

  I try to ignore her astonishment. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because—’

  I don’t allow her to finish. I won’t want to hear it. Lisa and I don’t think alike on matters of the heart. At least not my heart. I beam, warming to my idea. ‘Maybe he wants me to go to the wedding so I can stand up in the church and object to the thing going ahead.’

  ‘Stop it, Jo. You’re scaring me.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘But not probable. Look, I might have found that theory hilarious under other circumstances, but as it’s my sister talking, this situation is fast becoming tragic rather than comic. Get real. Just accept it. Martin has moved on.’

  I glare at her. I think her words are sharp and nasty; she probably thinks they are sensible and necessary. She pulls her gaze away from mine, embarrassed for both of us, then reaches for my arm again and gives it another little squeeze. I move away, not allowing her the satisfaction of comforting me. She takes a deep breath and then slowly, carefully adds, ‘Jo, I hate it that I have to dole out the yuckiest medicine, but the fact is, nothing has changed. Just because Martin is about to marry someone else does not mean that he’s any more suitable for you than he was before. That just doesn’t make sense. Obviously, if anything, he is less suitable. He’s in love with someone else. Can’t you be happy for him?’

  Can I? Am I still capable of truly revelling in other people’s happiness?

  As hideous as I sound, no, I don’t think I can. If I admit as much to Lisa, she’ll be disgusted with me, probably make me pay for my own dinner, so I bite my tongue and pretend to be a better person, more like the person I was until endless, fruitless dates took their toll. I notice Lisa’s own wedding ring glinting seductively in the dark restaurant. Lisa has been married for fourteen years – happily married; some might say smugly – so I know she just can’t understand what I’m going through. She already had two children and was pregnant with her third by the time she was my age, and she never even expressed any particular interest in getting married when we were growing up; for her it was all about her school work and then her career. She has no idea about loneliness or grief or remorse, which are the emotions that haunt me. She most certainly does not think of her life as one long corridor of closed doors – marked Missed Opportunities, Regrets and Lost Chances – along which she dawdles aimlessly. I feel as though I’ve wandered up and down that particular corridor, alone, for ages now. I can’t explain it to her. It’s too harsh. It’s too humiliating.

  She doesn’t think I’m due any sympathy, because I threw over Martin. I dumped him. But honestly, sometimes that makes things harder, not easier. The regret is sharper, more poignant. I messed up. He was a great guy. Marrying material. The sort of man women want to marry. Should marry. I see that now. All my friends are married or living with someone, and once they have settled partners they’re no longer interested in coming out and meeting new people. (Oh OK, what I’m talking about specifically here is coming out to meet new men – obviously.) My horizons are narrowing. When I was younger, I used to meet new people by the dozen, every week: at uni, in bars, in nightclubs and then at work. As the years have passed, opportunities have diminished. My friends from uni are now far-flung and most of them are happily coupled off and wouldn’t dream of going on a pub crawl and chatting to total strangers like we once did. I can hardly go to bars on my tod, and I could never go to a nightclub now, even with a battalion of supporters; those places are frequented by women who are literally young enough to be my daughters. I’d have to fight the urge to encourage them to wear a coat or button up their tops to cover up their smooth, plump skin. The biggest irony is that I work for a bridal magazine, which besides being a constant taunt is, as you might guess, an entirely male-free zone.

  I have tried to find other places to meet people, I really have. I am not a quitter. I’m a member of a gym, I’ve joined a night class to study French (as everyone knows it’s a very sexy language) and I go to a salsa club to practise flirting, every other Tuesday at the town hall in Wimbledon. Afterwards I stay at my parents’ house. I know a sleepover at the parental home probably does reduce my chance of wild nights of passion, but my mum makes unparalleled lasagne and it’s hard to resist. I have made some new friends through these channels, but no men friends, no single men friends, which is the aim; the classes are largely populated by other women who are also looking for romantic leads. While I’m quite good at making new friends and these women are smiley and usually up for a glass of Bordeaux or a margarita after the class, it seems my new friends are invariably more adept at finding life partners than I am. They keep getting married. One after another. Hence the obscene number of wedding invites I receive.

  These other women make looking for love seem so easy. It appears to be the case that no sooner have they decided they are ready to settle down than they do exactly that. Then, inevitably, a ritual is observed. Initially the newly-weds invite me to join them on double dates or they set me up on blind dates with their friends and colleagues, but for one reason or another, I’ve never stumbled upon my soulmate, and while I maintain the friendship with the new bride, the invites for double dates eventually dry up. We settle into girl-only evenings, where we spend the night picking over my disastrous dates, and when that’s just too depressing, we pick out kitchenware for their new homes.

  What is wrong with me?

  I have a good sense of humour (it says so on all my singles profiles but it is also true). I’m generally caring, thoughtful, sympathetic, and I’m known to be generous. I’m fun, I think, as far as anyone can ever judge this about themselves. I know I’m lucky to have a number of interesting, amusing and committed friends – friends I’ve secured through my resolute loyalty and ability to remember thei
r kids’ birthdays – but the fact is I also have an endless trail of faithless, irresponsible or arrogant exes which I’m all too aware that I’ve acquired because my growing desperation has led to a terrible lack of discernment.

  I do look younger than my thirty-five years. I could pass for thirty-three in dim light, younger still from behind, as I make an effort to eat sensibly and dress well in an attempt to defy gravity and the facts. I have long dark hair and huge brown eyes that are framed with thick lashes. I used to think my eyes were my best feature but I’m not so sure now, as there are depressing crow’s feet showering from them. I’m considering Botox, although whenever I dare to hint as much to my friends or my sister they howl with laughter and tell me not to worry for another decade. ‘You’re still a baby,’ Lisa often says, but I’m never sure if that’s an out-and-out compliment.

  I’m not a baby, though, am I? Next birthday I’m thirty-six, literally in my late thirties. That’s just maths. No denying it.

  The issue is, I have always wanted to marry. Some people hate the idea, think it’s an outdated institution, restrictive, unrealistic, etc., etc., but it’s always been something that I thought would be part of my life plan. My parents have been happily married for thirty-eight years this weekend; they’re the gold standard – well, technically closer to the ruby standard, I suppose, but you know what I mean. They are happy, fulfilled and inseparable. Lisa and Henry have been together forever, as I mentioned. Even my younger brother, Mark, is happily married and has been for three years. Divorce statistics are trumpeted in newspapers; the pessimists like to present the UK as a country falling apart at the seams, populated with people unable to maintain a relationship for as long as they maintain a hairstyle, but that isn’t my experience. I sometimes think I only know married people.

  I’ve been actively trying to get married for over half my life. When I was sixteen, I begged my parents to let me attend a sixth form that had only just started to accept girls so that I’d meet lots of boys while doing my A levels. I only settled on a university after carefully studying the male/female quota of not only the university itself but my subject in particular. Naturally, I wasn’t daft enough to think I’d meet men at Loving Bride!, but I was engaged to Martin when I took the job; I wasn’t on the lookout then. Deal done. Or so I thought. Considering all my effort and vigilance on the matter of meeting a mate, it does seem a bit weird that I’ve mucked it up and I’m still alone.