But Jess wasn’t taking no for an answer and so, reluctantly, I met her before work for an early class. Only when I arrived I discovered she had an ulterior motive for seeing me, which had nothing to with Bikram yoga.
And everything to do with Greg.
‘Heather, do you always have to be so cynical?’ she grumbles. For the last forty-five minutes she’s been all dreamy-eyed in her blow-by-blow account of Greg and his amazing technicolour life – how he’s training for a triathlon, just got back from climbing Machu Picchu and is fluent in five languages. But now she’s scowling at me from her mat.
‘I’m not being cynical,’ I protest hotly. ‘I was just saying—’ Damn, what was the title of that movie? It’s niggling me now.
‘Well, don’t,’ she interrupts crossly. ‘OK, I admit in the past I’ve kissed a lot of men I thought were princes who turned into frogs, but Greg’s different.’ At the mention of his name she gets that dreamy-eyed look again. ‘He seems really genuine and honest. And he’s got a perfect record when it come to relationships. Never been married, several girlfriends but no one special . . .’ she’s counting off the points on her fingers ‘. . . wants to settle down and have children.’
‘Jack Nicholson,’ I blurt triumphantly. ‘As Good As It Gets.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the line from the movie. Jack Nicholson says it to Helen Hunt.’
Jess glowers. Oh, shit, why did I just say that?
‘. . . and so, bringing ourselves up to a standing position, let’s take some deep breaths . . .’
‘It’s a great movie,’ I add feebly.
Jess presses her thumb against one nostril and begins doing her yogic breathing. Dressed in all the latest yoga gear she bought on eBay and able to fold her body in half, she’s the kind of person whom beginners like me dread getting stuck to next to. I, on the other hand, in my ratty old T-shirt and shorts, am a beginner’s dream. I’d make your granny look supple.
‘Greg sounds great,’ I enthuse, trying to make amends.
‘He is,’ she says curtly, switching nostrils and inhaling deeply.
‘Really fit.’
And exhaling.
‘A triathlete. Wow,’ I persist.
Nothing. She just stands there, inhaling and exhaling. Inhaling. Exhaling. Only it’s not a deep, relaxing, get-in-tune-with-my-inner-peace kind of a breathing, it’s more of an angry, I-hate-my-friend-Heather snorting.
Fearing she might soon explode as the veins on her forehead are bulging, I make one last attempt at the peace process. ‘I’ve had sex.’
It’s like an Exocet missile, obliterating all her earlier thoughts of being offended.
‘Sex?’ She’s stopped snorting. ‘With whom?’
‘Well, you’re never going to believe this . . .’
‘Who? Who? Tell me who.’
‘My gorgeous neighbour.’
Jess’s eyes grow saucer-wide. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘Fuck.’
The woman next to us, in a leotard that looks as if it belongs to her daughter, stares at us.
Jess clutches at my arm in excitement. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘. . . and now move slowly into Warrior One . . .’
She drops my arm and we move into position – Jess with the graceful ease of someone who did childhood gymnastics, I with the crunching of knees that makes both me and the woman next to me wince.
‘I want dates, times, places, size,’ she demands.
I smile coyly. ‘His name’s James and we’ve already been on two dates.’
‘. . . and carry through into Warrior Two . . .’
The woman next to me sighs loudly. ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to find inner peace.’
‘Oh, fuck your inner peace.’ Jess moves into warrior pose.
Startled, the woman reddens.
‘I go away for a few days and it’s Bombshell City!’ continues Jess.
‘. . . and now bending your right knee and shifting your hips forward carry through to triangle . . .’
I try to lean forwards, then remember I have the special kind of body. The one that won’t bend.
‘So, come on, spill the beans – tell me all about him.’
‘Breathing deeply, let’s move to the balancing pose . . .’
Standing on one leg, Jess brings her hands smoothly to her chest as if she’s praying.
‘He’s great.’ I get a flashback of last night, all tangled up in James’s sheets. His naked body. Him kissing every single bit of me, starting at my toes and working his way up to . . .
‘. . . it’s important to keep yourself focused . . .’
The memory throws me off balance and I wobble over. ‘Amazing, actually,’ I whisper, trying to steady myself.
‘That’s fantastic.’ Jess grins with delight, then gets down to business. ‘What age bracket is he in?’
Trust Jess. She’s not interested in how James makes my stomach flip over, his lazy smile, or the way he calls me ‘honey’. She’s interested in make, model and income.
‘He’s thirty-six,’ I say, trying to focus on my yoga pose.
‘Excellent.’ She nods knowledgeably. ‘The twenty-six to thirty-five bracket are too immature, the forty-one to forty-five are fortysomething fuck-ups, but the thirty-six to forty guys are ripe for commitment. She leans closer as if telling me a secret, ‘Take it from me, if you’re lucky enough to find one, hang on to them like a rat to a meat cage.’
I recoil at the analogy. ‘What are you saying? That I’m a rat?’ Any hope of finding inner peace has vanished.
‘And . . . Swan dive . . .’
Smoothly touching her toes Jess ignores my last comment and moves swiftly on: ‘Does he have a clean relationship record?’
‘Clean?’ I repeat dubiously, swan-diving for my toes but unable to get any further than my knees. I strain as hard as I can.
‘You know – ever been married?’
‘Nope.’ Ouch. The backs of my knees are killing me.
Obviously this is a good answer: she looks pleased. ‘Lived with someone?’
‘Jess,’ I plead, ‘I like him, he likes me. It’s that simple.’
‘It’s never that simple,’ she warns solemnly. ‘You need to be aware of any red flags.’
Honestly, what is she going on about now?
‘You don’t go swimming if there’s a red flag, do you?’
I crumple: her logic makes no sense to me, but it’s easier to give in and comply. ‘He mentioned something about a girlfriend from South Africa . . .’ I say vaguely.
‘Why did they break up?’
‘. . . hands touching the floor once more into plank . . .’
Relieved to move poses, I lower myself on to the floor. My arms are shaking. ‘Erm, I think she moved back to Cape Town,’ I grunt. Crikey, this is a lot harder than I thought.
‘Sense of humour?’
‘. . . and let’s see if we can hold this position for three minutes . . .’
I glare at the instructor. Three minutes? Is he mad? Sweat drips on to my outstretched fingers and my chest feels as if it’s about to burst. I glance at Jess. She’s not even broken a sheen. ‘Uh . . . well . . . he can be a bit serious sometimes . . .’ I need to lie down.
‘Serious is good. You don’t want a joker.’
It has to be three minutes by now. It just has to.
‘Annoying habits?’
‘Nugghhh.’ I groan, wishing this class was over.
‘And now it’s time to relax. Lie down on your mats and close your eyes . . .’
With relief I do as I’m told. This is great. I’m getting used to all my little wishes coming true.
‘Bank balance?’ Jess’s voice snaps me back.
I groan, ‘Oh, God! I don’t know and I don’t care.’
‘You won’t be saying that when you’re turning right on an aeroplane,’ she warns, in stewardess mode. ‘Like my mother’s always told me, there’s no
thing romantic about being poor.’
‘But your mother’s not poor!’ I protest impatiently. Jess’s parents are super-wealthy and live in a million-pound house in Muswell Hill.
‘Exactly,’ she says evenly. ‘She’s not stupid.’
‘. . . allow yourself to float away . . .’
I love this. We’re at the bit where we get to nod off for ten minutes.
‘So that only leaves one thing,’ Jess is saying triumphantly.
I’m so knackered I really don’t want to ask, but unfortunately I’m too curious not to: ‘What?’
‘Sex.’
An image of me jumping on James springs to mind. ‘Let’s just say you can definitely put a tick in that box.’
‘Really?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Satisfied that I’ve appeased her, I settle and close my eyes.
‘What about foreplay?’
The woman in the leotard huffs.
‘Please, Jess.’ I’m squirming with embarrassment.
But she persists. ‘I need to know these things. It’s important. You’ve been out of the dating game for years. Trust me, I’m a professional at this.’
I open one eye to glower at her.
‘You don’t need to tell me the details,’ she placates. ‘Just nod or shake your head.’
I really want to ignore her but when she leans closer and asks, ‘Less than ten minutes,’ I can’t help shaking my head.
‘More than ten minutes?’
I nod more than a little proudly.
‘More than twenty?
I nod again, reliving last night for the umpteenth time. As a lover James was so – how shall I put it? – unselfish, and afterwards he’d hugged me close, kissing my eyelids and telling me how beautiful I was until I’d fallen asleep.
‘Thirty?’
‘A whole half-hour,’ I confess. ‘All to myself.’
‘Wow! So your wish really did come true.’
‘My wish?’ I repeat, trying to sound casual as a now familiar tingling erupts in my toes and whooshes up through my fingertips. I feel excited and scared all at the same time, like when I was a child on fairground rides.
‘Yeah. Don’t you remember wishing for a perfect man?’
Until this moment it hasn’t occurred to me, but now I realise she’s right. James is everything I ever wished for in a man. He even offered to run to the corner shop to buy me Tampax this morning when I complained of stomach ache. As it turns out it was just gas from all the champagne last night, but even so – he offered to buy me Tampax. Those words should be inscribed on a tablet of stone.
‘Clear your mind and let it drift away.’
A pair of feet belonging to the instructor appears alongside us and saves me from answering Jess. I’m more than relieved. My head is spinning, and as the instructor gives me a little shoulder massage, I try to do what he says. Stop thinking about James. Imagine my mind is a helium balloon, drifting away . . .
I close my eyes and fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty-two
Fast forward to Friday morning, eight a.m., and I’m standing on the doorstep in my dressing-gown, thanking the man from Interflora and staring down in amazement at the huge Cellophane bundle in my arms. Tied with a big, shiny pink ribbon, a dozen perfect red roses gaze up at me lovingly. Plucking out the little white card that nestles next to the sachet of flower food, I quickly read the message. ‘Just because you’re beautiful – Jmeas’.
My stomach flips. Wow, how romantic. This kind of stuff never happens to me. I often see the little Interflora vans zipping around and wish they’d stop at my address with a delivery. But they never do.
Never did.
Since Wednesday morning that little van has stopped outside my flat, not once, not twice, but three times! I still can’t believe it. Some people might think it’s a bit over the top, but isn’t it what every girl dreams of? A man who sends you flowers and romantic little cards that say, ‘Can’t stop thinking about you’ and ‘I miss you already’, which, I know might sound soppy, but are actually really sweet. When Daniel and I were together I was always wishing he could be more thoughtful, but James couldn’t be more thoughtful: he’s always calling and text-messaging me . . . which admittedly might feel a bit suffocating if it was anyone else, but with James it’s different.
Hugging my bouquet to my chest, I turn to go back inside but it’s so cumbersome to hold and hard to see over the top. I try to manoeuvre into the hallway but the roses and I get squashed between the doorframe and the wall. I tug at the Cellophane and accidentally break a couple of stalks.
Damn.
The scarlet heads of the roses droop, necks broken. Dismayed, I poke my fingers through the wrapping, trying to straighten them. A thorn pricks my finger, which starts bleeding. Ouch. I suck it. That bloody hurts.
I glare accusingly at the roses. I haven’t actually told James, but I’m not a big fan of red roses. I think they’re a bit corny – in fact, to be honest, I’m not really into cut flowers at all. They remind me of hospitals, of being a child and visiting Mum when she was ill. She was always surrounded by vases of her favourite pink carnations and I remember sitting at the bottom of her bed, feeling sad that something so pretty was going to die in a few days, and wishing they could live for ever.
But I don’t want to sound ungrateful. It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? And the roses are beautiful, in a flawless, ideal, traditional way. Well, apart from the broken ones but I’ll throw those away. No one’s going to count them, are they?
As I walk down the hallway I push my nose into the petals, breathing in their perfume. Mmm, they have such a strong scent. I take a deep breath. Mmm . . . Oh . . . I feel a tickle in my nostrils – hang on, it’s my hay-fever – all these flowers have brought on an attack. It’s really weird, I haven’t suffered from it for years, in fact I thought I’d grown out of it, but all these roses have . . . ooh, I think I’m going to . . . Throwing back my head I let out a violent sneeze.
It reverberates through my body at what feels like a hundred miles an hour and then – ooh – it’s gone. I open my watering eyes and sniff. Euggh, how disgusting. My beautiful bouquet is now sprayed with little flecks of snot. Hastily I wipe the Cellophane with my sleeve, but that’s even more disgusting.
Yuk. I’d better get a dishcloth.
I walk into the kitchen and see Gabe in a crumpled white T-shirt and Paisley boxers. He’s hunched over the toaster with a chopstick, poking around for something that’s got stuck and is emitting a strange smell. Almost like burning strawberries.
‘Lost something?’
‘Another darn Pop-Tart,’ he mutters, pushing his glasses up his nose. His face lights up when he sees me. ‘Secret admirer?’
Realising the bouquet, not me, is the reason for his smile, I feel curiously deflated. ‘Actually he’s not so secret.’
We exchange a look and suddenly I’m self-conscious.
‘Wow, that guy’s got a real habit.’ Gabe scratches his head, and his hair sticks up vertically in sandy tufts. ‘He needs Red Roses Anonymous.’
‘You’re not funny.’ I fish for my nasal spray in the pockets of my dressing-gown, then inhale deeply. With all these flowers I’ve spent a fortune in Boots this week – eyedrops, sprays, two boxes of antihistamine pills, and masses of tissues. Still, it’s worth it.
‘I’m not funny?’ Gabe is looking at me with genuine concern.
Of course I can’t go around telling stand-up comedians they’re not funny – even if it does happen to be true. ‘I was joking, silly,’ I lie hastily. ‘You’re hilarious.’ I rest the bouquet on the draining-board and start opening and closing cupboard doors to find something to put the roses in.
‘Are you looking for a vaize?’ he says, after a moment.
‘A what?’ I ask, crouching to bury my head among the saucepans.
‘A vaize,’ he repeats, only louder.
I reappear empty-handed from the cupboard under the sink and look at him in confusion. ?
??What’s a vaize?’
‘You know, they’re made of glass or ceramic. They’re for flowers?’
‘Oh, you mean a vase.’
‘No, I mean a vaize.’
I laugh. ‘Now you’re just being stubborn.’
‘So are you.’
‘Well, I’m a Piscean. We’re meant to be stubborn,’ I say self-righteously.
He eyes me with amusement. ‘That’s Taureans, actually. And I thought you didn’t believe in astrology.’
I feel myself redden. ‘I don’t. But in England it’s pronounced vase.’
‘Well, in America it’s a vaize.’
‘But you’re in England,’ I insist.
Somehow, and I’m not sure how, I’ve found myself in the middle of an argument – which I’m determined to win.
‘So? I’m American.’
‘So are you going to go around calling pavements sidewalks, the tube the subway, dressing-gowns robes—’ I break off as I flail around desperately for something much more – I’ve got it. ‘Or bottoms fannies?’
Ha! That’s shut him up. Feeling very told-you-so I continue my search for a vase.
‘You mean your fanny isn’t your ass?’ he asks, after a pause.
‘No, of course not.’ I laugh, examining an old jug.
‘So what is your fanny?’
‘My fanny?’ I echo distractedly. Hmm, I wonder if I could squash a dozen roses in there or if the jug would topple over. ‘Well, that’s easy. It’s—’ Oh, fuck. I stop dead – like one of those cartoon characters who keep running even though the ground has disappeared beneath their feet until they stop to look down. And then they plummet to their doom. I can feel myself plummeting.
‘Erm, well . . .’ As blotches of colour prickle on my chest I pull my towelling dressing-gown closer. Now, come on, Heather, don’t be so ridiculous. You’re both adults, there’s no need to be embarrassed. ‘My fa—’ I begin, and grind to a halt.
I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. Call me a prude, but this is my vagina we’re talking about. Or not. I cross my legs.