It Was You

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, accepting the plate of tapas from her with a smile. ‘I actually live in Solihull and about fifty per cent of my work, up until now, has been Birmingham-based. The rest I travel for: London, Leicester, Aberdeen and, of course, Bristol. At the moment, I average three or four days here a month, doing consultancy work for Greg and another firm. But I’ve now signed an initial two-year, full-time contract with a Bristol company, and I’m already looking at property to buy. But the market is pretty dead right now. There’s no doubt I’ll be renting for a while.’ He picked up his fork and made as if to eat. However, the interview was not quite at an end.

  ‘Where do you stay when you’re here?’ asked Sophie.

  He smiled amiably and lowered his fork. ‘I generally commute during the week,’ he replied, ‘with the occasional overnight stay in a hotel. But tonight I’m with friends in Sneyd Park.’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Sophie.

  ‘It is,’ he smiled. ‘And there’s parking.’

  ‘Ah, yes, parking,’ said David. ‘I hear you have a Morgan. I suppose that makes whizzing all over the country much more enjoyable.’

  Stephen looked intrigued. ‘How did you know I had a Morgan?’

  ‘Greg,’ I explained, ‘has mentioned it. Repeatedly.’

  He smiled in comprehension. ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about cars,’ I said. ‘I can barely drive, to be honest. I’m on my bike most of the time.’

  Stephen looked at me. ‘It’s a shame I have to be back first thing tomorrow, or we could have gone out for the day.’

  ‘It’s the kind of car which deserves a wicker picnic hamper and cold champagne, Alice,’ said David.

  ‘All I want to know,’ said Sophie, turning to Stephen, ‘is whether the top comes down.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ he replied.

  She nodded and sighed happily. ‘My first car was a 2CV convertible with bubbles on the side. Driving along with the roof down was great. I’ve got a Beetle now,’ she added, smiling at Stephen, ‘and I love that, but the 2CV was the only car I’ve ever really been excited about.’

  ‘What happened to it?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, the windscreen wipers kept catching fire, didn’t they.’ The statement had an ‘of course’ air about it.

  David looked puzzled. ‘Goodness, I wasn’t even aware that could happen.’

  ‘Lots of things happen,’ said Sophie, adopting a 1940s BBC tone, ‘of which you are not aware, David. And that is because you are so very posh.’

  ‘To be fair to David,’ I said, ‘I’ve never heard of windscreen wipers catching fire either.’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie, ‘but you have heard of Jason Orange and McDonalds, and you aren’t closely related to anyone who sits in The House of Lords.’ She turned to Stephen. ‘David’s life experiences are very,’ she pressed her hands flat together and then moved them a centimetre or so apart, ‘narrow.’

  David closed his eyes, as if concentrating deeply. ‘Jason was the most proficient dancer in Take That and I can tolerate the Filet-o-Fish but not the Big Mac. Oh and,’ he opened his eyes and looked directly at Sophie, ‘Lord Porter is not a close relative, he’s my aunt’s cousin.’

  Sophie held up her hand, palm facing David. ‘Kudos,’ she smiled.

  David returned the smile and then looked up questioningly at her hand, which was still hanging at head height. She rolled her eyes, took his hand and slapped it against her own. ‘It’s called a high-five, David,’ she said. ‘A high-five.’

  * * *

  We left the restaurant at ten-thirty, Sophie and David wandering off to find her a taxi, and Stephen offering to walk me the short distance home. I hesitated over accepting and considered instead sharing a taxi with Sophie, despite the fact that I could be home in less than ten minutes on foot. But realising that this would seem both ridiculous and rude, I said yes to Stephen; three glasses of wine helping to conquer any nerves over a one-on-one conversation, which, I knew, risked being more personal than the small-talk with which our evening had started. Additionally, of course, I would have to face the come-in-for-coffee dilemma.

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ I said to him, as we headed off. ‘It’s going to leave you with quite a walk across The Downs.

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ he said, patting his midriff. ‘I need to work off at least some of that tapas.’

  ‘We always over-order,’ I sighed. ‘Mind you, I did wonder at one point whether you were going to actually get a chance to eat anything. Sorry about the grilling from Sophie.’

  ‘She’s quite something,’ he said.

  I looked up at him, expecting to see a hint of disapproval in his expression. I was relieved to find him grinning.

  I smiled. ‘You coped well.’

  ‘There wasn’t anything to cope with,’ he said. ‘She obviously thinks a lot of you and wanted to assure herself that I wasn’t a predator. I don’t mind that. I like her for it in fact.’

  ‘She’s such a good friend,’ I said. ‘Scarily frank, at times. But lovely.’

  ‘And David?’

  ‘He’s lovely too,’ I said.

  ‘He seems very fond of you.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘There’s nothing between us, if that’s what you mean,’ I said quickly. ‘David’s type is more…’ I searched for an accurate, but not too damning, description, ‘…assertive. They pursue him. He’s certainly not one for the chase.’

  Stephen smiled. ‘Maybe he just hasn’t met anyone he feels is worth chasing yet.’

  ‘Well, I wish he would,’ I said. ‘He often ends up sticking with relationships when maybe he shouldn’t. He’s just terrified of hurting anyone’s feelings.’ I sighed. ‘But then I guess we all are to some extent.’

  ‘The idea of hurting someone is never great,’ agreed Stephen. ‘But, in the end, my view is that life is for living your way. Pleasing all of the people, all of the time, is an impossibility.’ He paused and nudged me. ‘Do you think maybe we’re getting a bit heavy here?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I smiled.

  He laughed. ‘Well, how about I just say: David and Sophie seem very nice and you’re very fortunate to get on so well with your work colleagues.’

  I nodded. ‘To which I shall uncontroversially reply: Yes – they’re great and I am indeed very fortunate.’

  He smiled and placed his hands in his pockets, an action which left me feeling as if he might be in search of a pebble to kick along the pavement, or an overhanging tree branch to jump up and touch. ‘I really miss the banter of a familiar workplace. Contract work can sometimes make you feel like the perpetual outsider – forever the new boy.’

  ‘But not for much longer,’ I said. ‘Are you looking forward to the move?’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘You know, I am,’ he said. ‘I really am. I enjoy change and I should have moved on before now, really. Do you ever feel like that? That you’re aching for change?’

  I thought about it. ‘I’m not sure I do,’ I said. ‘I wonder if I’m rather afraid of it actually.’

  ‘So you never wake up in the morning and want something different, something unexpected, to happen? A change for the better?’

  ‘Ah, but,’ I held up a finger, ‘what if you’re pretty happy with things the way they are? And what if change isn’t for the better?’

  ‘I see your point,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t always have to be an either/or situation. You can taste change and, if you decide it’s not for you, then simply revert. It’s a case of maintaining, rather than burning, bridges. But, in any case, pretty happy just isn’t enough for me. I want completely.’

  ‘And you don’t feel completely happy at the moment?’

  He looked at me. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But I’m not as miserable as sin either.’

  ‘Not as miserable as sin,’ he echoed. ‘You aim high, then.’

  ‘God, that sounds pitiful, doesn’t it?’ I laughed. ‘Alice
Waites, current status: not as miserable as sin.’

  ‘So, what would it take to raise Alice Waites’ status to completely happy?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know,’ I said simply. ‘I’m not sure I’ve really given it much thought.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should.’

  ‘Unless I think about it and realise that I can’t have what I want.’

  ‘If you want something badly enough, you can have it.’

  I stopped walking and looked at him. ‘You make it sound very easy,’ I said doubtfully. ‘But what about the other people, other factors, in the mix? What about circumstances beyond our control?’

  ‘It’s not easy,’ he said, ‘far from it. And other people and their feelings, and how you manage them, are something you have to take into account when deciding what you want. But,’ he reached up and plucked a leaf from a low-hanging branch, before discarding it with a flick, ‘in my experience, to achieve something, you have to want it. Really want it. And if you don’t achieve it, then you simply didn’t want it enough. Blaming someone else for your failure to achieve, is just a convenient excuse.’

  I looked up at him and whispered, ‘Getting heavy again.’

  He grinned. ‘OK, how about I keep it really light?’ he said, as we started to walk again. ‘Right now, what I really want is for you to decide whether you’ll let me take you to dinner, or to a movie, or for a champagne picnic. Just the two of us. No one else. And not because I want to find out more about Bristol, but because I want to find out more about you. That,’ he turned his head to look at me, all hint of boyishness now gone, ‘is what I really want.’ We walked on in silence, whilst I pictured the various scenarios in my head, none of them striking me as at all unpleasant. ‘Sorry,’ he said eventually, interrupting my musings, ‘on reflection, that was actually quite heavy again, wasn’t it?’ He slapped a hand to his forehead and shook his head despairingly.

  I looked up at him and laughed. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted; I didn’t know whether I could ever be completely happy – but I did know that my evening with Stephen Powell had made me feel better than I had in weeks. ‘I think, in this instance,’ I said quietly, ‘I’m actually surprisingly OK with heavy.’

  We stopped walking and he took my hand and turned towards me. ‘I’m delighted to hear that,’ he said, looking at me for a moment before bending down and kissing me gently and briefly on the lips. And then, as I smiled up at him and he took my face in his hands, kissing me again, this time slightly harder than the last, I couldn’t help thinking that the prospect of inviting him in for coffee, didn’t seem such a worrying one after all.

  Chapter 27

  It was 8.25am when Sophie’s yellow beetle pulled up outside my flat. She beeped the horn and I grabbed my umbrella and laptop and hurried out to meet her. She leaned over to open the car door for me as I approached.

  ‘God, it’s wet,’ she said, as I slammed the door and buckled myself in.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Glad I’m not biking it to this meeting.’

  I waited for her to pull away and, when she didn’t, I turned to look at her. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘New dress?’ she asked.

  ‘What? Oh,’ I smoothed the floral fabric, ‘yes, it is. I just thought it might be nice to have something new to wear to Oliver! tonight.’ She smiled but didn’t say anything. ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she laughed, turning on the engine. ‘You just look very nice, that’s all.’

  * * *

  Our meeting with Henry Stern lasted approximately two hours. Clearly a very creative individual, he put forward lots of ideas regarding the renovation and listened attentively and enthusiastically to our suggestions as to how these might be practically interpreted and brought to life. As we sat there, exchanging ideas, drinking tea and looking at mood-boards, I felt that this would be a project wholly unlike the one recently completed for Eleanor Black, a feeling which was echoed by Sophie as we stopped off to grab a quick coffee in Clifton, rather than returning straight to the office.

  ‘Well, at risk of sounding like David,’ she said, as I returned to our table and placed a cappuccino in front of her, ‘I’m feeling really good about this project. All the more because it comes hot on the heels of Mrs Melons.’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted, sitting down. ‘But I also really like Henry. Perceptive and receptive.’

  ‘Perceptive and receptive? You’re as slick as he is, with his stimulation through simulation.’ She smiled briefly but I noticed her face fall as she picked up her coffee and took a sip.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I asked.

  She looked up at me and her smile returned. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You just looked very serious for a moment, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. I…’ She hesitated, sighed and put down her coffee. ‘Alice, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you think I come across as a slapper?’

  ‘What?’ I was horrified. ‘Are you serious? What on earth makes you ask that?’

  She stared absently into her cup. ‘I was thinking about it the other day. I mean, I look at you, dithering over going for a drink with a guy and then there’s David…’

  I opened my mouth to voice an objection but she held up a hand. ‘Hang on, hang on,’ she said, ‘just let me finish. I look at David and OK, so he doesn’t enter into relationships for the best of reasons but, once he’s in them, he sticks with it because… well, because he places such importance on people’s feelings, I guess.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, I guess that’s it. And I worry…’ She paused. ‘Well, I don’t worry – but I wonder – whether maybe people think that because I date quite a lot, I don’t place that same importance on people’s feelings.’ She picked up and sipped her coffee. ‘Or maybe they think I can’t. And maybe,’ she shrugged, ‘maybe that puts a certain kind of person off.’

  I stared at her. In the four years I had known her, I had never heard her utter anything so heavy with vulnerability and self-doubt. I felt at a loss.

  ‘Sophie…’ I began, before realising that I had no clue as to how to continue, let alone conclude, the sentence.

  She looked at me enquiringly but didn’t speak. I tried again. ‘Nobody and I mean nobody thinks you’re a slapper.’

  She managed a smile. ‘I know you don’t,’ she said. ‘But I think maybe I give the impression to some people of not being very… selective. In here,’ she tapped her chest, ‘I’m very choosy. No bloke gets in here very easily. And it’s always been more fun like that. Because when they do get inside, well, then it’s…’ She looked as if she might be about to say more but instead fell silent for a moment, returning her attention to her coffee. When she spoke again, it was with a changed, more familiar, tone. ‘Did you notice how Henry kept mentioning his workshop?’ she grinned. ‘It’s either gonna be full of muppets, or a sadomasochist’s dream. Stimulation through simulation.’ She shook her head and laughed.

  I felt unable to keep up with, and unwilling to accept, the sudden change in subject and mood. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your approach to relationships,’ I said. ‘You have fun and no one gets hurt – and if something more significant develops, then great.’

  She nodded rapidly. ‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘It’s just that someone interested in significant, might think I’m only into fun,’ she added quietly. ‘That’s the problem.’

  I shook my head. ‘This isn’t like you.’

  ‘And that,’ she held up a finger, ‘is precisely my point. Even you don’t expect me to be thinking deeply about stuff. If you don’t, then what’s everybody else’s opinion of me? What judgements are they making?’

  ‘I’m not surprised that you have depth,’ I protested. ‘You’re one of the most thoughtful and insightful people I know. I’m just surprised that you’re worrying about what other people think. And that you’re so wide of the mark. That’s what I mean when I say this isn�
�t like you.’

  ‘Wondering not worrying,’ she corrected. ‘And I only wonder about people I care about.’

  ‘Well, stop wondering, because everyone close to you knows you are funny, clever, caring, supportive and certainly not lacking in depth. Ask any of the book group lot. And if you’re after a male perspective other than Jon’s,’ I continued, ‘look at the respect David has for you. He told Eleanor Black that he valued you both professionally and personally.’ I picked up my coffee and leaned back in my chair. ‘You know he never says anything he doesn’t mean and I remember thinking that that was a huge, across-the-board compliment. And I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ I tutted. ‘No one thinks you’re a slapper. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.’

  ‘OK.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Anyway, talking of slappers, how are you getting on with Stephen?’

  I laughed, in spite of the sombre context of her comment, and accepted that it was now time to move on to a lighter topic. ‘Well, I haven’t had much chance to be a slapper yet, have I?’ I said. ‘Just that walk home and a few snogs over a late-night coffee after tapas last week.’

  ‘But he’s down tonight for Oliver!’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘God help him. Have you told him about the trolley? Ooh and the punch-up last year when Peter Pan called his shadow a—’

  ‘Yes,’ I interrupted. ‘He knows they don’t always stick to the script.’

  She smiled. ‘Anyway, where’s he staying this weekend?’ The question was unmistakably loaded.

  ‘He’s not staying the weekend. He has to be back early Saturday. People are coming to view the flat during the day. But he’ll be in Sneyd Park again tonight,’ I said, refusing to acknowledge the implication of her enquiry.