‘Well, that’s unfair, because Tom is very attractive.’
‘Surely you can resist his great and powerful dentist’s charm for one more date?’ he mocks. ‘How hot can he be, for God’s sake?’
‘Very. He’s bonfire hot. But following the rules is difficult, you know? It’s not just the sex thing, it’s . . .’
‘What?’
‘It’s THIS stuff. I won’t get to do any of this. You know, have a proper conversation. Have a laugh. Swear! I’ll be too busy being this fucking reserved, polite monster you’ve created.’
‘You’re such a drama queen. Just keep going with the book and you’ll be fine. I know you underestimate it, but you also underestimate yourself. To be honest, I’m surprised you’re single.’
Fuck me, was that another compliment? As my brain scrambles to make sense of this, I feel my face grow hot.
‘And why are you single?’
‘I don’t like complications. And I’m terribly picky.’ He smiles confidently at me, but I suspect it’s partly bullshit. I’m pretty sure that behind his good looks and cocky bravado lies a man who, at some point in his adult life, has had his heart well and truly broken.
‘Who was she?’ I ask.
‘Who?’
‘You know who I mean. The ex. Your cynicism towards dating and women has to come from somewhere.’
He stays silent, likely hoping that I’ll just shut up. But I don’t.
‘Oh, come on, you know almost everything about my dating life. Why—’
‘Anna. Her name was Anna.’ His body language has gone from flirtatious to fuck off. ‘She left me six months before I wrote the book. I was gutted of course, but I was able to recognize the mistakes I’d made and how I’d ignored a lot of her bullshit, thinking it didn’t matter because I loved her.’
‘Bullshit like calling you constantly and over-sharing?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But that was just one woman –’
He throws his head back and sighs. ‘But it only takes one woman to fuck your life up. You need to do things differently or it’ll just happen over and over again. We’re told that being honest and vulnerable with someone who has the ability to rip out your fucking heart is a good thing! It isn’t. Believe it or not, when I wrote this book I actually wanted to save women some of the misery that goes along with dating. Give them realistic expectations. We don’t need to be inside your head to be with you. We don’t need to know every intimate detail about you, because after you’ve gone we still carry that around like you’re still here.’
He stares at his empty glass and we sit in silence. I don’t know if I want to hug him or shake him but I don’t push him any further; instead I choose to call it a night.
Unlike the last time I left his flat, there’s no sexual tension at the doorway – I thank him for coming over and he leaves quietly, wishing me luck for Wednesday and declining my offer to pay for the food he brought.
Maybe his Anna is my Peter? Whoever she was, she really did a number on him, but unlike Dylan, I haven’t given up hope of finding someone again. It’s clear he has.
*
If Peter and I were still together, only one of us would attend parents’ evening, the other staying at home to take care of Grace. It’s what families do. But as we’re not together, neither of us wants to be the parent that doesn’t make an appearance on the one night dedicated to parents. It’s a matter of fucking principle. What if the teacher says something cool about Grace and the other one forgets to relay this important information? What would people we couldn’t give a shit about think of us? Even after three years, neither of us will budge, meaning Grace has to come with us while we have the privilege of being alone with her teacher for a whole ten minutes.
Peter is already there when Grace and I arrive and she spots him first, charging towards him like a very tiny bull. I take a little longer. She leads us in to the gym, where there are the other children forced to return to school. Grace doesn’t seem to mind, immediately ditching us to go to the library with some lanky child called Patsy or Parsley or something beginning with P.
Peter and I sit on the plastic chairs beside the P4 sign, where her teacher is finishing up with a set of parents both wearing identical black parka jackets. We’re only there for a few minutes before she calls us over.
Mrs Sharma is a jolly woman in her fifties who bleeds enthusiasm and takes great delight in telling us that there isn’t much to say about Grace. ‘She’s a pleasure to have in my class. I’m sure you saw from her work jotters that she’s coping well with the curriculum and I don’t have any concerns. She’s a credit to you!’
I can feel Peter’s ‘I didn’t see her jotters’ glare boring a hole into the side of my skull, but I ignore it. If he really wants to see them, I’m sure Happy Sharma will oblige him. She continues talking.
‘Grace was just telling the class how she was making spaghetti Bolognese with your friend last night. She said he was quite the hit with her little cat too!’
Peter’s skull-drilling resumes with more force than before. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Time to go. ‘Oh yes! Well, thanks very much for seeing us, Mrs Sharma, we’re thrilled that Grace is doing so well.’
