the downstairs one. Before the kitchen, on your left,’ Olivia says.
It’s as immaculate as the rest of their residence, and I have a pang about my own homelessness. It’s not Sale any more. It’s not Rupa’s palace either.
Mid-handwashing with something fragrant from a white china pump dispenser, I’m surprised to overhear a muted conversation between Ben and Olivia. From the clanking, I gather it’s taking place over the dishwasher. Something about the tenor of it tells me they think it’s private. I guess they haven’t worked out their new home’s acoustics yet.
After some debate over which way the plates are stacked, Olivia hisses: ‘Rachel’s sweet.’
I freeze, while reaching for the hand towel.
Ben responds: ‘Yeah, she is.’
Pause.
‘And pretty,’ Olivia adds. Ben makes an equivocal noise. ‘Nondescript was a little harsh.’
I actually suck in air at this. I look at myself in the mirror. Nondescript, slightly bloodshot eyes in a nondescript face. I think: you asked for this. You went looking for it, you begged for it, you knew it was coming and here it is, and guess what? You hate it. I start mindlessly washing my hands a second time.
‘I never notice anyone other than you, darling, you know that,’ Ben says with exaggerated gallantry, and Olivia snorts.
‘Simon’s keen,’ she says. ‘That’s going nicely, I think.’
‘Yeah, Liv, don’t force it, will you?’
‘I’m not!’
‘Rachel’s come out of a long-term relationship, she’s going to be a bit fragile.’
‘They were engaged?’
‘Yeah. Seriously,’ I hear Ben continue, ‘she was with Rhys ages. She was with him when I knew her.’
‘Then maybe a fling is exactly what she needs.’
‘Why do women always have to interfere?’
29
Two courses down, and the booze has really kicked in. Lucy’s giggling has got louder, Matt’s anecdotes are more risqué. Simon’s relaxed but he can hold his drink, so he’s giving nothing away. He watches me as I pick up my napkin, sit down again and refill my glass. I feel so hollow, I want to be full of something – it may as well be drink.
I catch the tail end of a discussion about the best age to get married. (Is it the age Matt and Lucy were wed, by any chance?)
‘Are you anti marriage then?’ Lucy asks Simon, covering her mouth decorously as she hiccups.
‘You’re not anti, you just haven’t met the right woman, have you, Simon?’ Olivia says.
She glances at me – Christ, she’s saying this for my benefit.
‘I’m not anti marriage per se, I’m anti most marriages,’ Simon says. ‘I’m anti the reasons people usually get married.’
‘True love?’ asks Lucy.
‘Most people don’t get married to the person they love the most, they marry whoever they happen to be with when they turn thirty,’ Simon replies. ‘Present company excepted, obviously.’
Present company excepted is such an elegantly insulting term, I think, given it clearly means present company especially. It’s up there with with all due respect, meaning with no respect whatsoever.
‘Listen to this, Simon’s saying everyone marries whoever they’re with at thirty and love’s got nothing to do with it,’ Olivia says, tugging on Ben’s sleeve as he finishes distributing dessert bowls among us and sits down.
‘I didn’t say love has nothing to do with it,’ Simon folds his arms. ‘See, this is the problem discussing this with women. They start shrieking. Do most people think, “this person is my destiny” when they tie the knot, or do they think “I can’t be arsed to make the effort to see what else is out there now, the hairline’s on the wane or the waistline’s on the wax, I feel fond, you’ll do?”’
‘Even if you have got married thinking that, isn’t it all about whether you’re going to honour your vows?’ Ben asks.
‘Hey!’ Olivia play-slaps his arm.
‘Of course I’m not saying I did, I’m saying theoretically here your motives matter less than your intentions.’
‘All relationships depend on timing,’ I say, careful to look only at Simon.
‘Suppose so,’ he says.
‘Let me get this straight,’ Matt says, springing into consultant mode, as if he’s been charged too much by a wholesaler for photocopier ink and is hunting for the flaw in the sums. ‘What’s wrong with settling down without making the effort to “see what else is out there”? How do you know anything better is out there?’
Simon shrugs. ‘You don’t, if you don’t look. I want the life I choose, instead of letting a life choose me. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t do the “right thing” to reward someone for long service, if you’ve grown out of them. Aim high.’
Matt’s eyes all but disappear as he squints. ‘Even if you want kids, clock ticking, you throw a stable relationship away …?’
‘Stable? Stable is for shelving!’ Simon says, revelling in his role as agent provocateur. Lucy and Matt look horrified.
‘But this means you believe in The One?’ Lucy asks, grasping at straws.
‘No, dear, I don’t. I’m a hardliner. Or as I like to call it, a grown up.’
‘Who’s this lady you’re pursuing if not The One?’ Lucy persists.
‘You appear to be confusing a marketing concept for romantic comedies with proven scientific phenomena,’ Simon says, and I start laughing, despite myself.
‘What are you sniggering at, Woodford?’ Ben calls, from the other end of the table, forcing me to look at him fully for the first time since ‘nondescript’.
‘It’s Simon – he’s so laser-sighted, lawyer snarky.’ I wave my hand: ‘Don’t stop. Sorry. You were saying, “The One”.’
‘She doesn’t exist?’ Lucy prompts.
Simon sighs. ‘There’s a percentage of people on the planet you can be reasonably happy with. The One is in fact one of around six thousand. Then it’s down to who you cross paths with, and when. The period in the middle where you’re in control of your bladder and bowels. Being a member of the point zero zero zero zero whatever per cent club in six billion is still an accolade. Any woman who doesn’t understand that has a poor grasp of mathematics.’
‘Or
