Twenty-Four
Despite my short-lived daydream of having a passionate affair with Javier, I’m a little concerned about just how much I’m missing Ryan. I have it pretty badly. He’s been in Copenhagen at some conservation architecture conference for what feels like several months (actually just several days), and there’s a few more days to go until I get to jump him at Heathrow the way Martine McCutcheon’s character in Love Actually did to Hugh Grant. I’ve had a fantasy of doing that since I first saw the movie when I was twelve, pretending to my friends that I was only appreciating it ironically. In my head, it will work out the same way, except possibly with fewer cameras. I’m also not sure whether you would actually be allowed to run towards the secure area that excitedly anymore or whether there’s a high risk of being rugby-tackled by an overly enthusiastic (and armed) policeman. Maybe I’ll just wait sedately until he makes it to my side of the barriers.
Just as I’m replaying my little airport reunion in my head, Sir John comes in, interrupting my reverie, with Mrs Jenkins pottering in behind, bearing our usual breakfast, plus some freshly baked croissants, orange juice, and a cafetière full of coffee on a heaving tray. She puts it down gently on the table, sets out the plates, unfolds Sir John’s favoured paper, The Times , and pours us both a cup of coffee, stirring Sir John’s milk in before quietly heading back into the kitchen. I watch her go, suddenly filled with societal guilt. When did this become the norm for me? I’m a member of the bloody Labour Party. I’ve always known I’m easily corruptible, but this is ridiculous. Still, I take a sip of coffee, and I feel the delicious aroma wafting into my nostrils and waking up my sleepy brain cells.
“Sir John…” I say tentatively.
“Harumph,” he answers, not looking up from his article about The Duchess of Gloucester opening a bagel factory in Kidderminster.
Undeterred, I persevere anyway, summoning up the spirit of Che Guevara: “Maybe one day it would be nice if Mrs Jenkins had breakfast with us?”
That catches his attention briefly. “Mrs Jenkins is my help. She doesn’t want to breakfast with us.”
“You might be surprised!” I say brightly.
He glares at me. “Are you a Marxist?”
“Erm, no,” I say hesitantly. I’ve never been 100% sure what being a Marxist actually entails, but I’m pretty sure the footwear is appalling, and Moscow’s far too cold even for a spiritual home. “I just think it’d be nice to have everyone, erm, treated the same…”
His glare intensifies, and the spirit of Che Guevara wilts and flees. I decide to fight this battle another time, and Sir John moves on to reading some in-depth feature on town planning and the impact of zebra crossings on traffic flow. Resolved to push for equality, liberty and fraternity when Sir John’s in a better mood (perhaps drunk on more mango punch), I let my mind drift lazily back to various romantic “return of Ryan” scenes. As if I’ve willed it, my phone pings just then with a message from him.
“Missing you so much! You’d love Copenhagen. Little Mermaid statue disappointingly small though xxx.”
I start drafting one back, “Missing you too! Maybe next time I can be your conference plus one…” I blink at it a couple of times before changing it to “Missing you too! Yes, I’ve always wanted to visit. Can’t wait to see you soon! Xxx.”
Suggesting being his conference plus one might be a little much at this stage of our relationship.
“Maybe next time you could be my conference plus one… giant hotel room here, kind of lonely…” he texts back as if reading my mind.
I blush and am surprised Sir John can’t feel the heat radiating from my face, but he seems oblivious, lost in what now looks like an article on Waitrose’s restructuring problems. He’s harrumphing testily and occasionally muttering “modernisation” and “nonsense!” under his breath.
I’m not sure how to reply to this one. It’s not that I don’t want to sleep with Ryan. I 100% do. Even the thought of it and I’m biting my lower lip involuntarily. The issue is, of course, that he doesn’t know my name. Everything is based on my stupid lies. He wants to have sex with a Russian émigré’s descendant called Anastasia. He does not want to have sex (or at least doesn’t know he wants to) with a duplicitous woman named Alex, who lures innocent men into correspondence by posing as an Agony Uncle for a dodgy magazine and who is in no way related to the Romanovs. I’m going to have to tell him. It’s gone too far. I can’t sleep with someone on this basis. It’s seedy and not in an acceptably sexy way.
I quickly text Adam, “Ryan sent a very suggestive text… what do I do?!”
“Fuck him. Obviously,” comes the rapid response.
“He doesn’t know my name!!!” I text back, scandalised.
“Meh. Hardly the first time it’s been done.”
Gah. He. Is. Infuriating.
I finish up the last of my bacon and go back to my room with the dregs of my coffee, pull out my laptop, and start crafting an explanatory email to Ryan. Surely, this is where a decade of wordsmithing will come in handy.
Half an hour later, I haven’t got beyond the second sentence.
Dear Ryan,
There’s something I need to tell you. My name is actually Alex, and I am actually the Agony Uncle at Ladditude .
No. Needs more build-up.
Dear Ryan,
One little thing that I hope you’ll find funny. In the longer term…
Dream on, Alex.
Ryan,
I need you to know that I definitely have a lot of feelings for you before you read what I have to say. I’ve been caught up in a lie, and it’s going to hurt you, but I never meant to. I need you to know I never meant to.
No, no, no. Some Agony Uncle I am. It’s just… how did this even happen to me? How do I even start explaining this situation? Maybe the written word is too cowardly. Perhaps it’s more of an in-person conversation anyway. Or a call?
I pick up my phone and consider exactly how that kind of call will go when it rings.
Adam.
“I’m not going to sleep with him when he doesn’t know my name,” I answer, saving time by foregoing pleasantries. I’ve learned that from Sir John.
“What? Oh right. Whatever. Like I said, I’ve slept with plenty of women without knowing their names. Anyway, not why I called.”
“What’s up then?” I say, irritated on behalf of all the nameless women with whom Adam has messed around.
“So, guess who just rocked up on a surprise visit?! Your parents!”
“Oh God! What seriously?! Why the hell are they there?”
“Your mum said something about a conference at some royal veterinary thing.”
“They don’t know I don’t live there anymore! It’ll totally freak them out. I am screwed. Screwed.”
“It’s OK. I told them Javier is your boyfriend, and you’re at the shops.”
“Oh God.”
“It’s fine! Javier is playing the role with aplomb. He said he’s a thespian. Something about playing a robot in Terminator the Musical . He’s been waiting in the wings for a moment like this since then.”
“Strangely, that’s not providing much comfort. Have they seen ‘my’ bedroom yet?”
“No, but it was a very near miss. Aunty Claire wanted to go there immediately, under the guise of ‘putting her handbag out of the way’, but clearly actually going to do a bit of reconnaissance on how much stuff Javier’s moved in and whether he’s sleeping over.”
I groan.
“It’s OK. I checkmated her and insisted on taking it in myself.”
“Oh God. Hang on, she’s calling.”
I put him on hold. “Oh, hello, daughter-of-mine. Where are you? Guess what?! Dad and I are at your flat with Adam! We’ve met (sly pause) Javier… your… boyfriend. How did you get to the stage of your relationship where you go out and leave him here without mentioning him? When will you be back? Are you surprised? Are you free for dinner tonight? Dad and I thought we’d treat you to your favourite Italian place.”
She takes a breath in the midst of her barrage of questions, and I jump in, “I’m shopping on Oxford Street.” I lie too smoothly. “I’ll be back in an hour,” I add, quickly calculating that I can make myself presentable and get to Clapham at that time.
I’m currently still pyjama-clad. Sir John and I have developed a comfortable rapport where he “takes breakfast” in his suit and tie, and I eat breakfast in my sheep-patterned pyjamas. Neither of us has commented on the other’s outfit, with the exception of Sir John raising a solitary eyebrow when first presented with the sheep.
“What are you doing on Oxford Street? You don’t have any money.”
“Buying new underwear,” I say, hoping to embarrass her into silence.
No such luck, “Oooh! Not too racy, I hope. I hope you’re not at that Ann Summers shop, Alexandra. If you need to do that to keep a man, then he’s not worth it.”
A text from Adam flashes up. “Take me off hold! Urgent!”
“Mum, I have a call waiting. Can I call you back?”
“Alex. I’m your mother… what could be more important?”
“It’s The Guardian , Mum.”
“Oh Alex, you must answer it. Remember to sound awake, dear.”
She rings off before I can pull at that particular little thread, and I answer Adam, “What, what?”
His tone is hushed and weirdly echoing, and I’m struggling to make him out. “Where are you?”
“In your old wardrobe. I went in to remove any incriminating things from Javier’s room while he was distracting your parents, but I heard them coming down the hallway and didn’t think, so now I’m in the closet. I can hear Aunty Claire on the phone to you outside the door. What should I do?!”
“Stay quiet and put the phone on speaker so I can hear what they say,” I instruct.
“OK,” he whispers, and I hear a bit of shuffling and then the sound of the phone being placed on the bottom of the wardrobe before the bedroom door opens.
“Oh Javier… you’re so funny!” my mother’s tinkling laugh reaches me, and I can tell she’s on full charm offensive. “Oh…” I hear her pause, which is unusual. “Alex has certainly changed things around here… I never knew she liked James Dean so much…”
Javier, the ham actor that he apparently is, jumps in, “Oh yes. She simply lusts after him. Well, he was such a handsome man.”
I can picture Mum’s confused expression, and I can hear my poor dad clearing his throat uncomfortably.
“Nice… cushions. They’re new!” my mother says brightly, hoping to change direction. “And… so many of them.”
“Oh, they’re mine. I like to be propped up when I… sleep. They’re lavender-scented!”
I cannot cope with this. My parents now think I’m a sex-crazed James Dean obsessive with very open-minded taste in men.
“So, Javier,” I can hear my dad saying, “how did you and Alex meet? So odd that she’s never mentioned you!” He sounds friendly, but I can sense a protective edge here.
Javier clearly has no such sense, “Oh, we met at a nightclub. She was totally … what would you say? ‘Sloshed’? Didn’t remember my name the next morning.”
What. The. Hell. I’m not sure what role Javier thinks he’s playing, but it’s definitely more Gaston than Prince Charming.
“Oh, err. I see.” My poor dad. No father should have to hear this about his daughter, especially if it could not be less true.
“So!” Mum jumps in cheerfully, “What do you do, Javier? For work and fun?”
Please not something sexual , I silently plead.
“I’m a trampolinist,” he answers proudly.
“A… a trampolinist? Is that a… how do you, er…!” my mother says, trailing off in bafflement.
“Lots of ups and downs, I imagine,” my father chips in with an attempt at humour.
“Well, it gives me the opportunity to meet lots of people.” Javier continues, “For fun, I like to write haikus… and you know, the usual manly stuff, cage wrestling, falconry… the list is endless.”
“Haikus?” my father asks. “What about?”
“Oh, the usual, man stuff. About my love of women. Of Alex, I mean. Only Alex, of course!”
“Oh… lovely,” my mother says. “Can we hear it?”
“Of course,” I hear Javier say, in a slightly higher register, “Right now? Er. Yes. It would be my pleasure.”
There is a pause that stretches for an era before this little ode makes its way down the phone line:
Her breasts, my penis.
Hillocks of joy, passionate
Fumble. A quick end.
There’s silence and then a large thump. My mother shrieks. “Adam! What were you doing in the closet?!”
There’s a moment of muffled chaos down the phone, and then I hear a sheepish Adam, “I, err… Alex asked me to check that she hadn’t left anything private lying around before you came back here.”
“What do you mean private? I’m her mother, for goodness sake.”
“You know, Aunty Claire, ‘private’.”
I silently curse him, but he continues, oblivious to my unspoken hex.
“Lucky I did. I had to remove a half-eaten pair of edible undies from the floor!” Adam adds, warming to his theme.
“They were delicious,” Javier adds, completely unnecessarily.
I will kill them. Kill them both dead. I’m loathe to disconnect the call, but the longer I leave it to get there, the more damage can be done.
I decide to take an Uber so I can stay listening through my earphones.
“I think that’s best left unsaid,” I hear my dad interjecting.
There’s silence from my mother, which is unusual and, in this situation, deeply worrying.
Oh. My. God. I will the car to drive faster, but the traffic lights all seem to have taken against me. Along with the entire universe, it would seem.
Adam is chiming in again. “Well, I think everything’s been hidden away now, so I’ll just…”
“Yes, thank you, Adam,” my mother injects quickly. Javier, lovely to finally meet you. Mr Taylor and I are just going to sit in the lounge until Alex arrives. Alone.”
This is really bad. My poor parents. First, they’re going to have to deal with what they’ve just heard, and then they’ll have to deal with the fact that the rest of their lives will be spent visiting their only daughter through the Perspex window of a prison visitors’ room after I’ve murdered Adam and Javier.
After what seems an eternity, the Uber pulls up outside the house, and I find myself wishing it wasn’t quite there yet. I’ve spent so much time wanting to get there and put a stop to this charade that I haven’t spared a thought for what to do when I actually arrive. It’s not lost on me that I was in the middle of trying to fix the lie with Ryan when I was suddenly pulled into fixing the Sir John lie with my parents. I’m tired of deception being such a major feature of my life. Sure, I am a daydreamer and have a big imagination, but if I am really trying to point to Chris and launch my writing career as a source for my fragile relationship with the truth, then why am I still doing it? Why am I still lying?
I approach the door tentatively, but clearly, my mother has been waiting for my return because I see the sitting room curtains twitch before the door opens abruptly.
“Alexandra. There you are. Let’s go to dinner.”
Mum is already wearing her coat, with her handbag over her arm. This is not good.
“Come along, Graham!” she says, in tones more frantic than usual, as my poor dad struggles to tie up his shoes.
“I’m coming, Barbara,” he says in the patient voice he’s always used when my mother gets mildly hysterical.
They usher me along the street until we reach Luigi’s , the local Italian restaurant my parents always favour when they come to London because it’s family-run (if by family-run you mean an elderly man with an angry moustache bellowing at surly teenage waiters). Donatello, the jocular head waiter, bears down on us immediately like we’re old friends. “Come in, come in! Lovely to see you.” He greets us warmly, gives cheek kisses all around, despite Dad’s best efforts at a handshake, and promises us the best table in the house. Fortunately, I know from experience that he doesn’t have a clue who we are, and if he did, the welcome would probably be significantly less effusive. My parents still tip in shillings.
The best table in the house is apparently a wobbly one tucked in the corner behind the door to the kitchen. Still, there are candles, and most importantly, Donatello is pretty speedy at taking our wine order and ensuring its fast delivery to the table.
My parents, culinary pioneers that they are, settle for their usual order of margarita pizza. Donatello looks at me. “And for you, young bellissima , tonight, I recommend the octopus!” he proposes with a flourish. “You look like a young woman with a love for the adventurous, no?” Dad chokes on his wine, clearly having flashbacks to the earlier things he ‘learned’ about his daughter. This is going to be an awkward dinner.
“Oh, I… well.Thank you. Erm, maybe not octopus…” I mutter something I read about the octopus being smarter than a four-year-old child… “Er, I’ll have the scelta gamberoni , please?”
Donatello looks disappointed I’m not taking his steer down the road of adventure, “You know, the prawns have feelings too!” he wanders off, chuckling merrily and leaving us to an awkward silence.
“Alexandra,” my mother begins, “we’ve had quite an interesting afternoon, your father and I.”
“Mum, I know… I have to…”
“Don’t interrupt, dear. We have to make you aware of something. The thing is… I don’t know how to tell you this, but…” Mum trails off, and Dad reaches over and puts his hand over mine.
“Love,” Dad takes over, “we think Javier might not be quite right for you.”
“We think he’s LTG,” Mum interrupts impatiently.
“LGBT,” Dad corrects hesitantly. ”Q,” he adds after a momentary pause.
This is not what I expected at all, and I am not sure how to react. I decide to feign surprise.
“What?” I say, adopting a stricken expression. “Why?”
“Well, of course… we can’t be sure. These things are very fluid these days. But you know. Um. Sometimes there’s a vibe…” Dad trails off and focuses on taking a long gulp from his empty wine glass.
“What Dad’s saying,” Mum tags in, “is there was a lot that wasn’t quite right about this afternoon. For starters, Javier seemed a little too fascinated by James Dean. I worry that he may be either confused or taking advantage. Perhaps he wants a passport. Or a bride to take home to Grandma. People can be very traditional in the Mediterranean.” (Says the Women’s Institute member from rural Cheshire). Choosing to pick my battles and leave the casual xenophobia for another day, I decide to come clean.
“OK. Mum, Dad. I have to tell you something.”
For the next hour, I come clean with them about (almost) everything. I tell them about being totally broke, pretending to be an Agony Uncle, having to move in with Sir John, and becoming a ghostwriter. I leave out the bits about falling in love with Ryan and the Anastasia alter ego: There’s a ceiling to my parents’ coping abilities – and a two-hour limit on the table. When I finish, and I don’t use this term lightly, they look absolutely thunderstruck.
“Alex, there seems to be an awful lot of deception in your life at the moment. Isn’t it easier to just tell the truth?” Dad says gently.
Mum looks vaguely tearful and clearly incredulous. “Why didn’t you tell us?! We would have helped you! What are they going to think at Rotary? That we couldn’t be bothered to help our own daughter and to avoid the mean streets of London, she’s entered into some sort of dubious arrangement with an elderly millionaire!”
“Mum, it’s not dubious. He’s a respectable parliamentarian! He used to be Home Secretary! And I’m pretty sure he’s not a millionaire; otherwise, he wouldn’t have to write this book!”
My protests fall on deaf ears: “Our daughter, Graham! Bankrupt and practically homeless. Doing goodness knows what to get by! Oh, we’ve failed. I bet Adam has told your Aunty Sheila! What will she think of me?”
We’re starting to draw attention. Donatello’s ears are wagging over his berating of a spotty young waiter. Fortunately, Dad, with years of experience dealing with my mum’s temper, suggests that they might feel better if they meet Sir John and we all go out for lunch tomorrow. My mother takes to this idea immediately, and calms down enough to order tiramisu and coffee. She’s positively cheerful again by the time she’s downed the complementary limoncello Donatello brings across with the bill.
Safe in the knowledge I’m not planning to marry Javier and moderately reassured that I’m not prostituting myself to politicians, my parents head back to their hotel, and I go back to Sir John’s, wondering how to broach the subject of a ‘meet the parents’ lunch. It’s not exactly normal to have to meet your staff’s parents.
I find him in the library when I get home, poring over an old photo album. He slams it shut as I walk in, and I’m too exhausted by the events of the day to push him on it.
“Sir John… I have a favour to ask,” I start.
“Hmm. Do you usually ask your employers for favours so soon? What is it? If it’s having someone over to stay, that’s your business. But keep them away from breakfast. Poor Mrs Jenkins has enough to do with an extra mouth to feed already.” Sir John hasn’t ever shown noticeable concern for Mrs Jenkins’s workload before, particularly when demanding seconds, but I let that slide.
“No, not that…”
“An extra day off? It seems a little soon, but alright, I suppose. You want a –”
I interrupt, sensing this could go on a bit. “No, no, nothing like that. I told my parents about moving in here and the new job, and they want to meet you, if that’s OK? They’ve suggested lunch tomorrow,” I add hesitantly.
“Well,” Sir John ponders, “I suppose that would be acceptable. If Ophelia were living with an older gentleman, I think I would want to meet him and ensure all was above board.”
“Thank you! They’ve suggested 12:30pm. I can book a local restaurant. Is that OK?”
“Yes, that’s a perfectly acceptable time. And no need for the restaurant. Mrs Jenkins can put a roast on. Ask her to make sure it’s all the trimmings.” Sir John decrees, apparently adopting a flexible approach to employer concern for Mrs Jenkins’ workload.
“That sounds ideal. I’ll let them know,” I say. I text my parents and get my dad’s usual technology-challenged response on his ancient mobile: “Thanks.Love.Looking.Forward.To.It.Night.night.Lovemumanddad.”
I head to bed, relief mingling with the dread of asking Mrs Jenkins at 9:30pm on a Saturday to cook a Sunday roast dinner with all the trimmings for four for 12:30pm.
***
Dear Alex,
I have a great job here in the City. One of the top dogs in a fair-sized hedge fund. Nice flat and weekend place. Good range of cars. But I’ve got an opportunity to move to a much bigger global firm based in New York. Amazing opportunities, they’d provide me with a penthouse pretty central on Avenue of Americas. More ladder to climb as well. My concern is giving up being a big fish in a small pond, for a lake where I’ll be a pike of as-yet unknown size.
Jerome.
“A pike of as-yet-unknown size?” Seriously Jerome?
What’s the next stage above First World Problems? Because, mate, I think you’ve just levelled up. So, you’re basically torn between being rich and important in London and rich and important in New York? Stop. You’ll have readers weeping. Thanks for the extra colour about the two houses and the range of cars too by the way. Subtly done. You could just make a note of your bank balance at the bottom of your letter, just so we know exactly how well you’re doing. Better yet, why don’t you just slap your dick on the table so we can all stand around and admire it?
On a serious note, Jerome (and by the way, I hope you’re not pissed off by the first bit because I’m pretty sure you can afford a whole troupe of Serbian hitmen. This makes me wonder: What IS the collective noun for assassins? Troupe might be a bit too jolly. It sort of sounds like leotards might be involved too). Anyway, on a serious note, I’m interested in the total lack of any other considerations outside your career for the move. What about family? Friends? Partner? Where do any of the above fit in? And if they don’t, why don’t they? You’re clearly doing well – but at what cost? This might be the opportunity to think not just about what you want out of the next stage of your career but what you want out of the next stage of your life. Think about it. If it’s another shinny up the greasy pole that you really, really want … that’s great. But if that’s a distraction because other things don’t go so well, then maybe now’s the time to challenge yourself. Perhaps the real adventure isn’t the next level in your job, but what’s waiting outside your job?
If this advice was life-changing or, at minimum, helpful, then I’m more than happy for you to show your appreciation by gifting any handouts you choose from your “range of cars.”
Yours, Alex