Chapter 14
Dear Adam
I’m writing to ask you about an issue I’m having with my wife. I got into cycling recently and now I’m hoping to do my first Iron Man triathlon next year. I train every Saturday for up to six hours, and every Sunday for about four, and a couple of evenings during the week. I’m not gonna lie, my wife hates it. And I see her point – we’ve got young kids, she thinks I’m missing out on family time and leaving her to deal with all the weekend stuff on her own. But my training matters to me – I know I’m the cliche of a middle-aged man in lycra, but without the lycra I’d be just another middle-aged man. Why can’t my wife understand how important it is? Or am I the arsehole here?
Mark, Sheffield
The following Friday felt like a bit of a red-letter day – or, more accurately, a lack-of-red-face day. I didn’t blush once when I spoke to Ross at work. In fact, I managed to smile brightly every time we made eye contact. I made a point of offering him a coffee every time I went to make a cup. In a meeting, when he said he was having problems sourcing the new U-Turn turntable to review for his column, I said, ‘I have a contact at the manufacturer from when I was at Fab!. I’m sure I can get hold of one for you,’ and it had landed on his desk that afternoon.
When it arrived, he sort of sidled up to me in the corridor outside the breakout room and said, ‘Thanks, Lucy.’
‘What for?’ I asked, my eyes wide with faux innocence.
‘For helping me out there.’ He ducked his head. ‘I’d have been stuck without a column this week if you hadn’t stepped in.’
I smiled sweetly. ‘You’d have got there in the end. You’re a smart guy.’
Then I turned and strolled back to my desk as if our interaction had meant nothing to me.
And it did mean nothing. Ross had a girlfriend. Ross was now one hundred per cent off limits – not that he had ever been on limits, or would have been in the slightest bit interested in me anyway.
But all the same, when five fifteen came and Marco stretched his interlaced hands high over his head and cracked his knuckles. I did my best not to wince. They were his joints, after all.
‘Pub?’ he suggested, standing up.
‘For sure,’ said Barney. ‘Not the Sun, though, the beer was warm there last week.’
‘And they overcharged me for a round,’ added Neil. ‘How about the Mason’s Arms?’
‘No good.’ Marco shook his head regretfully. ‘Company my ex works for always go there on Fridays and I can’t risk bumping into her.’
‘Why?’ Chiraag asked. ‘What did you do to her?’
‘More like what did she do to me,’ Marco said. ‘Seriously, if I see her I won’t be answerable for the consequences.’
I swallowed, opened my mouth and said, ‘The Barley Mow’s meant to be decent.’
My words seemed to hang in the air, silent now except for the distant hum of the servers. I waited for shock, incredulity, contempt even.
But Neil said, ‘Oh yeah, it’s under new management, isn’t it? Good shout.’
‘You joining us, Lucy?’ asked Marco, as if it was a mere formality and I always came along to the pub on Friday nights.
‘Sure,’ I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ross’s startled face.
Then, as if it was what I always did, I picked up my bag and headed to the bathroom. I had no make-up in my bag, so I made do with brushing my hair, putting on some lip balm and clearing the fingerprints off my glasses.
A few minutes later, we all stepped out of the lobby into the sunshine. Simon and Barney strode ahead, like men on a mission. Chiraag, Marco and Neil followed more slowly and Ross fell into step next to me at the back, as if that was what he always did.
‘So how’s Adam?’ he asked. ‘Solved any notable bloke problems this week?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘There was a guy whose girlfriend dumped him because she said he was rubbish in bed.’
‘Oooof. What did you tell him?’
‘That he probably was, and he should quit watching porn and download a diagram of female anatomy before he tries dating again.’
Glancing sideways, I saw Ross’s eyes widen. ‘Seriously? That’s a bit harsh.’
‘Okay, I didn’t. I told him people often say hurtful things at the end of a relationship, because they’re hurting themselves, and only he knew how much truth there was in what she said. But I told him he should take this as a teachable moment and think about whether he was selfish or overly demanding, and try not to make the same mistakes again.’
‘Okaaaay,’ he said. ‘You know what? It sounds like you’re getting good at this.’
‘I try my best,’ I acknowledged modestly.
By then we’d reached the pub, and everyone filed in.
‘G and T, Simon?’ Marco asked. ‘Pint of Guinness, Ross? Orange juice and lemonade, Chiraag?’
They all nodded, seeing no reason to deviate from their usual Friday routine.
‘Let’s grab a table,’ Barney said. ‘They’ll be ages at the bar, look at that queue.’
‘What can we get you, Lucy?’ Ross asked. It might have been the dim light in the bar, but I could have sworn he was blushing again.
‘White wine, please.’
’Sauvignon or chardonnay?’
‘Uh… chardonnay. Thanks, Ross.’
Should I, as the newcomer, have offered first? For a second I felt myself shrivelling up inside. But no one seemed to think anything was wrong. So after a bit I relaxed, took a sip of my wine and even ate some of the cheese and onion crisps Marco had bought.
‘So, anyone got any good plans for the weekend?’ Neil asked.
I opened my mouth, wondering if I was going to have to invent another date somewhere fancy, but was rescued by Chiraag getting in first, with a long explanation of the triathlon training session he was doing. He went into a whole load of detail about intervals and VO2 max and slow-release carbohydrates, and under normal circumstances I’d have tuned him out.
Now, though, I remembered the letter I”d received earlier in the week, from Mark in Sheffield. My initial instinct had been to tell him to stop being so selfish, see things from his wife’s point of view, and put his Iron Man ambitions aside until his children were older.
I shifted up closer to Chiraag and leaned in to hear what he was saying over the background hubbub of voices and clinking glasses, even though it meant turning my back on Ross and Marco.
‘My trainer’s got me doing an hour solid on the erg at home, facing a blank wall,’ he was saying. ‘No telly, no tunes, nothing. She reckons it’ll build mental strength.’
‘God, that sounds awful,’ I commented.
Chiraag looked at me like I was the last person he”d have expected to express an opinion. ‘You know, it is and it isn’t. It”s pretty brutal at the time, I’m not gonna lie. But afterwards I feel amazing – until it’s time for my ice bath, that is – and even during it…’
‘During it, what?’
‘This is going to sound all kinds of wanky, but bear with me. There are moments when it”s almost… I dunno. Meditative? Like it’s just me and my body and there’s no space to even think.’
‘Wow.’
He grinned, ducking his head and taking another sip of his OJ and lemonade. ‘Told you it was wanky.’
‘It’s not. It’s really interesting. How did you get into it?’
He did the thing with his head again, and I waited for him to speak. It was almost like he was trying to decide whether to give me the TL;DR version or the real deal.
I got the real deal.
‘At school, I was the fat kid,’ he said. ‘You know I don’t have any brothers and sisters, right? And my mum – cooking’s her love language. By the time I started uni I’d turned into a right chonk.’
‘So what changed?’
‘I wish I knew.’ He spread his hands, palms upwards, almost spilling his drink on me. ‘Sorry. It was like, I’d developed this persona – chubby Chiraag, always the clown of the group. When I went out with my mates, I’d play wing man because I didn’t think girls would be interested in me. And then one morning – literally, just like that – I decided it didn”t have to be that way. My dad’s type two diabetic and I was heading that way myself. My grandpa’s had problems with his heart for years. I decided I was going to change.’
‘And you did – just like that?’
He laughed. ‘I wish it was that easy. It took me two years to lose twenty-five kilos and get fit enough to run a half marathon. And then I celebrated with an extra large Papa Johns meal and backslid a bit.’
‘Papa Johns, though – can’t say I blame you.’
‘I know, right? But I got back on track. And I realised fitness was something that makes me happy. It makes me feel good about myself. I’m proud of my body for the first time ever. Not just how it looks?—’
‘You do look great, to be fair.’
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Thanks, Lucy. That – and compliments like that – they’re a bonus, you know? But it’s really about how I feel. It’s changed me for the better.’
‘I can tell. You must be really proud.’
He smiled self-deprecatingly, and for a second I saw the old Chiraag, the awkward fat boy who watched his mates get all the girls. ‘You’re a good listener, Lucy. You should be a journalist or something.’
‘I try my best.’
He finished his drink, looked at his watch and said, ‘I guess I should make a move. Five a.m. start in the morning.’
‘It was great chatting to you. Sleep well.’
To my amazement, he leaned in and dropped a kiss on both my cheeks, then turned and said his goodbyes to everyone else.
I headed to the bar to get a round in, picking the spot closest to where Ross and Marco were standing, Ross’s back to me.
‘So you’re out with your hot hen again this weekend?’ Marco was saying.
I edged closer, straining to hear their conversation.
I couldn’t see Ross, but I imagined him nodding. ‘Round to hers for cocktails on Saturday. Her sister’s going to be there and some of their mates and their other halves.’
Nice, I thought bitterly. Cosy. Next he’ll be meeting her parents.
‘Nice,’ Marco echoed. ’So it’s going well then?’
‘Yeah, kinda,’ Ross said.
I was listening so intently I could hear the scrape of his trainers on the floor as he shuffled his feet. Then the barman leaned over and asked what he could get me, and for a second my mind went blank before I gabbled out the order.
‘Not sure, really,’ Ross was saying. Damn, how much did I miss? ‘I mean, I like her. She’s a nice girl. But I feel like she’s more into me than I’m into her, and I don’t know whether I should say anything about that.’
‘Say what?’ Marco laughed. ‘“Babe, you’re all right for a shag but this isn’t going anywhere?” Go on, try it, and let me know how hard she kicks you in the nuts.’
I heard the shuffle of Ross’s feet again, and imagined him ducking his head, grinning ruefully. The barman passed our drinks across the bar and I tapped my phone on the card reader he held out to me.
‘Feel kind of bad,’ Ross was saying. ‘Like, I asked her out. We haven’t had the exclusive talk exactly but she’s not seeing anyone else and I’m not either. But it?—’
A blast of laughter from a few places along the bar drowned out whatever he said next, and then Marco said, ‘Pint?’
Ross said, ‘Yeah, go on then. Thanks mate.’
So I moved away from the bar, carefully clasping the three glasses in my two hands, and delivered their drinks to Simon and Neil, who were discussing the garden shed Neil was planning on building that weekend.
By the time I’d finished my drink, I’d decided it was time to leave, so I put my glass down on the bar and returned to the table where we’d left our bags. Ross was there, slinging his black nylon messenger bag over his shoulder. I could see the worn place on his T-shirt where the fabric had rubbed away after years of the same treatment.
‘You calling it a night?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I think so. Two large wines is one thing, but three equals a sore head tomorrow.’
‘Wise words. Want to walk with me?’
I wasn’t sure that was a smart idea, but since we were going in exactly the same direction, there was no getting out of it.
‘Sure,’ I said.
We left the pub, stepping out into the balmy evening, and headed north, threading our way through the throng of Friday-afternoon drinkers and commuters.
‘Looked like that was quite the heart-to-heart you and Chiraag were having back there.’
‘Not really.’ I had no way of knowing how much of Chiraag’s life story Ross was party to, and I wasn’t going to betray his confidence. ”He was just taking about cycling.’
Ross rolled his eyes, grinning affectionately. ‘As he does, as often and for as long as anyone’ll let him. Just as well he’s such a good-looking guy, otherwise you’d have been headed for the hills, with or without a bike.’
I half-turned to him, startled. Was it possible he could be a bit… jealous?
‘He was talking about his family as well,’ I said, surprised at the urge I felt to defend him. ‘He’s an only child, you know.’
‘Yeah. Me too.’
‘I can’t imagine what that must be like. Me and my sister have always been so close.’ Were we, though? Were we still? ‘Do your mum and dad live in London?’
He shook his head. ‘Mum does. Dad’s – not on the scene.’
Which could mean anything – or nothing. Emboldened by the wine and Chiraag’s praise of my new-found listening-to-men skills, I pressed on.
‘And you said – I think you mentioned you spent time in America when you were growing up?’
‘I was born in New York City,’ he said, adding with a hint of self-mockery, ‘The Big Apple.’
‘That’s so cool! I’ve never been, but I’d love to. Do you go back often?’
‘Used to. Now, not so much. Once a year.’
Once a year sounded pretty often to me. ‘Planning to go this year?’
‘I guess. Around the fall.’
Talking about his birth city had brought the hint of a trans-Atlantic twang accent into his voice, which I’d never noticed before. The fall – how could he make one word sound so exotic – almost romantic?
Then I remembered that I was forbidden to think of anything Ross said or did as romantic. Ross, who had a date for cocktails with my sister’s closest friends just the next day. But what was it Ross had said about Bryony? ‘She’s more into me than I’m into her.’ What did that mean? It wasn’t like he was saying he wasn’t into her, just that she was more into him. And surely these things could never be exactly equal? I remembered Amelie saying once that she’d read a French saying somewhere about there always being someone in a relationship who did the kissing, and someone who presented their cheek to receive the kiss.
Her implication had clearly been that she expected to be the kissee rather than the kisser, always, but then that was Amelie for you.
‘Lucy?’ Ross’s voice startled me – we’d been walking in silence for a few minutes, and now we’d reached the main road where Astro’s favourite fish and chip was, next to the supermarket.
‘Oh, God, sorry. I was thinking.’
He frowned, almost disapprovingly, and I felt a flash of panic as if I’d been thinking out load and he knew I’d overheard his conversation with Marco.
‘I’m going to duck in here and get something for dinner,’ he said. ‘So I’ll say goodbye.’
‘Right, okay.’ But I wasn’t ready for our conversation to end just yet. ‘What’re you going to have?’
‘Probably pizza.’ He still wasn’t smiling.
‘Good shout. What flavour?’
‘Ham and pineapple, most likely.’ Now there was the faintest shadow of his usual grin, like he’d forgiven me for whatever I’d said wrong, and we were almost friends again.
‘You’re kidding. That’s my favourite too.’
‘I never said it was my favourite. It’s just usually the only sort they’ve got left on a Friday night.’
I laughed. ‘I walked right into that.’
‘And now I know your dirty secret.’ He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else. (‘Want to come and help me eat it?’ – maybe in my wildest dreams.) ‘Bye then, Lucy. Have a fun weekend.’
‘You too. And – good chat.’
‘Good chat.’
For a brief second, I hoped he might do the fist-bump thing again, or even kiss my cheeks like Chiraag had.
But he didn’t. He just stepped towards the glass doors of the supermarket and they glided open, letting him in and a blast of refrigerated air out.