Eighteen
The next morning gets off to a good start with the discovery that Mrs Jenkins has purchased some more Coco Pops on my behalf. There was a lot of resistance to the alien cereal at first, but the other day, I caught Sir John secretly eschewing his porridge for them, so I’m pretty sure I have a new children’s breakfast ally. I’m cheerfully watching the milk change colour with childish wonder when Sir John joins me at the kitchen table with a copy of The Times .
“Good morning, Alexandra.”
“Morning, Sir John.”
“I trust you had a nice evening?”
Is he… smirking slightly? Or am I just paranoid?
“It was lovely!” I answer. “I saw an exhibition on Russian émigrés who moved to London,” I say, hoping Sir John will think I’m cultured and educated and, therefore, worthy of hearing his life’s secrets.
“Harumph. With one of your bedfellows?”
I must have misheard. “I’m sorry?” I say, hopefully.
“Bedfellows! I saw you last night, scampering around with some young lad.”
Chameleon-like, I quickly transition to the colour of my juice. “I… he’s just a friend.” I stammer. I can’t move. My body is drained of all blood, except instead of draining with gravity, it’s done some sort of anti-gravitational miracle drain and is all in my face. All of it.
“A friend!” Sir John actually cackles. “We didn’t do that with friends in my day!”
“He’s not a… bedfellow,” I stammer. “Just some guy I have been on a few dates with.” And am falling for, I silently add.
“Good Lord, girl! Don’t go all prudish on my account. Before I was married, I had a “few dates” myself, you know. Three on the go at any one time. Kept things interesting, you know. Oh, Henley-on-Thames Young Conservatives were quite the party crowd in their day.”
I have no idea what to say. I’ve never been speechless before.
Sir John continues, “Anyway, he looked like a nice young chap. Why don’t you have him over for dinner if you want? I can see if he warrants my seal of approval.” He has a mischievous twinkle in his eye. I am ninety-nine per cent sure he’s winding me up – it seems a little soon for him to be taking this sort of paternal interest – but equally, I am sure he would follow through just for the joy of how awkward it would be – so I mumble something about it perhaps being a bit soon, and try to divert from this line of questioning.
“So, Sir John. Tell me about your bedfellows. I do have to write about them, after all.”
He adjusts his braces, and there’s definitely a smirk there this time.
“Oh! Well, quite a few, back in the day. I was a bit of a rake, you know, in my youth. Always with a girl on my arm. Cousin of a Windsor at one stage. And a semi-professional tennis player once. All this before I met Laura, of course.”
“Scandalous!”
“Oh no, not really. A trifle roguish at best but never cruel and always discreet. Not like young people today – being utter rotters to one another. No, no…”
Sir John, lost in thought, stares down into the chocolatey swirls of his Coco Pops as if he can see his youthful reflection in the bottom of the bowl. “I was considered quite the catch in my youth.”
“Were other men jealous?” I ask, fascinated by this insight.
“Oh, I wasn’t the rooster. I was a pretty straightforward chap – a little bit mischievous. I think people appreciate that in a lawyer or a politician. My best friend Peter was much the same. Together, we were a force!”
I’m loving this side of Sir John; he’s really opening up. He can’t stop grinning, and I feel like it’s been a while since anyone has taken such an interest.
“There was one instance when Peter and I first started in Chambers. We were helping out at an international law event at Lancaster House. A little too much of the free port, you know. Anyway, we ended up falling asleep in a very grand corridor somewhere away from the main event – pissed as newts. Woke at five in the morning, utterly bewildered. Tried to leave. And suddenly alarms, security guards – and an awful lot to try and explain while in the grip of a hangover.”
“Ooh, you tearaways,” I tease. “This is exactly the sort of thing for the book. Not just the policy and the politics. But the lovable rogue anecdotes. It’s just what we need.”
“Oh, I doubt anyone is much interested in that sort of thing. I was planning to focus more on the politics.”
“Oh no, I really think the human-interest side is what will endear you to people. People want to know that you’re relatable. They want anecdotes; the funnier, the better! We can pepper the politics with the personal. Trust me.”
Sir John harrumphs – not quite convinced but not discounting my words entirely. I really am warming to him.
“So,” I begin tentatively, “what was special about Laura? About Lady Fenton,” I ask. “What made you fall for her?”
“Oh Laura,” he looks wistful. “She was a beautiful creature. Everything you could want in a soulmate. In a partner. Fiercely bright, of course. Double Oxford first. Very glamorous, very challenging. Kept me on my toes. An amazing poker face. But when you cracked it, a dazzling smile. Quite serious at times, but very kind. I didn’t stand a chance. I was utterly enchanted by her every move. She was the only woman who ever made me nervous before a date. I used to take her dancing every Friday. She loved jazz. She was a splendid dancer.”
“And after that?”
“Well, we got married and had our daughter,” Sir John replies slightly more gruffly.
“Tell me more about your daughter?” I probe gently, sensing the change in tone. Sir John hasn’t mentioned his daughter since I moved in, and he referenced the former nanny’s quarters, but now he seems to be shutting down.
“We’re estranged,” he answers abruptly.
I can see the shutters descending, but I need to maintain this openness, so I try to pivot back to Laura.
“Tell me more about being married to Lady Fenton. Was it wonderful?”
Sir John’s face clouds. “Well. Life happened. Fate. Whatever you want to call it. Laura died young. Much too young.” Sir John coughs and starts busying himself with the paper.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
Sir John nods. He doesn’t look angry, but I can tell the conversation is over. His face has darkened, and his features have visibly crumbled. He quickly folds The Times , pushes his chair back abruptly, and leaves the room.
I stare at him, feeling sad. I finish my Coco Pops in silence and wander back to my room to get ready to head back to the old flat for the day.
***
Dear Alex,
Advice needed. I’m torn. I’m seeing two beautiful ladies and have been for about five months now. I know it’s kinda shitty, but whenever I try to end it with one of them, I just can’t bring myself to make a decision. They’re both really sweet, and they’d both be gutted. The first girl is amazing; she’s smart and loves to travel. She’s really on my wavelength as a fellow citizen of the world. The second is just the sweetest. Amazing chef, kind of crazy. She gets my sense of adventure. Both of them are gorgeous. How do I decide?
Craig
Craig,
Look at you. Aren’t you the gentleman? Really nice to see how considerate you are about how travel girl and kooky chef will feel. They’re lucky to have you. That, by the way, was sarcasm. I felt the need to clarify that as I’m not necessarily sure you’ll get it despite the globetrotting intellect you bring to the table.
Are you sure these women will be as devastated as you think? Even once you tell them about that totally understandable accident where you’ve been accidentally two-timing them for almost half a year?
It might be, and you’ll need to sit down for this, that instead of breaking down in tears, they high-five each other and disappear into the sunset in a Thelma and Louise convertible, but without that bummer of a cliff. If anything, the question might not need to be how do YOU decide, but how you persuade either one of them to put up with your knobhead sexual incontinence a moment longer.
If you are genuinely interested in a relationship, then ask yourself honestly which one you connect with more, and then think about a way to reboot your relationship monogamously and honestly. And then, if you’re the praying kind of meathead, I’d light the bonfire of all church candles and start hoping she’s in a forgiving mood.
All the best,
Alex