Читать книгу The Park Bench Test - Sarah Lefebve - Страница 13

It’s Monday. Again. Bollocks.

And I’m back at work. Again.

Thirty-eight new emails, twelve new accounts to open, nine credit limits to chase, countless arsey salesmen to get right up my arse. So to speak.

I got the train back from London on Sunday morning. I figured I ought to spend at least a few hours with my boyfriend this year.

We cooked – or should I say Alex cooked – roast chicken, and we watched ‘50 First Dates’ on DVD. I asked Alex if he loved me enough to ask me out on a first date every single day for the rest our lives. He said he did.

Maybe Drew Barrymore’s character had it good. To be able to feel that first longing for someone in the pit of your stomach every day. To never reach that point where they piss you off by leaving toenail clippings on the bathroom floor. To never reach that moment when you need to ask if something is ‘right’. That has to be good, doesn’t it?

We went to bed after that. And had sex for the first time in six weeks.

“The milk’s off,” I tell Fliss and Erin, sniffing the carton I have just pulled out of our illegal fridge. “I’ll nip out and get some fresh. Do you want anything?”

“Get us a packet of Hob Nobs,” Fliss says, handing me a £1 coin. “My treat.”

I’ll start my diet tomorrow.

When I return fifteen minutes later, Fliss and Erin are both on the phone and there’s a Post-It note in the middle of my computer screen, informing me Alex called – at 9.42am. It’s from Fliss. The neat handwriting and the reference to the exact time tell me that. And the Post-It. If Erin had taken the call it would have been a note scribbled on the back of a sweet wrapper saying ‘Al phoned’. Either that or she’d have forgotten to tell me altogether.

I move the Post-It to the side of my screen and dial Alex’s mobile number while I wait for the kettle to boil.

“I can’t talk long, I’m making tea for the girls,” I tell him when he answers. Priorities…

“Are you doing anything tonight after work?” he asks me.

“No,” I say, immediately regretting it. It’s always wise to find out why you are being asked before you give your answer, I find.

“Great. I’ve arranged for us to look at some of those properties we got details for.” He means the ones I hid. On the coffee table. Upside down. Underneath the newspaper.

See what I mean? Clearly what I should have said was “yes, I am going out, and I am going to be out all evening, tonight, tomorrow night and every night from now until next Christmas”.

Bugger.

I quickly consider my options. Option 1 – stay at work and tell him I had an urgent can’t-possibly-get-out-of-it last-minute meeting. Option 2 – tell him the car wouldn’t start and I had to get the AA out, but they got lost on the way. Option 3 – ‘forget’, and drag Fliss and Erin to the pub. Or option 4 – I could just go. Because I can’t put it off forever. Well, I suppose I could, but I suspect that might get a bit tedious before long.

“Great,” I say.

I’ll just have to say I hate them all instead. That I wouldn’t live in those hell holes if you paid me.

Which would have worked like a dream, had they not all been absolutely fabulous. Just what we’ve been looking for, in fact.

What are the bloody odds? We have viewed some right dumps in the last few months – dry rot, mould, nicotine-stained flock-lined wallpaper, carpets stained with cat pee…

Hence I didn’t think I was being unrealistic in thinking this lot would at the very least have a bit of damp or an avocado bathroom suite to speak of.

But no. Each and every one of the four properties we have just been to view were perfect. With a capital P. Our dream homes, you might even say.

They are all in ‘nice’ safe areas, all within our budget, and the most any of them need is a fresh lick of paint on the walls. One even has a brand new fitted kitchen and a brand new bathroom suite – both exactly what we would have chosen ourselves.

Bollocks.

“I think we should make an offer on that one in Maple Road,” Alex says when we get home. “That place isn’t going to be on the market for long.”

“I don’t think we should rush into it,” I tell him. “We still have plenty more to look at.”

“But it’s exactly what we’re looking for,” he laughs. “And we can afford it!”

He’s right. It is. We can.

“I don’t know,” I say, desperately trying to come up with something I didn’t absolutely love about it.

“The kitchen could be a bit bigger,” I venture.

“Says who?” he laughs. “You’re not the one who’ll be using it!”

He’s right. Again. As I said – I can’t cook. I don’t cook. Not if I can help it anyway. Not unless beans on toast counts as cooking. And even then I’d probably burn the beans. Or the toast. Or both.

In our last year at university when Katie and I shared a house, she and Alex tried to get me on Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook. I only found out when we got a phone bill with a premium number listed on it over and over again. Katie only admitted what she’d been up to when I accused her of phoning sex lines. I think I was actually a bit disappointed to discover my best friend wasn’t a secret sex addict after all.

I never did get on the show. I was probably too bad even for Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook.

“Okay, but let’s just wait a day or two and see how we feel then,” I say.

“Fine. But don’t blame me if someone else gets there first and we lose the house.”

“I won’t.”

I phone Katie on her mobile as soon as I leave the house the next morning.

“We’ve found a house,” I tell her, before I’ve even said hello.

“Hang on a sec, B, I’m just paying for a coffee…Thanks mate,” I hear her say. There’s a loud clunking noise as she puts the phone down on the counter. Then the noise of the zip opening on her purse, and coins dropping in…a big slurp of cappuccino froth.

Does she not realise I am in the middle of a crisis that requires immediate attention?

“B? Sorry, what did you say?” Now the sound of heels clicking along the pavement.

“We’ve found a house. Alex and I. It’s perfect it’s in a nice area it’s five grand under our budget it’s got a brand new bathroom and a brand new kitchen and it’s got wooden flooring in the living room the good kind not the shit kind what am I going to do?” I’m so desperate for her to tell me, I don’t even draw breath.

“What do you want to do, B?” Click, click, slurp…

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Katie…can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you ever think that Matt might not be the one?”

“No. Never…Becks, is this just about Alex?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there someone else?”

“No!” I shout, a little louder that I’d intended. “God no. I wish it was that simple. No, I just keep wondering if the thoughts I’ve been having are normal. Maybe everybody questions at some stage whether they are with the right person. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. But then you don’t question it, do you?”

“No. I know Matt is the one for me. I can’t imagine my life without him. I see myself growing old with Matt.”

I can see myself growing old with Alex. I can. I can see us sitting in our slippers, holding cups of cocoa, watching Countdown and re-runs of Heartbeat on UK Gold. But that means nothing really. I can see myself growing old with anyone if I look hard enough. Jude Law, for example, or Aidan from Sex & The City (lovely guy – can’t imagine what Carrie was thinking,) or that cute new doctor in Holby City. But just because you can see it, doesn’t mean it’s right, or that it’s going to happen – Jude might not feel the same way about me, for instance and, well, sadly Aidan isn’t even real.

But more importantly – not growing old with Alex – I can see that too.

I suddenly remember Katie on the other end of the phone.

“B?” she is saying. I think I’ve worried her. The clicking has stopped. So has the slurping.

“Yeah?”

“Do you still love Alex?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know for sure that he’s not the one?”

“Not for sure, no.”

“Then you need to find out. You could just be having a wobbly moment.”

“Yes, but how do I do that?”

“Maybe you should have some time apart? Maybe you could go and stay with Felicity for a few days?”

“But what about the house?” I ask.

“Forget the house. You can’t possibly consider buying a house with Alex while you’re feeling like this. It would be total madness. You’ll have to stall him.”

“How?”

“Can’t you just tell him you didn’t like it?”

“He wouldn’t believe me. It’s perfect.”

“There must be something wrong with it. Why are the owners selling?”

“I’m not sure. They’ve just had a baby so they’re probably looking for somewhere bigger.”

“There you go – tell Alex you want to wait and find something bigger.”

“But we can’t afford anything bigger.”

“Exactly. Tell him you want to wait and save up a bit more money so you can get something a bit bigger. So that when you have kids you won’t have to move. That’ll be enough to put the wind up him!” she laughs.

Now I don’t know what frightens me more – the thought of buying a house with someone who might not be Mr Right, or the thought of having children with him.

“It might work, I guess.”