Читать книгу Pear Shaped - Stella Newman - Страница 12

‘His ex is a leg model,’ I say to Laura. I’m treating her to an Ottolenghi brunch near her flat in Islington to celebrate my forthcoming end-of-fiscal £100 bonus. When I say treating her, I mean I have already eaten my egg and bacon pie, and have started on her blueberry ricotta pancakes before she’s even halfway through.

‘So?’

‘Well … her figure must be perfect.’

She tuts. ‘You are one of the best women I have ever met, and I don’t give a flying fuck who’s got a perfect body and who hasn’t. It’s not like he’s perfect looking …’

I know Laura didn’t warm to him the night we met him – she thought he was overly confident and slightly shifty. She has some random psychological theory that this actually masks some deep fear within himself.

I do trust her instincts, she is invariably on the nail; however, in this instance, she is being overly protective of me. She spoke to James for all of ten minutes. I know if she spent any time with him, she’d like him.

‘I suppose models are usually quite vain, aren’t they …’ I say, pondering whether to order the pecan praline Danish, then imagining Celine’s thighs, and ordering a sparkling water instead.

‘Are you kidding? Do you not remember Washington Avenue, New Year’s Eve, 1993? Ladies and gentleman, we bring you Ericc and Thor …’

I throw my head back with laughter. How could I ever forget? Laura and I had spent the night with two male models we’d met in a bar Mickey Rourke used to own. We were so overexcitable, having been introduced to Mickey Rourke by some ageing gallery owner who was lusting after our 18-year-old flesh, that we’d been swept like a wave into The Miami Beach Fashion Awards.

‘Ericc with two ‘c’s. God, he was so ridiculously chiselled. That was the most boring eight minutes of my life,’ I say, remembering his pillow talk, detailing his awesome nutritional supplements: chromium picolinate – super-awesome, apparently.

‘I rest my case,’ says Laura.

At the end of our last date James said ‘I’ll be in touch.’

That was six days ago: no call, no text. I’m scared it’s because I kissed him for a full twenty minutes outside the curry house, and maybe he thought that was tacky or overly eager. Or perhaps it’s because I made that silly comment about him dating models, which made me look insecure and jealous.

Hmm, time to make myself feel more insecure and jealous. Excellent idea.

I google image search for ‘Celine’ ‘Wolford’ ‘model’ ‘French’ ‘leg’ and immediately come up with over 700 photos of her. In none of them does she remotely resemble a monkfish.

I know I should stop myself right now. She’s married. What difference if she’s beautiful or not anyway? He is dating me.

Okay, I click on the first image. Relief. Dark blond hair, brown eyes, generic Disney features, looks like she eats a lot of yoghurt and apples. Swiss looking. Maybe she’s from the Alps. Second photo, a close up. Even though she’s smiling, she looks fearful, like she’s just found out her currency’s in free fall. Third photo, taken last year at the Cannes Film Festival. That must be the Argie husband. He’s corpulent. Mid-fifties. Oligarch-y. She is Botoxed to the hilt, skeletal, clutching his arm with a jewelled hand.

It’s not until the fourth photo that I see her in suspenders and a thong and start to feel in any way envious.

Her legs are perfect, long, shapely, amazing. Of course they are. She owns two Wolford legs. That’s her job. I decide it’s high time I get back to my job.

I go to the C-drive and click on the kitchen sample report for my latest trifles.

Besides. She’s married now. And not to James.

Ah, good: thicker, more even deposit of custards with 38% stabilised whipping cream …

And just because her legs are amazing doesn’t mean she’s smart or kind or funny.

Let’s see … uneven almond spread rectified, shelf life now at seven days … Devron will like that …

Just because her legs are amazing doesn’t mean she isn’t also smart and kind and funny.

Get a grip – he’ll call. And if he doesn’t? So be it. They are not together; she is irrelevant. He is dating you. Or is he …?

I’m going to call him because if he likes me it won’t matter, and if he doesn’t, it’ll expedite the ending of the relationship. I don’t want this loop of crap in my head; I have a big Phase 4 meeting in two days that I need to prepare for. Call him: then it’s done, either way.

I dial his number before the sensible voice can stop me. It’s a foreign ring tone. I hang up immediately.

He hadn’t mentioned he’d be going away. Why not? He’s flown to Paris! The Alps!

Enough. I delete James’s number from my phone and from my dialled list. I am not going to do this to myself. Nick called me at least once a day from the first day we met. He loved me and he could show it. He never made me feel insecure, not once. Bored, enraged, despairing, sure. But insecure? Never.

If James Stephens wants me, he’s going to have to make a lot more effort.