Love to Hate You (30 page)

Ian and I are uncomfortable, and say nothing.

“I have to take Donna home,” Ian says finally, as though apologizing.

“I know,” I say. And I'm happy, because I really need some time alone to reflect on everything that Ian has told me in the last five minutes.

“Come on Jenny, I'll give you a lift,” Eliott offers in turn.

“Really?” I ask. “I can take a cab.”

“It's no problem,” Eliott re-assures me, and his smile is so sincere that I accept.

We say our goodbyes with an air of general embarrassment. Luckily, I doubt all four of us will ever meet again.

We all head off in our separate ways, Donna and Ian going towards his Porsche while Eliott and I walk in the direction of his car, a reliable Golf.

“Thanks again, Eliott, especially for not being angry,” I repeat, as he starts the engine and sets off through the streets of London.

“It was a very educational evening,” he says, laughing.

“I'm terribly ashamed,” I tell him despondently. “Can I please at least pay you back for dinner?”

“Of course you can't, it was a good night anyway,” he says, and I stare at him in amazement.

“You're just too nice to take it out on me,” I tell him. “But I appreciate it, I really do.”

“Good. Now
you
try not to take it out on
that
poor guy.”

“Who? Ian?” I exclaim loudly. “Him,
poor
?”

Eliott turns almost serious when he says, “I don't mean poor in terms of material possessions, obviously. But I almost feel sorry for him.”

“Are you joking? I don't feel sorry for him in the slightest. In fact, right now more than anything else I feel very angry with him.”

“And you're wrong. I understand that you're annoyed, but I did think that women appreciated that kind of thing—”

“
I
don't, believe me,” I say drily.

“In any case, don't be too hard on him when he comes round later on.”

“He will
not
be coming round later on!” I exclaim with certainty.

Eliott chuckles to himself. “As soon as he's dropped the blonde off at home he'll be straight over to your place, take my word for it. You don't need to be a psychologist to figure
that
one out.”

“If you say so—” I mumble, dubiously.

When we get to my place, I'm still feeling embarrassed about the way things have gone. “Listen, I can't help it, just let me say for the thousandth time that I'm so sorry.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” he says, as he walks me to the door. “And if you ever are really single, you've got my number.”

“Deal,” I say, and thank him again.

Eliott's right. Fifteen minutes later the intercom buzzes ominously. I know very well who it is.

“It's almost midnight, what the hell do you want, Ian?”

“To talk to you,” he says, sounding determined.

“You don't want to
talk
to me—” I say. There is silence for a few seconds.

“Ok, I don't
just
want to talk to you,” he admits. “Do you want to open up before your neighbours get annoyed?”

Sighing with resigned irritation, I buzz him in.

The truth is that what he said to me before in the restaurant really got to me, and I can't find the strength to send him away without at least looking him in the eye.

“It's not exactly visiting hours,” I say, when he appears in front of me.

“I know, I'm sorry,” he says, not sounding particularly mortified.

“So, have you put Barbie to bed, then?” I ask, affecting boredom. He laughs out loud. “There's no point laughing, you're the one who's dating her,” I point out.

“You're right, that was a terrible choice. I'd forgotten how full of herself she is. Now I know why I hadn't called her in two years.”

I try to get him to sit in the living room, but he ignores me and walks towards my bedroom. I hate it when he does that, acting like this was his home.

“So what is it you want to talk about at this time of night?” I ask, folding my arms. I know he'll pick up on my hostility, and that's exactly what I want.

“Our relationship,” he says quietly.

“We don't have a relationship,” I say.

“I disagree” he replies. “This is a relationship. If I want to be exclusively with you it means that we have a relationship.”

The smug bag of wind. “No, my dear, what it means is that
you're
used to thinking every woman will want to be with you if that's what
you
want. But I
don't
want, and so I'm
not
with you.”

He rubs his chin doubtfully. “It's a puzzler, then: I'm with you, but you're not with me… how do you reckon we can solve it?”

I give him a hugely bored look. “The last time I checked the dictionary, togetherness required a condition of reciprocity. Ergo, we are not together.”

Strangely, I start to see a certain weariness on his face: basically, it's late and we've both had a long and not exactly relaxing evening, not to mention week.

“Look, we're both shattered, why don't we postpone this discussion until tomorrow?” I suggest, getting up from my chair and walking over to the bed where he is sitting.

Ian leans forward, hugs me and plunges his head in my belly. “Okay. Can I stay over?” he mumbles, without lifting his head.

I touch his tousled hair to soften the impact of what I'm about to say.

“No, you can't.”

“Please—” he pleads, as he lifts up my top and starts kissing me.

“That's not fair!” I say as, without much conviction, I attempt to break free from his grip. But his touch is so sweet and gentle that I can't find the energy.

“I know,” he laughs. “But is it working?”

I give a resigned sigh. “Maybe—”

“Thank goodness,” he sighs, and his kisses start moving slowly upward until he gets to his feet and pulls my top off over my head.

“I hate it when you do that.” His eyes are shining with a mixture of enjoyment and excitement.

“You and I are a mistake,” I say again, but he takes no notice.

“Let's just make the mistake, then, and we'll sort out the rest later,” he says.

And when a few seconds later his mouth is on mine, I can't think what it is I'm supposed to be objecting to.

*

I'm still half reclining in bed with the phone in my hand. True, it's eleven o'clock, but it is Sunday!

“No, mum, really. I just can't come today,” I repeat for the umpteenth time in a bored voice.

“No, it's not because of your cooking.” Smart woman.

Next to me, a dark-haired head rises from the pillow and laughs.

“No mum, it's that I'm still in bed and I'm tired. And I think that, for once in my life, I'm going to stay in bed until midday, if you don't mind.”

On the other end, my mother keeps complaining, but I don't give in.

“Ok, yes, I'll see you next Sunday. Bye.”

I hang up with a groan. The moment I climb back under the covers, Ian grabs me to him. Unfortunately this man is irresistible to me, especially when he's lying naked in my bed.

“So did you get away with it this time?” he asks, kissing me on the neck.

All my senses instantly come back to life. “Looks like it—” I say, with a sigh.

His hand begins to stroke me, and at that moment the sound of a mobile ring tone again breaks the quiet of the morning.

“Who the hell is that now?” complains Ian, as he leans over to grab his phone from the pocket of his trousers. The covers slip off, leaving very little to the imagination.

He looks at the screen and his face immediately grows gloomy. “My mother,” he moans. Apparently we've both got to go through it this morning.

“Hello?” he answers in a formal voice, as though he were in the office. “No, in fact it's not actually a very good time,” he confirms.

“No, I'm not at home,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, I'll say hello,” he says again. “No, you can't talk to her—”

He's silent for a while as he listens. “Mother, please—”

After a few more minutes, his face takes on a resigned look. “Okay, I'll come for dinner tonight. Yes, I promise.”

When he hangs up he doesn't look happy.

“Family reunion?” I ask him innocently.

“Oh yes. And if you want to come, you're invited.”

Has he gone mad?

“No offence, but I'd rather not. Dinner last night was more than enough. And your family is even worse than mine.”

He laughs and moves over to kiss me warmly. “You're right, it makes no sense to submit two people to this torture. One'll do.”

“You'll more than do,” I say.

“What about brunch?” he asks.

“For once, you've actually had a good idea.”

We dress reluctantly, and only because we are so desperately hungry. Ian talks me into letting him drive and takes me to a nice little place on the South Bank.

“This is actually not bad,” I admit, as I sink into a comfortable sofa. Ian sits next to me and puts his arm around me.

“We're in public!” I warn him, but he doesn't seem to care. And anyway, if he's happy to do it, I can relax and I abandon myself to his embrace while we wait for our drinks.

He watches me yield with amusement. “Why are you laughing?” I ask, pretending to be annoyed.

“Nothing, I just feel very good,” he says.

“About what?”

“About my chances of convincing you that to all practical purposes you're in a relationship with me.”

This is much more of a 'relationship' than anything else I've had in recent years, but I daren't tell him that.

“Dream on, darling,” I say, laughing. “I will never give in.”

He smiles at me. “You know that I love a challenge.”

“You love
winning
challenges, you don't like the challenges themselves. And so I'm not
totally
convinced that you're going to like this one.”

He looks at me as if he is about to reveal some kind of truth, but then changes his mind and doesn't respond.

While we eat, we chat and read the newspaper, pleasantly relaxed. It's weird, because Ian and I are not accustomed to being relaxed around one another. The competition over the years has been so intense that now, resting my head on his shoulder, I feel almost like another person. The hardest thing to swallow is that this Ian – the one who hugs me as though I was the most precious thing in the world – is definitely not the person I knew. He's a completely different person.

I start feeling a little bit afraid when I think that if I managed to like the testy, quarrelsome old Ian, this new version is likely to do for me completely.

And that's not good news.

It's now been six months since we started out on what I call our non-relationship. Because, despite everything, there are a still a few obstacles. Only a few, true, but at least as far as these go I'm not going to back down: first of all, each of us deals with his or her own family, and so we go to all lunches, dinners and other events on our own. It was one thing putting up with his folks when I was pretending to be sleeping with him, it would be quite another to do it now that I actually am. That would be really embarrassing.

Next, no travelling together: no weekends away and no holidays, because planning holidays is something couples do, and we're not a couple, as I will keep repeating until my lips go numb. He doesn't seem at all convinced, of course, but the important thing is that he knows how I feel.

We try and work together as little as possible. After Beverly, Colin tried to foist a few more shared projects on us, but I managed to wriggle my way out of them: I know that I'm not myself when I'm around him, and I'd rather be in full possession of my mental faculties, at least while I'm at work.

No living together at weekends: this means that I refuse to spend the night at his place. My intention was to limit the number of nights we actually spent together, though I've not been very successful, since he always ends up sleeping at my place.

Where we're definitely more cosy, not to mention not alone.

I realise that I haven't succeeded in all my aims, but at least I've tried. Ian's just let himself go, showing a caring, almost sweet side of himself which terrifies me. He's as over protective as though I were some priceless Wedgwood vase he owned.

“Lunch?” asks George, appearing in the doorway.

“What about the other two?” I reply, looking up from my computer.

“They're already downstairs waiting for us,” he says impatiently. We have lunch with Tamara and Ian a lot nowadays. Being in a group of four gives rise to less gossip. Or at least, that's the theory.

From what George tells me, it's a kind of open secret that there is something vague but very tangible between me and Ian. I find it hard enough myself to deny when colleagues start trying to find something out: if I go red as soon as someone mentions him, how can I convincingly deny it?

As soon as we leave the building I meet Ian's gaze. “Hello,” he says, smiling.

“Hi,” I greet him, keeping a safe distance. Strangely, the sun is shining today and his eyes are even bluer.

To be honest, we look like a pair of total idiots.

“Come on, you two, you can't just stand there like that,” a chuckling George tuts as he walks over to kiss Tamara. We stare at them in amazement.

“You should give it a try,” he suggests.

“I'd get a punch if I tried that near the office.”

“Of course you would!” I confirm. “They're a couple, so they can kiss each other – we're not.”

Ian raises his eyebrows and looks at me defiantly. “Really?” he asks, as he approaches.

“Stay where you are!” I warn him, raising my hands to ward him off.

He grabs me too and tries to kiss me. “Ian!” I bark, in what I hope is a commanding tone.