Adele Parks - Love Lies

Adam shrugs. ‘Think they are in my other jeans.’

‘I hope so,’ I mutter as I head for our bedroom to

I’m taken aback because I find Adam serving up a Chinese takeaway. From the smell of it I think I can guess that he’s brought me king prawn foo yung with egg fried rice – my favourite.

‘Have you eaten? I figured not, as there’s no food in the flat, so I thought we’d go wild, Fern-girl. I’ve even bought a side of prawn crackers.’

Adam doesn’t often demonstrate this level of planning so I don’t grumble about the keys; I simply slip them down on to the counter next to his wallet.

Sometimes we eat in front of the TV off a tray, but today Adam has put the plates, knives and forks on the tiny Formica table in the kitchen. An action which indicates that he’s aware I’ve requested a level of formality and seriousness tonight.

There’s the usual kerfuffle of sitting down, then getting up again to get a bottle of beer, sitting down for a second time and getting up again to find the soy sauce and sitting down and then getting up again to get a jug of tap water.

When we finally settle, Adam asks, ‘So what is it that you wanted to talk about?’ There’s a hint of nervousness in his voice.

I’m grateful that I’m fortified with the best part of a bottle of Chardonnay. I decide to dive right in.

‘You know that I’m thirty next week –’

Adam drops his fork dramatically. ‘Oh, Fern-girl, is this about your birthday gig? Don’t worry, girlie, that’s all cool.’ Adam looks relaxed now; in an instant all signs of tension have sloshed from his face. ‘Jesus, Fern, I thought you wanted the big talk. I thought I was going to be kicked into touch, or that you were up the duff or you’d found the perfume bottle I broke.’ He starts eating again. Are all these things on a par? How does this man’s mind work? Before I get to ask him he adds, ‘The birthday thing is in hand.’

I’m torn. I’m delighted to hear that Adam has given my birthday celebrations any thought at all and I’m dying to ask him details but, on the other hand, I need to keep on track and I’d never planned to talk about the festivities – more the significance of the date.

‘Yeah, girl, Jess and Lisa are all over this birthday gig. I’m not sure exactly what’s going down but they tell me it’s going to be one hell of a night. One to remember.’

My blood pressure zooms sky-high again. So, Adam hasn’t put any thought into my birthday, my brilliant friends have bailed him out. God, the man is hopeless. I can’t deal with that right now, I need to stick to the point.

‘I don’t want to talk about the celebrations. I want to ask you what being thirty means . You know, what it means to you .’

Adam looks a bit startled. ‘Buggered if I can remember, girl. I’m thirty-two already. Too many drugs and too much drink have been imbibed for me to have clear memories of my thirtieth.’

‘Stop being an arse, Adam. We both know you don’t do drugs. I’m not one of your rock and roll buddies – you don’t have to pretend to be zanier than you are when you are with me. And will you please stop calling me girl, girlie or Fern-girl! Fern will do nicely; it is my name, after all!’

Adam always talks like this. He likes to pretend he’s much more hard-core than is actually the case.

‘But Fern-girl is what I call you. It’s like our thing,’ says Adam; he looks injured.

‘I’m not a girl . That’s my point.’

‘Oh fuck, this is about you getting old, isn’t it?’

‘I am not old,’ I insist indignantly and then a nanosecond later I add, ‘Yes. It is about that. In a way.’

‘Fern-gir – Fern, don’t worry, you don’t look your age.’

Even though I’m cross with Adam I can hear that he’s being sincere and trying to comfort me. He’s wide of the goal though. He reaches for my hand but I sulkily pull away. My point is he doesn’t act his age, that’s what’s annoying me.

‘You are beautiful, Fern. Really hot. All my mates want a piece of you. Mick was just saying what a great pair of tits you’ve got and he didn’t qualify it with “for her age” the way he does when he’s talking about Sharon Stone.’

I give myself whiplash snapping my face up to meet Adam’s so I can glare at him. He blushes, realizing that at this moment in time I’m not going to think it’s a compliment that all of Adam’s boozy, lazy mates want to shag me and have obviously discussed the matter at length. Plus, Sharon Stone has twenty years on me. A lifetime ago I might have thought that his comments were funny.

‘What I mean, Fern, is that you could pass for twenty-six or even twenty-five in a dark room. You haven’t got flabby bits like other women your age. I think it’s all that hauling around buckets of flowers. And your height works for you because tall, athletic-looking women never look hunched and old and stuff. Plus you should be happy you’re not a kid any more. Young girls have gross skins, really spotty. You’ve got pearly skin; what’s the word? Sort of opaque, that’s it!’

Adam stops yakking and grins at me as though he’s just wooed me with an arrangement of beautiful and thoughtful words, the like of which haven’t been heard since Shakespeare put down his quill. He must be confused, then, when I glower back at him with all the resentment of Lady Macbeth.

‘I was not asking you for a critique on how well I’m ageing,’ I say.

‘Weren’t you?’

‘No. That’s not what this is about.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Adam pauses; his fork is stranded between his plate and his lips. A grain of rice falls on to his lap. He doesn’t brush it away. ‘But you said you wanted to talk about turning thirty.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘But you don’t want to talk about your party?’

‘No.’

‘Nor about how hot you are?’

‘No!’

‘Well, what then?’

‘About us .’

‘Us? What have we got to do with you turning thirty?’ Adam can no longer resist his pork chow mein with rainbow fried rice; he shovels the forkful of food into his mouth.

‘Why aren’t we married?’

I hadn’t meant to ask this so bluntly, and I immediately regret doing so when Adam’s rice makes its second appearance as he spits and splutters all over me. I pick grains from my hair as he downs his bottle of beer. Both of us are wondering what he’s going to say next.

‘Married? You want to get married,’ he says finally. Sadly, it isn’t a question.

‘Yes. Well, maybe. Eventually.’ I realize that it’s far too late for me to be coy but I back-pedal a little all the same, since his initial response is not what any girl would describe as encouraging. ‘I want us to talk about it, at least. I want to know whether it’s what you want or something you might ever want.’

‘Right,’ says Adam.

We both fall silent for what feels to be about a week until I clarify, ‘I mean I want to talk about it now .’

‘Oh, oh, OK, right,’ he says again. There’s more silence. After seemingly another week or so Adam asks, ‘And you want to get married because you are thirty?’

The silence has wounded me. The alcohol which initially fired me with enough confidence to broach the subject is now hurtling me towards sulky self-pity. I find I can’t explain my thoughts properly. For weeks I’ve been endlessly pondering why exactly I feel a compulsion to marry Adam. I’ve considered the fact that we are no

‘Everyone else is getting married.’

‘Oh, right, so everybody else is doing it. That’s a great reason to make the biggest commitment of our lives,’ says Adam with obvious sarcasm. He shakes his head and asks, ‘Like who?’