Stella Newman - Pear Shaped

‘What’s wrong with you, James Stephens?’

He pauses and shrugs. He doesn’t answer. He will never show a weakness. He is a master at evading questions.

‘Say something.’ I mean say something nice. I feel like I’m trying to force a compliment out of him and I know this is bad but he’s looking at me like he adores me, but nothing is coming out of his mouth.

‘Who was the last person you went out with before me?’ I ask.

‘Svetlana.’

Beautiful Russians are two a penny in this city. James has a lot of pennies. I see these women slicing down Bond Street, hard bodies, steely eyes, spiky boots; russet-faced older men in bad jackets dragging behind in their wake.

‘How long did that last?’

‘Two years.’

‘Why did it end?’

‘It wasn’t going anywhere.’

‘Why not?’

‘I couldn’t talk to her the way I can talk to you.’

‘What did you do for two years?’

He raises his eyebrows and gives me a look that instantly makes me regret having asked the question. I turn to face the window and James’s arm wraps itself around my waist.

‘Sophie Klein. I haven’t felt this way about anyone in twenty years.’ I turn back to look at him. ‘I am truly myself with you.’

He is telling me the truth.

I love him, I love him, I love him.

I love the way he moves his fingers when he explains something. I love the way he loses his temper with an obnoxious waiter at exactly the same point that I would. I love the fact that I can flick a spoonful of spaghetti with meatballs at him and he doesn’t have a hissy fit that I’ve stained his shirt. I love talking to him and I love looking at him and I love thinking about him.

It is a rainy Saturday night in April and I’m teaching James the secret of a foolproof Yorkshire pudding, when my mother rings.

‘Have you spoken to your brother?’ she says.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re not going to believe what that lunatic girlfriend of his is up to …’

‘Go on …’

‘She’s booked a Caesarean for the third week in August.’

‘Isn’t the baby due at the start of September?’ I say.

‘Exactly!’

‘So how does …’

‘She’s having it two weeks early so that it’s the same star sign as her!’ No amount of italics can convey the utter disdain in my mother’s voice.

‘Jesus, what is wrong with her?’ I say. ‘Is that even safe?’

‘Apparently. Sheer lunacy. And your bloody brother’s saying he can’t see what all the fuss is about. I said to him …’

‘Mum, my Yorkshire puddings have just pinged … I can’t talk …’

‘I haven’t even told you what dreadful names they’re thinking of calling my first grandchild …’

‘It’ll have to wait.’

I hang up and explain Shellii to James.

‘All women are mad,’ he says, again. This time I can’t really disagree.

After dinner, James asks what’s for pudding.

‘An experiment,’ I say. ‘Step into my office.’

He follows me to the fridge. Inside are two large pots of custard sent by Will at Appletree, as Phase 1 of the new custard project Devron’s briefed me on.

‘Take your tie off and sit down….’ I wrap it round his eyes in a blindfold and he screams ‘Help!’

‘Just be quiet and focus on your mouth,’ I say.

‘Can’t we focus a bit lower down?’

‘Mouth first.’ I take the custards out and put a spoon in each. ‘First one – what does this taste of?’ I say.

‘Custard. I could do your job, Soph!’

‘Ha, funny. What else?’

‘Vanilla?’

‘And?’

‘Something with alcohol?’

‘Good. Bourbon! Now have a sip of water.’ I carefully pass over a glass, and he deliberately misses his mouth and pours half of it down his shirt, and then takes it off and drops it on the floor.

‘Would sir like a bib?’ I say.

‘Can’t we do this naked?’

‘Health and Safety 101! Ok, second custard – what does this one taste of?’

‘Custard,’ he says.

‘Very clever. What else?’

‘Maple syrup?’

‘Bingo. And does it make you want to eat anything else?’

‘You!’ he says.

‘Engage your brain.’

‘… maybe something crunchy?’

‘Ten out of ten! Your brain’s making a connection between the maple syrup and granola. So I might take this custard and create a dessert that has a layer of almond granola, then the custard, and then something lighter on top, three different textures. With this flavour profile I’d want something less sweet, that complements the custard …’

‘How about my cock?’

‘Great idea! Not sure it can feed 40,000 Fletchers shoppers each week …’

‘We’ll start with just the one, shall we?’ he says, taking his blindfold off, unzipping his fly and taking his pants down.

‘James, do not put your penis in my custard samples. I have to feed those to Devron on Monday. James! Stop it!’

‘You told me you don’t like Devron anyway,’ he says.

‘True, but I do like this custard!’

Too late.

My boyfriend is a custard-covered dick, and I adore him.

‘Devron, I’m sorry but the custard samples aren’t ready for tasting,’ I say on Monday morning.

‘Fine, what are you doing on May 3rd?’

Two weeks’ time – no idea. James is rubbish at forward planning, but as he invariably ends up asking to see me at the weekends, I’m now avoiding making plans with other people.

‘Why, Devron?’

‘I need you to do a quick New York inspiration trip. If I don’t complete last year’s number of trips within a month of year-end financials, I won’t get like for like in this year’s allowance.’

Cool. So, because you have to tick a box on a sheet, I get a free trip to New York! Devron, I’m warming to you.

‘Is there actually anything you need me to do out there?’

‘Yeah, go for a night, have a look at a few cakes and whatnot, take some photos.’

‘For one night?’

‘Budget’s only going to pay for one night in a hotel.’

I love New York too much for a one-night stand.

‘I’ll stay at a friend’s, then can I go for a bit longer? If I stay a Saturday night, the airfare’s always cheaper.’

‘Fine, go for a long weekend, just come back with an idea I can take to the board. I want to show them what success looks like.’

New York! New York! I email my old friend Pauly asking if I can stay at his place for a few nights, and a minute later he mails back a yes.

It’s Saturday night and I’m off to meet James at the pub. As I leave my block of flats I see someone waving at me as they’re getting out of a black cab.

It’s my neighbour, Amber: part-time sarong designer and full-time halfwit.

Amber has seen James and me get in to his car several times. Each time she has stared, looking confused.

Now she rushes over to me with her miniature schnauzer, Annalex, in tow, and grabs my arm. ‘Sophie, long time … who is that guy you’re always with? Is that your brother, is he back from the States?’

‘No. That’s my boyfriend.’

‘Really?! I never think of you as someone who goes out with a Porsche driver.’

Welcome to Amber-World.

‘It’s not a Porsche, it’s a Maserati 3200GT.’ I have not told anybody about James’s car because I am mildly embarrassed by his money, but I take pleasure in telling Amber. ‘Anyway, what do you mean by that?’

‘You know, you go out with struggling artist types. Does your boyfriend have any single mates?’

I think about Rob. Rob would love Amber – she is a size 4, has no body fat and sports a permanent Ibiza tan. Tonight she is dressed in cowboy boots, tiny denim shorts and a cutaway silver vest.