Stella Newman - Pear Shaped

‘Yes, his friend Rob. He’s really handsome, thirty-six, he drives a Porsche, works for Goldman Sachs …’

Her eyes couldn’t be any wider if she’d necked a fistful of Es.

‘Oh. Sorry, Amber, I forgot – he’s engaged … Oh well. Anyway, aren’t you still seeing Ritchie?’

She shrugs. This shrug means ‘I am thirty-one, very soon I will have to stop dating sexy rock ’n’ roll wannabe music-producer cokeheads, and bag myself a pudgy older Notting Hill banker. He’ll give me shitloads of cash to do up a huge three-storey second home with a pool in Oxfordshire and then I can ride horses and shag the local talent while the au pair looks after the kids and Rory bankrolls my Moroccan scented candle business.’

‘By the way, remember that £100 I lent you …’ I say, as she hands the cabbie a £50 note.

This always works like a charm whenever I want to get rid of Amber and sure enough, as she takes the £30 change from the cabbie, she says, ‘Babe, I’m totally skint at the moment but I’ll pop round soon,’ and hurries into our block.

James and I are three months into our relationship and I haven’t met any of his friends yet, apart from Rob. Laura thinks this is sinister, but I don’t – he hasn’t met any of mine, apart from her. Most of his friends have kids. James says he doesn’t want to share me with anyone. We keep each other endlessly entertained.

But now Laura has made me feel paranoid. So at the pub on Saturday I invited James round for dinner with Pete tonight. Perhaps if I introduce James to more of my friends he’ll follow suit. Besides, he’ll get on well with Pete – they’re both juvenile, charming, fun. Maybe James might register that Pete has a residual crush on me – perhaps it’ll make him more vocal in his affections.

When James left my flat this morning I said ‘Pete’s coming at 7pm.’ He nodded. I haven’t heard from him since. Although I reason I’ll see him later, when he hasn’t rung by 7.40pm, I have a low ache in my stomach, and it isn’t hunger.

The chicken will be ready any minute. Pete’s asking if we should invite my sexy blonde neighbour instead.

James must be working late.

At 7.50pm I take the chicken out, put it under foil and call James.

‘Hello you,’ he says.

‘Where are you?’ I say.

‘At home.’

‘Are you coming for dinner or what?’

‘Sure, see you soon.’

‘That was weird,’ I say to Pete.

‘What? He’s coming, isn’t he?’

‘He is now.’

James arrives looking slightly nervous. The two shake hands and from their posture I sense a mild rivalry in the air.

‘So, are you a North Londoner too?’ says Pete. I’ve already told him all the facts about James, but I’ve forced these two together and Pete’s having to make small talk.

‘East,’ says James. ‘Woodford, born and bred.’

‘My cousins grew up there. What school did you go to?’

‘Forest.’

‘Do you know Alex and Adam Foster, twins?’

‘One of them amazing at football?’ says James.

‘Alex.’

‘Rings a bell.’

I am delighted that there is now a common link as it brings me closer to James.

With a glass of wine they relax and turn their conversation to cars and girls, as though I’m not here. James says Pete’s Saab is a weird choice for a bloke in his thirties, and Pete says Maseratis are for hairdressers and they both laugh. Pete says his ideal woman would be half Danish, half Brazilian, while apparently my boyfriend’s would be eastern European, definitely.

My grandfather was Polish. Does that count?

I ask Pete to help carve the chicken, and in the kitchen he whispers to me, ‘I was expecting some hunk. He’s just a normal looking bloke.’

‘Don’t you think he looks young for his age?’

‘No, he looks like a 45-year-old who eats a lot of cheese.’

‘You’re just jealous,’ I say.

‘Seriously, Soph, he’s punching above his weight.’

Because of James’s utter self-belief, the confidence that emanates from every pore of him, I always think of it as the other way round. Like I’m punching above mine.

‘Anyway, what do you think Pete?’

‘Seems alright.’

‘And?’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘… Don’t you find him fascinating?’

‘He’s just a man who sells socks.’

‘Shut up, he’s coming.’

‘Eat some more chicken, Soph, you’re looking too skinny,’ says Pete.

‘Do you think?’ says James, raising an eyebrow.

‘You need to put a bit of weight back on,’ says Pete, looking at my arms.

‘Don’t tell her that!’ says James.

Pete only thinks I’m too skinny because he likes big boobs. It’s true my boobs are smaller than they used to be, but that’s always the way when you lose weight. If only I could transplant the small handful of flab left on my bottom to my tits, I’d be laughing, but if I do lose any more weight, I’ll have no bust left, so I’m happy enough where I am.

I head back to the kitchen to take the ice cream out of the freezer and make coffee. When I return, Pete’s already putting on his jacket.

‘You’re leaving?’ I say, ‘we haven’t even had dessert …’

‘I’m really sorry, hon, I have an early meeting. We’ll catch up properly when you’re back from New York.’

He sends me a text on his way home: ‘Thanks for dinner. You seem very happy. I’m glad x.’

In bed later, I turn to James. ‘You’re a bugger to make plans with, you know that?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s infuriating, I mean I didn’t know if you were coming tonight or not.’

‘I said I was, didn’t I?’

‘You were actually quite non-committal. I feel like if I hadn’t phoned you, you wouldn’t have turned up at all.’

He shrugs.

‘And I never know when I’m going to see you next. What’s all that about?’ I say.

He looks back at me as if he’s keeping a secret.

‘What is it? Are you scared?’ It’s scary for me too, being vulnerable.

‘I’m not scared,’ he says.

I say nothing but he’s better at this silent tactic than I am.

‘What is it?’ I blurt, after what feels like a full minute.

‘I’m just getting to know you, slowly.’

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just get on with this? I think. You’re heading to fifty, I’m thirty-four this year – we’re not teenagers anymore. Does he not realise that?

I feel like I’m so far down the road of saying something that I might as well follow through, though I have to take a deep breath before I do.

‘Slowly, quickly … you’re either in it or you’re not,’ I say.

He nods, looks at me and smiles. His smile: beautiful.

On Friday morning James drops me at Paddington for the Heathrow Express. I could walk, it’s only ten minutes from my front door, but he insists.

‘You want to make sure I’m leaving town!’ I say. ‘You’re not out with Rob tonight by any chance?’

‘No, quiet weekend, honest, Guv.’ He holds three fingers up in a boy scout salute. ‘– Behave yourself with this Paul person …’ he says, frowning.

‘I didn’t know you were the jealous type,’ I say, taking his hand and running my finger along one of his knuckles. He has the tiniest scar, like a white eyelash, just to the right of the bone.

‘I’m not,’ he says. ‘I just know what men are like.’

‘You mean you know what you’re like,’ I say, raising an eyebrow.

‘Hurry up, you’ll miss your train,’ he says, grabbing my face in both hands and kissing me.

I hate goodbyes.

New York is great; New York always is.

I stay at Pauly’s apartment in Tribeca. I met Pauly seven years ago, queuing for a table outside Corner Bistro in the West Village. It was midnight. I’d hopped in a cab straight from JFK to West 4th Street. Pauly had staggered over from the White Horse Tavern, having just split from another poor girl who was at the tiresome stage of demanding a smidgen of emotional intimacy from him. We bonded standing in line with beers, then sitting with cheeseburgers. We carried on after at a dive bar in Chinatown where Pauly explained how the CIA and Sinatra and Castro killed Kennedy. I kissed him just to shut him up, then made out with him on the rooftop until 8am. (Pauly has some insane conspiracy theories, but he’s so hot and so good-natured, you can forgive him most things.)