Stella Newman - Pear Shaped

‘I don’t like the thought of animals being hurt just for my benefit, but then I eat meat, so … No, I don’t have a problem with fur, not vintage anyway. Sorry, does that make me mean, horrible and heartless?’

‘No, just asking.’

‘Well, if there are any mink jackets lying round your garage that you need a good home for …’

He laughs and orders a couple of vodka shots.

‘Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr Stephens?’ I say.

He raises an eyebrow and grins. ‘So, what’s the best pudding in the world?’ he says.

‘Hot pudding, cold pudding, cake, tart, fool, mousse, flan, trifle – define your terms, please.’

‘Cake,’ he says.

‘Number one: a Jean Clement praline millefeuille, you can only get them in Paris. Number two: my mother’s chocolate and raspberry cream cheesecake – only available in California, and when my mother is in a good mood. And three: Ottolenghi’s apple and sultana cake – Upper Street, any day of the week.’

He beams back at me. ‘You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever dated,’ he says.

‘Why?’ I say.

He shrugs.

‘In a good way?’ I say.

He nods. I feel a little flutter in my chest.

‘What do you actually do, anyway? I mean, I know you sell socks, but very specifically what do you do?’

‘Okay, where do you buy your socks?’

‘M&S.’

‘Why?’

‘Good quality.’

‘Why else?’

‘The right amount of stretch.’

‘Why else?’

‘No other reason. I’m not that into socks. Sorry.’

‘Never apologise. What about tights?’

‘M&S, same reasons. Do you sell tights too?’ I hope so. I could do with a man who could keep me in tights, the rate I’m going through them tonight …

‘Just socks for now but I’m starting something new in legwear this summer. Another bottle of red?’ He smiles at me and I can’t help but beam back.

The main course arrives. I realise he still hasn’t told me exactly what he does. This man could be a drug dealer or a pimp for all I know – he has the hustle to be either – but I don’t care because whatever he is, I am bewitched.

We stumble out onto Dean Street to hail a cab. It is freezing and he tucks me inside his coat with him. ‘Come here, you tiny thing.’

On the corner of an alley is a tramp of about sixty. A pink tiara rests on her patchy orange hair. She is wearing a sheepskin coat, a velvet sailor suit that stops mid-calf, and house slippers. When she sees James she points at him and shouts ‘Jackie Boy, you’re a useless cont,’ in a thick Ulster accent.

‘Another one of your ex-fiancées?’ I say, giggling.

He tries not to smile. ‘I told you all beautiful women are mad.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe guys like you make them mad.’

‘Nah, it’s just the way you’re built. Speaking of which, come here.’

I’m already inside his coat with him but he puts both arms around me and kisses me. We stay like this until the tramp lurches towards us and asks James for some change. I expect him to fob her off like the Tory-boy I suspect he really is, but instead he reaches into his wallet and hands her a £20 note. ‘Buy yourself something to eat, please?’ he says.

I’m more amazed than she is.

‘What?’ he says.

‘Nothing. Generous, that’s all.’

He shrugs. ‘Always been a sucker for a well-turned ankle.’ He laughs and grabs my hand and we walk up to Oxford Street to find a taxi.

‘So, how was the morning after?’ says Laura, when I call her back the following afternoon.

‘Great! We had a fry-up in bed, read the papers, then he left to go to White Hart Lane with Rob,’ I say, surveying the mess of pans, wine glasses and crumbs in my kitchen.

‘And the night before?’

I blush remembering it. We had sex. We had quite a lot of sex, all of it good.

I once dated a gorgeous Italian Jewish lawyer who was tall, funny, kind and spoke five languages. The first (and last) time we slept together, it came to light that he had a rare psychosomatic sexual disorder that meant he had a fit at the point of orgasm.

As Eskimos with ‘snow’, Jews have multiple words for ‘disappointment’. None of these came close to covering off that scenario.

Still, since then, whenever I sleep with someone for the first time and they don’t nearly swallow their own tongue and go blue, I’m profoundly grateful.

‘It was good, really natural. I like his body, it’s big – it makes me feel small.’

‘How did you leave it with him?’ says Laura.

‘He rang just after he left to say goodbye, he’s off again tomorrow for five days, to Portugal.’

‘Is he going to call you?’

‘Well, he said “you’re not going to forget about me are you?” and I said why don’t you call me from Portugal, and he sort of evaded the question.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Weird, isn’t it?’

‘Do you think there’s another girl?’

‘No.’ That thought hadn’t actually occurred to me. ‘He’s visiting some financiers, definitely. But I feel like he’s project managing me, putting me on ice for a week.’ And I don’t like it.

‘Ah well, it’s early days, isn’t it. Let’s see what happens when he gets back.’

After I put the phone down, I ignore the washing up and go back to lie on my bed. The pillow still smells strongly of James. I should wash this pillowcase today, and these sheets, or I’ll lie here later and miss him.

I’ll miss his body, his strong arms, his broad shoulders. The weight of him. I’ll miss his mouth. Those confident hands. His head coming to rest in the curve of my neck. His heartbeat finally slowing under my palm….

Who am I kidding – Persil Bio on a 60 isn’t going to wash away those memories. I force myself to get up and make a cup of tea and wash up the pans. The sheets can wait.

It’s nearly 4pm now, so I pop round to the florist in Maida Vale to buy my grandma a bunch of orange tulips, then drive round to her flat in Highgate. I park in the courtyard next to the communal garden. My grandma lived here with my grandpa for thirty-eight of their fifty-five years together. There’s a beautiful teak bench at the back of the garden under an apple tree, bought for them on their ruby wedding anniversary by the residents in the block. The inscription is from The Bible, The Song of Songs: ‘I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine’. My grandparents would sit together on this bench on balmy summer nights, one or both of them dozing off against each other’s shoulder.

I do love coming to my grandma’s flat. It reminds me of Saturday afternoons spent with my brother, riding up and down in the lift with its old-fashioned sliding cage door. Of being chased along the red-carpeted corridors by my dad till my grandma would poke her head out of her door, and announce in a deeply serious tone that if we wanted any of her world famous spaghetti with tomato sauce and meatballs, we’d better come quick before my grandpa ate the last mouthful.

I ring the bell and Evie, my grandma’s part-time carer, buzzes me in. ‘She didn’t sleep well,’ she says, opening the door and greeting me with a kiss. Evie is the longest-serving carer my granny has had. My grandma has despatched various Eastern European carers over the last decade for looking miserable or talking too much or too little (‘the stumers’). Evie is perpetually cheery, talks just the right amount and paints my granny’s impressive fingernails purple and jangly like a west London rude-girl.

My grandma is ninety-seven. Her legs don’t work and her boredom has morphed into depression, but her brain and her tongue are razor sharp.

She is sitting in her pale blue wing back chair, staring out of the window towards the Heath, but her face lights up when I walk in.