Lucas’s wife rang four more times in the following two days. It turned out that they still lived together. She wasn’t interested in my “story” that he was on a dating site, nor that he had said he was separated. He had sent me explicit pictures and that was evidence enough of my guilt. The third time she called, I hung up as soon as I heard her voice. Then I blocked the number. After that, emails began to arrive, warning me to stay away from her man. I’m more than happy to, I said, in my five-word replies.
James rang again, suggesting lunch. Meanwhile, he added, can you tell me why you’re divorced? Did you have an affair? No, I said. Did you lose interest in sex, he asked. No, I told him. Did you rack up huge debts, he asked, and are you a mean, menopausal nag? My wife was sexually dull, he added. Are you the same? Perhaps you bored her, I countered – do you watch a lot of porn? Of course, he said. Perhaps you had performance-related aspirations that turned her off, I suggested; perhaps your lovemaking became unaffectionate. He didn’t get it.
Aw, come on, he said, let’s have lunch and spar a little more. I’m feeling quite turned on by your argumentative side. I told him I didn’t want to.
I’m not stupid, you know, he said irritably. Just because I left school at 16 doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Of course it doesn’t, I said, offended. I probably know more than you about Italian food and modernist architecture, he said, and I probably speak better French. How’s your French? He started speaking in French and I replied, aware that my grammar was rusty. Your grammar’s rubbish, he said, but you have a sexy voice. Well, thank you, I said. And now I have to go. Somewhere urgent to be, he inquired. Yes, urgent soup-making to do, I told him. Very, very urgent. Bye.
The next morning, he called again, wanting to know if I was a rich woman looking for a gigolo. I wish, I said. You don’t have money, then, he queried – you sound like you have money. (I do? That’s bizarre). I don’t, I admitted. He told me he was having to sell up and rent as part of the divorce. I sympathise, I said. I’ve been there – it’s physically shocking when everything gets divided up and half of your life disappears. I like the way you talk, James said. I like the way your mind works. I bet you have a fantastic body, I bet you’re fantastic in bed.
I’m just not interested in having sex that’s evaluated, I told him, nor in having my physical self rated, not by anyone, sorry. Aw, come on, he said, I bet we’d hit it off. I’m the best kisser you’ll ever meet, and I have other skills that’ll make you dizzy. I’m not sure I want to be dizzy, I told him. You’re fantastic, he said. When can we meet? I don’t want to meet you, I told him, and I have to work, so I’m going to have to say goodbye.
There are so many women with heavy baggage out there, he said. I can’t tell you how much baggage there is, how many sad stories I’ve had to listen to. I went to bed with a woman six times and every time it turned into a saga about her ex-husband – they pour their little hearts out, these women, but you’re not like that – you haven’t mentioned your ex once.
I have my baggage, believe me, I told him, and it’s unrealistic to expect people who have lived half a century to be able to discard the past completely. But that’s exactly what we need to do, he said. That’s why I left my wife. (No, I won’t be meeting James. Not even to slap him.)
Melancholically, I scanned through a site I rarely go to because it’s fee-free and full of legover merchants. There was a new face there. Edward. A long, serious, soulful face. A very tall man in a checked shirt and a grey jumper. He looked and sounded thoroughly normal. Intellectual normal – a scientist interested in history, physics and the cosmos, as well as liking Doctor Who, popcorn thrillers, hills, cycling, beer, cooking, weekends away, the south of France …
You’re way too normal to be here, I messaged him. Did you get lost on your way to somewhere else? A little later he replied: I could say just the same about you. Shall we meet?
Stella Grey is a pseudonym
