‘When that light bulb went and you were standing on that chair changing it with Simon holding on to your legs, I saw Ben give you two a real look.’
‘That’s because we were driving a coach and horses through health and safety regs.’
Silence. Feeble jokes are not going to work here.
‘It was very intense, very serious. And when Simon helped you down and managed to grope your arse in the process, I swear Ben almost winced.’
‘He’s not Simon’s biggest fan. I don’t think he thinks it’s a good idea we’re going on a date,’ I add, hoping I’ve done enough to close the subject.
‘Yeah. This is the thing. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said it was simply plain old violent male jealousy,’ Caroline says. ‘Why doesn’t he want you to date Simon, exactly?’
‘Lucky you do know better,’ I say. ‘Given Ben’s very happily married.’
‘If he’s happily married, he can’t have a thing for you?’
‘No.’
‘OK. Number one, there is no such thing as a happy marriage—’
‘Oh, Caroline!’ Mindy wails. ‘Enough!’
‘I haven’t finished.’
‘I know you haven’t, because I still have a shred of hope left,’ Mindy says.
‘—There is no such thing as a happy marriage if you mean an invulnerable one. Every relationship has its weaknesses and bad patches.’
‘You don’t have to be married to know that,’ I say.
‘I know, I know,’ Caroline says, trying to soothe me. ‘I’m not running down what you had with Rhys. But he hung around with other blokes in his band all the time. You never had to worry about female friends.’
‘I still don’t see what you’re getting at.’
‘That if I’m right and Ben’s got a soft spot for you, you need to be wary. You don’t want to cause trouble by unintentionally encouraging it. Weren’t you quite close at uni? Did you ever suspect anything then?’
‘No! And Ben would never have an affair.’ At last I’m able to say something with perfect certainty.
‘How do you know?’
‘I know. Honestly, I know it like I know my own name. There’s no way Ben would ever do that. He’s totally honourable. I wouldn’t sleep with a married man either. I hope you don’t think I would do that.’
‘Nooooo,’ Caroline says, with no idea what agonies this conversation is causing me. ‘But I think you might find yourself in the middle of something before you know you’ve started. You two were lit up like Christmas trees when you were talking to each other. No one has a crafty fag behind the bike sheds expecting to get lung cancer.’
‘I’m not smiling at Olivia, inviting her to parties and moving in on her husband!’
‘I’m not saying you’re moving in on him,’ Caroline says.
‘Look,’ I continue, with a dry mouth that isn’t all down to booze dehydration, ‘Ben and Olivia are married, Ben’s not interested in me in that way, I’m not out to get him and I’m going on a date with Simon. And that’s that.’
‘I’m not so sure everything’s great with Ben and Olivia. I get the impression it’s been a strain moving up here. She’s miles away from all her family and friends and I think she misses her old job,’ Caroline says.
Pause.
‘If you want my advice, Rach, the time you need to worry is if he ever says things at home are complicated,’ Mindy says. ‘It’s never complicated. “It’s complicated” only ever means, “Well yeah there’s someone else but I want to do you too.”’
‘What they actually mean is: it’s not as complicated as I’d like it to be,’ Caroline says, laughing.
I’m not laughing.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to wind you up,’ Caroline says. ‘Most likely if Ben’s feeling anything it’s nostalgia for being twenty-one. I mean, if you’d been right for each other, it would have happened then.’
‘True,’ I squeak, grateful for the cover of darkness.
‘We all get a bad attack of the what-ifs from time to time.’
‘Yeah.’
We say our goodnights. Caroline and Mindy drift into sleep.
I’m wide awake, mind racing.
39
If you were cool, Friday night meant clubbing somewhere a bit druggy and dancey, or if you preferred beer and guitars, it was 5th Avenue or 42nd Street. If you were a significantly less cool student, you went to a meat market shark pit where they banned jeans and trainers and played music that was in the charts. And if you were truly tragic, you went to the halls disco and drank cider out of plastic receptacles, danced around a room that doubled as a canteen by day and staggered into the takeaways opposite at half two.
Being skint is a great leveller, however, and by the second year, with the expense of ‘living out’ biting, a lot of people we knew collided at the latter venue. Among the dozen or so that had gathered one particular night were Ivor, back on a weekend from his placement, and Ben and his latest girlfriend, Emily. They’d been together for a few months – good going for Ben.
She was cool in a way I could never hope to be: hi-top trainers, hacked-off denim mini, two-tone peroxide hair piled atop her head. The look was predatory-sexy and yet conventionally pretty in an ‘I don’t need to labour the point; it’s so obvious, I can work against it’ way. He always went for hues of blonde on the colour wheel, I noted. I hadn’t had much of a chance to get to know her and I was disappointed that they sat at the far end of the table, merely waving their hellos. If I wanted to get to know Ben’s girlfriends, I had to strike while the iron was hot. None of them lasted much beyond a term. Whoever got Ben to settle down one day was going to have her work cut out, I thought.
When it was Ben’s turn to get a round, it occurred to me it would be an opportunity to chat. I pushed my chair out and went over to give him a hand.
As I approached the bar, I saw a gaggle of rugger buggers had struck up conversation with him. Ben played football and had an XY chromosome and therefore existed as a human being rather than a heckling target.
‘Oh, hello. Do you know what we call you?’ said one of the rugby gang, as I joined them. ‘Ben does. Hey, Ben! Tell Rachel what we call her.’
Ben looked deeply uncomfortable. I frowned at him.
‘Rachel You Would Ford. Ahahahhahaha!’
Ben muttered: ‘I bloody wouldn’t.’
Rather like the truth or dare ‘sister’ day, I wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this denial. Ben and I ran relays between the bar and the table, two or three pints at a time, passing at the midway point.
I felt the group’s eyes on me as I retreated and briefly wished I hadn’t worn my new black cords that were a little tight on the rear. As I carried the second lot of glasses back to where we were sitting, I felt a hard – frankly, painful – pinch to the arse, and whipped round.
‘Oi!’
‘It was him.’ They all pointed at each other, arms crossed over, comedy skit style.
There wasn’t a lot I could do with full hands, so I settled for giving them serious stink-eye. When I went back for more drinks,