‘I suppose I could,’ Rob agreed and he walked Nina to the number 168 bus stop and leaned in closer and closer until she could smell leather and cigarettes and lager, a heady combination of scents as far as Nina was concerned, and then he was kissing her.
There was nothing brooding about Rob’s kisses. They were a little sloppy but eager, enthusiastic and her MAC Ruby Woo lipstick’s famous staying power wasn’t able to survive the onslaught.
‘I’ll message you,’ Rob said when they came up for air and the LED board above the bus stop promised that a 168 was only two minutes away.
They swapped numbers, had another brief snog, then Nina boarded her bus.
She was a little bit drunk, which meant she was also a bit more introspective than usual. Maybe that was why a little voice in her head was saying, ‘God, you’re nearly thirty and you’re still snogging at bus stops like a teenager.’ It was a very judgemental little voice. Sounded quite a lot like her mother.
‘Another boy in a band, Nina? Ugh, you’re so predictable.’
That wasn’t a judgemental little voice inside her head but a judgemental voice outside her head. Nina turned around and her heart sank even as her lips curled into a dismissive smile.
‘Gervaise,’ she said tightly, because her absolute pig of an ex-boyfriend was sitting behind her. He was with … a person of indeterminate gender wearing all black with slicked-back, bleached blonde hair, thick black pencil around each eye and a smirk. In short, Gervaise had managed to find a double, a doppelganger, a mini-me, which wasn’t surprising as he was the most egotistical person Nina had ever met. ‘Still sexually fluid, are you?’
‘Oh Nina, I’d ask if you were still hopelessly plebeian but you’ve already let me know that you are,’ Gervaise said sweetly.
Gervaise was a performance artist who Nina had met at a tattoo convention. He had come striding up to Nina in a leopard-print coat that she’d instantly coveted, told her that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and that it would never work because he could never have a meaningful relationship with someone more beautiful than himself.
Nina had been instantly smitten, flattered and keen to take up the challenge. ‘How about a meaningless relationship then?’ she’d husked and Gervaise had grinned.
‘My favourite kind of relationship.’
They’d had a heady week of going to see French films, Polish art and drinking Russian vodka, then Gervaise had told her that he was sexually fluid.
‘Eh?’ Nina had asked, pushing Gervaise away because it was the third date and they were getting hot and heavy on his futon. ‘Bisexual?’
‘Oh, Nina, you’re such an innocent,’ he’d said, which no one had ever said to Nina before. ‘I mean, that I don’t believe that my sexuality is a fixed point on a graph.’ And just as Nina was about to question him further, his eyes had lit up. ‘My God, you really do have incredible breasts,’ and the moment had been lost.
Verity had said that it sounded like Gervaise planned to cheat on her with other women and men, but Nina had dismissed that because Verity was a vicar’s daughter so really, what did she know?
Quite a lot actually. Because it turned out that their relationship mostly consisted of Gervaise being unfaithful and, as Verity had predicted, he cheated on Nina with other women, other men, and once with one each at the same time. Then they’d fight about him being unfaithful because he never bothered to hide it, then Gervaise would claim that he was bereft without Nina in his life. It had all been very dramatic but also not that much fun. In the end, Verity had threatened to set up an all-night prayer vigil if Nina didn’t kick Gervaise to the kerb once and for all, which she had finally done just over six months ago.
And now here he was, on the 168 bus, looking very pleased with himself even though the last time Nina had seen him, Gervaise swore that he’d never get over her. Also, she just knew that her red lipstick was smeared across the lower half of her face.
As she repaired the damage to her face, she heard Gervaise say to his mini-me, as she was clearly meant to, ‘She’s so provincial, parochial even.’
‘Provincial?’ Nina queried sharply, refusing to turn around. ‘That’s rich from someone born and bred in the Home Counties.’
There was a sharp intake of breath from behind her. ‘Stevenage is a very depressed area. It’s practically a ghetto.’
‘Yeah, but you don’t come from Stevenage, you come from Welwyn Garden City.’ Nina pressed the bell for the next stop and clicked her compact shut, put it in her bag and stood up. She felt more confident now that her face was restored to its former glory. It was also clear that although Gervaise had treated her terribly, he still wasn’t over her, otherwise he wouldn’t feel the need to bad-mouth Nina to her replacement. Still, she wasn’t done with Gervaise yet. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ she added to said replacement, ‘his name isn’t even Gervaise. It’s Jeremy.’
She didn’t even care that Gervaise called her a ‘bitch’ as she ran down the stairs. The only thing on Nina’s mind, as she scurried down a now-deserted Rochester Street and into the Mews, was making it home safely. It was nearly midnight and who knew what might be lurking in the shadows. She held her breath as she tapped in the security code on the gate.
It wasn’t until she was creeping through the silent shop that she felt her stomach twist in the way it did when she got a letter from her bank or her mother called. Tonight, she’d met a good-looking, brooding man who’d snogged her face off and given her his number. Even counting the unpleasant encounter with Gervaise, there should be no reason for dread and doom to have settled in the pit of her stomach.
‘You’re so predictable.’ Gervaise’s words echoed in Nina’s head as she tiptoed up the stairs, even though she was anything but. She aimed to be, in the words of Emily Brontë, ‘half-savage and hardy, and free.’
So, why did this night out feel like a hundred, a thousand other nights? She was nearing thirty and yet – that nagging voice was back again – there she was, still snogging at bus stops.
She was meant to be living fast, on the edge, convention be damned, with her very own Heathcliff by her side.
And yet here Nina was, standing in her kitchen eating peanut butter straight from the jar while her flatmate’s cat wound around her ankles, after an evening spent with friends who were all happily settled down while she was still auditioning frogs.
If this was her best life, then she wanted a refund.
‘He might as well plant an oak in a flowerpot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine he can restore her to vigour.’
The next day, Tom was back. Nina could have hugged him but she didn’t because Tom would threaten to write her up in the sexual harassment book. The sexual harassment book was the stuff of Happy Ever After legend but it didn’t actually exist. Also, Tom didn’t deserve a hug.
‘I’m furious with you,’ Nina told him before he’d even had a chance to take off