The Party: The thrilling Richard & Judy Book Club Pick 2018

‘Even worse,’ he said, returning to his computer screen.

It wasn’t rude, the way he did it. He delivered his opinions as statements of fact: not aggressively, just as if they were indisputable.

Every time he dismissed me, I simply wanted him to notice me more. That evening, after work, I got the bus to Knightsbridge. I went to Harvey Nichols and I bought a specially packaged box of expensive teas. I left them on Martin’s desk the next morning. He never mentioned it in person. Instead, he sent an email. It read simply: ‘Thank you for the tea.’ And then the box disappeared and he returned to refusing all hot drinks.

How intriguing, I thought. How different.

My friend Neesha at work couldn’t understand it.

‘What do you see in him?’ she asked.

We were standing outside the building, shivering in the wind as we took a fag break. They had just declared we were no longer allowed to smoke inside the office. Neesha smoked more than I did. She was secretary to the editor and had the most stressful job in the building. Mostly, I came outside just to keep her company.

‘Who?’

‘Martin, dummy.’

Neesha passed me her cigarette. Her red lipstick circled the butt. I took a drag.

‘He’s interesting.’

‘You can say that again.’ Neesha chuckled. ‘There’s something not right with him, Luce.’

‘Don’t be mean.’

‘I’m not. You must have noticed, love. The other day Ian had to say his name eight times before he showed any signs of life.’

‘He’s just in his own world,’ I said, surprised at how defensive I felt.

Neesha sniffed. ‘Thinks he’s better than us, more like.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Oh please, Luce. I know his type. Public school, Oxbridge, acts like his shit doesn’t stink. Cares more about … I don’t know … his fucking gold cufflinks than about actual people.’

I laughed.

‘You’re too nice, Luce. You always think the best.’

This wasn’t strictly true. I was good at appearing nice on the surface but my special skill was getting people to like me whether I liked them or not. With Martin, it was different. Because I wasn’t sure where I stood with him. It was the unavailability that lured me in. I flattered myself that it was simply a disguise worn by a scared little boy who needed looking after and I was the one he would let in.

Neesha finished her cigarette and ground the butt into the pavement with the edge of her spiky high heel. ‘Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying. He doesn’t care about you the way you care about him.’

‘I think—’

‘He’s never said a word to me, you know. Even though he’s in and out of the editor’s office every week, he’s never once said hello.’ Neesha loosened her coat. ‘You can tell a lot about someone by looking at how they treat secretaries.’

I didn’t listen. I kept seeing Martin. Our lunch appointments turned into dinner dates. The tea run became after-work drinks. The days turned into weeks which turned into months and soon I found I looked forward to each day more if I knew I was going to see him. The weekends dragged because they were devoid of his company.

I concede, looking back, that I was the one who made most of the running. Martin seemed either too polite or too shy to initiate a kiss, so I was the one who lunged one night after we’d been out for dinner at a Persian restaurant in Kensington. I didn’t much care for Persian food – too many fragrances and the crispy rice stuck in my teeth – but Martin loved it, so I went for him.

The kiss was dry and chaste. I tried to wriggle the tip of my tongue into his mouth but he resisted. I drew back and looked at him.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you like me?’

He held his head back.

‘Of course I like you, Lucy.’

‘Well then.’

I kissed him again and this time he responded, but cautiously, as though evaluating each reflex and twist. I clasped the back of his head, running my hands through his hair, and gradually he relaxed. I was moved by his nervousness. Martin, who was so particular in every other respect, so certain of the right way to wear a tie, so unquestioningly sure of what constituted good taste, seemed to have no parameters for this. I wondered how many times he had been kissed before me. It crossed my mind that he might be a virgin.

And instead of repelling me, his unworldliness was appealing. In this one area, I thought, I was superior. He could teach me about art and beauty and the best way to do my hair, but I was the one who would take the lead physically, who would show him how it was done.

Under the light of the streetlamp, I reached down and slid my hand under the waistband of his trousers. He was limp. I brushed against it gently with my fingers and then, rhythmically slid my palm up and down until I could feel him stirring.

‘No,’ he said. I ignored him. ‘No, Lucy, don’t.’

He stepped away from me, removing my hand.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

Martin held his breath for a moment. I wondered what he was thinking. He seemed to be wrestling with some inexpressible thought and then I saw his face relax and he smiled.

‘It’s just …’ He bent forward and kissed the top of my head. ‘Too fast.’

I nodded, relieved.

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

I drew back. He went home and I returned to my flat. Over the next few weeks, I was careful not to crowd him. We continued going for dinner but I didn’t try to kiss him again. We held hands, his palm cool and smooth. Once, he came back to my flat and we slept next to each other without touching.

I told myself it was an old-fashioned courtship and when, at the end of six months of this, we did finally have sex, it required some subtle manoeuvring. It took a while for Martin to get hard. He needed me to be in a certain position. Again, I told myself it was sweet to be with someone so inexperienced, so needful of my help.

I’d had enough of men who took me as if I were their due, who woke me up with an erection and grunted their way to a satisfactory orgasm. I found Martin’s tentativeness delicate and respectful. He treated me like a piece of fragile china. I was sure, once he got used to me – to us – the sex would become more relaxed, less mechanical. I was beginning to love him, not for his physical prowess but for his mind. I wanted to hear what he thought about everything.

By the end of the year, we were engaged. I felt proud. I had won him over. Me. Lucy. The not-quite. And I was happy, too. Very happy. He saw something in me I failed to see in myself. How lucky that was. How I loved him for it. And how I loved thinking I could be the one to protect him.

Neesha stopped asking me to go outside for fags. We still said hello and goodbye and smiled at each other warmly but I knew it wasn’t the same. It didn’t matter to me as much as I thought it would. I told myself: she doesn’t see the Martin I see. She can’t understand what he’s like away from the office, in those quiet moments where I catch him on the sofa looking sad and lonely and I wonder what’s going on in his head and I reach out and stroke the soft hair at the back of his neck and slowly, he comes back to me, and we kiss and I know there is no one else who can do this for him. Only me.

Martin

Epsom, 1985

MY MOTHER’S NAME WAS SYLVIA. You don’t get many Sylvias nowadays, do you? A shimmery, slippery name for such a big-boned woman. Recently, one of Ben’s children introduced me to a fuzzy-faced toy and told me with pride that it was part of his collection of ‘Sylvanian Families’. I’m not sure whether the animal in my hand was meant to be a rabbit or a mouse or a non-specific mutation of both and although it looked soft to the touch, when I pressed it between my fingers I realised that underneath the thin coating of fur, it was hard plastic. That tallied more with my notion of my mother.

My mother was a perpetually disappointed woman. Her husband – my father – proved the ultimate in unreliability by having the temerity to die before I was born. The worst of it was that his death was entirely unexceptional, thereby denying my mother the one pleasurable thing she might have got out of it – namely, a good story.