Pear Shaped

Two weeks’ time – no idea. James is rubbish at forward planning, but as he invariably ends up asking to see me at the weekends, I’m now avoiding making plans with other people.

‘Why, Devron?’

‘I need you to do a quick New York inspiration trip. If I don’t complete last year’s number of trips within a month of year-end financials, I won’t get like for like in this year’s allowance.’

Cool. So, because you have to tick a box on a sheet, I get a free trip to New York! Devron, I’m warming to you.

‘Is there actually anything you need me to do out there?’

‘Yeah, go for a night, have a look at a few cakes and whatnot, take some photos.’

‘For one night?’

‘Budget’s only going to pay for one night in a hotel.’

I love New York too much for a one-night stand.

‘I’ll stay at a friend’s, then can I go for a bit longer? If I stay a Saturday night, the airfare’s always cheaper.’

‘Fine, go for a long weekend, just come back with an idea I can take to the board. I want to show them what success looks like.’

New York! New York! I email my old friend Pauly asking if I can stay at his place for a few nights, and a minute later he mails back a yes.

It’s Saturday night and I’m off to meet James at the pub. As I leave my block of flats I see someone waving at me as they’re getting out of a black cab.

It’s my neighbour, Amber: part-time sarong designer and full-time halfwit.

Amber has seen James and me get in to his car several times. Each time she has stared, looking confused.

Now she rushes over to me with her miniature schnauzer, Annalex, in tow, and grabs my arm. ‘Sophie, long time … who is that guy you’re always with? Is that your brother, is he back from the States?’

‘No. That’s my boyfriend.’

‘Really?! I never think of you as someone who goes out with a Porsche driver.’

Welcome to Amber-World.

‘It’s not a Porsche, it’s a Maserati 3200GT.’ I have not told anybody about James’s car because I am mildly embarrassed by his money, but I take pleasure in telling Amber. ‘Anyway, what do you mean by that?’

‘You know, you go out with struggling artist types. Does your boyfriend have any single mates?’

I think about Rob. Rob would love Amber – she is a size 4, has no body fat and sports a permanent Ibiza tan. Tonight she is dressed in cowboy boots, tiny denim shorts and a cutaway silver vest.

‘Yes, his friend Rob. He’s really handsome, thirty-six, he drives a Porsche, works for Goldman Sachs …’

Her eyes couldn’t be any wider if she’d necked a fistful of Es.

‘Oh. Sorry, Amber, I forgot – he’s engaged … Oh well. Anyway, aren’t you still seeing Ritchie?’

She shrugs. This shrug means ‘I am thirty-one, very soon I will have to stop dating sexy rock ’n’ roll wannabe music-producer cokeheads, and bag myself a pudgy older Notting Hill banker. He’ll give me shitloads of cash to do up a huge three-storey second home with a pool in Oxfordshire and then I can ride horses and shag the local talent while the au pair looks after the kids and Rory bankrolls my Moroccan scented candle business.’

‘By the way, remember that £100 I lent you …’ I say, as she hands the cabbie a £50 note.

This always works like a charm whenever I want to get rid of Amber and sure enough, as she takes the £30 change from the cabbie, she says, ‘Babe, I’m totally skint at the moment but I’ll pop round soon,’ and hurries into our block.

James and I are three months into our relationship and I haven’t met any of his friends yet, apart from Rob. Laura thinks this is sinister, but I don’t – he hasn’t met any of mine, apart from her. Most of his friends have kids. James says he doesn’t want to share me with anyone. We keep each other endlessly entertained.

But now Laura has made me feel paranoid. So at the pub on Saturday I invited James round for dinner with Pete tonight. Perhaps if I introduce James to more of my friends he’ll follow suit. Besides, he’ll get on well with Pete – they’re both juvenile, charming, fun. Maybe James might register that Pete has a residual crush on me – perhaps it’ll make him more vocal in his affections.

When James left my flat this morning I said ‘Pete’s coming at 7pm.’ He nodded. I haven’t heard from him since. Although I reason I’ll see him later, when he hasn’t rung by 7.40pm, I have a low ache in my stomach, and it isn’t hunger.

The chicken will be ready any minute. Pete’s asking if we should invite my sexy blonde neighbour instead.

James must be working late.

At 7.50pm I take the chicken out, put it under foil and call James.

‘Hello you,’ he says.

‘Where are you?’ I say.

‘At home.’

‘Are you coming for dinner or what?’

‘Sure, see you soon.’

‘That was weird,’ I say to Pete.

‘What? He’s coming, isn’t he?’

‘He is now.’

James arrives looking slightly nervous. The two shake hands and from their posture I sense a mild rivalry in the air.

‘So, are you a North Londoner too?’ says Pete. I’ve already told him all the facts about James, but I’ve forced these two together and Pete’s having to make small talk.

‘East,’ says James. ‘Woodford, born and bred.’

‘My cousins grew up there. What school did you go to?’

‘Forest.’

‘Do you know Alex and Adam Foster, twins?’

‘One of them amazing at football?’ says James.

‘Alex.’