Bella Summer Takes a Chance Read online

  ‘Of course we will, and we’ll be happy to be your dates. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.’ She took my hand across the table. ‘I love you. And Clare loves you and Faith loves you. You know that. We are your best friends. It’s our duty to point out when you are wrong. And we’re afraid you were wrong to stop your relationship when, you admit yourself, there was nothing wrong with it.’

  Kat liked to use the royal ‘We’ when telling me what she thought. The fact was, Clare had only asked me once if I was sure about the break-up, and she accepted my answer. And Faith, who I’d known even longer than Kat, was possibly the biggest romantic love advocate on the planet. I knew Kat’s words were hers alone.

  Technically she was right. There was nothing wrong with Mattias’ and my relationship. We got along, and generally enjoyed each other. He was a smart, stable man who’d treated me well. So what was wrong with me? Why wasn’t it enough? ‘We loved each other,’ I said for what felt like the hundredth time. ‘But we weren’t in love with each other.’

  ‘Pah. You were together for ten years. No one is in love after that long. You loved each other. That is enough. Stop being so naïve. You read too many romantic books. They’re just fiction. Your trouble is you expect to fall head over feet.’

  ‘I think you mean heels.’

  She wasn’t being unkind, just matter-of-fact. But her facts weren’t mine. How could I make her understand, and accept it? It was hard enough sorting everything out in my own head. It wasn’t like I didn’t wonder if I’d made a mistake every time Mattias called or texted. I had to remind myself that I’d acted on my feelings, and I couldn’t help how I felt. My friends needed reminding about that too. ‘I’ve told you that there weren’t even sparks when we met. We just fell into a relationship. It was easy. Too easy, maybe.’

  ‘But B., most people would die to have an easy relationship. You are lucky. Your best friend was your boyfriend. Don’t be so greedy.’

  ‘I’m not being greedy! I just don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a relationship without being in love. He wasn’t in love with me either. This is best for us both. It’s not enough to get along, or have common interests. We were like friends with benefits. There’s got to be more out there.’

  ‘After so long together you’re lucky you got the benefits.’

  When she smiled I knew that the awkwardness had left the conversation, freeing us to pursue less thorny topics. We were big believers in the band-aid approach. A short, sharp rip at the beginning got us over the pain more quickly. By the time I kissed her goodbye to rush to the office, the sting was fading to a memory. True friendship was like that.

  You’d never know it was a Saturday. It looked like my colleagues were preparing for war when I arrived. Fiona was barking orders at them and one of the newer consultants looked ready to cry.

  ‘B.,’ she said when she spotted me. ‘I tried your mobile but you didn’t pick up.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear it,’ I lied. ‘How’s everything going?’ I only asked to bait her. It was a large part of my job satisfaction. I didn’t exactly dislike my boss. If she fell onto a railroad track, for instance, I’d probably give her a hand up, as long as I hadn’t just had a manicure.

  ‘There’s no way we’ll be ready for Monday. It’s a fucking disaster.’

  It was a meeting that we’d known about for a month, the final presentation of results from the project before we moved on to the next client. The same meeting had ended every single engagement we’d ever had. Yet it came as a surprise, just as every end-of-project meeting seemed to. For change management consultants, we didn’t handle surprises very well. Thankfully, I was a very small cog in that wonky wheel. ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘You can stop being so fucking cheerful. Nobody appreciates it.’

  Foul Fiona always lived up to her nickname in times of stress. Luckily, she didn’t use the same language in front of clients. ‘Sure thing, Fiona, sorry, I’ll try to be more morose.’ I stuck two fingers up. ‘How’s this?’

  ‘Better. It’s not like our future is riding on this or anything.’

  By ‘our’ future she meant her future. As the project manager who contracted in the consultants, she was tied to the companies she served. That made the rest of us mercenaries, working for anyone who’d pay us. I’d have loved to care more about the meeting but I already had my next assignment with Sprüngli.

  My friend Clare pulled a face at Fiona’s retreating back. ‘Come on, buttercup,’ she said. ‘Fiona wants ten more slides from us.’

  ‘Ten more? It’s already too long. What does she expect us to add?’

  ‘Let’s put one word on each slide–’

  ‘In huge font?’ I proposed.

  ‘In huge font, call it finished, and go get a drink.’

  Of course we wouldn’t do that. After nearly six months on the project, it was a matter of personal pride.

  I’d only meant to work for Fiona until my music career took off. Unfortunately, though my seat belt was securely fastened and my tray table safely stowed, the control tower still hadn’t cleared that runway. As the number of months in London started outpacing the number of gigs I did, I was grateful for the steady income.

  Clare and I lounged in one of the smaller conference rooms away from the others, biscuits filched from the client cupboard strewn across the table. When she got the genius idea to fill the presentation with indecipherable screenshots of our process charts, I knew we’d be okay. Nobody cared about the details of the presentation anyway. The clients just wanted to know whether it was finished, and whether it stayed within budget.

  ‘If anyone questions the slides, which they won’t,’ Clare said, deftly pasting in the screenshots. ‘I’ll say something.’ As the star of our team she got away with more than I’d dare dream. Fiona was occasionally even civil to her. That’s because my friend was a consummate professional to the tips of her manicured fingers. With such a deadly combination of puppy-like cuddliness and fierce intellect, it was no wonder she’d done so well. Not that she’d needed to use either on me; she neatly disarmed me with cake when we first met.

  ‘No fat!’ She’d said, proffering it over the boardroom table. ‘I swear, angel food cake is a baking miracle. I’m emailing the Vatican. Or Sweden. Whoever invented this deserves a Nobel Prize. Here, taste.’ I did. I did again. Death by a thousand slices.

  Later she told me she’d been desperate to make a good impression. It may have been her first job after uni, and her first assignment, but she knew the lay of the land. Newbie consultants were crapped upon as surely as the world mocked Katie Price. Her only hope was to target someone greedy enough to overlook the chance to enslave her own personal assistant. We’d indulged in several thousand fat-free calories by quitting time and our friendship, born of cake, was cemented by nausea. I knew before the crumbs were stale that we were kindred spirits, united in dietary self-delusion.

  She was also a very loyal friend who got my sense of humour. For me, laughter went such a long way in friendship. I tried being friends with very-nice-but-boring girls, but I never enjoyed spending time with them. They were the low-fat milk of social engagement. It was perfectly fine and lots of people drank it, but I was never going to look forward to low-fat milk. I’d never anticipate the next time I’d have it, or smile fondly at its memory. I suspected there was something wrong with me in this regard. Surely nice and worthy should have been enough.

  ‘Have you heard anything about the Zurich flat yet?’ She asked.

  ‘No. You?’

  ‘Of course not. You know we’re going to land there with nowhere to live, right?’

  ‘Where do the homeless sleep in Zurich?’

  ‘Cartier’s doorway.’

  ‘Dibs on Louis Vuitton.’ When Fiona first mentioned the Zurich job, just after I split with Mattias, I wasn’t at all sure about going. It was perhaps a bit much to add a six-month foreign assignment into the upheaval. But then I thought, why not? Wasn’t it just
the sort of thing one should do when single? Besides, it’s not everybody who got to say she worked for a chocolate factory. Sprüngli, makers of Lindt, needed a confectionary shake-up. I was to become Willamina Wonka. ‘Seriously, though,’ I continued. ‘We’re starting in six weeks. We’ll need to know more soon.’

  ‘Do you think something’s wrong? What if there isn’t another job?’ She wound a lock of blonde hair through her fingers, a nervous habit.

  ‘They’ve always come through before,’ I said. ‘There’s no reason to think there’s anything wrong.’

  She nodded. ‘It’s probably just a snag in the paperwork. I’m being paranoid. You know how geeky I am. I need to work. I’m not like you, with…’ She fluttered her hands. ‘… Creative juices. My juices are wholly employment-related. These assignments sustain me. We will be all right, won’t we?’

  ‘Of course we will. And don’t be jealous of my juices. I can’t exactly make a living as a musician if the assignment falls through.’

  I hoped very much that paperwork was holding things up because I needed the assignment too, though for different reasons than Clare. I had to have breathing room away from the new life I’d created. Zurich would be the pause button, letting me assess the past months from outside the maelstrom. And away from Mattias. At the moment I was going through the motions, carried along pretty much as I’d always been, minus the stable relationship. I had the nagging suspicion that that’s how I ended up sleepwalking through the last decade in the first place. It seemed to happen so gradually that I hadn’t noticed. Like that frog in hot water. If you threw the poor little hopper into a pot of boiling water (not that I’d ever do that!) conventional wisdom said it would jump out. But if you put it into a pot of cold water and turned on the heat, it would eventually boil to death. Had I been a dozy toad? Did I sit in my life, making a small concession here, a minor adjustment of expectations there, never questioning why I was starting to sweat? Surely there were points along the way that should have made me wonder. Maybe the ease alone was a warning sign.

  Chapter 3

  I was still optimistic about making something of myself musically when Mattias and I met. I’d just landed a gig at one of London’s most lacklustre clubs. I was celebrating this infinitesimal advance (to a starving woman a bean was a feast), and I was very drunk. I mean unattractively, lipstick-smeary, talking crap drunk. I’d completely forgotten him until he called a few days later. I never told him that his first impression was about as indelible as a Tibetan sand mandala.

  ‘May I please speak with B.?’ He sounded vaguely foreign as he introduced himself. But that wasn’t unusual. I’d only moved to London six months earlier, so everyone sounded vaguely foreign.

  ‘Hi…’ I stalled.

  ‘From the bar? The other night?’

  I still had no idea. ‘Yes, hi.’

  ‘How are you?’ He continued. ‘Did your brother have a nice birthday? Did you remember to call him?’

  It had indeed been my brother’s birthday on Saturday. Using my considerable deductive powers, that meant I’d talked to this man on Friday. I had a bleary memory of writing on someone’s hand, evidence of which I’d found in the bottom of my handbag the next morning. My favourite kohl eye pencil was worn to a nub. I must have included my phone number, address, uni grades and personal stats, all the way up his arm. The human scroll was calling. ‘Yes, he did, thanks, and I remembered to call just before bed, so clocked in the birthday wishes in time. How are you? Did you, em…’ Think, think, think what we might have talked about. ‘Did you go on to another bar afterwards?’ I was playing the odds.

  ‘Nah, we were done. Listen, I enjoyed talking to you and wondered if you’d like to meet again?’

  That wasn’t as easy to answer as one might think. I had no idea what he looked like. I also had no idea what we’d talked about. Ergo, no idea whether his idea of fun might be collecting stamps or birdwatching. But I had talked to him. And given him my number. My real number. I figured he mustn’t have been hideous; although he could still have been boring. He was probably cute enough to kiss. ‘Sure, I’d love to.’

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Friday, say, seven? How about the Long Island Iced Tea bar, in honour of your Americanness?’

  ‘Canadian-Americanness,’ I reminded him. ‘Don’t be fooled by the accent. Dad’s from Toronto, and proud of it, so I’ve got a foot in both cultures. In theory I guess that should make it a little easier to settle into the UK.’

  ‘Does that mean I should take you out to eat maple syrup on crumpet hamburgers? Maybe we can save that for the second date.’

  I laughed and the biggest relationship of my life began that simply, though it almost didn’t go any further for practical reasons. His visage remained a mystery. I couldn’t ask him what he looked like, but blanking him in the bar might have set the wrong tone for our date. My brain refused to give up its secrets, threaten it as I might. Not one clue loosed itself from the morass of that night. My only chance was to get there early and let him find me. I had a plan to escape the client’s offices in plenty of time. On paper it was perfect.

  In reality I arrived fifteen minutes late to find that all men could be him. I fixed my face with a slightly bemused half-smile, hoping to suggest dawning recognition rather than idiocy, and made slowly for the bar.

  A vague spark of recognition fired my synapses when I spotted him. He wasn’t ugly. Or short, or bald. His smile told me he wasn’t disappointed either.

  ‘Hi.’ He leaned in and kissed me on both cheeks while I stifled a smirk. Being new to London, I still believed people air-kissed to be ironic.

  ‘Hi, I’m sorry I’m late. I got caught up at the office. Do you work close by?’

  ‘Not too far. In Islington. You’re in the City, right? How’s your project going? Your deadline is next week, isn’t it?’

  Uh-oh. We’d talked about our jobs already. ‘Fine, thanks.’ How much had I told this man? Clearly my future didn’t lie with MI6. ‘Yes, next Friday. All going to plan. And you? How’s your, um, project?’ I was guessing he had one.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘… The big one?’

  ‘B., you don’t remember what I do, do you?’

  ‘God. I’m sorry. No, I have no idea what we talked about. I’d had a bit to drink. I’m sorry.’

  ‘How long did you plan to bluff?’

  ‘What time is it now?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Seven thirty.’

  ‘All night. And next time if necessary.’

  ‘Do you have to bluff a lot?’

  ‘Are you asking if I’m an alcoholic?’

  ‘You’re an interesting girl. Should we start again?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He wasn’t a stamp collector or a birdwatcher. Nor was he awkward, insolvent or dumb. He wasn’t a felon, or married or psychotic. He was just nice. And Swedish, though raised from teenhood in the US, which gave us something in common. Several hours in, he leaned over and kissed me. Good kisses. ‘Do you want to come to my place?’ He asked as we left hand in hand.

  ‘You mean for coffee?’

  ‘I mean for sex. But I’ll make you coffee if you like.’

  I said yes. He wasn’t stereotypically Scandinavian. No blonde hair or Viking-like presence. He did have lovely green eyes but he was more Volvo station wagon than Saab 9-3 convertible. He was just nice. Incredibly nice. And warm and sociable and smart. He asked me to stay that first night. He snored a little too much for a peaceful night’s sleep, but we fooled around again in the morning. Then he got up, said that he had lunch with his brother and needed to go. As he kissed me on the forehead en route to the shower I thought, I played this all wrong. Wracked with self-loathing I tried to think of something to say to let him know that I wasn’t usually a slapper. What a feeble protest from a naked girl, and a virtual stranger, in his bed. I said it anyway, just for the record. ‘That was unusual for me. I never sleep with men I’ve just met.’

  ‘Neither
do I. Girls, I mean.’

  I didn’t believe him any more than he probably believed me. ‘I feel like we did this all wrong, backwards,’ I continued. ‘But for what it’s worth, I’d like to see you again.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d like that too.’ He kissed me as I gathered my clothes together for the walk of shame, and left to nurse my regrets.

  I didn’t expect to see him again. It had been too easy. Not the sleeping together part, though that was a snap. The whole date was remarkably straightforward. Of course he wasn’t going to call. My love life was never that simple. So I put him out of my mind, chalking the night up as a should-keep-legs-together-for-at-least-twenty-four-hours learning experience.

  But he did call a few days later to ask me out again. The details of that date were lost to my memory, as were the many after that. They were nondescript. They were easy. We fell naturally into a comfortable pattern, and still we liked each other’s company, had things to talk about. There wasn’t a specific moment when we decided that we were boyfriend and girlfriend. It just progressed that way. We were friends and lovers for ten years.

  So why did I give up an easy relationship with this nice, fun, smart man? My reason never sounded good enough, even to me, let alone to my friends. It sounded naïve, like a pipe dream. A hard-hearted judge might say stupid. Who walked away from an acceptable relationship for… what? What if there was nothing behind door number two? And yet I knew I had to try to find what would be right for me. What would be enough. Even though I didn’t know whether what I was looking for existed. Events of the past weeks and months made me doubt it.

  This niggling thought was my companion for my former colleague Jill’s wedding a few weeks after lunch with Kat. It was as bad as I’d feared, yet I had to keep smiling, proving to the bride that I was having the time of my life.

  The man she’d sat me next to only added insult to injury. Upon introductions Prince Charmless took my hand, leaned around to examine my backside, and wriggled his bounteous eyebrows. I made my feelings clear but he wouldn’t let up. He kept asking why I was single. I didn’t really want to share my story with someone with whom I so keenly resented sharing the table. I mumbled more vague nonsense, cursing my manners. Even when I wanted to drive a fork into my companion I couldn’t be impolite. It was a trait my friends valued in me. I was the one they knew they could stick with crazy Aunt Rita at parties and rest assured that Rita would have a nice time. Every group of friends had one of these suckers. We were invaluable, greasing the wheels of inept social interaction.