(Sorry if this offends anyone but Louisa has to grow up and figure some things out. Every detail has a purpose in the long run so please just stick with me.)
Over the following few weeks, I experienced one of the feminine world's strangest conundrums; the mystery of how, as soon as you actually have a boyfriend, you become seemingly irresistible to other members of the opposite sex. Perhaps it's because I don't have 'desperate' written all over my face any longer, or because I have just grown up a bit and acquired some of my longed-for poise, or maybe I'm not as innocent as I was and I recognise suggestive and flirtatious behaviour for what it really is, but I could barely step into a pub or party without attracting a lot of unwanted male attention. But I felt that my relationship with Andrew, however tenuous it seemed over the weeks he was away, equated to some sort of commitment and so, night after night, I ignored the overtures and waited for him to return.
When we finally saw each other again, after his unexplained trip to Spain, he was a bit tentative around me, and I wasn't actually sure whether our relationship would ever really go anywhere. We had one awkward dinner date followed, a few nights later, by a slightly more amusing evening at an Improv Theatre. We were better after that, laughing as we walked along the street, and ducking spontaneously into a bar for some post show drinks. After several creamy cocktails, our spirits were high and, when he pulled me into a darkened doorway and kissed me, I felt a glimmer of hope once more.
The few times I'd suggested he join my friends and I at the pub however, he had either made excuses or cancelled at the last minute, so they'd only met him briefly when he had called to pick me up and, even then, I'd been surprised at his reticence to engage in any sort of conversation with them. It wasn't like they were intimidating or unfriendly, he just seemed to want to only spend time with me when we were alone. I knew that it was a lot to do with my own need to feel normal, but I really did want to spend time with both my flat mates and Andrew at the same time. I suppose I was just a bit too keen to join together the two halves of my life but I also wanted Libby and Holly to see what great company Andrew really was. I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that I wanted them to see how sweet he was around me in private, how he deferred to my needs, how he loved to throw his arm around me, and nuzzle and whisper into my ear. And
I also had another reason for wanting them to get to know each other better. Holly had confided in me, in her own blunt, insensitive way after he had delivered me home one night, that she thought he might be gay. I didn't believe her but, as time went on, and we didn't progress far beyond slightly heated snogging, a tiny doubt started to creep into my mind. So, I was pleased when, after our halting partnership seemed to be gaining momentum, I'd convinced him to join me at a recital that Holly was part of and, after quite a lot of hesitation, he had finally agreed.
I'd imagined a lovely summer evening in the park, sitting on a blanket and finally getting to share that long-ago promised picnic, but it was not to be. He was fidgety and inattentive, and I was especially put out when he started to frequently glance at his watch. I had never heard a live string quartet before and I was actually really looking forward to it, especially as one of my favourite Bach pieces, the double Concerto, was on the programme. I should have been enjoying listening to my friend's playing, especially as the piece itself was actually evoking some pleasant memories but, as I tried hard to abandon myself into the music, I was frustrated by the obvious boredom and inattentiveness of my companion. I watched with a growing sense of annoyance as he continually adjusted his hat, chewed his nails, examined the contents of his pockets and smoked one cigarette after another. I was really miffed and, sensing the tension afterwards, he treated us to a taxi ride home. I wasn't going to be mollified though and, grumpily, I insisted he got dropped off first. It was the first time I'd seen where he lived and he seemed anxious and awkward as he leapt from the minicab, but I was too annoyed to care to be honest.
Andrew's behaviour at the recital really made me think about our general compatibility. I was still working hard at the market stall, acutely conscious that the final weeks of summer were passing by so rapidly. Hence, I was always keen to get out and about on my days off but he never really wanted to go anywhere I did. He wasn't interested in museums and didn't enjoy walks in the park, or really exercise of any sort actually. During daylight hours we always seemed to go around in circles about how we would spend our time together. He wouldn't suggest anything but, when I did, he was seldom very enthusiastic. His default was always to go see a film, the more arty and obscure the better, but I felt that sitting in a darkened room on a summers day was a colossal waste of daylight so I was never that keen.
Occasionally I would compromise, and he would choose a video, arriving at the door grinning like a schoolboy and enveloping me in a bear hug before racing across to our tiny little TV, and popping his choice into the VHS. On that particular Monday, I'd only relented because the weather was awful and I was home alone. I'd invited him around for lunch and suggested he stop in at his favourite avant-garde video shop and choose something to wile away the afternoon. When he arrived, he seemed a little hesitant about his choice and apologised to me in advance in case I found them a bit much because, apparently, they were Scandinavian Art House and a bit racy. While we ate beans on toast, drank ginger beer, and tried to follow the convoluted plot via the equally mystifying subtitles, what enfolded before my eyes began to make me feel more than a little uncomfortable. I cleared the plates away and made a cup of tea, all the time avoiding looking at the television as the shrill cries and desperate moans became louder and more insistent. When I sat down again, Andrew gave me a quick apologetic smile but it was clear that his previous discomfort at watching love scenes had completely evaporated, because now he was glued to the screen.
Unable to make sense of what they were all doing, I reached over to put my tea on the side table, and that's when I felt his hands slide up under my t shirt and around my chest. It wasn't that I minded at all, it just that his sudden intensity came as a surprise, and I was shocked. All my familiar doubts immediately surfaced but, with superhuman effort, I managed to push them from my mind. I don't even recall how we got there but, in an instant, we were on my bed, and he was fumbling with my jeans and I was trying not to laugh at his desperation to remove them. I don't know why but I was completely surprised at his behaviour; it was as if he had abandoned all of his usual theatrical embellishments and I was finally alone with what I hoped was the real Andrew; determined, vehement and intense. By the time he'd scrabbled desperately on the floor to find his wallet, had donned protection and was ready to go, I was enjoying myself more than I expected. Typically though, I was still too shy to give any instructions and, after it was over and I lay there feeling slightly cheated, I reminded myself to feel content for now with what we'd had. After all, it had been such a massive improvement on Danny, and I was left feeling a lot more hopeful about sex generally, and Andrew especially.
He awoke me a while later with his usual forehead kiss and I surprised myself by reaching out for him in the hope that we could rekindle something but his silent intensity had evaporated and the awkward, faltering, bewildered version of himself had returned with a vengeance. Instantly, I realised that, for some reason, he needed to escape and I watched sadly as he sat on the bed and dressed himself. I was surprised at his body; it was as if he had been splattered liberally with vermillion over his shoulders and back, and I was fascinated with how lean and sinewy he was beneath his freckled skin. I hadn't had the chance to observe too many half naked men, close up, and I was a bit put off actually. His back was actually quite spotty, and I wasn't so sure I liked the mass of freckles either but I didn't dwell on that fact; it seemed a bit mean and judgemental to feel that way about something he clearly had no control over.
Reluctantly, I rolled on my side and felt around on the floor for my clothes so I could make myself presentable but I realised with disappointment that he had no intention of sticking around a moment longer. He paused at the door and gave me a nervous smile, and there was no sign of his extravagant persona, no hint of his usual cheeky self confidence. He looked at me and, if I wasn't already disconcerted enough, he then thanked me in the coldest, most uncomfortable tone I'd ever heard him use. As I tried desperately to get dressed quickly, I heard him ejecting the video from the VHS and then I heard the slam of the front door as he let himself out into the street. Once again, I was overwhelmed by confusion and I sat back down on the bed and stared at myself in the mirror, wondering what it was about me that always made everyone who was close to me want to run away. I bit down on my lip but I was determined not to be upset. It seemed like this was just the way of adult relationships and I needed to just get used to it or avoid them altogether. Sighing heavily, I rummaged in my drawer for some clean clothes, and made my way to the shower. Looking down at the old axminster and seeing the discarded condom and the wrapper just lying there, carelessly and thoughtlessly discarded, was just the final straw really and I bolted for the bathroom before the tears could flow.
I wasn't sure what I expected to happen next but, over the next few days, I had the horrible, dawning realisation that I'd been jilted. There were no phone calls, no visits and no invitations, and I felt sickened to the core. Of course, he had previous form for this sort of emotional negligence but, this time, it was totally different and I knew it. Every time I felt like I needed to share my fears with Libby though, I'd pull myself up. I'd seen and heard enough over the last year to know that sex for her was about needs gratification and that she wouldn't in a million years understand how I felt about what had evolved between Andrew and me. Maybe it was because of my lifelong insecurity or maybe I just wasn't made like her, but sleeping with some one was a big deal for me and implied some sort of special commitment. And yet I'd attempted it twice and, both times, it had ended disastrously and left me feeling devastated and used. I wasn't sure what it all meant and I was struggling to make sense of it but I honestly felt I had no one to ask and nowhere to turn.
Of course, Libby being Libby, by the weekend she had noticed that I had neither mentioned him nor left the house for anything other than work. I was sitting on my bed, brushing my hair when she slipped into my room and sat down next to me, fixing me with her cool, enquiring gaze. I resisted for about thirty seconds and then, like a lanced boil, it all came out as I breathlessly and inarticulately expressed the extent of my pain and disappointment. As she listened, her eyes narrowed and went as cold as flint and, as I drew to a sobbing conclusion, she pulled me in for a silent hug, and we sat there for several minutes as she gently rocked me and I, by some miracle, managed to actually compose myself.
After a moment, she leaned back and looked at me.
"God, I feel awful, Louisa, I can't help but think I'm partly responsible."
I shook my head at her, staring back with glassy, tear-stained eyes.
"What?" I said, confused.
"I stupidly assumed that you just needed to get about a bit more, you know, that shagging a few more boys would put everything into perspective?"
She stood up and and shut my insubstantial bedroom door quietly before turning around and leaning on it, staring at me with a pained expression on her face.
"I should have realised that you're not like me. You're so sensitive Louisa, you feel everything so deeply and you care about everything so much. The rest of us are just out there trying to get our jollies but this.." she said, gesticulating across my unmade bed. "This really means something to you."
I gazed back at her sadly. I knew she was right but, at that moment it seemed a weakness that I wasn't sure I could cope with any longer.
"Have you called him?" She said, anger rising in her voice.
I felt myself redden.
"No. He doesn't have a phone in his flat. He calls me from a phone box down the road."
"Right." She said, bristling. "I don't believe that for a moment but, anyway...Of course, you haven't been round there? Or have you?"
"Two things really. First, I've never been invited to his house and, secondly, even if I had, I do have some vestige of pride left."
Libby gazed at me thoughtfully.,
"So you don't even know where he lives? And you don't have his phone number?"
I could see what she was thinking and, once again, I felt the burn of humiliation. I was an idiot, once more out of my depth.
"I do sort of know where he lives but only by accident." I said, and my tone was defensive. "I was in a taxi once and we dropped him home first."
She raised an eyebrow at me.
"Could you find it again?"
"Ummm, possibly. I remember the area I think."
"Right then." She said firmly. "Get your bag, Louisa, we are off on a mission."