The Love of Her Life. Harriet Evans
typically to type: he was angry about a lot of things, not least the parlous state of the Great American Novel, and his novel was extremely difficult, both thematically and practically. He had thick hair he brushed back from his face a lot, mostly in anger. He hadn’t written more than a word since he had first started talking to Kate about it. He was ‘circling round the themes’, he had told her, when she’d asked.
‘Right,’ Kate had said, politely, when she first heard this. She had glanced at Betty, who was nodding hopefully as if, a mere few minutes after their first introduction, she expected Kate and Andrew to dive underneath the table and copulate.
‘Honestly, that’s not exactly true,’ Andrew had added with a rueful smile. He scratched his cheek. ‘Could also be that I’d rather be out having a few beers after work than writing.’ He smiled at her, and Kate had instantly liked him again.
She found that, over the following weeks, she alternated in the same way, not being sure whether she liked him or not. Sometimes he was really very funny, coruscatingly rude or charming about something. Other times – too many – he was moody, virtually silent, as if oppressed by the weight of matters on his mind. Betty was running out of excuses, of social events to ask him to. Sooner or later Kate was just going to have to make a move, she told her. Ask him out for coffee.
As Andrew got up to use the bathroom, Betty said this to Kate, in no uncertain terms.
Kate was horrified.
‘Ask him out? No, no way, Bets. I couldn’t. Get him to.’
‘He’s not going to,’ said Betty decisively. She looked around her, to make sure Andrew wasn’t on his way back and hissed across the table, ‘It has to be you. Come on. You’ve got to seize the moment. Otherwise it’ll be over, and – and then what? You could have missed the chance to get married. For ever. How would you feel then?’
‘Oh,’ said Kate. ‘Relieved?’
Betty shook her head. ‘You are weird, did you know that?’
‘No I’m not,’ said Kate.
‘You’re like a metaphor for … argh. Intransigence.’
Betty worked in an art gallery in SoHo and was prone to remarks like this. Kate suppressed a smile.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Damn.’
‘Don’t you want to get married?’ said Betty. She stabbed at a dumpling with a chopstick. ‘Is that what you want? Would you do that to me? To your mother?’
Kate stared at her in astonishment. ‘You’re from West Norwood, Betty. Stop talking like that. Anyway, I don’t want to get married.’
‘Why? Why don’t you?’ Betty said, but as she was saying it recognition flooded her face. ‘Oh my god. Kate, I’m sorry –’
Kate held up her hand and smiled, but underneath the table her foot beat a steady tattoo against the aluminium table leg. ‘It’s ok! It’s fine. Now –’ as Andrew came back to the table, ‘I kind of need to get an early night, I’m afraid, and I have to pack. Can I get out before you sit back down again?’ She shot up and scooted along the plastic bench.
‘Kate –’ Betty said.
Kate looked up at her.
‘Sure,’ Betty nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘Bye, Andrew,’ Kate said, turning to him as he stood next to her. They stood to one side against the table as a tiny Japanese waitress bustled past them, bearing a huge tray of sushi, and Kate felt the pressure of his arm against hers.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s fine,’ Kate put her bag on her shoulder. ‘So I’ll see you when I get back …’
‘Let me walk you outside,’ Andrew said, in a loud, rather unnatural voice. He cleared his throat.
Outside on the crowded sidewalk, the heart of the tiny Japanese district on East 12th Street, Kate cast around to see if there was a cab.
‘I’ve got something to ask you,’ Andrew said, staring intently at her in the evening gloom.
‘So, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you when I’m back –’
‘Kate, Kate,’ Andrew said, rapidly. ‘I gotta say this now.’
‘Oh,’ said Kate, with a dreadful sense of foreboding. ‘No, I should walk to the –’
He gripped her arms. ‘Kate, let me finish.’
‘No, really,’ said Kate desperately, stupidly hoping that if she warded him off then what was about to happen might not happen.
Andrew stepped back. ‘Look,’ he said, crestfallen at her apparent horror. ‘I just wanted to ask you out when you get back. Maybe see if you wanted to go for a coffee, see a movie some time. But I guess – I guess that’s not such a great idea at the moment. With your dad, and all. I’m sorry.’
‘Ah,’ said Kate, feeling rotten that she was hiding behind her dad’s kidney transplant to get out of a date she didn’t want to go on. ‘You’re right. It’s – not a good time for me right now.’
God I sound American she thought. I really must go home.
‘Of course it’s not,’ Andrew nodded. ‘Hey. When you get back, if it is a good time – call me. OK?’
‘Sure,’ said Kate. ‘Sure.’
‘I promise not to talk about the novel,’ said Andrew. ‘Much.’
She looked at him, into his big brown eyes, as he smiled at her in the street, the lanterns from the bar next door swaying in the breeze behind him.
‘I just kind of like you, Kate,’ he said. ‘There’s – there’s something about you. You’re cool. I – I guess.’
He scuffed the pavement with his toe and she watched him, her heart pounding. It had been so long since someone had said anything like that to her and, to be honest, she had thought they never would again.
‘Oh,’ she said, and a lock of her dark blonde hair fell into her face. He looked at her, and pushed it off her cheek, his fingers stroking her skin. Kate met his gaze, shaking her head. Something was wrong.
‘Andrew,’ she said. ‘I –’
He bent his head and kissed her. His touch, his warm lips on hers, his hands on her ribs. Perhaps –
But she couldn’t. And the force of her response surprised her, for Kate pushed him away and said, breathlessly,
‘No. I’m sorry, no.’
She gave a huge, shuddering sigh.
Andrew stepped back, blinking uncertainly. He looked bewildered.
‘I’m – my god, I’m sorry.’
‘No,’ Kate said. She was almost backing away from him, she realized, trying to escape, like a cornered animal. ‘It’s not you. It’s me.’
He wiped his mouth with his hand, almost in disgust. She smiled. ‘No, really. I mean that. It’s the oldest cliché in the book – but in my case it’s totally true … it really is me.’
‘Right,’ said Andrew formally. He brushed something off his shirt. ‘I’m just – I’m sorry if I offended you. I thought –’
Kate held out both her hands, still keeping him at a distance. A couple walking down the sidewalk, who didn’t want to break their joint stride, bumped into her and she stumbled.
‘Look,’ she said, still breathing heavily, ‘I’m sorry, again. It really is me, Andrew, and I wish it wasn’t.’ She looked around, wildly, and he watched her.
‘Yeah,’ he said, after a while. ‘Betty said something.’
‘What?’