It had been a mistake to come to the party, I decided, and tried to leave. As I was about to make my escape out the front door, a very tall man in a midnight blue silk shirt walked in. We almost crashed into each other, and did the side-to-side, step-to-the-other-side thing, then we both turned sideways like crabs and smiled. Those few seconds of social awkwardness were enough for Phil to notice I was missing and appear.

 

‘You’re not leaving yet, are you? Surely not! You’ve only just arrived!’

 

Had I not noticed that the tall guy was looking at my legs, I probably would have left. But I was vain, and he was beautiful, and the attention was nice, so I stayed.

 

‘I’m just… I was a little cold, so I got my jacket.’ I wrapped my arms around myself and pretended to shiver. Both men smiled, and I was shepherded back to the party.

 

‘Have you two met?’ asked Phil, as he pressed glasses into our hands. ‘Allison, this is Zach, Zach this is Allison.’ 

 

‘Nice to meet you.’ 

 

‘And you.’ He had some sort of American accent, which meant that I was no longer the only foreigner at the party aside from Phil. I shook his hand, which was huge, and he smiled at me with perfectly white teeth. Someone once told me that Ringo Starr names his son Zach because the name reminded him of a big friendly cowboy. This Zach could have been what Ringo was picturing.

 

Before I knew it, I was in the kitchen, my coat and bag slung onto a chair. I had a cocktail in one hand and a canapé in the other, and Phil was asking me about my language course and the new apartment, and sneaking looks down the front of my dress whenever he could. I was following the progress of the Midnight Cowboy through the party. I really wanted to talk to him, but I was trapped against the fridge with Phil blocking my way. I noticed him talking to Phil’s wife, then they were joined by some other people. He seemed to know some of them, but I didn’t, which possibly meant they didn’t know Andy, which might have meant that Zach didn’t know him either, so I could relax a little. They wouldn’t be gossiping about me.

 

Phil was chatting away, and I was pretending to listen, when I suddenly realised all the other people in the room were looking in my direction. I said as charmingly as I could, ‘Can I help you?’ Zach said, ‘We were just discussing the color of your dress.’ I could actually hear the u missing from the word colour as it came out of his mouth.

 

‘My dress?’ 

 

‘The color of your dress. Is it pink or purple? I’d say pink, but these guys would are telling me it’s purple.’

 

They all looked at me expectantly. I could feel my face turning the same colour as my dress. I said, ‘Actually, it’s fuschia.’

 

The American laughed. 

 

‘May I ask why you’re having this conversation?’  

 

‘May I ask?’ He mimicked my accent. ‘Sure. It all started because of my shirt. What color would you call this?’

 

‘Blue. Midnight blue, to be exact.’

 

‘Phil, what color is my shirt?’

 

‘Well, I reckon blue, too.’

 

‘See, to me it’s purple. These guys think Allison’s dress is purple, and my shirt is blue, but to me, Allison’s dress is pink, and they disagree.’

 

Phil said, ‘Maybe your shirt could be indigo, halfway between blue and purple.’ 

 

‘You Brits. Allison’s dress isn’t pink or purple, it’s fuschia, and my shirt isn’t blue or purple, it’s indigo. What color’s your shirt? Got a fancy name for black?’

 

‘This, my friend, is slate.’

 

‘I love a man who knows his colors,’ said the American. ‘That’s not at all gay.’

 

‘I’m very in touch with my feminine side.’ Phil put his arm around my waist and squeezed a bit too hard. ‘But as I recall, indigo isn’t a colour at all. It was invented by the Catholics, so the rainbow would have seven colours, not six.’

 

‘Really? Is that a fact?’ 

 

‘It could be fiction. I’m not really sure. It was something my chemistry teacher told us at school, and I’ve never verified the fact. It could be what you lot would call a load of BS.’

 

‘Bullshit is the word you’re looking for. Hell yeah. Got any interesting facts on fuschia Allison?’

 

The only thing that sprang to mind was a rather iffy joke my former flatmate had told me, along the lines of what’s the difference between pink and purple? Depends how hard you hold it.

 

I smiled to myself, then saw the astonished looks on the faces around me, and realised I had told the joke aloud.

 

‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘I think that may have been my danger glass of wine.’

 

Phil looked confused. ‘I don’t get it.’ 

 

‘You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’ 

 

The midnight blue American smiled as he reached for a bottle of white to refill my glass. 

 

Phil’s wife said loudly, ‘Hallison, where is your Handy tonight?’ Her overcorrections annoyed me more than normal. 

 

‘Andy? He’s working.’

 

‘On a Saturday hevening? Pheel, what are you doing to your staff?’ From the way she said it and the look in her eye, I knew she knew. From the way Phil adjusted the arm that was already around me from flirtatious to comforting, I knew he knew and was hoping to take advantage of the situation again.

 

One of the women from the group of colour theorists intercepted. She was a mature, large lady, with masses of bottle blonde curly hair, and a tight yellow and red stretchy dress, somewhat daring for a woman of her size. I could see Zach watching us, she in her dress, me in mine, standing next to the retro blue Smeg fridge, and blinking his eyes against the effect. The bra she had on was a few sizes too small for her, and breast bulged over the top of the cups, making it look like she had four boobs. I tried not to look at what the knicker elastic was doing to her bellies. She introduced herself in heavily accented but grammatically perfect English.

 

‘I’ve been admiring your ring all night,’ she said, taking my left hand and holding it closer to the light so she could have a look at the golden manacle on my finger. ‘You are married?’ she asked.

 

‘Engaged.’ Phil’s wife smiled a not-for-much-longer smirk.

 

A few other people looked in the direction of my hand, including Zach, and oohed and aaahed. It was quite a ring. Early on in our relationship, I’d told Andy about my grandmother’s engagement ring, which had four diamonds set round a ruby in the middle, like a flower. After she died, the ring went to my cousin, who sold it, which broke my heart. When Andy proposed, he presented me with this beautiful ring, which he’d had made. It was a solid band of gold, with five jewels set into it, in the likeness of a flower. The four petals were a ruby, sapphire, emerald and diamond, with a tiny pearl in the middle. The stones were irregular, and different sizes, and had been chosen for their colours. An artist friend of Andy’s had made the ring. I couldn’t have chosen anything more perfect. However, it didn’t fit my finger. I didn’t want to get it adjusted because I didn’t want it to be spoiled. Every day, I tucked a small piece of paper around the band to keep it in place. A friend of mine had once made a joke about a piece of paper keeping in place a band of gold that shouldn’t be there.

 

‘Who designed this?’ asked the admirer. 

 

‘Sergei something or other. He’s a Russian designer, based in Moscow. I have his card if you’re interested. Only, it’s in Russian.’ Just thinking about the Cyrillic letters made me miss Moscow and my life there.

 

She said some more pretty things about the ring and jewellery in general, then proceeded to tell me all about the jewellery she was wearing. There was a necklace from her mother, a watch from her former lover, a bracelet from a long-lost friend, a wedding band of course, and her favourite, a ring with a very thin band, and a tiny diamond.

 

‘This ring is very special,’ she said, holding her hand up to my face. ‘Many years ago, when I was still a student, I had a boyfriend who I loved very much. Very much. Soon after we met, he earned a scholarship to study in America.’

 

‘Gotta hate the States for taking away your man,’ said the cowboy.

 

The woman took a cigarette out of a tiny pink bag dangling from one shoulder. Phil said, ‘Erm, sorry, sorry, no absolutely NO smoking in my flat!’

 

‘Even in the kitchen?’

 

‘Especially in the kitchen.’ He took a bottle of champagne out the fridge and, after re-filling my glass, went to fill up other people’s. 

 

She smiled and continued her story. ‘Well, at the time, I was so young, and I somehow enjoyed the tragedy of falling in love with someone I could not have. We had a beautiful three months, and a tearful goodbye at the train station. This story takes place in Bordeaux, I should mention, and his plane left from Paris. I had not enough money to accompany him to the airport. I cried for a week, and refused to see my friends, and got pale and thin and enjoyed the misery. Then I started being sick every morning, and knew that things were not as they should be. Then I started crying for real. I was so scared about telling my parents! I was sure they would throw me into the street. When I could keep it a secret no longer, I went to them in tears, and told them what had happened. My father took my hands in his and asked, do you think we won’t get through this?’

 

I couldn’t imagine my father doing this. He probably would throw me into the street, if my mother didn’t get to me first. I asked, ‘Is the ring from your father?’

 

‘No no! In fact, this came from the father of my son. Somehow, the news reached him that I was with child. I have never found out who told him. The ring came with the most beautiful letter I have ever received. He wrote that before he left, he had decided that I was the girl he was going to marry, and that he’d been saving his money with the intention of buying a ring and proposing to me when he returned to France. But as life had taken the turn it had, he wanted to ask me now. He apologised that the diamond was not as big as one he would have liked to give me, that he thought I deserved, but to forgive him, as he was only a student. The way he got the money is quite a story in itself. As often as he could, he went to the hospital to give blood. In America, at least where he was living…’

 

‘Where was that?’ asked Zach. She dismissed his question with a wave of her hand.

 

‘Where he was living, you don’t simply donate blood, you are paid for your services. So essentially, he paid for this ring with his own blood.’

 

She admired her hand for a moment. ‘He designed it himself. Can you see, the band curls around the diamond, as a representation of the unborn child in my belly.’ Zach leaned in closer to have a look, so I did too. ‘Rings, I think, are the most special of all jewellery.’ She lit the cigarette she was not supposed to smoke. 

 

I wondered how many times she’d told this story. I complimented her on the beauty of her narrative.

 

‘If you think it is beautiful in English, you should hear it in French!’ She started to laugh, making all her breasts and bellies wobble. In that moment she looked like a lava lamp.

 

‘Is your husband here tonight?’ I asked.

 

‘Oh no. We were divorced long ago. This wedding ring is from my third husband. Of course I am not still married to the first one. We were very young and hardly knew each other. But it is a fixed piece of time for me, and nothing, not anything, not even the ugliness of divorce has made it less perfect.’

 

Phil walked back into the kitchen, clocked what she was doing and asked loudly, ‘Is that a cigarette?’

 

‘No! It’s a facsimile!’

 

Phil poured the last of the champagne over her hand to extinguish the cigarette, and she whooped and shrieked theatrically. I ducked out of the way of her madly gesticulating hand, not knowing there was a man standing nearby holding a heavily laden canapé. I bumped him, and he dropped the snack straight down the front of my dress.

 

‘Goal!’ shouted Zach, and there was more laughing and jiggling. I half turned and tried to discreetly fish the food out of my bra. Zach said, ‘Can I help you with that?’

 

I thought to myself, is he flirting with me? He’d looked at my legs, drawn me into a conversation, hadn’t gone far from me, and was it my imagination that he seemed more bothered than amused by Phil’s pathetic attempts? I asked if he could find me a napkin. Phil jumped to my side, pulling tissues out of his pocket, and tried to wipe imaginary mayonnaise off my décolletage. I watched Zach, and it definitely seemed like he would have liked to be where Phil was.

 

The man who lost his canapé said to me, ‘You’re engaged, no?’ I nodded. To the woman whose jewellery had a story, he said, ‘And you are married?’ Then to the room in general, ‘Who else is married or taken?’

 

Among others, including Phil, the Midnight Cowboy raised his hand.

 

‘And who has children?’ Again, the cowboy raised his hand.

 

The man asking the questions suddenly became very interested in the prettiest of the few women who hadn’t admitted to being married. I said to Zach, ‘How many?’ He held up two fingers. 

 

‘Boys or girls?’

 

‘Boys.’

 

‘Two boys? You really have your work cut out for you.’ Suddenly the floor was very interesting to me, and his fingernails were very interesting to him. Of course I’d noticed the ring earlier. It was hard to miss. And it should have occurred to me that if he was married he might also have children. Maybe I just hadn’t wanted to think about it. An evening of flirting with a married man seemed harmless enough, but knowing he had children made a big difference.

 

Phil’s wife came round with more champagne. I happily accepted a top up, but he declined. He hadn’t accepted a drink earlier on in the evening. I wondered if he was some sort of Christian. I drained my glass quite quickly, and had it refilled again. The conversation with the Cowboy flowed easily after that, and as the alcohol entered my bloodstream, the things I said became more and more ridiculous. He listened to me with a slight smile on his face, and didn’t move away. I used my state of drunkenness to lean on him, and he didn’t seem to mind at all. If anything, he seemed to quite enjoyed listening to me.

 

We must have talked for about an hour, mostly about the problems of being a foreigner in Paris, and how hard it could be, and the differences we’d found. Then, as I was describing to him how I’d spent a day visiting all the places in the film Amélie, Phil came up, stood between us, and got into a conversation with Zach. I could have killed him. Zach jumped into the conversation, seeming to accept the role like an actor, and I felt invisible. 

 

I picked up my bag and went to the bathroom, brushed my hair, and re-applied my lipstick. I wanted to see him again. I didn’t care if he was married, or if he had kids. He was nice and I felt happier than I had in months. I wrote my name, email address and phone number on a piece of loo paper with an eyeliner pen, ready to give to him. The party was breaking up anyway. It was time I left too.

 

I interrupted him in the middle of a conversation he was having with someone else, and presented him with it.

 

‘It was really nice to talk to you, and really nice to meet another native speaker. If you want to keep in touch….’

 

‘Thank you. Actually, I was about to leave myself. I’ve got a babysitter waiting for me.’

 

‘Ok.’

 

‘Didn’t you tell me you were living on the rue Traversière? That’s on my way. I could give you a lift, if you like.’

 

‘You drove here? Is that why you’re not drinking? I thought you were a Christian.’ If only it was possible to eat words that had come out accidentally. He was amused.

 

‘No, not a tee-totalling Christian, just a lapsed Catholic who happens to like driving at night, and was running too late to get a cab or to take public transportation. So, can I give you a lift?’

 

‘Yes please.’ I found my coat, and as I put it on, I found the material brushing against my skin hurt, like I had a fever. I quickly drank a glass of water to calm myself down.

 

Saying goodbye to Phil was a little embarrassing. He held me too tightly and for too long, while his wife looked daggers at me. ‘Are you going to be OK? If there’s anything I can do, you just let me know. Call me, day or night, and I’ll look after you.’

 

His wife kissed me venomously on both cheeks, and shoved me through the door. Phil instructed Zach to look after me and make sure I got home in one piece. The door closed, and as we walked down the corridor, he pressed the hand into the small of my back, just where my hair ended. When we were in the lift, we both looked directly ahead.

 

On the street, I was glad I had a jacket. Although the days were still warm, the nights were getting chilly. He said, ‘I hope you don’t mind a bit of a walk. It’s impossible to find a parking spot.’

 

‘No no, that’s fine with me. I like walking.’

 

The only sound for a bit was the annoying one of my silver high heels clicking on the cobbles. I felt like such a bimbo, and tried to disguise the sound with conversation.

 

‘So, what part of the states are you from?’

 

‘Texas.’

 

‘Oh.’

 

He must have heard me wincing, and said, ‘Yeah, you never get a neutral response when you say you’re from Texas.’

 

‘I’m sorry.’

 

‘Don’t be. You can’t help where I’m from.’

 

‘No I mean….. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

 

‘Rude!’ He seemed to find the word very funny. ‘That’s hilarious, coming from the girl who asked me how French toilet paper compares with American toilet paper.’

 

‘Could you please forget that part of our conversation?’

 

‘No way! It was even funnier, because you said ‘bog roll’, and it took me a while to get what you were talking about. Here’s the car.’

 

‘Oh thank God.’

 

His car was a huge brown Volkswagen family extravaganza. I noticed the child seats in the back. We both walked round to the same side. I thought he was going to be a gentleman and open the door for me, but he just looked at me with smiley eyes, and I looked back at him, waiting to see what the joke was. In the end he said, ‘Do you wanna drive?’ and I remembered I was on the continent and the passenger door was on the other side. I explained that although I’d been living away from England for a few years now, I’d probably never get used to cars driving on the wrong side.

 

It was very comfortable inside, and for a family car, surprisingly clean. As he pulled away from the curb, he asked, ‘Didn’t you say you’d only been in Paris for six months?’

 

‘I was in Moscow before that, for a couple of years.’

 

‘What took you to Moscow?’

 

‘Work.’

 

‘What kept you there?’

 

‘Love.’

 

How had we not discussed this earlier? All we’d talked about was Paris and being foreign. How had I forgotten to ask where he was from, and not to mention where I’d been living beforehand?

 

‘And what took you away from Texas?’

 

‘Love.’

 

‘What kept you away?’

 

‘Family.’

 

At that moment, I began to wonder if he really was just giving me a lift home after all. My experience of one night stands and seduction was pretty limited, and I wasn’t really sure what topics of conversation were acceptable, but I had the feeling love and kids were not it.

 

He was a good driver. The few times I’d been out in a car with Andy, I’d been nervous the whole time. My fiancé was a terrible driver. He attributed it to the other cars on the road, or to the roads themselves. While I could buy that argument in Russia, and even in Paris, in the French countryside it didn’t ring true.

 

As we drove down a tree-lined boulevard, I noticed the leaves were turning colour and starting to fall. I was so absorbed in this, I didn’t notice he’d driven into my street, until he asked which house I lived in. A few days before, some idiot students had graffitied a huge red anarchist star on the door, so it was easy to identify. Surprisingly, he managed to get a parking space on the same street, not far from the building.

 

And suddenly, the golden moment arrived. It was time for me to ask the question that would determine many more things than I knew at the time.

 

‘Would you like to come upstairs for a cup of coffee?’

 

He hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Yes. Yes, I would.’

 

How I unbuckled my seat belt and got out of the car, I will never know. I even remembered the door code and made it over the threshold without tripping.

 

I suggested taking the lift, which I almost never do, as usually I’d rather walk up five flights of stairs than risk suffocating in the hundred year old sardine can that passed for the elevator in that building. On this occasion, I could see the advantage of being pressed into a tiny space, watching the floors slip by through the art-nouveau bars.

 

When we reached my floor, he slid the doors open and let me out first. I must have walked down the corridor, though I have no recollection of my feet touching the floor. As we reached the front door, he asked, ‘Where’s your boyfriend this evening?’

 

‘He’s my fiancé.’ 

 

‘Your fiancé. Sorry. Won’t he be bothered by me coming in this late at night?’

 

‘He’s away this weekend. I’ve got the flat to myself.’

 

My key went in the lock, and there we were.

 

I did the palms-up welcome dance that all good hostesses do when introducing a new person to their flat. Probably when the building first went up, our attic flat would have been a pathetic, La Bohème affair, romantic but freezing. Nowadays, with double glazing and insulation, flats like these are much sought after. Much of the roof was glass, letting in huge amounts of light in the day, and on a clear night like this, you could see the stars. There was a grand view of Parisian rooftops. It was impressive. 

 

I offered him something to drink. He opted for Rooibos tea without milk, and I had take-the-enamel-off-your-teeth black English tea. He admired the kitchen with its expensive fittings, the mile long corridor, and the beautiful pale green front room, with the orange curtains and brown leather furniture. My fiancé had chosen the flat. He was one of those guys who, having grown up in a former coal mining town in the north of England, wanted to show off that he’d made money and a place for himself in the world.

 

In the huge amounts of spare time I’d had recently, I’d organised all the playlists on my iPod. The one I chose for this occasion I’d named ‘romantic moonlit evenings’. Bebel Gilberto’s voice drifted out of the speakers, as I sat down next to him on the slippery sofa.

 

He said nothing, and sipped his tea, which was too hot, and he pretended not to mind. I re-arranged myself so I didn’t slide off onto the floor. He said, ‘This is a nice place you’ve got here. What does your boyfriend do for a living?’

 

‘He’s my fiancé. He’s in IT hardware development.’

 

‘Is that how you know Phil?’ 

 

‘Yes. Andy works for his company.’

 

‘OK.’

 

He looked around the room, then picked up the framed photo that I kept there just to get the reaction that came next.

 

‘Who is this?’

 

‘It’s me.’

 

‘No way!’

 

‘It’s me when I was fourteen years old.’

 

‘Oh my God!’ Then he tried to redeem himself, as everyone else also tried to do. ‘You’ve really…. You’re very…. Nowadays…. You look very different these days. Quite a…. transformation.’

 

‘It’s amazing what contact lenses and hair dye can do.’

 

‘So you’re naturally a redhead?’

 

‘I was. These days I’m more of a mousey brown naturally.’

 

‘Blonde suits you.’

 

‘Thank you.’

 

He looked at the picture again. ‘How long did you have braces?’

 

‘Three years.’

 

‘I had braces too. But not for as long. Just a year.’

 

At the party I had noticed the scarring on his skin, and known he must have also suffered through acne. I hoped he’d own up to this, but he didn’t. But then, if you’ve had acne, you don’t admit to it readily, even to sympathise with someone else. I wondered if he’d also been through the hell of taking Roaccutane. In my early twenties, I’d had my face sand-blasted by a dermatologist to get rid of the scarring. I’d been through a lot to appreciate what a gift it is to be beautiful.

 

‘I guess High School wasn’t the best time of your life?’ he asked.

 

‘Absolutely not. And you?’

 

‘It sucked the big fat one. Oh I’m sorry, that was and inappropriate turn of phrase.’

 

As he said that, he touched my knee. It was like a bolt of electricity through my body. I excused myself and went into the bathroom. 

 

My face looked fine. My dress was fine. I had on nice underwear, black and lacy. However, I was wearing tights, which are never elegant to remove, so I took them off and threw them in the clothes hamper. I wished I was wearing stockings. I tucked a condom into the pocket of my dress, washed my hands, and returned.

 

He started talking and talking. He talked about his school days, and friends of his, and his job, and the people he worked with, a big electricity bill he’d received recently, a nice meal he’s had in a restaurant the day before, then he apologised for talking so much. As he was talking, I drank the last of my tea, and edged closer and closer to him on the sofa. When I put my cup down, he put his cup very close to mine. Then he stopped talking. We looked at each other. A flurry of panic crossed his face. Then he kissed me.

 

There was so much longing in that kiss, and so much passion. At first I wasn’t sure if it really happened. There was every chance this was a dream. The most beautiful man at the party had chosen me, and come home with me, and here he was in my flat, on my sofa, holding me, kissing me, closer and closer. I could feel the strength of his arms under the soft material of his shirt. I could feel the warmth of him, the desire in him, and it was all for me.

 

Because this was not Hollywood, there were a few moments of awkwardness. The zip of my dress got stuck, and my hair got caught on the buttons of his shirt. I couldn’t unbuckle his belt, and he couldn’t unfasten my bra. He obviously hadn’t been expecting anyone to see his socks or underwear, and was embarrassed at the gloomy state of both. But as soon as we were naked, none of this mattered anymore. I located my dress in the pile of clothes on the floor, took the condom out of the pocket and started to unwrap it, when he said, ‘I can’t!’

 

Those words were like a slap in the face.

 

He sat up and moved away from me.

 

‘I want to,’ he said. ‘I really, really want to. But I can’t.’

 

For a moment nothing happened. I sat up, then neither of us moved or looked at each other.

 

‘Please don’t be angry with me.’

 

I put on my dress, got up to change the playlist on the iPod, which suddenly seemed very inappropriate. I chose the ‘cheesy fun times’ play list. I could hear him putting on his jeans. In a moment he was fully dressed again. Without looking at him, I sat own on the sofa, with a literal and physical distance between us. 

 

‘Don’t be angry,’ he said. 

 

‘I’m not angry.’

 

‘Don’t be hurt.’

 

That was closer to the mark. I wanted to cry.

 

‘Can I hold you?’

 

Whether or not it was a good idea, I slid across into his arms. He held me gently and protectively. Soon we were kissing again. I could feel how excited he was. I made a move in the direction of what I wanted, and with an effort he pulled away.

 

‘I’m not sure what’s happening here,’ I said. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

 

‘No. No! Really! You’re so beautiful. All night at the party I was watching you, and I couldn’t believe I got to talk to the most beautiful girl in the room. And she was even interested in what I had to say. And then we came here….’

 

‘It was your idea to give me a lift home.’

 

‘Yes it was! I wanted to stay around you as long as I could.’

 

Was he really saying this? About me? Really?

 

‘And then we were here…. And I’m…. Allison, I’m married. I have two kids. I shouldn’t be here. I should go.’ He made no effort to leave.

 

I asked, ‘Why are you angry with your wife?’

 

‘I’m not angry with my wife.’

 

‘Really?’

 

‘What makes you say that?’

 

‘Well, you’re here, for a start. And she wasn’t at the party.’

 

‘She’s having a girls’ night with some friends. One of them is getting married, and they’re doing all that bachelorette stuff, making a weekend of it.’

 

‘And that pisses you off.’

 

‘I’m not pissed off! I’m….’ He pressed his hands to his eyes, as if he had a headache. ‘It’s different when you’re married.’

 

‘What’s different?’

 

‘Everything is different! I’m different to who I was before. You know something? I haven’t kissed another woman for eight years.’

 

He told me about the reality of married life. Normally, he said, it was fine. You’re busy, he said. He and his wife both worked full time, and with two little kids, two boys at that, there was hardly a moment to think about what was going on. And at first you don’t even notice that you’re not having sex anymore. And then you do. And you justify it to yourself. Of course it’s normal for your sex life to dry up after so long together, especially after you have kids. It’ll get back to normal soon, you tell yourself. Except that it doesn’t. You might expect it to happen more often than her birthday, your birthday, and their wedding anniversary. Was he the only man in the world who not only knew exactly what day his anniversary was, but counted down the days? He might have expected his sex life to finish at sixty-five, but at thirty-five? It seemed cruel. But then, there’s a lot around to stop you thinking about it. There’s work, there’s the internet, there’s television, there’s friends, and when the kids are a bit older you can go out again.

 

But then, you go on holiday together. And when you’re in the countryside and out of the normal routine, you really notice what’s not there. There’s no internet or television or work or friends to distract you. At night, you brush your teeth and get ready for bed, and you look at each other and you open a book. And after a while, he’d go and sleep on the sofa, with a thousand thoughts swirling through his head. And what can you do about it?

 

And then you’re at a party, and you remember what it was like, what you were like in the past, and for a moment you can forget the present. For a moment, you feel like yourself again. And then you remember about life now.

 

‘And you?’ he said. ‘What’s your reason for inviting me up to the flat you share with the man you’re going to marry?’

 

‘If only I could be sure of that anymore.’

 

And then I told him the reality of my life. It had all been different in Moscow. I really regretted having left. Moscow was a golden city in my mind. The winters were vile, but it didn’t seem to bother me that much. After all, I had a fur coat. Moscow was the place where I became the person I’d always wanted to be. So I guess it was no surprise that this was the place I fell in love for the first time. As soon as we met, we started talking about getting married. When he was offered the job in Paris, he asked me to come with him. When I said I would, he asked me to marry him, and I said yes.

 

And soon after that, everything started going wrong.

 

We took the train from Moscow to Paris, via Berlin. I loved Berlin, and sometimes I wondered how things would have been different if I’d just stayed there. Once we reached Paris, all the rules were different. I couldn’t find work. I didn’t speak French. I was unbelievably lonely. And when he wasn’t at work, we were always fighting. Nothing was OK anymore, but I didn’t know why.

 

After a while, it became clear that he was seeing someone else. He’d get text messages, and not look at his phone. He’d suddenly have to work on a problem, and it would take all night. He never touched me anymore. And I had no idea what to do. I’d found some private teaching work, which didn’t pay enough to live on, so I couldn’t move out and live in Paris. I didn’t want to go back to England having failed. I was trapped. And he knew it, which made him hate me even more.

 

‘It’s all a big mess,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think location would make such a difference to how we felt about each other.’

 

‘I get that. I wonder if I would have fallen in love with my wife if she hadn’t given me a reason to leave Texas and travel to Europe.’

 

‘Love is a great excuse to do all sorts of stupid things. Would you have stayed together if you hadn’t had kids?’

 

‘Probably not. I mean, if you’re dating someone, but you never have sex anymore, you never go out, all you have in common is the past, which neither of you is interested in anymore, why would you stay together? But if you have kids, you stay. My wife and I get on, we don’t fight or anything, and we’re still friends. It’s not all bad.’

 

‘Obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t still be there.’

 

‘True. And, you know that feeling, that you don’t want to give up on what you had, even if it’s not there anymore, because it just might come back?’

 

‘Oh yes. I know it well. I wonder if I’d leave if I had any money?’

 

‘No, you wouldn’t. You have money.’

 

‘You think?’

 

‘This must be worth a dollar or two,’ he said, pinching his thumb and forefinger around my engagement ring.

 

I was shocked. ‘You can’t sell an engagement ring!’

 

‘Why not?’

 

‘It’s bad luck, I’m sure I’ve heard that somewhere.’

 

‘If you did, it was probably a marketing campaign by De Beers to stop jilted lovers flooding the market with diamonds. But seriously, for the gold alone that ring is worth something, but if the guy who designed it is at all famous, it’s worth a lot.’

 

‘How do you know so much about jewellery?’

 

‘My wife is a fashion stylist.’

 

‘Is that how you know Phil’s wife?’ 

 

‘It is.’

 

‘I never understood that relationship. Why did they get together? They’re obviously not right for each other.’

 

‘She’s beautiful and he’s rich. What about the relationship do you not understand? Hey, that’s another source of money if you need it. Phil would lend you some. Hell, he’d probably give you as much as you wanted. The guy’s obviously in love with you. And if your boyfriend is having an affair with someone at his company, then Phil’s gonna know about it.’

 

‘I couldn’t ask him for money.’

 

‘You could if you needed to.’

 

I wondered the lava lamp woman from the party would know where I could sell the ring. I could ask Phil for her details. It was worth a try.

 

Zach looked at his watch. I freaked out.

 

‘Oh my God, you have a babysitter waiting for you! I’m so sorry, I totally forgot.’

 

‘It wasn’t your responsibility to remember. And I really liked listening to you.’

 

‘You liked listening to me moan about how unhappy I am, living in a castle with a diamond ring on my finger?’

 

‘I wasn’t listening to anything you said, just to the sound of your voice.’ He smiled a cheeky smile. I punched his arm lightly. He pretended to be hurt.

 

I tore a page out of a notebook, and asked for his email address and mobile number. Although I had the feeling I’d never see him again, I liked to think it was possible I could. He had mine already, on the piece of loo roll, and he wouldn’t take a nicer edition. 

 

At the door, he held me and kissed, and it hurt to let him go. He took the stairs, not wanting to risk the lift a second time. On the way down, he turned back to look at me, and slipped. I laughed, and he said, ‘Daddy Cool!’

 

I went to the front room, opened the slanty sky window, and leaned out, to follow his progress out of my building back to his car. He turned back again, took a last look at the flat, got in his car and drove away. 

 

And then he was gone.

 

I suddenly realised I was amazingly cold. I was wearing hardly anything, and the night wasn’t warm. I took a shower, washed the make-up off my face, took out my lenses, put on comfortable pyjamas, then walked from room to room, with Paris outside the windows mocking me.

 

What a mess. It was all such a horrible mess.

 

I heard a truck drive up the street, rumbling loudly, as if it wanted all the residents to lean out their windows and complain. I opened a window and leaned forward to have a look. On the roof of the truck was written in large letter ‘NO MESS’.

 

Magical thinking around the significance of these words overtook me. I sat down on the sofa and must have fallen asleep, because I woke up in bright daylight. Just before I’d woken up, I was dreaming about the Midnight Cowboy. We were somewhere in Berlin, and he had his arms around me. I was awake, but I could feel his arms around me still. 

 

I got up, got dressed, and started the process of leaving.