“Perfection blunted the horn, Jones. Every night, the same glossy hair splayed on the pillow. The same exquisite features frozen in ecstasy. It was as if the very sexual act had been digitally performance-captured. You, Jones, in contrast, are like that mysterious, lumpy parcel that arrives on a Christmas morning, odd, a little misshapen but…”
“…one you always want to get inside. Well, thank you, Daniel. Lovely to catch up! I’ll be getting a cab now.”
“I meant it as a compliment, Jones. Besides, firstly, there are no cabs; and, secondly, if there were, you would be competing for them with five hundred other giants of the literary stage, all of them with full beards and moustaches.”
I was trying to call a minicab, but the voicemail was saying, “All our customer service agents are currently busy, as we are currently experiencing unusually long wait times for this location.”
“Look,” said Daniel, “my flat is three minutes away. Let me arrange you a ride home from there. Least I can do.”
I watched as Annie Proulx and Pat Barker snapped up the last remaining cab, Jung Chan bounding in behind them.
—
10.30 p.m. Daniel’s flat. I stood in Daniel’s familiar, designer shag-pad, overlooking the Thames. All the car companies were still “currently experiencing unexpected delays.”
“Seen Darcy since he returned?” said Daniel, holding out a glass of champagne. “In emotional ignominy and failure? Hardly surprising for a man who looks in the mirror every morning and is startled by a complete stranger. Did he weep after sex? Or before? Or was it during? I forget.”
“Right, Daniel, that’s enough,” I said indignantly. “I have not come into your flat to be treated to a litany of very unpositive bad karmic vibes about somebody who—”
Suddenly Daniel kissed me on the lips. Oh God, he was such a great kisser.
“No, no, we mustn’t,” I said weakly.
“Yes, yes, we must. You know the one thing people most regret when they’re about to die? Not that they didn’t save the world, or rise to the pinnacle of their career, but that they didn’t have more sex.”
TUESDAY 27 JUNE
8 p.m. My flat. Staring psychopathically at phone. Still no word from either of them. Is this going to go on for the rest of my life? Am I going to be getting drunk on sherry with Mark and Daniel over dominoes in the old people’s home, then getting furious because they’ve shagged me and haven’t asked me to play Scrabble?
8.05 p.m. Cannot believe I am still behaving like this after sex after all these years—as if I have sat an exam and am waiting for my results. Am going to call Shazzer.
8.15 p.m. “Doesn’t count with exes,” decreed Shaz.
“That’s exactly what Miranda said! Why?”
“Because you’ve already fucked up the relationship.”
“So I already know I’ve failed?”
8.30 p.m. I am going to give up men. I eschew them.
FOUR
PERIMENOPAUSE
THREE MONTHS LATER
SUNDAY 17 SEPTEMBER
10 p.m. My flat. Everything is terrible. I mean, I just can’t believe that this is…Oh, goody! Doorbell!
—
11 p.m. Was Shazzer, Tom and Miranda, bursting into the flat, completely plastered.
“Darling! You’re alive!” said Tom.
“What’s going the fuck on?” enquired Shaz.