with his slightly fey aestheticism. I thought of him like a languorous cat: elegant but distant. He had these tortoiseshell glasses with round rims that reminded me of a writer from a different era. He took them off and rubbed the bridge of his nose, leaving them folded by a soggy beer mat on the table between us.
When he got up to go to the loo, I picked up the glasses. I don’t know why but I tried them on. They sat tightly around my skull and I was surprised to notice they weren’t prescription lenses, just plain perspex.
Before Martin, my own personal appearance wasn’t something that ever bothered me, partly because my parents never cared that much. They were lovely people and I had a lovely upbringing. Lovely. I remember an American friend of mine once saying ‘lovely’ was such an English word – ‘Like you’re describing a picnic,’ she said.
But it was lovely. My older brother took up most of my parents’ time and pride. He was the brainy one, the sporty one, the popular one. I was happy to sit on the sidelines of his success. I’d always been the not-quite child. I got Bs in exams, not quite As. I didn’t quite get into Oxford so went to Durham instead. I wasn’t quite pretty, but I was pleasant-looking and I was taught that those kinds of things didn’t much matter. It was what was inside that counted. I made myself pliable and easy and nice to be around. I was helpful.
‘You see what needs doing before it has to be pointed out to you,’ my mother once told me as she heaved a roast chicken out of the oven. ‘You anticipate.’
That was my thing. Lucy: she looks after people. And it was true. All through my teens, I anticipated what others wanted from me and then I shaped myself accordingly. I was shy and quiet and never a threat. They liked me for it.
Except for Martin. Martin was a tougher nut to crack.
I used to do the tea round for my desk at the Bugle. I knew everyone’s orders: milk and two sugars, no milk but a slice of lemon, Earl Grey not English Breakfast. Martin never wanted one, no matter how many times I offered. Eventually, I plucked up the courage to ask why.
He pursed his lips. He had pale lips that always made his face look cold.
‘That stuff they serve in the canteen?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Please. It’s hardly worthy of the name.’
‘I can get coffee if you’d rather.’
‘Even worse,’ he said, returning to his computer screen.
It wasn’t rude, the way he did it. He delivered his opinions as statements of fact: not aggressively, just as if they were indisputable.
Every time he dismissed me, I simply wanted him to notice me more. That evening, after work, I got the bus to Knightsbridge. I went to Harvey Nichols and I bought a specially packaged box of expensive teas. I left them on Martin’s desk the next morning. He never mentioned it in person. Instead, he sent an email. It read simply: ‘Thank you for the tea.’ And then the box disappeared and he returned to refusing all hot drinks.
How intriguing, I thought. How different.
My friend Neesha at work couldn’t understand it.
‘What do you see in him?’ she asked.
We were standing outside the building, shivering in the wind as we took a fag break. They had just declared we were no longer allowed to smoke inside the office. Neesha smoked more than I did. She was secretary to the editor and had the most stressful job in the building. Mostly, I came outside just to keep her company.
‘Who?’
‘Martin, dummy.’
Neesha passed me her cigarette. Her red lipstick circled the butt. I took a drag.
‘He’s interesting.’
‘You can say that again.’ Neesha chuckled. ‘There’s something not right with him, Luce.’
‘Don’t be mean.’
‘I’m not. You must have noticed, love. The other day Ian had to say his name eight times before he showed any signs of life.’
‘He’s just in his own world,’ I said, surprised at how defensive I felt.
Neesha sniffed. ‘Thinks he’s better than us, more like.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Oh please, Luce. I know his type. Public school, Oxbridge, acts like his shit doesn’t stink. Cares more about … I don’t know … his fucking gold cufflinks than about actual people.’
I laughed.
‘You’re too nice, Luce. You always think the best.’
This wasn’t strictly true. I was good at appearing nice on the surface but my special skill was getting people to like me whether I liked them or not. With Martin, it was different. Because I wasn’t sure where I stood with him. It was the unavailability that lured me in. I flattered myself that it was simply a disguise worn by a scared little boy who needed looking after and I was the one he would let in.
Neesha finished her cigarette and ground the butt into the pavement with the edge of her spiky high heel. ‘Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying. He doesn’t care about you the way you care about him.’
‘I think—’
‘He’s never said a word to me, you know. Even though he’s in and out of the editor’s office every week, he’s never once said hello.’ Neesha loosened her coat. ‘You can tell a lot about someone by looking at how they treat secretaries.’
I didn’t listen. I kept seeing Martin. Our lunch appointments turned into dinner dates. The tea run became after-work drinks. The days turned into weeks which turned into months and soon I found I looked forward to each day more if I knew I was going to see him. The weekends dragged because they were devoid of his company.
I concede, looking back, that I was the one who made most of the running. Martin seemed either too polite or too shy to initiate a kiss, so I was the one who lunged one night after we’d been out for dinner at a Persian restaurant in Kensington. I didn’t much care for Persian food – too many fragrances and the crispy rice stuck in my teeth – but Martin loved it, so I went for him.
The kiss was dry and chaste. I tried to wriggle the tip of my tongue into his mouth but he resisted. I drew back and looked at him.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you like me?’
He held his head back.
‘Of course I like you, Lucy.’
‘Well then.’
I kissed him again and this time he responded, but cautiously, as though evaluating each reflex and twist. I clasped the back of his head, running my hands through his hair, and gradually he relaxed. I was moved by his nervousness. Martin, who was so particular in every other respect, so certain of the right way to wear a tie, so unquestioningly sure of what constituted good taste, seemed to have no parameters for this. I wondered how many times he had been kissed before me. It crossed my mind that he might be a virgin.
And instead of repelling me, his unworldliness was appealing. In this one area, I thought, I was superior. He could teach me about art and beauty and the best way to do my hair, but I was the one who would take the lead physically, who would show him how it was done.
Under the light of the streetlamp, I reached down and slid my hand under the waistband of his trousers. He was limp. I brushed against it gently with my fingers and then, rhythmically slid my palm up and down until I could feel him stirring.
‘No,’ he said. I ignored him. ‘No, Lucy, don’t.’
He stepped away from me, removing my hand.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
Martin held his breath for a moment. I wondered what he was thinking. He seemed to be wrestling with some inexpressible thought and then I saw his face relax and he smiled.