The Switch, page 9
Still, my job today is my proof-reading for him. At least I’ll get a chance to see him again soon, even if I can only look but not touch. I tell myself it will get easier over time. I hope…
Part two
23.
Elena
“So, this is the kitchen. There’s an oven, dishwasher, hob, fridge…”
Adam and I stare round at the studio flat, trying not to look too dispirited. The woman showing us around looks a bit put out.
“I’ve had loads of viewings today,” she asserts. “There’s actually a lot of interest.”
The flat is in a block in Walthamstow, back where we used to live before Wimbledon Village. It has to be a basement one for Lyra’s sake, so that she can venture outside. I gaze at the window, the light filtered through an iron staircase, at the truncated view of shoes scurrying past on the pavement. Then at the double bed, only three feet from the dining-table. We’ve grown used to the sprawling comfort of a three-bedroomed house; it’s going to be so hard to shrink back into a small space. We’ve grown used to birdsong and a big garden of greenery and a front path with a gate.
We still have over three months in Wimbledon, I try to console myself, but I’m scared they’ll rush by so fast.
“So it’s eighteen hundred a month, all included,” the woman sums up.
I can see Adam doing calculations in his mind. By nature, I’m a spender, he’s a saver, and I’m grateful to him for reining me in. My parents struggled with money when I was a kid. They both worked full-time but their joint income was still too low to meet all the bills. There were times when we had to hug hot-water bottles because the heating was too expensive; times when meals consisted of making a loaf of bread last until the next pay check came through. That’s partly why I worked so hard to get my degree: I don’t ever want to live like that. Adam’s good sense with money makes me feel secure, assured that we’ll always be okay. With no rent to pay, we’ve been able to save a lot for our deposit and still enjoy the odd cinema trip or takeaway. Now, with this move, we’ll be back to budgeting with more care.
I glance in at the tiny bathroom, which only has a shower. No more reading in the bath for me.
“Thanks, we’ll get back to you,” says Adam.
“Thanks very much, it’s lovely.” I manage a smile.
We leave the block in silence. Last night I called Mum and confided in her about the depressing move. She told me, kindly, to be grown up about it. She tends to take that tone when life gets hard, because of the sacrifices she has made. And she’s right, of course: you have to make the best of things, I understand the value of that.
The switch cast a magic glow over everything, for a few weeks. Now life feels like that time after Christmas, when the glitter has gone and the world seems bleak and stark and it’s hard to find things to look forward to. And so you make resolutions, desperately trying to improve yourself. I’ve resolved not to see Finn again. Not to read through that diary entry. It’s easy enough to see Sophia without him, and I’ve finished the proof-reading job.
But now I look at Adam and wonder: is this how life is going to keep playing out? A tiny flat, a freelance business that I’m struggling to make work? Or am I being self-destructive, taking the safety net of our relationship for granted? But what do I want? For a moment I’m at a loss.
“Shall we go get a coffee?” he suggests.
We go into a nearby Costa on the High Street. Unlike the Vicomte Café, it’s overcrowded. I pull out a tissue, wiping away crumbs from the table.
Adam sips his coffee before he says, “We don’t have to do this, you know.”
“What?” I break out of my glum mood.
“Move into that flat.”
“But we can’t afford Wimbledon Village, can we?”
“I mean—if you don’t want to carry on living with me…” he says, hurt raw on his face. Sometimes he can become melodramatic in his insecurity.
“Adam!” I reach over and grab his hand, which is tucked under his folded arms; I unfurl his fingers and stroke them. “Of course I do. I’m just going to miss Wimbledon, that’s all. I’ve fallen in love with the place. You know that.”
“Fallen in love with Sophia, more like,” he mutters.
“She’s my closest friend now! That’s all.”
“Maybe we should look for a bigger flat, get two bedrooms. We’ve saved a ton on rent.”
“But we need to save for our deposit…And the flat we just saw, it was pretty nice.” I try to sound enthusiastic.
“The trouble is, now Sophia’s infected you with her bourgeois inclinations—”
“Bourgeois inclinations?” I echo him, smiling.
“Yes, bourgeois inclinations, you’ve gone all fancy now.” His tone is tragi-comic. “You’ll be wanting to hang out with illustrious artist types, not a boring old banking guy like me.”
“Nonsense!” I fire back. “I’m just a simple wench who’s happy to be with her lord.”
Adam laughs and I rub his hand again. He’s always needed lots of reassurance, which I think stems from his mother’s neglect, a fear that love might be suddenly withdrawn. And he must sense I’m not quite there at the moment, no matter how hard I’m trying, which makes me feel perpetually guilty.
A buzz on his phone. I see it’s a text from his mum and repress a wince. It’s another sign of her meanness, I ponder, that she has never given Adam any financial assistance despite her wealth. She could easily help with the deposit, but no: she only wants to take, not give.
After we head out of Costa, I spot someone I know across the street.
“Hey, Anil!” I call out, but he’s in a hurry and doesn’t see me. He’s a good friend of mine from uni; Adam and I used regularly to hang out with him and his partner when we lived nearby.
On the Victoria line home, I feel a little cheered. Seeing Anil has reminded me of all those fun nights we had as double couples, getting takeaway together, playing card games, drunkenly dancing in the kitchen. At least socializing with Anil again is something to look forward to.
Adam kisses my cheek and whispers in my ear, “After dinner, what shall we do tonight?” And I blush, smiling seductively, panicking inside.
* * *
—
Home. Even though I’m tired, I offer to cook. Adam looks boyishly pleased; he loves it when I mother him. I kiss his forehead and he sits on a stool, watching me prep.
“I can’t wait to get dinner over and done with,” he says, coming up behind me and curling his arms around my waist, his erection pressing hard against my back.
“Oh, thanks a lot,” I reply playfully, “my cooking’s not that bad.”
Adam laughs. “You know I love your cooking.” He kisses my temple. “But…I can’t wait for you to do…that thing…that you did…before…on our magic night.”
“That thing?” I trail off, my panic rising. I stir the wooden spoon through the risotto, steam rising into my face. “Which is…?”
“Ha-ha,” says Adam, sounding hurt.
I twist my head, silencing him with a kiss. “Oh, yes,” I murmur, “we’ll definitely do that.”
Five minutes later, a reprieve: Adam opens up the fridge and suddenly realizes we’re out of wine. His aunt doesn’t keep any in the house that we can borrow and replace. He tells me he’ll go get some from the fancy wine shop in the Village and—after giving me a passionate kiss goodbye—adds, “I’ll get some extra condoms on the way!”
As the front door bangs with his departure, I exhale a long breath. Oh, God. My hands trembling, I add more stock to the risotto, then turn it down to a simmer. I know we said we’d keep details quiet, I message Sophia, but I really, really need to know what special “thing” you and Adam did. It’s breaking the rules, but this is an emergency. In the living-room, I sit on the sofa, chewing my nails, checking my phone every few seconds for a reply. I slip my hand down into my knickers. I feel completely dry. Adam’s going to go mad.
The last time I caressed myself was a few days after the switch: brief and frantic, locked in the bathroom, reliving my night with Finn. Now I touch myself a little, closing my eyes, tipping back my head. I rewind to an early memory of Adam and me making love. We’d just begun to sense that his mother disapproved of me and before it became a rift it added a frisson, as though I was forbidden, dangerous. There was that night where we were in mid-sex and his mother banged on the door, asking if he wanted hot milk for bedtime…But to be honest, he was far more excited by the whole scenario than I was: so scratch that. I find myself slipping back to thoughts of Finn. The thick darkness, his lips pressing down on mine, the heat of his body, his teasing fingers. Then, as a slight pain ripples across my abdomen, I frown. I pull out my fingers, taken aback—and do a doubletake.
I run upstairs to the bathroom, checking, confirming. Then I grab some sanitary towels. Three days early. Sometimes luck takes your side.
I head back down to the kitchen. Still no reply from Sophia. When Adam returns, he looks flushed, jaunty, whistling as he uncorks a bottle with “Château” on the label. I’m taken aback by the price on it; it’s not like him to splash out.
“I saw Sophia,” he says. “I bumped into her in the wine shop.”
I jump. The wooden spoon slides into the risotto and I pull it out, drying the handle on a tea towel. I gaze at Adam, his back turned to me, suffering flickers of suspicion. I’ve been so fretful that Finn might have guessed, I never considered that Adam might be playing with me too. I picture how the night might have unfolded: Adam switching on the light, shocked to see Sophia, then making love, making a pact. Maybe he gave her the watch as a gift, a memento of an amazing night, and made up the story about it going missing as a cover.
“So…what do you think?” he asks, sounding impatient.
“What?” I mumble, realizing he’s been speaking for some time.
“Dinner?” he asks. “With Sophia and Finn.”
“What, tonight?”
“Pay attention, darling! Next week.” He rolls his eyes. “I tried to fob her off but she was very insistent.” Pause. “I know she’s your friend and everything, but—she’s a bit artificial, I think. You can’t trust her.”
I feel relieved then. I can’t believe he would feign such disdain, he’s so honest in his opinions of others. He tends to be very black and white: he either loves someone or he takes against them.
We sit down to eat. Adam looks deflated when I tell him about my period. After a brief sulk, he gets pissed and starts doing la-di-da impressions of Sophia. Soon I am tipsy and laughing hard and then we’re cuddling up on the sofa, warm and cozy, trying out a new detective show.
Still no text from Sophia. The sex issue might have been deferred but it’s on the horizon. Sex was never that great during our early days but, back then, I did fancy Adam like mad; he was mysterious to me, and discovering each new layer of his personality was a thrill. As intimacy set in, love and lust seemed like a seesaw. The more tender I felt with him, the harder I found it to open up to him sexually. He could sometimes be a bit rough with me, early on, pretending I was a lusty wench he was taming, but what had felt sexy as strangers seemed vulgar when we became a couple. If we argued, I couldn’t open up to him physically; conversely, if everything was good between us, lovemaking could feel mechanical and flat. And energy was a big factor: we were often too tired after work or cinema trips or dinners out. We shifted from sex every night to sex on Sunday mornings. But sometimes even that drifted as we went out for indulgent breakfasts in Wimbledon Village.
And yet: I do love him. It’s not a wild passion; it’s a warm, steady, familiar feeling, but I’m not a teenager or a foolish romantic. I don’t need lightning bolts. My earlier restlessness has passed. I need to count my blessings. Sitting here, on this sofa, warm in his arms, I know I want to be with him, whether in Walthamstow or Wimbledon.
So I ought to make an effort. To turn the switch into something positive instead of destructive. After all, that was the point, wasn’t it? To improve our relationships, not fray them.
Later on, when Adam’s in the bathroom, I check my phone: finally, a reply from Sophia: So sorry, but I can’t tell you! We made a pact! I roll my eyes, feeling irked—does she have to be such a stickler? And: I’m so looking forward to our dinner.
I’m not sure if I’m looking forward to it. I’m fond of her and she’s become a dear friend. But there’s something about being around Sophia and Finn that makes me feel as though my life is a snow globe, usually calm but in their presence wildly shaken up.
24.
Elena
Adam and I stand on the doorstep of Sophia and Finn’s house. My mind wanders back to the night I tiptoed across their road in the eerie dark and crept inside. It was only three weeks ago. It feels like months.
The climbing rose above their front porch is still in bloom. Adam lifts the old-fashioned knocker and bangs hard.
I practically had to drag him out tonight, he was so reluctant. I’ve made an effort with my appearance, putting on my favorite red dress, curling my hair, applying my deepest scarlet lipstick. Fortunately Adam just thinks I’m trying to compete with Sophia.
“So d’you think we’re going to get sucked into an orgy later?” he whispers, laughing in my ear.
“Shhh,” I hiss back, laughing.
I haven’t told him about the switch, of course. But carrying this secret has felt so heavy that something did slip out last night. We were watching a Louis Theroux documentary about swingers in America. Without thinking I said, “Like Sophia.” Improvising, I quickly added that she and Finn secretly enjoyed bed-swapping with other couples at parties.
“At the end it’ll be car keys in the bowl,” he goes on and I dig my fingers into his ribs.
Finn opens the door and we quickly straighten up. He shakes Adam’s hand, greets me with a kiss on the cheek.
Immediately I feel color pulsing beneath my skin. I tell myself to get a grip. I have to get used to being in his presence without behaving like a teenager.
It’s the first time Adam has been in their house; I follow his enquiring gaze. The hallway is old-fashioned, decorated in green William Morris–style wallpaper, with an antique table and a vintage black telephone with a dial. A shoe rack; I find myself eyeing up a row of Finn’s black, shiny shoes.
Suddenly, there is a piercing sound from above us.
“Don’t worry,” says Finn cheerfully. “It’s just the smoke alarm. It usually goes off at least twice when Sophia is cooking.” And he winks at me.
“Darling,” Sophia calls from the kitchen. An hour ago I saw a photo she’d posted on Instagram of herself wearing a sexy apron, captioned “Domestic goddess.”
“I’ll get it,” Finn calls back.
He grabs a chair, climbs onto it, and pushes the alarm. The horrible noise stops.
In the dining-room, the cherrywood table has been laid with a lace cloth and engraved cutlery that looks heavy and ancient. Adam has brought a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc as a gift, but Finn opts instead for a Château, which he pours into exquisite glasses. When I take a sip, it tastes like silk. I suffer that habitual pinch of anxiety as I gaze at it all: those little flourishes and touches that belong to another class, that will always elude me. Who has the wealth, I wonder—him or Sophia? Adam and I have speculated. It’s not as though Finn’s business is that big. One of them must have private wealth, an inheritance.
As Sophia enters, carrying a roast chicken, I’m a little surprised—and relieved—to see how stressed she looks as she coos hellos and kisses. She sets down a serving dish. The food looks…burned?
Sophia and Finn bring it all in: the roast potatoes, the sprouts, the peas, the carrots and parsnips. It seems like far too hot a night to be eating a roast, but I say how nice it looks, trying to ignore the slightly charred smell.
As we sit down to eat, Sophia and I exchange glances, sharing the delicious oddness of the moment, of we know something you men don’t know. Then we discuss the weather and how lovely it is, with temperatures set to rise at the weekend. More wine is poured; I want to get drunk to cope with Finn’s presence, but I’m also scared of letting something slip.
Frowning, Adam saws at a potato. They are the worst of all, patchworked with black, greasy skins. He gives me a raised-eyebrows look but I pretend not to notice.
“Do you like it?” Sophia asks anxiously.
“Not particularly,” says Adam, as I say, “Delicious.”
Sophia’s eyes flit from him to me to him.
“Adam can be rude,” I apologize in horror, making eyes at him.
“I’m honest,” he banters back at me.
“It’s fine.” Sophia breaks into a smile.
We all carry on eating, the silence thickening with awkwardness. She turns to Adam. I dread a barbed remark, but to my surprise, she says: “I was on YouTube yesterday. And I saw your film.”
He looks taken aback, the potato forgotten. “I’ve not seen that myself for years!”
I blink. “Adam used to be into film-making before he worked in IT,” I explain, rather superfluously, realizing I must already have told Sophia this before.
The film is one I watched a lot when we were getting together. It’s a twenty-minute short about rival gangsters who bump into each other on a train; soon the buffet car becomes a war zone. It won several prizes at indie festivals.
