Perfectly Ordinary People(68)

‘All that my-place-or-your-place stuff,’ he said. ‘It might be nice if we didn’t have to decide. If it was just obvious we were going back to ours.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That.’ The discussion at the taxi rank, in the rain, had taken at least a minute and we’d both got wet in the process. In the end, despite my overpowering guilt about leaving Buggles on his own, I’d caved in.

Dan looked out of the side window and I closed my eyes and basked in the sensation of his arms around me and the pretty patterns the passing streetlights were casting across my eyelids.

Back at his place, Dan poured two glasses of sambuca, which he flambéed with a coffee bean, restaurant-style.

We snuggled on the sofa together until one of his flatmates came home earlier than expected, whereupon we were forced to move to his bedroom.

Dan started to roll a joint, and I shuffled around until my head was resting on his chest.

‘Don’t you think?’ he asked.

‘Think what?’ I said. I was mainly trying to concentrate on stopping the room from spinning.

‘Don’t you think it’s time?’

‘That we lived together?’

‘Yeah,’ Dan said, and I thought about how nice it was to feel the vibrations of his words transmitted directly from his chest cavity to my head.

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’ Dan laughed.

‘You were the one who got cold feet, last time,’ I pointed out. ‘So, I guess the subject makes me a bit nervous. Maybe we can talk about it another—’

‘Yeah, but I got over all that,’ Dan said, interrupting me. ‘I had a really great conversation with Clive about it a few weeks back.’ Clive was one of Dan’s flatmates, and was heavily into his self-help books. ‘He really, like, changed my perspective on it all.’

At that moment, I was torn between three different desires: sex, sleep and finding out what life-changing revelation flatmate Clive had imparted. Unfortunately for me, I chose to inquire about the last one.

‘Oh, it’s nothing that profound,’ Dan said, licking the joint and lighting up. ‘It’s just . . . you know, commitment. The whole concept of commitment. Because that’s all it is, isn’t it?’

He handed me the joint and, though I was worried it would make me feel even sicker, I accepted and took a minimalist puff. ‘I’m not following,’ I said, handing it straight back. ‘What’s all what is?’

‘Commitment,’ Dan said. ‘It, you know, makes men feel trapped. It makes them feel scared.’

‘Oh, OK,’ I said. ‘Well, if it’s any help, it makes plenty of women pretty nervous too.’

‘But it’s just a concept, that’s the point. It’s not real.’

I reached over for my glass, only to realise that I’d already finished my sambuca, so I put it back down and shifted positions so that I could look at Dan while I was speaking to him. Something about the conversation was turning serious.

‘I’m not following,’ I said. ‘How is commitment not real?’

‘Well, you can still always leave,’ Dan said. ‘That’s the point. Even married people – people who’ve vowed to stay together for ever – even they divorce. People with kids walk out, too. So it’s just the reality of the matter. Commitment only ever lasts as long as both parties want it to. So it’s not such a cast-iron trap after all.’

I blinked at him slowly and tried to think about what he was saying. And then I had one of those flashes where you realise that if you let your mind go there, it’s going to upset you. It was Dan’s birthday, and we were drunk, and we’d had a lovely, crazily expensive meal. And I’d been enjoying the moment, there on the bed, and thinking about sex. I really didn’t want to spoil it all, and was probably too drunk to discuss anything logically anyway.

‘Oh, just shush thee and come here, will you?’ I said. ‘Let’s get that birthday bang going before we both fall asleep.’ And thankfully Dan laughed, put the joint down and did exactly that.

Afterwards, as we were falling asleep, he said, ‘You should probably stop taking the pill, too.’

The thought Because even with a kid you can still walk out? popped into my mind, but once again, I quite consciously pushed it to the edges where I could pretend it didn’t exist.

‘Shh,’ I said. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘You’re weird,’ Dan said, pulling me tighter.

‘You’re weirder,’ I said, and I tried to make it sound like a joke.

‘Those verrines were just amazing,’ Dan said softly. ‘I think I’m definitely going to have to get into verrines.’ And though I think he carried on speaking, that was the last thing I heard.

By the time I got up the next morning, Dan was in the kitchen, experimenting. He was busy pureeing asparagus with various other ingredients and dolloping it into tumblers.

‘I thought the green bit was supposed to be avocado,’ I commented sleepily as I poured myself some coffee.

‘It was avocado and hazelnut last night,’ Dan said, ‘but I thought I’d try asparagus, shallot and lime with an almond-butter crumble.’

‘Yum,’ I said. ‘Sounds fab.’

As I sat at the kitchen table, he handed me the first completed verrine and asked me to tell him what I thought.