Love Lies Part 1

Love Lies.

by ADELE PARKS.

Prologue

Scott

'Do I smell, Mark?'

'No.'

'You'd tell me if I did, right?'

'I would.'

'Is my hairline receding?'

'No.'

'You're sure I'm not going bald?'

'Yes.'

'Do you think I'll lose my teeth?'

'Only if someone punches you.'

'My nan got gum disease.'

'We've got great dentists. Scott, you are coming down and this is just another one of your irrational worry sessions. We can waste a lot of time doing this, mate.'

'Mark, do you think I'll end up broke? You know, blow it all.'

'No, we've sorted out your finances. You're never going to suffer from poverty other than poverty of spirit. No matter how many TVs you throw out of hotel windows.'

1. Fern

I have taken a bullet. I live an ordinary life. I've almost accepted it. Almost.

I ought to clarify I don't always go around thinking big, profound thoughts like that. Quite a lot of the time I amuse my brain cells by thinking about which movie star is s.h.a.gging which other movie star (and do they have better s.e.x than us mere mortals), or whether I can get away with not was.h.i.+ng my hair if I'm inventive enough with my up-do (thus securing an extra thirty minutes in bed in the morning). My idea of deep is wondering whether organic food is worth the huge price tag or whether it's all just a ghastly marketing con. But today I am twenty-nine years, eleven months and three weeks old. I can no longer keep the big thoughts at bay.

Let me clarify, when I say ordinary, I mean normal, average, run of the mill, commonplace. Mundane. Clear?

I know, I know. I should be grateful. Ordinary has its up-side. I could be some human mutant with skin stretchy enough to be able to wrap my lower lip over the top of my head, or or an uber-fertile woman p.r.o.ne to giving birth to s.e.xtuplets and now be a proud mother of thirty-six indistinguishable, media-loving brats an uber-fertile woman p.r.o.ne to giving birth to s.e.xtuplets and now be a proud mother of thirty-six indistinguishable, media-loving brats or or someone who really does train-spot. Then my life would be considerably worse than the one I am leading, but even knowing this is not as much comfort as it should be. someone who really does train-spot. Then my life would be considerably worse than the one I am leading, but even knowing this is not as much comfort as it should be.

I live my ordinary life with Adam. My boyfriend of four years. I hesitate to refer to him as my partner because that would suggest some sort of equality or responsibility in the relations.h.i.+p and, frankly, both things are notably lacking. I organize the paying of all the bills (although he does cough up his share when prompted). I buy groceries, cook, clean, remember the birthdays of his family members, buy wedding gifts for our friends, arrange travel and accommodation if we ever do manage to grab a weekend away, I even put the pizza delivery people's number on speed dial. Adam alphabetically arranges his CDs and vinyls in neat rows, all the way along our sitting-room shelves.

Yes, we do share a flat. A two-bedroom flat in Clapham. Not the posh bit of Clapham, sadly. The bit where the neighbours think old pee-stained mattresses and settees, spurting their cheap foam innards, are acceptable alternatives to rose bushes in the front garden. Despite sharing a flat, I also hesitate to refer to Adam as my live-in lover because that would suggest an element of pa.s.sion and that's notably lacking too, of late. Our relations.h.i.+p is more prose than poetry. It wasn't always that way.

We used to be wild about each other. We used to swing from chandeliers, or as good as. There was a time when we couldn't keep our hands off one another. Which led to some, er, shall we say interesting situations. I'm not trying to brag. I just want to paint a fair picture. We are certified members of the mile-high club and we have made love under canvas, in a swimming-pool and once in a botanic garden (Kew). We made love frequently and in many, many different ways; slowly and carefully, fast and needy. In the past we often came at the same time. Now, it's unusual if we both are in the room at the same time.

I used to think we were going somewhere. It looks like we've arrived. This is my stop. I have to get off the train and take a long hard look at the station. It's not one with hanging baskets full of cascading begonia and there isn't one of those lovely large clocks with Roman numerals. There's nothing romantic or pretty about my station at all. My station is littered with discarded polystyrene cups and spotted with blobs of chewing-gum.

Frankly, it's depressing.

We don't own our flat. We don't even have an exclusive flat-share. My best friend, Jess, also rents with us. Normally, I acknowledge that this is no bad thing. She is (largely) single and so we are each other's on-tap company on those nights when she doesn't have a date and Adam is at work.

Adam is in the music business. Don't get excited. He's not a rock star, or a manager, or producer, or anything remotely glamorous and promising. He's a rigger; which, if I've understood things correctly, is one step up from the coach driver on a tour but not as important as the people who work in catering. He freelances, and while he must be quite good at his job (offers of employment are regular) it's clear he's never going to be a millionaire. For that matter, he's never going to have so much as a savings account.

This didn't used to bother me. I'm a florist and work in someone else's shop: Ben's Bunches and Bouquets or Ben's B&B for short. Ben, who is as camp as a glow-in-the-dark feather duster, is an absolute angel of a boss but I only earn a modest wage. Jess works in a bookshop and, after thirteen years' service, she has just reached the dizzy heights of store manager. We're not the type of people to be motivated by money (one of my other great friends, Lisa, is married to a City lawyer and he's rich but we think he's nice despite despite that). I don't resent Adam's lack of cash. I resent his lack of... oh, what's the word? that). I don't resent Adam's lack of cash. I resent his lack of... oh, what's the word?

Commitment.

His inability to grow up. To move on. It is Adam who has jammed our brakes at the ordinary station because he's a settler. He lacks ambition. When challenged, he says he's content and throws me a look of bewilderment that's vaguely critical. He thinks I'm unreasonable because I yearn for more than a tiny two-bedroom flat-share (all we can afford despite working endless, incompatible hours). I long for something more than Monday to Wednesday evenings in front of the TV, Thursday nights at the supermarket, Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights at the local and Sundays (our one day a week off together) sleeping off a hangover.

Recently, I've been overwhelmed with despair as I've come to understand that not only do I currently have very little in my life to feel energized about but, with the exception of hoping my lottery numbers come up, I have absolutely nothing to look forward to in the future. This is it for me. The sum total.

When I was a tiny kid I once saw a deeply unsuitable sci-fiTV show where the goodies were trapped in a room and the walls were closing in on them, about to crush them to death. The same menace was used in Star Wars Star Wars Episode IV but Princess Leia had it really bad because she was knee deep in garbage too. I found the concept truly horrifying and suffered from nightmares for months. Lately, as I watch the (supposedly) best years of my life amble off into the dim distance, I've started to experience the same nightmare again. I wake up sweating with the taste of fear in my mouth. I'm going to be squashed to death by the walls of a tiny room. Episode IV but Princess Leia had it really bad because she was knee deep in garbage too. I found the concept truly horrifying and suffered from nightmares for months. Lately, as I watch the (supposedly) best years of my life amble off into the dim distance, I've started to experience the same nightmare again. I wake up sweating with the taste of fear in my mouth. I'm going to be squashed to death by the walls of a tiny room.

In the beginning I was impressed by Adam's joie de vivre joie de vivre; his jaunty carelessness was part of the attraction. I loved it that he would find the time to listen to some demo disc from a yet to be discovered band. A demo disc that he'd scrounged from a no one and would pa.s.s on to Someone; not because of the lure of brash financial gain but just because he thought this band might be the next 'it' more, he thought they deserved deserved to be the next 'it'. I didn't care that I didn't actually understand what he was on about when he said something like, 'This band is totally thras.h.i.+ng with PJ Harvey-meets-Throwing Muses Fire, yet it's so completely purring with hectic pop.' I wonder if he cared that I just smiled and said nothing. Maybe my lack of knowledge about the pop scene has been interpreted as a lack of interest, because Adam's stopped urging me to listen to lyrics that are 'all about a breakneck chase through messy relations.h.i.+ps'. I think he's accepted that my music tastes are mainstream. It's a shame in a way, because while I didn't understand what he was on about I did respect that he was on about to be the next 'it'. I didn't care that I didn't actually understand what he was on about when he said something like, 'This band is totally thras.h.i.+ng with PJ Harvey-meets-Throwing Muses Fire, yet it's so completely purring with hectic pop.' I wonder if he cared that I just smiled and said nothing. Maybe my lack of knowledge about the pop scene has been interpreted as a lack of interest, because Adam's stopped urging me to listen to lyrics that are 'all about a breakneck chase through messy relations.h.i.+ps'. I think he's accepted that my music tastes are mainstream. It's a shame in a way, because while I didn't understand what he was on about I did respect that he was on about something something. I loved it that Adam had this extraordinary pa.s.sion and I believed it would lead to something big. Problem being I never actually defined exactly what that something big might be and nor did Adam. Yes, he pointed one or two promising bands in the right direction and they went on to greater things. But Adam's stayed still. Ground to a halt.

Thinking about it, it's a good thing that Adam has stopped asking me to join him at the gigs of struggling bands which take place in tiny underground bars that flout the no-smoking laws. I wouldn't want to go to those sorts of places any more. When you are twenty-five it's easy to be impressed by pa.s.sion, creative flair, free spirits, etc. etc. When you are pus.h.i.+ng thirty it's hard to resist being contemptuous about the very things that attracted you. Why is that? One of life's not so funny jokes, I guess.

On evenings like this one it's particularly hard to remember why I thought dating a gig rigger was ever a good idea. On evenings when Jess is out on a proper date (at some fancy restaurant somewhere) with some guy who has potential (a hot merchant banker that she met last Sat.u.r.day) and I'm left alone with nothing more than a scribbled note (attached to the fridge by a Simpson's magnet which we got free in a cereal box), I struggle.

I'd especially asked Adam to stay home tonight. I'd said to him that I wanted to talk. Well, to be accurate, I pinned up a note to that effect on the fridge this morning; we didn't actually speak. Adam was working at a gig in Brixton last night and he didn't get home until three this morning. My boss Ben and I take it in turns to go to the New Covent Garden flower market each morning and today it was my turn, so I had to leave the flat by 4 a.m. I didn't have the heart to wake Adam so I left a note. It was clear enough.

We need to talk. Don't go out tonight. Don't accept any work. This is important. I'd underlined the words 'need', 'don't' (both of them) and 'important'. I thought I'd communicated my exasperation, urgency and desperation. Apparently not. Adam's reply note reads: Got a sniff of a big job coming up. Lots of green ones, Fern-girl. Would love to gas tonight but no can do. Later. Luv u. Got a sniff of a big job coming up. Lots of green ones, Fern-girl. Would love to gas tonight but no can do. Later. Luv u.

When I first read the note I kicked the table leg, which was stupid because not only did I knock over a milk carton which means I now have to clean up the spillage but I hurt my foot. It's Adam I want to hurt.

I drag my eyes around the flat. It's a bit like rubbing salt into an open wound. If I was sensible now I'd just pick up my bag and phone a mate (or use any other life-line) and I'd head back into town for a meal and a chat. It's a rare lovely summer evening. We could sit on the pavement outside a cheap restaurant and drink house wine. But I don't call anyone. Actually, I can't. Jess and Lisa are the only two people I could face seeing when I'm in this sort of mood and I know neither is available. I have other buddies but they are either friends Adam and I share (and therefore not useful when I want to let off steam about his inability to grow up and commit) or they are my good-time-only friends (also not useful when I'm steaming).

Jess is on her date and Lisa can never do a spur-of-the-moment night out. She has two kids under the age of three. A night out requires a serious time-line leading up to the occasion and military precision planning on the actual night. She grumbles about the lack of spontaneity in her life but Jess and I refuse to take her grumbles seriously; we both know that not only has she everything she ever wanted, she also has exactly what we want too.

So, it's a night in the flat with just the was.h.i.+ng up to keep me company the flat that epitomizes all that is wrong with where I am at, just one week before my thirtieth birthday. Great.

Jess and I have tried to make the flat as stylish as possible on our limited budgets. We regularly visit Ikea and we're forever lighting scented candles that we buy from the supermarket. However, all our good work can be undone in a matter of minutes if Adam is left unsupervised in many ways he's a lot like a Labrador puppy. Because he, and many of his mates, work nights they often waste away a day hanging around our flat. When Jess and I leave for work the place usually looks reasonably smart. Not posh, I realize, but clean and tidy. When we come home it looks like a particularly vicious hurricane has dashed through.

Today the place looks especially squalid. The curtains are drawn even though it's a bright summer evening. My guess is that Adam and his mates have been watching DVDs all day. A guess that is confirmed when I find several discs flung across the floor, giving the flat the appearance of a bad dose of chicken pox. There is a collection of beer cans abandoned on every available surface. Most of the cans have stubbed-out f.a.g ends precariously balanced on top, which I hate because our flat is supposed to be a non-smoking s.p.a.ce. The scatter cus.h.i.+ons have been well and truly scattered in messy heaps on the floor (men just don't get it cus.h.i.+ons are not to be used, they're for decoration) and I'm annoyed to notice something has been spilt on one of them (coffee, I think). The room smells of stale, male sweat; this might be a hangover from the numerous bodies that have been rotting here today, but more likely the hideous stench is coming from the pile of s.k.a.n.kie trainers that are heaped next to the TV. Why Adam insists on taking his shoes off in the sitting-room, and then leaving them there for eternity, is beyond me.

I draw back the curtains, fling open the window and start to gather up the empty cans and cups. I work efficiently, as irritation often makes me noticeably more competent. Ben has commented that I pull together the most beautiful bouquets just after I've had to deal with a particularly tetchy customer. 'Darling, temper works so well for you. You are a true artist and these lilies are your brushes; this vase your canvas.' (Ben honestly believes he's a secret love great-grandchild of Oscar Wilde.) I throw the trainers to the back of Adam's wardrobe, I put the soiled cus.h.i.+on cover in the wash basket and while I'm there I sort out a quick load of darks and pop a wash on. I wipe surfaces, dust and drag out the vacuum cleaner. It is only once the room is s.h.i.+ny and clean that I allow myself a gla.s.s of wine. I think a large one is required.

I carry the goldfish-bowl-size gla.s.s of Chardonnay back into the sitting-room, plonk myself on the settee and start to flick through the TV channels. Annoyingly (and predictably, considering my tense mood) nothing grabs my attention. Maybe some music will help. I flick through my CDs. As I've confessed, my tastes are mainstream and my CD collection is probably identical to tens of thousands of other women, my age, up and down the country. In my teens I was an Oasis girl, who wasn't? I have a bit of Royksopp and Groove Armada that I listened to in my early twenties, especially when I was in the mood for luuurve. There was a big loungy vibe going on at the time, or at least I think there was there was in my flat. More recently I've bought CDs by the Arctic Monkeys, White Stripes, Chemical Brothers and Scouting for Girls. I buy these CDs on average six months after they've been big in the charts. Hidden in a box near our CD racks I also have Diana Ross and Dido, who I listened to approximately once a month throughout the first half of my twenties (whenever I broke up with my latest squeeze). I hate it that being with Adam has somehow made me apologetic about my collection. It's brought me hours of entertainment, consolation and fun. Surely that's what music is about. Half the stuff Adam listens to sounds trashy, loud and overly aggressive or just plain old depressing, if you ask me. But then, he doesn't ask me. Not any more.

I opt to listen to one of Scottie Taylor's CDs. Scottie Taylor is, in my opinion, the greatest entertainer Britain has produced ever, and the biggest pop phenomenon we've had since the Beatles. I'd never dare make huge sweeping statements about anything to do with the pop industry in front of Adam but I'm on fairly solid ground with this one. For one, Adam is not here (which is why I've been driven to drink and the imaginary arms of Scottie Taylor), and for two, this opinion is pretty much accepted as fact. You could ask any woman in Britain, aged between fifteen and fifty, and she'd agree.

Scottie is the man every woman wants to fix and f.u.c.k. He shot to fame fifteen years ago when he was just seventeen years old. Women my age have grown up with him; he's an inst.i.tution. He was recruited by a pop mogul to join a girl band, X-treme, an obvious publicity stunt when X-treme were battling for chart supremacy against the Spice Girls. Despite the gimmick of introducing Scottie to the band, X-treme died a death and no one can even name any of the other band members now. I think one of them (the redhead) is a presenter on a Sky shopping channel, I spotted her when I was mindlessly flicking once; she's put on a lot of weight. The other three are occasionally papped coming out of the Priory or Primark. But none of them have even dared threaten a comeback tour. It's generally accepted there wasn't a platform to come back from. It was different for Scottie. As X-treme became more ex-dream, Scottie became bigger and bigger. After just two pop hits with the band he was approached by a new manager and went solo. As Scottie climbed to number one, you could hear the nails being hammered into X-treme's coffin.

He's an incredibly talented songwriter and vocalist but besides that he's needy, s.e.xy, beautiful and has the most filthy grin in history. Despite sleeping with pretty much every gorgeous woman in the pop world, plus a fair number of models and film stars, he is resolutely single and as such the perfect fantasy man. Just what I need right now to ease the tedium of being ignored by Adam.

I put on his latest CD and turn the volume up high.

The thing is, it can go either way with music. Sometimes it's life-affirming and uplifting; other times it can plunge you into the deepest, darkest doldrums. By the time I've downed two-thirds of the bottle of Chardonnay I'm beginning to feel h.o.r.n.y and hurt; a lethal combination. Scottie is crooning some love ballad, or more accurately some hate ballad. Something about knowing when love has made a dash for the door and love not living here any more. I start to swirl the lyric around my mind with the same seriousness I would if I was grappling with the monumental questions like: Why are we here? Why don't you ever see a baby pigeon? Why are yawns contagious?

The hardest thing to bear about my live-in relations.h.i.+p with Adam is not the mess he makes, or the unsociable hours he works, or his lack of focus on his career. The hardest thing is I love him and I have to wonder, does he still love me? That's why I'm often grumpy and bored. I don't feel special. I think there's a serious danger that our love has made a dash for the door. I sometimes think Adam and I are more used to each other than mad about each other. How depressing. The orange glow of an August sunset fills the room with a pale amber hue and yet I feel distinct s.h.i.+vers scuttle up and down my spine.

2. Fern

I can't help thinking that if Adam loved me as much as I love him, or as much as he used to, or as much as I want him to, or whatever, then things would be different. Things would feel more exquisitely special, distinctly not ordinary. Plus he'd follow basic instructions. I mean he'd stay in on the one night of the week that I ask him to, wouldn't he? He'd occasionally squirt a bit of Fairy liquid over the dishes in the sink or put his smelly trainers in the wardrobe, wouldn't he? He'd ask me to marry him.

Wouldn't he?

There, I've said it. It's out there. I am that pathetic, that old-fas.h.i.+oned, that un-liberated. I want the man I love, who I've been with for four years, to ask me to marry him. Tell me, ladies and gentlemen, am I so unreasonable?

Part of me is ashamed that after everything the bra-burning brigade did on behalf of my s.e.x, I still can't s.h.i.+ft the secret belief that if Adam proposed my life would be somehow more luminous, glorious and triumphant than it currently is. I know, I know, it's an illogical thought. Since his inadequacies are stacking up like the interest on a credit card in January, it does not make sense that I want to shackle myself to him on a permanent basis. The fact that I am irritated he no longer looks me in the eye when he's talking to me (what am I on about? He rarely talks to me!). The fact that the very sight of his favourite old baggy sweats.h.i.+rt now brings me out in a rash (and yet I'd previously considered it to be cuddly and snuggly right up there with my baby blanket in terms of offering comfort). The fact that the way he chews his food, cuts his nails in bed and leaves the seat up in the loo makes me want to hold his head under water and wait for the bubbles to stop surfacing ought to add up to something other than my desire for a huge, floaty meringue number. But it doesn't.

No matter how annoying Adam can be I find I am irrationally besieged by a belief (which grips me with the same severity as religious doctrine grabs some folk) that marrying him will somehow change things for the better between us.

I know, I know. Once again the facts would point in another direction. I've never met a woman who can, hand on heart, say this is the case. The vast majority of women insinuate (or openly state depending on their level of inebriation) that marriage only leads to a deepening of cracks in a relations.h.i.+p. Where there was a hairline fracture, throw in a dozen years of matrimony and you find an enormous chasm, a veritable gulf. Even the very happily married tend to look back fondly at the days gone by, the days of dating, when the most monumental decision a couple ever have to make is which movie to see as opposed to endlessly debating domestic dross. Can we afford a new mattress? Is it worth insuring the house contents? Is it stupidly irresponsible to go with the quote from the first first plumber who turned up to look at the leaky radiator after all, it's taken six weeks to get a plumber to show, can we really wait for two more? plumber who turned up to look at the leaky radiator after all, it's taken six weeks to get a plumber to show, can we really wait for two more?

And yet I want a proposal.

I think I need to make it clear at this point that I am not one of those women who always wanted to get married. As a child I owned Airhostess Barbie, not Bridal Barbie. I had no ambitions to endlessly re-enact a marriage between said doll and her eunuch boyfriend, Ken. Nor did I dance around the kitchen with a tea towel tied to my head and a sheet around my waist singing 'Some Day My Prince Will Come' (although my older sister Fiona did this until she was about fifteen). In fact I spent most of my late teens and early twenties avoiding any sort of proper relations.h.i.+p. I thought a guy was being unreasonably controlling and presumptuous if he insisted on knowing my surname before making a dishonest woman of me. I was a good-time girl rather than a good girl. I never bought into the nonsense that s.e.x was in any way tied up with responsibility, disgrace, doubt, guilt or even love. As far as I was concerned s.e.x was all about hedonistic pleasure and fun lots and lots of fun. I suppose s.e.xist propaganda would have it that I ought to hang my head in shame, wear sackcloth and frequently beat myself rather than own up to the fact that in my past I've rarely dignified any relations.h.i.+p with longevity. But I won't. I can't be that much of a hypocrite.

Then there was Adam.

I met Adam in the same way I usually met guys back then (he was the mate of a bloke I was s.h.a.gging at the time). It wasn't love at first sight or anything really corny like that it was laugh at first sight. Not that I was laughing at him, I wasn't; I laughed right along with him, everyone did. He was a riot. He's one of those walking bag of gags lads. He's full of witty one-liners, bizarre facts and decent jokes. No one delivers a punch line like Adam. We flirted from the word go but Adam kept me at arm's length until my fling with his mate drew its last breath. Then he asked me to go to Glas...o...b..ry music fest with him. And that was it we were an item.

I never so much as looked at another man from that moment on. Seriously, he held me captive. I realized that I hadn't simply been a s.l.u.t (as I believed and my mum feared), I just hadn't met the right guy. Simple as that. As nice and old-fas.h.i.+oned as that.

I've loved being faithful to Adam. It hasn't been a struggle. Having sown my wild oats it was a joy to sink into a relations.h.i.+p where it really didn't matter if I occasionally wore cotton M&S knickers rather than lacy thongs he'd still want to rip them off me.

Adam and I laughed our way through the first couple of years and we laughed our way into this flat-share and for quite some months after that. But we haven't been doing a great deal of laughing of late. In fact there hasn't been so much as a chuckle, a guffaw or a weak giggle. Neither of us is the rowing sort, so silence and tension have become our staple.

I call Adam to find out what time he expects to be back so I can gauge whether it's worth waiting up for him. Even before I press the dial b.u.t.ton part of me knows this is likely to be a pointless exercise. Invariably, even if Adam is able to give an expected time of arrival, he's about as reliable as a politician a week before elections; besides that, he often doesn't answer his phone anyway. He's either up a ladder rigging lights or down a cellar listening to a band and so he can't reach his phone or the signal can't reach him. It's an accurate metaphor for our relations.h.i.+p. I'm therefore pleasantly surprised when he picks up.

'Hi, I was just wondering where you are and what you are up to,' I say, trying to sound as friendly and non-naggy as I'm able.

'Hey, Fern-girl. I'm coming right back to you.'

'Are you?' A rush of excitement floods into my stomach, pus.h.i.+ng aside the irritation I've felt all evening.

'Yup.'

The doorbell rings. 'Hang on, someone is at the door, hold the line,' I say.

I open the door and Adam is stood facing me, holding his phone to his ear and grinning.

'Lost my key,' he says as he snaps closed his mobile and then briefly kisses me on the forehead.

'Lost or forgotten?' I demand. The rush of excitement at seeing him is instantly drowned by a fresh flash of irritation. Living with him is a bit like sitting in a ducking chair. Oh, I can breathe; everything is going to be fine. No, I'm under water once more. I'm going to drown Oh, I can breathe; everything is going to be fine. No, I'm under water once more. I'm going to drown. If he's lost his key again then we'll have to pay for the locks to be changed for the second time in six months. It's such an unnecessary expense, all that's required is a little thought. But, if he's simply forgotten to take it out with him I'll be just as irritated. I mean, it's not rocket science, is it? You go out, you come in again, to do that you need a key, put key in pocket.

Adam shrugs. 'Think they are in my other jeans.'

'I hope so,' I mutter as I head for our bedroom to check in his jeans pocket. The jeans are on the floor in a crumpled heap. Luckily, I do find his keys, along with a stick of gum and his Oyster card. I walk back into the kitchen dangling the keys off my finger; half triumphant, half vexed. Nowadays I often rage with conflicting emotions when I'm around Adam. I wish it wasn't so. I wish things were simpler.

I'm taken aback because I find Adam serving up a Chinese takeaway. From the smell of it I think I can guess that he's brought me king prawn foo yung with egg fried rice my favourite.

'Have you eaten? I figured not, as there's no food in the flat, so I thought we'd go wild, Fern-girl. I've even bought a side of prawn crackers.'

Adam doesn't often demonstrate this level of planning so I don't grumble about the keys; I simply slip them down on to the counter next to his wallet.

Sometimes we eat in front of the TV off a tray, but today Adam has put the plates, knives and forks on the tiny Formica table in the kitchen. An action which indicates that he's aware I've requested a level of formality and seriousness tonight.

There's the usual kerfuffle of sitting down, then getting up again to get a bottle of beer, sitting down for a second time and getting up again to find the soy sauce and sitting down and then getting up again to get a jug of tap water.

When we finally settle, Adam asks, 'So what is it that you wanted to talk about?' There's a hint of nervousness in his voice.

I'm grateful that I'm fortified with the best part of a bottle of Chardonnay. I decide to dive right in.

'You know that I'm thirty next week '