A World in Us Read online

  “What if I don’t feel the same way about him when I see him next?” I wondered aloud.

  “There’s not much you can do about it,” replied Gilles pragmatically. I hated him for stating the obvious.

  This wasn’t boyfriend-girlfriend stuff from high school. I already felt committed. And I had already had sex with him. I couldn’t even go home at the end of the date. Because I was staying for three days. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand, three hundred and twenty minutes.

  He answered the door to me at their London home, a twenty-minute commute from St Pancras station, took one look at my stiff expression and asked with concern, “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know you. Who are you really? You could be like Dexter.”

  I didn’t want to insult him. But polyamory had had the peculiar effect of making me more honest than strictly ne­ces­sary. Conventions were flouted overtly. Communication was direct. Blunt. You were intimately connected with people whom you weren’t even sleeping with, just by proxy.

  “The amount of time we have spent together is more than some others do in a lifetime,” he said reassuringly.

  “Have you planned anything for this weekend?” I asked.

  “Nope. Not really. Dinner is booked for tomorrow. But apart from that, I thought we might stay in the rest of the time.”

  Unspoken but obvious. And I still doubted.

  Was it really possible that the universe would bless me with not only one wonderful man, but two at the same time? And the possibility of still more? Surely not. This man was probably an axe murderer. He and his wife were some sort of Bonnie and Clyde team who preyed on other unsuspecting couples for fun and torturous games. I entertained these thoughts as I sat at the kitchen table staring into the white lilies sitting on the white table under the crystal chandelier. Imagining how my arterial spray might redecorate their furnishings when he slit my throat.

  Their home had wooden floors in the living areas, marble in the bathroom and natural grass matting on the staircase. There was little furniture, fewer books and almost no CDs. It was a show home. And masked all personality of the owners. Hence I had nothing to chat about.

  “Your home is lovely,” was barely all I could find to say.

  Morten took two bottles of cider from the fridge and led me to the living room. If in doubt, drink alcohol. I took one gulp and he pounced.

  When I say pounced, I mean of course that he moved closer, put his hand on my arm and leaned in. But if he had pounced, my reaction would have been the same. Total resistance.

  And then an utter waterfall of passion. Our clothes scattered a trail up to the bedroom as we tore them off. The perfectly made bed was utterly destroyed, and the beautiful —white — bedspread was stained. Again and again.

  It was all about us that weekend. There was no Gilles and no Elena. It was two people perfectly content in each other’s company doing whatever came naturally. A bubble of sex, talking, eating, sleeping and breathing. Nothing else existed.

  I’d heard of this Holy Grail they called multiple orgasms. But no Cosmo magazine was fully able to satisfy my curiosity. Multiple. Was it like continuous and ongoing? How long between each one? Wouldn’t you be exhausted after the first? Were women really able to do it?

  And so I came. Effortlessly. Then twenty seconds later as he continued to move inside me, I came again. I was laughing so hard that he was almost forced out. But not quite. My soul seemed to have separated from my body and was dancing among the heavens. The light was so strong I couldn’t think or see straight. And then twenty seconds later I came again and started crying.

  Amid my joy, I also felt grief. Grief that Gilles and I didn’t have sex like that and not knowing what the consequences might be. Because the sex Morten and I had just had felt like what sex was supposed to be.

  As we lay together, my head on his chest, in wonder at what our bodies could accomplish together, he spoke.

  “You know I fell for you before I met you, and for weeks I was worried that we would have a relationship that didn’t work on a physical level. We seemed so compatible on every other level that it seemed almost impossible that this one would work as well.”

  “Does everything work as well as this?” I asked.

  He looked down at me and smiled, “Well this does work spectacularly well, but I wouldn’t sniff at the rest would you?”

  Pop music videos, candlelit dinners and dreams. Many, many dreams. That weekend we started talking about the children we would have and the community life we would build. He described the little girl we might have together and held me captivated. In the tumult of my emotions, I realised that I had longed for a child. Among the myriad of twinkling stars that Morten brought me that weekend, he brought me hope. The most important of them all.

  And then, after two days of rapture, the weekend finally came to an end.

  Reality surfaced and we switched on our mobiles.

  “I wonder how Gilles and Elena are getting on,” I said idly. I had managed to push nagging doubts about their compatibility to the back of my mind. And, to be honest, it hadn’t been difficult.

  But as my phone buzzed angrily with stored texts from Gilles, Morten’s phone shrilly protested with even more voicemails. The sinking feeling in my heart matched his.

  11

  Spiky. Their weekend together had been spiky. To say the very least. The letter “k” obstinately stuck out at forbidding angles. And whilst I read down the increasingly annoyed and frustrated texts from Gilles, my phone started to ring.

  “Louisa, thank God you answered your phone. I don’t know what to do. Help me!” He sounded frantic, and I wondered what on earth had happened. Was she Dexter after all?

  “Calm down and tell me what’s going on,” I replied.

  “She says she can’t catch the plane because she’s so sad. She’s just lying prostrate on the sofa, not moving,” he said.

  I heard the door to the living room slide shut. He’d said that in her full hearing, so it obviously wasn’t a secret.

  “Why is she so sad?” I asked. “Have you done something?” Was Gilles the Dexter of my nightmares?

  “Because I said that I didn’t consider her my girlfriend yet and didn’t know whether we would ever be like that. That we have fun together but that we have already had some spiky times and that in the beginning surely a relationship should be easier.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes!” he whimpered in utter panic. “I can’t be with a woman like this! If this is what she’s like after a weekend, what on earth will she be like later? You remember Fatal Attraction!”

  My protective instinct kicked in so hard that I wanted to instantly be back and shout at her. Gilles was in trouble and nothing else mattered.

  Then more thoughts spilled out of my brain unbidden.

  Incredulity…How could anyone be so sad as to make them immobile?

  Annoyance…What a waste of money for a plane ticket!

  Reasoning…They’ve only seen each other twice, what does she expect?

  Dislike…How selfish of her to make everyone worry like this.

  Pity…Poor Gilles, having to cope with that.

  And then totally unexpected.

  Smugness…Ha! Gilles has to deal with a demanding female. Well it’s about bloody time.

  I squashed that thought flat as soon as it came.

  I said, “Gilles, chéri, ne t’inquiète pas. I’ll be back in five hours. Give her the phone, and I’ll put Morten on. I’m sure that he can get through to her even if you can’t.”

  I passed over the phone to Morten, whose brow was furrowed and fearful. All weekend he had been laughing and happy. Now he was worried and afraid. And I suddenly felt a stab of fury at Elena for hurting the two men I loved.

  The conversation that followed was Swedish, but even I understood the gis
t of it. Elena was unable or unwilling to get on the plane. And in their world, sadness was a perfectly legitimate reason for it. As Morten put the phone down, he took my hands and said,

  “We can try our best to make it work — you and me, I mean. But to be honest, if Elena and Gilles aren’t together, then there is little hope. Different countries and logistics. It’s as simple as that.”

  And that was that.

  My new love started to creak and crack around the edges, and my towers of dreams vanished in a puff of smoke. Pop. Like Icarus, I had danced too close to the sun and suddenly started to plummet to my peril. Never in my life had I felt so out of control. Our future was entirely dependent on another couple. Needless to say, I didn’t blame Gilles. I loved Gilles. Or Morten. I loved Morten.

  I blamed Elena.

  Morten said, “We have to go. Your plane will be leaving soon.”

  I wanted to stamp my foot and say, “Maybe I am also too sad to leave!” But I didn’t. My ears were singing and my hands were trembling, but I couldn’t make a fuss.

  “Please, darling,” he said, “when you get back home look after my little Elena. She’s sad and alone in a strange country.”

  How was it possible for him to demand something like that of me? To look after the person who was wrecking the possibilities of our new relationship? But as I opened my mouth to tell him how I felt, the words that came out were “I promise. Don’t worry.”

  And I meant it. I would do it. Even if I didn’t get to be with him. Because I loved him and I couldn’t bear to hurt him. And if looking after the person he loved meant that he felt better, then I would do it.

  Even though at that moment I wanted to throttle her.

  We said nothing. Not in the car, not at the check-in and not at the departure gate. But just before I went in and turned my back on him for what may have been the last time, he frantically scrambled at me. Clawing at my mouth and at my waist. His hands held mine, and our reflectively blue eyes filled with tears.

  “We’ll try, OK?”

  It was the hopeless strangled cry of surrender. It was out of our hands.

  The plane journey back was both too short and too long. When I landed, I phoned home. But there was no answer. Surely they hadn’t gone out. Had Gilles murdered Elena? Had Elena murdered Gilles?

  When I opened the door, the house was quiet apart from Imogen Heap playing on the stereo and candles lit on the table. I blew them out. There was no one in the lounge. No one in the kitchen. No one in the dining room.

  I found them in the bedroom. Gilles had obviously been crying. Elena was stroking his hair affectionately. And under the duvet they were obviously both naked. In my panic the words tumbled out of my mouth.

  “Is everything all right? What’s going on?”

  “I love your husband,” said Elena. “But he doesn’t know if he loves me or not.”

  My emotions catapulted on what was rapidly becoming elastic in my gut. Far from it being over, it seemed like a rapprochement. I went over to Gilles and looked at him. He looked vulnerable and bewildered. I must have looked the same. I kissed his forehead, gathered myself together and said, “It’s late and I’m going to bed. If you two need to talk things through, then I suggest you spend the night together in here. I love you. Good luck.”

  I leant over and kissed Elena on the cheek. She smiled at me timidly and thanked me.

  I closed the door to our bedroom and phoned Morten. It barely rang before I heard his panicked voice on the phone.

  “It’s OK!” I said “They’re OK. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but they aren’t over, that’s for sure.”

  I heard a sigh of relief down the phone. But I couldn’t match it.

  “I’m going to bed now,” I said.

  “But, darling, it’s good news. Why do you sound so sad?”

  “Because I’m at the mercy of someone else for my happiness,” I said.

  “Isn’t that what love is all about?”

  I was angry. Angry at myself for being in this situation. Angry at Gilles for being in limbo. Angry at Elena for not caring about the repercussions of her actions. And angry at Morten for not understanding how bad I was feeling. I hadn’t realised that the dynamic of being in a quad meant that you were no longer solely in charge of your own destiny and relationship. And I didn’t like it one little bit.

  Elena stayed three more days. And for all of them, Gilles slept in the same bed as her to solidify their new-found girlfriend-boyfriend status, which he had declared the mor­ning after I’d returned.

  I didn’t know whether to feel neglected or happy that I didn’t have to say goodbye to Morten just yet. So for the moment, I did what I had always done best. I remained in my safe haven called denial. And in the run-up to Christmas it wasn’t hard. Because despite my misgivings, I had dreams, many dreams.

  I wanted it to work. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

  12

  Christmas is traditionally a time for families. But it hadn’t been for Gilles and me for a long while. Family was more of a burden. So instead we’d celebrated Christmas down at the pub, with a load of other “lost boys” in Paris. We cooked a mammoth turkey in the industrial-sized ovens and helped ourselves to the beer on tap, which was afterwards put down in the books as “ullage,” that stuff that usually goes into the slop trays but that instead went down our throats.

  And yet within three months, Gilles, Elena, Morten and I felt more like family than any I had ever known. There was more love. Much more. There was also just as much drama.

  Even so, as Christmas meant family, we wanted to spend it together. But it took a bit of planning. Morten’s family visit­ed them in London until December 26th, and they played at normality. Then half an hour after they left, we arrived. We were back in fantasy land once more.

  Elena welcomed us joyfully into their home. “This is a trad­ition­al Spanish Christmas fruit cake — I made it last night — there’s spiced wine on the stove, and these odd-shaped biscuits are handmade by Morten. They’re Swedish.”

  And he cooks! I thought.

  Elena poured cinnamon and orange wine and tugged me through their spotless kitchen over a pale wooden floor, to their equally spotless living room. I took my shoes off. She asked me to. My coat had already been whipped off my shoulders and hung on a wooden hanger in their whiter-than-white wardrobe. The cushions looked like tiny puffs of cloud on a pristine turquoise sofa. Her home was fabulous. The tree dropped a needle as we whistled past. I wondered how it dared.

  “I walked up to the counter and slammed two Christmas cards on the counter,” Morten was telling Gilles. “One said ‘to my beautiful girlfriend’ and the other said ‘to my beautiful wife.’ The teller looked at me and I just beamed as wide as I could.”

  Gilles chuckled. “I’m not one for cards or flowers. One girlfriend dumped me when I gave her flowers. I learnt my lesson.”

  Elena was scandalised. “I love flowers.”

  “So do I,” I said. “But I’ll let you in on a secret. He’ll only get you one if you pounce on a flower seller in a restaurant and he can’t get out of it.”

  Elena looked like she wouldn’t put up with that kind of behaviour. I thought that Gilles’s stubborn side was in for a challenge.

  My card contained a fine silver chain with a heart strung on it. I held it aloft.

  “It’s an ankle bracelet,” Morten blushed. “I think they’re really sexy. It’s so that even when you’re in Paris, you’ll still carry a piece of my heart with you.”

  I had never dared buy an ankle bracelet before. Only prostitutes wore them. At least that’s what my mother told me. Gilles was tickled pink. He looked at me, knowing the inner battle that was currently going on in my head.

  “Louisa, honey! Who’s going to win that battle, hmmm? Morten? Or your mother?”

  “What do
you mean?” asked Morten. Gilles was watching me intently as my mouth twitched in contemplation.

  “Louisa doesn’t smoke in the street,” explained my husband.

  “Only hookers do that,” I added.

  “Or drink in the street.”

  “Only alcoholics do that.”

  “Or eat in the street.”

  “Only the homeless do that.”

  “Or wear patent shiny shoes. And she definitely does not wear anklets.”

  “Anklets signal that you are a lady of the night,” I said, dutifully repeating what my mother had taught me.

  “Oh my God! And why don’t you wear patent shoes?” Elena asked.

  “Because boys can see your underwear reflected in the tops of your shoes,” I replied automatically. “The nuns taught her that.”

  Elena started to laugh hysterically. “Goodness me, that’s just weird. But funny weird.”

  I laughed as well, but I was feeling uneasy. I was betraying my world and my values. Instead, I turned my attention to my thread of silver. It twinkled under the carefully placed spotlights in their ceiling. An emblem of the future. And an “up yours” to my repressed past. I put it around my ankle and grinned. The weight of the chain felt good settling against the bone. I was a liberated — and chained — woman. I smiled at the irony.

  Gilles opened his present to a gasp of admiration from me. It was a black velvet jacket. Gilles, unlike most of his com­patri­ots, did not care for clothes. For years I had tried to get him to care, but to no avail. On this very trip he had packed five grey T-shirts, each with holes in the armpits. I meta­phor­ic­al­ly raised my eyebrows. But Gilles was awestruck. For someone who usually didn’t care what he looked like, he was surprisingly blown away by his present. Elena squeezed his arm.

  “You’ll look even more handsome than you do already,” she said.

  “I love it. Thanks,” he said. Kissing her. This was not the Gilles I knew.