You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) Read online

  As soon as the barriers opened, I hurried through the curtain of light. I knew what I wanted to do – find Felix and follow him all night, seeing the play through his eyes, watching every move he made and trying to understand what it meant to be Oberon, what it felt like to have this power to enchant, to command a night-time world where love was a game and mortals were nothing more than toys, or pieces on a chessboard to be moved around in a contest of power.

  But I’d forgotten the sheer size of the set. I took a wrong turning leaving the village, and found myself watching an amazing, acrobatic dance performed by five of the fairies. There must surely be wires involved, I thought, astonished by the sheer height and duration of their leaps. My plan forgotten, I stood transfixed, overwhelmed with admiration and envy, because once long ago, I’d been able to do this, or something like it.

  Even though I was lost, I’d come to the right place. Soon I saw Puck, then Oberon, and I spent the next hour racing after him along the narrow paths through the undergrowth, until my breath was coming in gasps and the hem of my dress was wet with dew. I knew he’d seen me, because when he rounded a sudden corner and I was sure I’d lost him, he’d be there a second later, waiting for me. Every time his eyes behind the great, horned mask scanned the audience, I was sure they paused on me, resting for a moment in acknowledgement. Once I was sure I caught a glint of blue through the elaborate bronze visor.

  And then I did lose him. He darted behind a tree, I followed – and he wasn’t there any more. I stopped, listening, but all I could hear was my pounding heart and the eerie, unearthly music. I wasn’t alone – there’d been a group of five or six of us all night following the same route, and now we’d all been thwarted. We looked at each other, keeping to the rule of silence, and exchanged baffled shrugs. Two women went back the way we’d come; one turned away to the left, I thought in the direction of the palace, and the other two went on ahead.

  I paused, indecisive. I could wait here, see whether he returned to find me. But I knew all too well that this wasn’t about me – Felix was a professional playing a role, and he’d be governed rigidly by his cues, the orders given to him by the music and the lights. There was no time for messing about. I’d see what lay beyond the thicket of trees to my right, I decided, and then I’d head back to the bar and have a drink and sit down for a bit, and see if I could catch the wedding scene at the end, which I’d missed before. It was fine – I was having a wonderful time; the twinge of disappointment I felt was ridiculous and would pass.

  I found a gap between the trees, and emerged into a clearing I hadn’t seen before. I stopped and looked around, a gasp coming unthinking from my throat. It was beautiful. The full moon – even though I knew it was a spotlight – cast an ethereal glow over the trees, the moss that covered the ancient stone floor and the flowering vines that twined over a pair of stone columns in the centre. For a second, my brain acknowledged the genius of the set design, but I was in no mood for analysis – I was transported entirely, charmed by the illusion as powerfully as if a spell had been cast on me.

  And then I saw Oberon. He appeared from behind one of the columns, lit now from above in a way that made me realise he’d been there all the time, the lichen colours of his robes blending into the stone like camouflage, as long as he was still. He wasn’t still now.

  I would have forgotten that it was Felix behind that mask, only the beauty with which he moved was unmistakeable. There was a wild savagery to his dance, but total control and effortless grace, too. The professional I’d been years before marvelled at it – Felix’s ex-girlfriend felt a stabbing, familiar pulse of desire so strong I could hardly bear it. He might have quit classical ballet, I realised, but he’d acquired new skills and an amazing athletic ability I hadn’t seen before. He moved between the pillars like a gymnast, seeming to ignore gravity as his body moved sideways, perpendicular to the floor, upside down – and then he ran, as if it were part of the choreography, towards me and swept me up into his dance.

  As it had in my living room a few days before, my body remembered what to do. I wasn’t as fit or as supple as I’d been, I was a stone heavier, I was wearing Converse instead of pointe shoes. But I was dancing – dancing with Felix, and it was heaven. He spun me and lifted me, and I followed his lead effortlessly, as if we’d rehearsed this moment for weeks.

  It lasted just a minute or two – any longer would have killed me. But I realised a small crowd had gathered round the clearing, watching in silent admiration. And when Oberon took my arm and ran with me away from our small stage into the trees, I heard a brief smattering of applause - although that might just have been my brain remembering the past as my body had done.

  Once again, we were alone in Oberon’s grotto, his fairy cave, dimly lit and drenched in soft, strange music. Once again he covered my eyes and spoke his lines, and took off his mask and kissed me. But the kiss this time was deeper and more intense, and there was a moment when I reached up to touch his sweating face with my fingertip, which I hadn’t been brave enough to do before. And then, for one second so fleeting it might not have happened at all, he stopped being Oberon and became Felix, and whispered, “Wait for me afterwards, Laura.”

  In a haze of happiness, I watched the finale from the steps of the palace, seeing the lovers reunited in their natural order. I screamed my appreciation with the rest of the audience as the choreographer and the creative director were carried on to the stage on the shoulders of the cast, and I cried actual tears into the woman next to me’s shoulder as we exchanged fervent hugs and said, “I can’t believe it’s over!”

  Everyone flocked to the bar. I bought the woman I’d hugged a glass of fizz and a total stranger bought me one, then someone else bought a round for a random group of about ten of us who were exchanging breathless memories of what we’d seen and what had happened to us.

  Someone nudged me and said, “Look! There’s Lysander,” and I realised that the cast were starting to emerge, mingling with their fans, and that the man whose dance I’d watched and admired when I saw the show with Zé was a household name, an actor who’d been on the cover of Hello magazine and was properly famous.

  I noticed through my haze of prosecco and happiness that the crowd was beginning to thin, and the woman I’d befriended said, “Oh no, chucking out time,” just before a steward approached our little group and told us politely that it was cast and VIPs only from now on, please, and could we make our way to the exit over there, where we’d be able to collect our bags.

  I wanted to say, “No! Not me! I’m supposed to be here. Look, I have an invitation.”

  Then I remembered that the precious pass to the after-show party was in my handbag, which I’d checked in with my coat when I arrived. Fool! Anyway, there was nothing to be done. I’d have to go home with everyone else.

  Then, suddenly, I felt a warm arm encircle my waist and smelled fresh soap and shampoo, and Felix said, “Don’t sling Laura out, Marco, she’s with me.”

  I was woken the next morning by Jonathan singing ‘What shall we do with a grumpy Owen?’ to the tune of ‘What shall we do with the drunken sailor?’ It was one of the collection of joke songs he’d made up when our son was a tiny baby and wouldn’t sleep, and it brought back memories of lying in bed, exhausted, my breasts sore from endless feeding, trying desperately to get the sleep Jonathan said I should have while he took over on rocking and bouncing duty for a few hours. I felt no less exhausted now.

  It had been long after two when I got in, I remembered blearily. The house was dark and silent, except for the cooker hood light, which someone had left on for me. Jonathan must have paid Carmen and sent her home when he got back from work. I took my make-up off, made a cup of tea and sat in near-darkness in the kitchen, too wired to go to bed. Memories of the evening spun through my head – dancing with Felix, with the famous actor who’d played Lysander, with a series of faceless people taking in turns to wear Bottom’s donkey mask. Wandering around the dark, empty set, wishing that i
t would come alive again with characters and music. Walking home with Felix through the quiet streets and saying good night to him outside our front door.

  Saying goodnight – that was all. We’d kissed each other on both cheeks, and he hugged me close, and I thanked him again for inviting me. But that was all. Nothing had happened for me to feel guilty about.

  Yet I felt guilty all the same. Guilty, hungover, and full of regret.

  I resisted the urge to pull the pillow over my head and try to go back to sleep. Instead, I pulled my body out of bed – why was I aching all over? I felt like I’d been hit by a bus, or been to a Pilates class or something. The room tilted alarmingly as I stood up. I must have drunk far more than I’d realised. The stairs felt strange under my feet as I walked down to the kitchen, as if the height of their treads had been altered while I slept. The sunlight pouring through the skylights hurt my eyes.

  Jonathan and Owen were perched on stools at the kitchen counter, which was splattered with what looked like porridge.

  Owen said, “Mummy!” and stretched out his arms to be picked up.

  “Look at you, mucky face,” I kissed him.

  “My breakfast offering wasn’t up to standard,” Jonathan said, “and Jay Rayner here expressed his disapproval by tipping it out of the bowl.”

  “Well, if you will serve him snail porridge,” I joked lamely. “Where are the girls?”

  “Still asleep,” Jonathan said. “You weren’t the only one who had a late night – I could hear them chatting for ages after I went to bed. How was the party?”

  “Okay,” I said. “It was fun. It went on for ages.”

  “So I see,” Jonathan said, raising an eyebrow at my dishevelled appearance. “Coffee?”

  “Please.” I sat down next to him, Owen on my lap, and took a healing sip.

  Darcey and Juniper came clattering down the stairs, Katy Perry playing tinnily on Juniper’s mobile.

  “Good morning,” Juniper said.

  “Mum, please can I go to Juniper’s house to play? Zé says it’s okay.” I’d noticed that Darcey was calling me Mummy less and less often. There’d come a point, I realised, when she’d call me Mummy for the last time, and Mum would take over for good, but because I wouldn’t know it was the last time I wouldn’t be able to treasure it.

  “If she’s not still poorly… I’ll text her and check.”

  Zé replied saying she’d love to have Darcey for the day.

  “Okay, I’ll drive you both over once I’ve had a shower. What would you girls like for breakfast? Toast? Porridge?”

  “Nothing, thank you,” Juniper said, so I gave up and handed them each a cereal bar.

  “And what shall we do? Picnic? Swimming?”

  “I’m afraid I have work to do,” Jonathan said.

  I opened my mouth to protest, to point out that he’d worked late every single night that week, that it was Saturday, that surely he wanted to spend some time with me and with his son. But what was the point? It would only lead to an argument, which would be resolved in half an hour’s time by Jonathan going upstairs with his laptop anyway.

  A few months ago, when I’d been working full time, the idea of a day alone with my little boy would have felt like heaven. I’d make playdough or we’d blow bubbles or I’d Google sensory play and make magical clouds out of flour and Fairy Liquid, and generally behave like a model mum, straight out of Junior magazine.

  (Although in reality, of course, the day would be spent with me chasing my tail, frantically catching up on housework with a toddler underfoot, stressed and snappy.)

  Now, though, once I’d dropped the girls off, I felt totally at a loose end. I looked after the children on my own all week and now it was Saturday and I’d have to do it all over again. I thought about sticking Owen in front of the telly – where, I had to admit, he’d love nothing more than to spend the day – and getting out my laptop and seeing if there was anything new on the Outnet. But guilt stopped me – I was not only a rubbish mother, squandering my little boy’s childhood on CBeebies, but I was a rubbish wife, too, resenting the time Jonathan spent working to support us.

  Firmly suppressing my urge to look at shoes online, I took Owen and his scooter to the library and chose a selection of suitable books. Then we went to play on the swings and feed the ducks. The park on this glorious summer morning seemed to be full of couples. Of course, there were people alone and families with children too, but it was the couples I saw. Lounging on benches, one with their head in the other’s lap; leaning over the balustrade looking at the river; reclining on picnic blankets with bottles of cava and packets of crisps and an air about them that said, “Once we’ve finished this, we’re off home for a shag.”

  Looking at them, I remembered what it had been like when Jonathan and I were first going out. I remembered how much fun we’d had together – going to restaurants, art-house films, or galleries, or on mini-breaks to Paris or Prague, all of it punctuated by endless sex. At first, I’d thought it was all a bit of fun, a way to experience a life of luxury with a man who, inexplicably, seemed to worship me. But after a while, I’d started longing for the evenings and weekends I spent with Jonathan, missing him when I wasn’t with him, storing up snippets of my day to recount to him, knowing what would make him laugh or what he could give me advice about.

  Then he went away, to spend two weeks skiing with his brother. To my amazement, I was bereft. I missed him – his companionship, his jokes, the sense of effortless joy he brought to my life. I had to stop myself phoning him every night to tell him what had happened at work, or what I’d read in the newspaper, or what I’d like to do to him in bed. It had snuck up on me entirely unexpectedly, but I couldn’t deny it – I was in love. I was subsumed by desire and longing in a way I’d never thought I could be again.

  I forced myself to play it cool, not to contact Jonathan until he got back – and even after I knew he had, I resolutely didn’t dial his number. Then he called me, just two days after returning from Switzerland, and suggested we meet up on a Sunday afternoon for a walk. The walk turned into a picnic – it was a perfect spring day, and we lay on the grass like these couples were doing, watching the sun move slowly over the leaves that shaded us, sipping wine and eating the takeaway sushi Jonathan had brought.

  I was lying back on the grass, drowsy with contentment, loving having him back with me, my mind just catching up with what my heart already knew, when he fed me a piece of tuna and a diamond ring slid down the bamboo chopstick and landed on my front teeth with an audible clack.

  My eyes snapped open. I reached up and lifted it up to the light, saw what it was, and started to laugh.

  “Epic fail,” Jonathan said, laughing too. “Most inept proposal ever. That was meant to be all classy and subtle. I was going to put the ring in the chopsticks and… But, you know, will you?”

  “Yes,” I said, without the slightest hesitation. We never finished the sushi – we were too eager to get home to his flat and consummate our engagement.

  Laughing at the memory, I grabbed Owen’s hand and said, “What shall we do now, Squidge?”

  “Nice cream?” Owen said hopefully.

  I hesitated. It was almost noon – if he had ice cream now, he wouldn’t eat his lunch. But if he had ice cream now, I wouldn’t have to make lunch for him, and go through the frustration of asking him whether he wanted his cucumber in sticks or rings, and having him change his mind after I’d cut it up, and cry inconsolably at my unreasonableness when I refused to start all over again with new cucumber.

  I chose the path of least resistance, and when we got home Owen announced that he was full, and I put him down for his nap.

  Jonathan was still working, hunched over his laptop in the spare bedroom, which had rapidly deteriorated from the haven of gracious elegance I’d imagined into a kind of man cave-cum-black hole, where boxes of still-unpacked toys fought for floor space with bags of clothes I kept meaning to take to the charity shop or flog on eBay, and Jonatha
n’s ever-growing collection of golf clubs. Looking at the clutter made me cross, so I looked at Jonathan instead.

  He was frowning at a spreadsheet, flicking between it and an internet page which I could see was a mass of figures, incomprehensible to me.

  “How’s it going?” I asked tentatively.

  There was no reply.

  “What do you think about the terrorist attack on Royal St Andrews?” I said.

  “What?” Jonathan spun round so quickly that his wheely chair almost overshot itself and slammed his knee into the leg of the table. He winced and caught his balance just in time, in a way that reminded me of Owen averting an unplanned dismount from his scooter.

  “Just joking,” I said. “Look, I was wondering what you fancied doing tonight? We haven’t spent any time together for ages. I’m sure Darcey’s going to want to stay over with Juniper, so once Owen’s in bed I’ll make us something nice for dinner. And you can make us cocktails. It’ll be fun.”

  “Great,” Jonathan said distractedly. “That sounds great, Laura.”

  “I’ll go to the shops then, shall I? Owen’s asleep, will you listen for him?”

  “Of course.” Jonathan’s face softened, as it always did when he talked or thought about the children.

  “Okay.” I brushed the top of his head with my palm, but he was already absent again, his attention focussed entirely on the screen.

  I picked up my handbag and left the house. If I was going to cook, there was any amount of stuff in the freezer I could have used, but I was suddenly overcome by cabin fever, and by the need to be alone. Even walking up the hill to the main road, crossing it and joining the throngs of shoppers in our local supermarket felt like a chance to be inside my own head for just a few minutes.