Friends Or Lovers Part 4

I take off my jacket and sit down, look at him and smile. My hair was washed this morning and tied back into a ponytail. Around the eyes, I applied a modest amount of eye shadow and liner; a subtle shade of blue (just enough to emphasise my long black lashes without looking trashy). Studs with a light blue jewel adorn my ears and a matching necklace drapes around my neck. Ive put on a white top thin enough to give a hint of the lace bra underneath styled into a 'V. The necklace is long enough for the jewel to draw attention to a hint of cleavage; cla.s.sy but not tarty. All this elegantly covered by a light purple trouser suit that hugs my figure. Theres no harm in showing off my pert behind and womanly curves.

"You look good. Thank you."

"Thank you?" I ask. What a surprising remark!

"Yes. Thank you for making the effort to look nice. I appreciate it."

"Just my normal work clothes," I say with false modesty. Inside, Im not only pleased Ive made an impression but also delighted that hes noticed. I can feel myself beginning to relax.

He has turned up wearing an unironed tee-shirt and jeans with a hole in one knee. But his hair looks freshly washed and there is a days stubble giving him an undeniably rugged look. I like it.

"I see you dressed up for me too..." I say cheekily.

"Yes. I carefully ironed the creases into the shirt and hired a tailor to give my trousers that deliberate 'just torn look."

"Does your tailor get much business from you, then?" I quip.

"Lots. Especially before I go on holiday. I need an exclusive casual outfit for each day otherwise my beach cred is seriously damaged."

"Perhaps it will catch on in Hollywood?"

He laughed and looked deeply into my eyes. All the nerves that Id felt were swept away. I felt comfortable and content.

"So, did your interviewing go well?" he asks.

"It did. Shortlisted four people, including a single father, would you believe?"

"Only just," he jests.

I settle into my seat and look at him more closely. I still dont know how old he is, but in the daylight I guess hes a bit younger than I first thought somewhere in his late 30s. His face has worn well and his hair shows only slight signs of greying. The lines at the corners of his eyes only display when he smiles; when hes relaxed they disappear.

"Tell me," I say boldly, "how old are you?"

"Forward arent we?"

"Oh, yes! I dont beat about the bush."

"Im 44," he says without any embarra.s.sment. Then he adds, "I use my wifes Nivea every day. Good on the wrinkles."

"She keeps you young, obviously."

"Yes. Very energetic woman. I have to work hard to keep up with her."

Given that wed moved onto the subject of his wife, I felt we should dwell there a bit.

"What does she do?"

"Shes a linguist. Translates government doc.u.ments from English to French to German and back again. It suits her."

"Not out and about like you, then?"

"She prefers a quieter existence where her opinions are not the subject of public scrutiny. She saves her strong opinions for our marriage and children."

"Strong minded?"

He says nothing. He doesnt need to; his smile and nod say it all, including that he admires her.

"So!" he says. I could sense a question coming. "Want to try something I do on my courses?"

"Why not?" I answer.

"Your life in 5 minutes. Can you do that? Then Ill give you mine."

"Okay. Here we go. Born, age 0, in Malvern where I grew up with my teacher mother and civil servant father. Warm loving home for the first dozen or so years. One sister who is two years younger than me; now with child and dopey boyfriend. Shes also a teacher but currently on maternity. Age 13 onwards I became a bit of a rebel, fell out with mum, always closer to dad. Politics became liberal. Did radical bit at university. Protested the Gulf War (the first one). Shouted regularly at politicians, got angry with men; attended womens groups; got angry with women. Started to like men more. Tried a few. Started to like men less. Chose career instead. Developed well, manager at 29 but stumbled across the gla.s.s ceiling. Now HR manager in a growing firm. Relatively happy modern career woman. Likes chocolate, exercise, walking, nights in with cat. Eastenders. Frost. No Angels. Friends. s.e.x and the City shame it has finished. Now 32, usually fine, sometimes lonely.

I stop.

"How about you?" I quickly ask.

"Wow!" he injects. "All in one breath?"

I laugh out loud. This is fun and I am enjoying myself.

"Right. My turn. Born in Hampshire; same age as you funnily enough. Artist mum. Marine engineer dad who died when I was eight. Very sad but coped okay. A rebel until age 13, then calmed down. Lots of freedom. Lots of responsibility. Two sisters. Both older. One works in a womens refuge; the other lectures in some obscure social science. Went through the football craze. Went through the basketball craze. Went through the 'girls craze. Did my extremist bit at university. Protested the Poll Tax; refused to pay it. Missed first Gulf War demo. Flirted with radicals (both ideologically and literally). Went off radicals. Always liked women. Tried a few, fell in love with one. Married her. Did a masters, then PhD. Worked in academia. Tried real world. Went off real world. Returned to research. Had kids. Loved kids. Hated kids. Loved them again. Started writing. Got hired as a consultant. Liked kudos, the pay, the freedom. The portfolio life is for me. Hobbies include walking, Mexican food, romantic comedies, flirting and friendship but in reverse order."

He stops and takes in a deep breath to replenish his oxygen supply.

"I think thats the best exercise Ive had all day," he adds.

A waitress stands at the end of our table ready to take our order. We both laugh in unison and I look at her.

"Could you give us a few more minutes?" I ask.

"Would you like any drinks while you are thinking?"

Her voice came out in a monotone as if it had been pre-recorded.

"Decaf coffee, please," I request.

"Cappuccino?" asks John.

"Id afraid the machines broken, sir. Is a normal coffee okay?"

"Of course," he answers politely.

As soon as she went, he leans over towards me and speaks quietly.

"I think someone has placed a contract to sabotage all cappuccino makers worldwide. Wherever I go they never seem to work."

As we chatted away, we were joyous and smiling. He felt like an old friend, not a new one, and I was drawn more and more into the conversation.

"So what have you been doing in Birmingham?" I enquired.

"Helping some marketing recruits find new ways to look at men and women."

"And did you succeed?"

I was actually interested this time and he could sense this. His demeanour changed and took on a more relaxed and thoughtful expression. As he started to speak, he started to gesticulate.

"These things take time. People have many preconceptions; some well-founded, others not."

"Such as?"

He thought for a moment. I could tell that he was selecting one from a great long list.

"That men are instinctively more violent than women."

"Is that well-founded or not?" I asked, feeling that I knew the answer already.

"Difficult to tell," he replied surprisingly. "It depends on whose data you look at."

"But we all know that men are more violent that women." I affirmed. I could feel a sprinkle of alarm go through me because I could sense he was leading me into a trap.

"Perhaps." But he sounded sceptical.

"In the 70s and 80s," he continued, "lot of studies suggested that men were more violent than women in personal relationships. Then some people started to ask whether the research design was distorting the results. Researchers started to ask both men and women, not just women. The results were surprising and not what youd expect. In the last few years there have also been findings that children raised by single fathers are less violent that those raised by single mothers."

"You are joking! I dont believe you. Its everywhere. You see it all the time. In the papers, on TV. Men are definitely more aggressive and violent."

I thought of my sister and my body felt tense all over, but John continued calmly and rea.s.suringly.

"Theres a growing body of research now. Over one-hundred and seventy studies in the last three decades disagree with you. I dont understand why. Its my job to make sense of reliable data."

"The studies must be biased."

"I cant rule that out. But the results are consistent across different industrialised countries, different age groups, different social environments, and have been conducted by people from different research backgrounds."

"I dont believe them."

"Youre not alone," he said with a smile.

I stopped for a moment. I was in deep shock. At that moment, the waitress returned. She had an impatient look on her face. John and I looked at each other and this time we didnt laugh. We both picked up a menu, quickly found something we liked and ordered.

"Thank you," said the waitress. Im sure there was a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

John looked at me supportively.

"We dont have to talk about this if you dont want to," he said.

"No its okay. I am interested. It is just hard to accept."

"Of course."

"Explain. I know you are going to try."

"I cant explain it this is very new data to me too and I need time to reflect on it."

John paused.

"Dyou remember 'Wait 'Til Your Father Gets Home?" he suddenly asked.

I thought for a moment. Yes, I remembered a TV series with this name. What is meant by this phrase? I looked at John with curiosity.

"Dad is being used to threaten the kids. Is that your point?" I asked.

"Not sure. I think it is about Mum making Dad responsible for discipline. That happens in my house too. My wife sometimes says to me 'John, they wont listen to me. Make them go to bed, will you? Ive managed to avoid smacking so far, but sometimes they dig their heels in and I come very close. I have threatened it once or twice. I hate doing it I feel like Ive failed - but what dyou do when kids wont respond to anything?"

I was beginning to see his point. The threat is only effective if the kids fear Dad.

"Maybe we use Dad as a weapon because he is more scary," I said.

John paused for a moment. He was forming his thoughts on-the-fly as well.

"Maybe we use Dad as a weapon whether he wants to be scary or not," he answered speaking directly from the heart.

"When I think about this," he continued, "you see it everywhere. Ive seen girls say 'leave me alone or Ill get my dad onto you or they might say 'Ill get my brother onto you. Even my female students used to say that theyd play dumb or frightened to get their brothers, fathers and boyfriends to do things for them."

He paused.

"Now I come to thing of it, there have been times when my wife says 'are you going to let that man talk to me that way?"

John became immersed in thought again and I watched him struggle to put his thoughts together.

"Im not sure any more that men choose to be aggressive," he said finally.

"Maybe," I answered, "but the issue for women is that the threat is always there. The threat is enough. Were never free of fear."

"Yes. Im sure you are right. But it is double-edged, isnt it? On the one hand we want men to be violent for us but we dont want them to be violent against us."

We both paused. Instinctively, we both realised wed had enough of this. That moment, our starters arrived. Hed ordered potato skins, and I was eating chicken dippers. After that, we shared a stuffed crust with extra mushroom and chicken.

"Whats your work like?" he asked.

"Okay. Busy at the moment. Tricky situation in one department. We have a man who has been pressuring a young woman for a drink. Ive had to move him. I dont understand all the ins and outs, but hes done this before and the young woman was so upset that I had to separate them. Im trying to find out more because something peculiar seems to be going on. The woman is holding something back. Im not sure exactly what."

I stopped myself.