Page 30 of Statistically Speaking
I sip my drink, feel the initial burn turn into liquid heat, and say: “I’ve only ever had brandy three times in my life. Four now.”
“Seriously—you even keep track of how many times you’ve had a drink of anything?”
“Don’t be silly. That would be impossible—I don’t keep track of water!”
He shakes his head, but he does it with a sense of amusement, as though he finds my personality traits endearing. That, I think, is how it starts in my experience—at first it’s an amusing quirk. That’s before the irritation sets in, and the petty quibbles, and the small frictions that build into a fire that burns down the whole relationship. Admittedly, I might have a one-sided view, as all my relationships have gone up in smoke.
“Are you seriously all right?” he asks. “And no jokes allowed.”
I pause, let the warming effects of the brandy take hold, and wonder how to reply. Again, I find that I do not want to lie to him, even though it would be so much easier. I like him, and I respect him, and at the very least he is a friend—possibly much more.
“I’m not completely all right, no,” I say eventually. “There is a thing going on in my life that is causing me some—I don’t know, let’s just call it anxiety, shall we? It’s a complicated thing that I don’t want to talk about just yet.”
“The stuff you mentioned a bit ago?”
“Yeah, the same stuff—or an evolution of the same stuff anyway, which now sounds like something from a horror film. Anyway, it’s all linked to what happened tonight.”
“So you’re not actually anemic or anything?”
“Nope. I’m just a frighteningly good liar.”
He raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Good to know,” he replies. “And thanks for being honest about the fact that you were lying.”
We both laugh at that one, and I feel a slight easing of the tension that has been clamped around my skull for the last hour. Maybe it’s the brandy. Maybe it’s Karim. Who knows?
I enjoy his company but still feel slightly uncomfortable about it all—I am not sure if I am capable of making a relationshipwork, but I am also not sure what it is he’s looking for. I am not arrogant enough to assume he is planning on asking for my hand in marriage, but there is a vast array of possibilities between our current gentle flirting and that. I don’t even know what I want, never mind what he wants.
“Why do you like me, Karim?” I ask. “Really, why do you bother?”
He stares at me, takes a sip of his Coke, and answers: “You do realize that’s a completely fucked-up question, don’t you?”
“Well, maybe I’m a completely fucked-up person—which makes the question even more relevant. I avoided you for ages. Then I said I wanted to use you as a distraction, and now I’m still not telling you things you clearly want to know. I can be frustrating to be around, in a million different ways. You’re a great bloke, funny and decent and, yes, before you butt in, you are also extremely good-looking—so why bother? You could find any number of women who’d be thrilled to be with you.”
“Well,” he says, “there’s the flippant answer—that I fancy you rotten—and there’s the obvious answer—that I’m a competitive kind of guy and I like a challenge. Then there are a few other things. I like the way you’re so committed to your job, how you always see the positives about it even after a long day that ends with more work. I like the fact that you offer those extra catch-up sessions to the students who’re struggling, on your own time. I like the fact that you look after your neighbor Margie, but at the same time make out that you do nothing at all for her. The way you pretend to be all tough but your actions say different.
“I like the way you listen to everyone respectfully, even if you don’t agree with them. I enjoy your lists and your datesand your other coping mechanisms, and the way you’re weird but open about it so it doesn’t even feel weird. I like the way you bundle your hair on your head in that odd bun that looks great, even though you don’t care. I like that you go for runs with me. I like that you know about my childhood and reacted sympathetically but didn’t treat me as a pitiable motherless baby-man. I like the way that sometimes you’re quiet but you’re never shy. I appreciate your advanced knowledge in a pub quiz. I am intrigued by you, I find you funny, you’re gorgeous, and I’ve never met anyone quite like you. Does that answer your question at all?”
I am, as he has just said, sometimes quiet—but I am rarely at a loss for words. My silence seems to amuse him, and he adds: “See? I’m deep, me. I bet you thought it was just because you have good legs.”
I shake my head and reply, “You are a very interesting person, Karim—and I like you too. I’m not going to compile a list, but I do. I just feel the need to tell you a few things first.”
“Oh no—are you on the run from the Russian Mafia? About to move to Japan? Actually gay and not at all attracted to men?”
“No to the mafia, no to Japan, and although I’ve had my wild moments, I’m definitely attracted to men. But—well, I think maybe sometimes I should come with a health warning, you know? Some kind of label that tells people I have issues. I’m not good with commitment. I love sex but I’m not great at intimacy. I tend to move around a lot, and I tend to live in my own little bubble as much as possible, and I’m... basically not a good bet.”
“You’re a woman, not a racehorse,” he answers, frowning. “I’m not interested in what the odds are. Nobody isperfect, and no relationship is either—or I wouldn’t be single at thirty-four. I undoubtedly have issues of my own, though perhaps I haven’t spent quite as much time cataloging them as you. I just think we’re good together. I just think we should both take it slowly, see what happens, keep an open mind, I don’t know, but how about this for a crazy plan: maybe not decide right now, before anything’s even happened between us, that it’s going to fail? Maybe just have some fun?”
I bite my lip and know that he has battered the nail right on the head. That is exactly what I’d been doing, and exactly what I’ve done in the past—it’s like I’ve gone through the motions of having partners but never really, truly tried to make a go of it. I’ve been so convinced that the relationships were going to fail—so convinced that that’s all I deserved—that I’ve always contributed to their demise. I’ve been rejecting myself on behalf of others for a very long time now, getting in there first before they have the chance.
It is a sad and defeatist way of living, I know. The way I have felt recently, despite the confusion and the worry and the what-should-I-do-next, has shown me that I am capable of feeling bigger things. Better things. Imagining Katie in my life in a permanent way opened me up, made me peel back some layers, forced me to become vulnerable.
All it got me, I suppose, was ending up collapsed on the floor in front of a roomful of people—but perhaps, eventually, when I am feeling less hurt and less bereft, it will have been something positive. And perhaps, as well, I need some fun—and it doesn’t come in much better packaging than Karim.
I nod firmly, as much to myself as to him. I glance at my watch, see that it is only just after 8:00 p.m., even though it feels as though I have lived a whole lifetime today.
Still, it’s after 8:00 p.m. And in my mind, 9:00 p.m. is a reasonable bedtime. I’m wild and crazy like that.
“Did you know,” I say slowly, as though I’m building up to something truly mysterious, “that on this day in 1066, William the Conqueror invaded England at Pevensey Bay in Sussex?”
