A Boring Sort of Love
I still remember the night I met charming Max at a gathering with friends in Manchester. He was that impossibly self-assured, mischievous type, switching between calling himself a photographer and an artist, and strumming away decently enough on his old guitar. As a musician, perhaps he wasnt much, but he sang with feeling, so much so that his voice seemed to draw every woman in the room closer, like moths to a flame.
Ive never had trouble attracting men. Im aware of my worth. Ive always put myself first, in every relationship. But with Max, it was as though I lost the script entirely.
That particular evening, he played melancholic songs that seemed to tap right into the heart. I couldnt take my eyes off him. He asked for my number, walked me home through the citys autumn drizzle, and then I waited for him to call. Waited with tingling nerves. Never before had I lost sleep over a man. Men usually chased after me, not the other way around.
But Max didnt call that night. Nor did he phone the next day. I found myself tortured by thoughts and second guesses. I berated myself but couldn’t help the growing anticipation.
Oh, darling, laughed my friend Rachel, as I confessed my obsession. Thats called falling in love.
Ive never been like this. Last night I leapt up at every buzz on my phone, I said, a little ashamed. I even woke up to check I hadnt missed a message.
Happens to all of us eventually, Rachel grinned. Dont worry, give it some time, hell be the one glued to his phone soon enough, desperate for a reply.
Id date him if only hed call! I groaned.
Keep busy, she counselled, get your hair done, go out with one of your admirers. Hell ring, youll see.
I deliberatedshould I get his number from one of our mutual friends? I never initiated contact first.
There were always on call men I could ring whenever I fancied, whether for a lift from the club or help with a dodgy laptop. But ringing Max to show my interest? That was a line Id never crossed. Rachel thought so too.
No, dont you dare, she warned. Let him chase you for a change.
I sighed. This all felt rather mad. I had to get a grip.
At work, I plunged into paperwork so vigorously I shocked myself with how much I achieved. That evening, I indulged in a new drama series. The next day was my regular morning at the gym.
Just when I thought Id shaken free from the spell, my phone rang. Max.
Hello, Caramel, he said cheerfully, and for a moment I was lost for words.
Why Caramel? I replied, forgetting the indignant speech Id rehearsed.
You said your hair was caramel, remember? he teased. So, Caramel it is.
I laughed, suddenly giddy and light-hearted.
How about a walk in the park tonight? Maybe grab a kebab? Max suggested.
If any of my other admirers had suggested kebabs on a first date, Id have scoffed. I wasnt planning to accept the first offer. And yet, to my horror, the words Sounds lovely! tumbled out in a burst of puppyish eagerness.
Brilliant. Lets meet at seven in Piccadilly Gardens, Max said, hanging up.
My heart pounded with excitement, but a nagging doubt crept in. Why hadnt he offered to pick me up? Or at least suggested a cab?
No man had ever just invited me somewhere, expecting me to get myself there. But I brushed the thought aside. It was a lovely day, and I was sure the evening would be even better.
The date was wonderful. Max was five minutes late but breezed in, his apologies so humourous I could hardly stay cross. Suddenly, even the cheap takeaway tasted magical and the conversation sparkled. He made me laugh until I was breathless, tossing in clever quips and little stories.
At one point, a caricature artist called out, A portrait for your lady, sir?
Max grinned thoughtfully. Can I try my hand at it instead? he asked, and after a quiet word, was soon painting me right there on the spot.
I spent ninety minutes posing for him in the fading sunlight, not once growing bored. Watching him squint, concentrating as he put brush to paperI could have sat there forever.
He presented the portrait solemnly at the end. Not quite as lovely as the original, he whispered. My heart soared.
At home I flopped onto my bed, awash with feelings. Never had a man provoked such a muddle of emotions. I wanted him beside me always. Surely hed ring tomorrow, I thought, and wed keep seeing each other Surely.
That night Max texted sweetly, wishing me goodnight. I was shocked at how a single message could bring me so much happiness.
But the next day, he didnt call. Nor the next. I wouldnt permit myself to dial firstuntil, eventually, on day five, I caved in.
Hello, Caramel! Max answered breezily, as though wed never missed a beat.
Havent you anything to say for yourself? I snapped.
Let me see Oh yes! he chuckled. Come round tonight, would you?
His careless tone left me stunned. Oh, how I wanted to put him firmly in his place. I had always known how. But with Max, I melted.
Ill come, I said, and immediately started to get ready.
I ignored the irritation that he hadnt offered to collect me. I put on my finest underwear and best makeup, determined to impress him, to remind him that I was no ordinary girl. I wanted him to see that my affections needed to be earned.
But the evening went off-script again. At the door, Max handed me a pack of frozen dumplings.
Caramel, be a star and cook these up, will you? Im starving. Ill just nip out for some mayonnaise.
I stood there, dumplings in hand, stunned. Before I could protest, he vanished.
With a sigh, I made my way to the kitchen. Well, dumplings it would be. The place was a mess, but I set about tidying while the pot boiled, silently thinking Max might have cleaned up, knowing I was coming.
When he returned, Max joked that I might as well have done a proper clean if I was playing house.
I thought you were domesticated, he said with a theatrical sigh.
He wolfed down the dumplings; I declined to eat, hoping my beauty would be noticed. I wanted him to pull me close, to say I drove him wild. That night, we were together, but he didnt so much as notice my perfumes or lacy lingerie. Still, we spent the night, watching films and looking through his old photographs. It was nice, in a way.
After that, we were together. Sometimes Max was loving and thoughtfulplaying songs for me, taking me to cafes, giving flowers. But every kindness might be followed by radio silence. Sometimes hed cancel plans for mates or an exhibition.
He was often flat broke, but when he earned some cash from a shoot or sold a painting, he didnt splash it on me. Often I ended up paying for dinner or the taxi.
Why did I put up with it? I asked myself often. The answer was always the same: I was madly in love, ruined by himhis eyes, his voice, his touch.
Max could call at any time of day or night. Even if I had something important on, Id race to his summons, forgetting about my own priorities.
Move in with me, Max suggested one morning after Id spent the night.
My heart leapt. It seemed like finally being his almost-wife would fix everything. I didnt think about his unreliability or our money worries. I was certain that, from now on, only happiness awaited us.
Living together changed nothing. More chores piled onto me, and Max found things to gripe aboutthe dishes, dinner not being ready. Most of our money came from my salary.
I dont need all that expensive cheese or fish, hed mutter, but was quick to eat anything nice I bought for myself. Id wake up to find the fridge bare, the food Id set aside gone.
Despite loving him, my patience wore thin. Max must have sensed it; then, suddenly, hed become attentive, showering me with little gifts and affection, cancelling plans for my sake. At those times, Id feel utterly lucky.
One night, Max promised me a surprise. I waited up all night, but he didnt answer my calls. He finally rolled in, drunk, near dawn. Instead of apologising, he was offended that I wasnt delighted to see him.
I realised then that these ups and downs could end nowhere good. The thought of breaking up was painfulmy heart still pined for Max. I couldnt bring myself to do it, clinging to hope hed change.
Then I came down with a fever. I called my boss, took two sick days, and huddled under two duvets, shivering.
Oh for goodness’ sake, Max frowned when he saw me. I thought you were coming skiing with us!
I just need some medicine, Max, can you please pop to the chemist? I asked weakly.
Caramel, really, the lads are waiting and were off to the slopes for a few days. Dont mope! he said impatiently, kissed my brow, and whistled as he left.
Alone, I felt dreadfulphysically and emotionally. It was in that moment of suffering that clarity arrived. When Max came home three days later, full of stories about his trip, he found me packing.
Caramel, where are you off to? he frowned.
Im leaving, I said quietly, Would you please help me with my bags?
What taxi? What are you talking about? he spluttered, lost for words. Dont you even care I missed you?
I appreciate that, I said flatly. Please, just let me go.
He tried to block the door, holding me, murmuring affectionate words. Even then, his touch made my heart skip. But I couldnt do this anymore. Enough.
I sobbed all the way home to my parents’ in a cab. Max called, but I didn’t answer. The tears wouldnt stop how had I let him reduce me to this?
***
My parents welcomed me unconditionally. Mum, whod never trusted Max, finally let out all shed been thinking.
Hes nothing but a scoundrel, love. Cant even call him a proper man! Therere plenty of decent lads about why pick one like him?
Where are these decent men, Mum? I sobbed. I dont want to think about Max, and still, every time I close my eyes, there he is.
Don’t close your eyes, then! she quipped. Look around. That neighbour of ours, Stephen Turnerhed snap you up, you know.
I smirked. Mum had always gone on about Stephen, ever since our university days. Hed never appealed to mesteadfast and boring.
Hes loyal, eyes never leave you, Mum pressed on. Hes fancied you for eight years! He was so chuffed when he heard youd come home.
I know he has, Mum, since school, I admitted. But I could never love him. Hes too dull for me, don’t you see?
Oh, and Max was comedy gold? Mum retorted sarcastically.
She let the subject drop. But Stephen started giving me lifts to and from the office, offering help with anything I needed.
Stephen irritated me sometimes; he was attentive to the point of suffocation. His messages were immediate, but not exactly fiery. Unlike Max, whose words and songs could leave me breathless, Stephens conversation was safeasking after my health, offering to take me places, happy to help at any snap of my fingers.
Men still eyed me up; Id get asked out here and there. But after Max, something had broken inside. I had no desire for new passions or romances. Stephen was simply there. Not clingy, just caring.
Then, one evening, I told Mum that Stephen had asked me to marry him.
And youre hesitating? she laughed. Still waiting for Max to come banging on the door, eh?
No, Im not hoping anymore, I shrugged. But I dont want to marry without love.
You think love is only passion and wild heartbeats? she teased.
Yes, I admitted, blushing. Thats what Id had with Maxwasnt that the only kind?
Youre mistaken, love, Mum smiled. Wait till youre married, youll see what love really looks like.
I thought about her words. For over a year, Stephen had done everything for me, expecting nothing. Was I really going to spend my whole life alone? Maybe I should say yes. And so I did.
***
It turns out, life with Stephen wasnt so dull. He loved mepatiently, quietly, wholeheartedly. He tried to make things lively and fun, pulling together surprises, working a second job so we always had enough.
It was warm and easy, being with him, though I knew I didn’t love him in that excited, all-consuming way. Could happiness exist without love?
One day, Stephen said his office was holding a two-day corporate event in the countrysidea big do, with games, a photographer, a pool, a host, concerts, the lot. He was excited, and I was looking forward to meeting his colleagues.
But, true to form, I came down with a virus the night before. High fever. The doctor prescribed rest, fluids, and no events, he insisted.
So my red dress would just have to wait. Stephen would have to go alone.
Hurry up, youll miss your lift! I urged as I watched him hesitate. And wear the blue shirt, I ironed it yesterday.
What shirt? What taxi? he frowned, shaking down the thermometer.
The work do. You should get going, I insisted.
He snorted, assuming I was joking. Party, when I was sick? Not a chance. He filled a glass of water and held it to my lips.
Drink up. You need fluids, he murmured.
A strange wave of emotion gripped me. Stephen didnt sing to me or seduce me with honeyed words. He wasnt dazzling like Max. But his touch was gentle, careful, loving.
Stephen never once left my side, dosing out medicine, laying cold compresses on my forehead, helping me to the bathroom. He spoon-fed me, cooked, and anticipated my every need. He tiptoed around the flat while I slept and read to me when I was bored.
Even aching and feverish, I felt happier than I had in years. I knew the fever would soon break. And that gentle feeling Id found insidewouldnt leave.
This, I realised, was love. I looked at my quietly awkward husband, stirring sugar into my tea, and couldnt help smiling.
Feeling better? he asked, delighted at the smile on my face.
Much better, I whispered, really.
He checked my forehead again, worried. How could I be happy with a fever?
Stephen, I love you, I breathed, the ache in my head forgotten as I smiled at him.
He froze for a second, half-embarrassed and half-overjoyed. He turned away, unwilling for me to see the emotion in his eyes.
Dont cry, Stephen told himself.
But there were no tearsjust relief and hope. Stephen took my hand in his, kissed it, and quietly whispered, I love you too.After that, the world seemed to slow down into something gentle, steady, and impossibly sweet. There were no storms, no wild guitar ballads or heated silences. There was just Stephens hand around mine, a cup of warm tea, the gentle hum of the heater against the rain outside, and the easy laughter that came every evening as I got well again.
I realized then that happiness isnt fireworks or dizzying heightsits a thousand small, ordinary kindnesses stacked day after day. Its someone making you laugh when you least expect it and saving the last biscuit because they know you love them best. Its the simple peace you find falling asleep beside a person whod never dream of leaving your sideespecially when you need them most.
Perhaps the world would find our story dull, unremarkable, even boring.
But I would take Stephens quiet warmth over a hundred Maxes, any day. In our little home, love wasnt wild, or consuming, or stormy. But it was steadfast. And every morning, as sunlight caught his sleeping face beside mine, I knew I was finally, peacefully, home.
And that was anything but boring.
