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the subject. “Let’s not talk about all that,” she said. “My parents are my parents. I’m me. Same as you, really. You don’t sign up to everything your paren—your father stands for, do you?”

James shook his head. “No. But if I’m honest, I can see my father in me. Some of the things I do.”

“Well, that’s natural enough.”

“Maybe. But look, we were talking about you.” He paused, as if unsure about continuing. “Are you still seeing him?” he asked. “What’s he called again?”

Caroline was on the point of answering, but stopped herself. Had she replied spontaneously, she would have confirmed that she was still seeing Tom. That was true, but she was only just still seeing him, and she had already decided that there was no future in the relationship. Her friendship with James was, she thought, on the cusp of change, and there was a chance that he might become more than a mere friend. Stranger things have happened, she said to herself—a banal phrase, a cliché, but one that nonetheless expressed the sense of opening out, of possibility, that she now experienced. Identity was not as simple a matter as many people believed: the old idea of clearly delineated male and female characteristics was distinctly passé, as old-fashioned as vanilla ice cream. Now there were new men, men in touch with their feminine side, and the intriguing category of metrosexuals too—sensitive men, men who used male cosmetics such as “man-liner,” men who would enjoy baking Nigella’s lemon gems. These men could be more than adequate lovers and husbands, she believed; much better than the one-dimensional macho types who might score ten out of ten on the heterosexuality scale but who were somewhat boring in their conversation and hopeless in the kitchen. Men like Tom.

25. Paris

“HE’S CALLED TOM,” said Caroline.

James nodded. She had spoken about Tom before but he had not really been paying attention. “Of course. Tom. I remember—you told me. And …”

She looked at him enquiringly. “And what?”

“Are you and Tom still together?”

She wanted to choose her words carefully. It was not that she was prepared to be untruthful, it was just that she was not entirely sure about her feelings, which were changing anyway. “Togetherness” was not a word she would ever have used to describe her relationship with Tom. They might have been together in the most general sense of the term, but they were not together in the way in which James pronounced it—they were certainly not italicised. “I still see him,” she said, and added, “now and then.”

He was watching her. No, she thought then. Whatever happened in the future between Tom and her, this incipient thing with James, this fantasy, would never work. Not James, her wonderful, sympathetic, companionable James. She had a friend who had wasted three years in pursuing a man who was not in the slightest bit interested. At the time she had warned this friend that one could not expect to change something so fundamental, but her warning had been ignored. She must not do the same thing herself. Some men were destined to be good friends and nothing more. James was like that; it was so obvious. She should accept him for what he was and not encourage him to be something that he so clearly was not. He was fine as he was. He was perfect. Why nudge him into a relationship that would be inauthentic to him?

James was smiling. “You don’t sound enthusiastic. You see him. That sounds really passionate, Caroline.”

She looked away. James was right: it was not a passionate relationship.

James continued. “Tell me this: How do you feel when you’ve got a date with him coming up? Do you count the minutes until you see him? Feel breathless? Fluttery?” He rubbed a hand across his stomach. “You know the feeling. Like that?”

“I like him.”

He shook his head. “That was not the question I asked. I want to know whether you feel anticipation when you are about to see him. That really is the test, you know. Excitement. Anticipation.”

It was difficult for her to answer, and she was not sure whether she wanted to do so anyway. He had guided their conversation into a realm of intimacy that she had explored with nobody else, not even her close girlfriends. It was strange to be talking this way to a man, even as comfortable a man as James. And yet that very strangeness had a strong appeal. One should be able to talk about these