Chapter 35 #2
I would have to return home, get changed, redo my make-up. Cry. I howled in despair at my mascara-streaked face and wet hair in the rear-view mirror, dithering. I rang Robyn. No answer. What I thought she might do to help, I’d no idea.
I looked at my watch; I was now late. I sat there another minute, looked down at myself and realised I’d have been a sure winner in a wet T-shirt competition.
Wet, white, cotton jumpsuit competition.
And I was frozen and smelling of detergent.
I shivered, snivelling for a good minute; knew I had to ring George and then retreat back home, our date cancelled.
I twisted round in my wet seat to see if there was anything in Vera I could use to get dry.
Arthur’s blanket. Great stuff! Now I was going to be covered in hair and smelling of dog as well as chemicals.
And then I remembered. Dean’s wetsuit. The black, red and purple monstrosity he’d paid a fortune for and abandoned after the disastrous Morecambe dive, and which I’d cleared out of the cottage months earlier.
I’d put it into the back of Vera, along with some tasteless vases and the remains of a chipped and cracked dinner service to take to the charity shop. Which I’d never got round to.
I squelched my way round to Vera’s back door, opening it up and grabbing the garment from underneath the crockery, making my way back into the garage where the acne-faced attendant deigned to glance up for a mere second.
‘Do you have a bathroom, please?’ I asked.
‘’Fraid not, no.’ He turned back to his phone.
‘So where do you pee?’
‘Sorry?’
‘No need to apologise,’ I said loftily. ‘You must have a loo.’
‘Private, love. Not for customers.’
‘Well, the alternative is for me to strip off, right here in the garage and right down to my pants in order to put this wetsuit on.’
The kid looked terrified. ‘First on your left. But I shouldn’t really… or everyone will want to use it…’
I didn’t think for one moment anyone with a modicum of survival instinct would be wanting to use this garage loo.
The odorous toilet, in need of a good seeing to with brush and Toilet Duck, had me holding my breath as I closed the cubicle behind me and stripped off the soaking rags that were all that was left of my purchase from Leeds.
I unzipped and climbed into Dean’s wetsuit – a Viking Men’s Hooded Front Zip, according to the suit’s inside label.
Apart from a surplus of purple rubber hanging down incongruously between my legs and what can only be described as sartorially inelegant, I didn’t think I looked too bad.
I even pulled the zip down to reveal a bit of cleavage, but decided that was a step too far and pulled the zip back up and over my chin.
I gathered my wet clothes and whatever dignity remained and, still in my high heels, saluted imperiously in the open-mouthed attendant’s direction before making my way back to the van.
‘Please start,’ I implored Vera. ‘Please!’
At the second attempt, accompanied by a manic tantivy of my heeled foot on the gas pedal, the old girl coughed and spluttered into life and carried me the five minutes down to George’s apartment.
* * *
By the time I’d parked, the rain that had been threatening all day was coming down in stair rods, bouncing off the path that led to the apartment’s swish reception area. I pulled up the wetsuit hood (though why I bothered I don’t know. Could I actually get any wetter?) and went for it.
‘I thought you weren’t coming…’ he said, smiling as he opened his door and then stared.
‘Listened to the weather forecast, did you…?’ He bent slightly, staring further at what must have appeared a dripping seal on his doorstep, peering closely at my eyes, the only bit of me not covered by black, red and purple rubber.
‘It is you, isn’t it?’ Obviously unsure, he stepped back slightly in alarm and then, as I pulled down the hood, he said, ‘Right, OK.’
‘Oh,’ I said, feigning surprise, the whole ridiculous events of the last thirty minutes rendering me slightly hysterical, ‘have I got it wrong?’
‘Wrong?’ George asked warily.
‘Robyn told me you were into rubber.’
‘Er, don’t think so. Although I’m not averse to pink high heels…’ He glanced at my dripping, squelching, too-high sandals that were now rubbing and hurting like hell.
‘Relax, George!’ I started to laugh. ‘Just let me get my clothes off.’
‘I rather thought we could eat first…’ he started, still not allowing me over his doorstep.
‘George,’ I said patiently. ‘I set off looking rather gorgeous, even though I do say it myself. I stopped to wash Vera…’
‘Vera…?’ George looked even more worried.
‘My van.’ I sighed. ‘Unfortunately, I left the nearside window open, got utterly soaked to my pants and, rather than go home and change and be an hour and a half late for your dinner’ – I sniffed appreciatively at a delicious smell drifting down the hallway – ‘I pulled on the only dry garment in the van which happened to be Dean’s abandoned wetsuit. ’
George started laughing. ‘No orange Sainsbury’s carriers involved?’
‘No,’ I said calmly. ‘So, while I don’t wish to appear high-handed, could you pour me an extremely large gin, find me, perhaps, a pair of trackie bottoms and a T-shirt?
And lead the way to your shower? I was frozen but now I’m absolutely boiling in this thing as well as smelling of wheel shampoo and wax… ’
Without another word, George took me along the wooden-floored hallway, opening a door on the left which led to an obviously male-owned bathroom.
All black tiles and chrome with a massive walk-in wet room (Lola would have been in her element) and a pile of black fluffy towels.
The shelves were filled with expensive – very masculine – toiletries.
I was pleased to see there was nothing even slightly feminine on the bathroom shelves.
Outside, he’d left a pair of rather-too-long navy joggers, a navy T-shirt and – naturally, not having a spare bra on me – I was relieved to see a large navy hoody, a 2019 tennis tournament emblazoned on its back.
I found a somewhat soggy lipstick and blusher in my wet handbag, fluffed up my black curls the best I could and stepped out.
I made my way out – my doorstep bravado having gone down the plughole with the remains of my make-up and perfume – and turned right.
‘I’ve put some newspaper in your shoes,’ George said, passing me a huge glass of gin and tonic. ‘Get that down you’ – he grinned – ‘and tell me the whole story again.’
Later, much later, when we’d eaten a simple but utterly delicious mushroom risotto and green salad followed by a slice of the famous Victoria sponge (and yes, George was right, it was knockout), we lay together on his vast sofa (one of those that took over the whole of the room, involved two ninety-degree angles and was so typically male).
And I realised, even though I’d little make-up (as well as no bra and knickers) on, I felt utterly at ease with this man; almost, if it doesn’t sound pretentious (and, to be honest, the gin probably played a part), at peace.
‘What’s happening with Mina and Ruby?’ I asked, turning to George. ‘D’you know?’
‘She’s gone,’ George said. ‘Seemingly taking my car with her.’
‘Oh blimey! D’you mind?’
‘About the car? Yes, I do! I loved that car. Mind you, it would always remind me of that poor kid, Blane, so probably better it appears to have gone for good.’
‘And Mina?’
‘Relieved that I won’t be bumping into her.’
‘Because you still… you know…?’ I held my breath.
‘Still love her?’ George actually laughed. ‘No, Jessica…’
‘Actually, it’s Jess,’ I interrupted. ‘Can’t get used to being called Jessica.’
‘Thank heavens for that.’ George stroked my arm. ‘No, Jess, it’s because I’ve not loved her for a long, long time; kept trying to finish it, but she’d get hysterical…’
‘Other way round, according to the SS,’ I pointed out.
‘The SS?’
‘Oh, sorry, it’s what I call those sisters-in-law of yours. You know, Sattar Sisters… Sorry, awfully rude of me.’
‘Your mum’s about to become another one. Will she be in the SS as well?’ George was laughing now.
‘Gosh, no… Mind you, she was eyeing up a heavier kettle bell at the gym last week, so who knows?’ I laughed at the thought of Mum cosying up with the sisters: it would never happen. ‘But Mina and that poor kid. Ruby?’
‘Mina rang me. Ruby’s gone to live with her maternal grandparents who now live in Wetherby, I believe.
Ruby has had some contact with them over the years – these grandparents obviously thinking she’s their eldest daughter, April Ballantyne’s, child, rather than Mina’s natural daughter.
All a bit of a shock for them, I suppose, if Mina ends up telling them the truth.
Although, I wouldn’t put it past her, to keep the pretence going. ’
‘And Mina?’
‘Returned to her apartment in Chelsea Harbour.’ George hesitated. ‘I, erm… I told her… erm… I had a bit of a thing about someone else.’
‘Oh?’ I felt my pulse race. ‘Anyone I know?’
‘She’s into wrestling!’
‘Wrestling?’ I sat up, prepared to take my leave and head home. I’d really thought, for one glorious moment, he’d been referring to me. Obviously not!
‘Hmm,’ George went on, ‘big into wrestling with orange Sainsbury’s bags.
But also, just found out, she’s into rubber.
What a combination!’ He started laughing and then, gathering me up in his arms, said, ‘Do you think we’ve circled one another long enough now?
Jess, I’m just as nervous as you as to what’s going to happen next, but…
’ He leaned over to kiss my hair, my forehead, my cheek and then finally my mouth and, if the gin was playing its part, I found I didn’t care as I remembered what to do with my arms, my mouth, my hands.
‘Like riding a bike,’ I murmured, my hands in George’s black hair.
‘Totally,’ he murmured back, taking my hand and leading me towards the closed door on the left. ‘Fancy a spin?’