Daphne
Daphne
Daphne was doing rather well, if she said so herself. Baby Kylie was all clean and fragrant, since Daphne had learned how to change a nappy with the help of a YouTube video.
You could, Daphne had discovered, learn how to do anything with the help of YouTube. She’d also successfully unblocked a sink in her apartment that hadn’t drained properly since 2013, and taught herself how to use makeup to achieve something called a “foxy, smoky eye.” If she could only get YouTube to snuggle on the sofa with her, drinking martinis and watching reality TV, she’d be able to abandon this whole dating malarkey.
Now, Daphne and Kylie were happily sitting in Ziggy’s armchair with Margaret, watching Love Island on Daphne’s iPhone.
Kylie, it transpired, was even more of a fan of Love Island than Daphne. Daphne suspected this was on account of all the breasts. She wasn’t entirely au fait with Ziggy’s domestic arrangements, but it was clear that Kylie’s mother wasn’t on the scene, so Kylie had no doubt missed out on mammaries. And now there were tens of perfect, if milkless, specimens parading right in front of her squishy little nose.
“These aren’t representative bosoms, you know, Kylie,” said Daphne, who was taking her role as educator and protector most seriously. “Genuine breasts come in all manner of shapes and sizes. As do noses, and eyebrows and teeth. That is the beauty of real women. They’re unique! These women have all spent an absolute fortune having painful, often downright dangerous procedures to make themselves look identical and forgettable. You, my friend, must always remember you are perfect just as you are. Do you understand?”
Kylie turned to her and smiled a huge, virtually toothless smile, and Daphne felt an almost physical tug. A connection . She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt a physical or emotional connection to another human being. Would she have made a good mother? She’d always assumed not, on account of being way too selfish and—of course—her demanding career, but perhaps she’d been wrong. Maybe having a baby would have changed all that. Changed her .
All this introspection made Daphne desperate for a cigarette.
“Let’s go out on the balcony, honey, and I’ll show you my smoke rings,” said Daphne, deciding that Ziggy would probably be a bit antsy about her smoking indoors. Young people today were so precious.
Daphne strapped Kylie into her buggy—with one hand! Not bad, given the arthritis. She tucked a blanket around her, then pushed her onto the tiny balcony.
“Right, Kylie,” she said, as she blew a volley of perfectly formed smoke rings over the edge. “We should probably talk about how to deal with unwelcome advances . A lit cigarette, I always found, was terribly useful for removing an unwanted hand from the buttocks, but I expect you’ll be far too sensible to smoke, and those silly vape things don’t have the same effect. A stiletto heel makes a really good weapon. Picture your enemy. Let’s call him, just for the sake of illustration, Art Andrews. Now, take your heel and press down on the exposed fleshy bit of his ankle until he squeals like a stuck pig. Then, give it a little twist.” Daphne mimicked a twisting action, and Kylie grinned at her.
“Do Gen Z wear stilettos? Or just trainers?” said Daphne. “And what comes after Gen Z, do you think? Do they start all over again at A? It also helps to carry a hairpin. I’ll show you what to do with one of those once I can trust you not to swallow it. You have form in that area, you know. Ooh, look! There’s Daddy!”
Daphne watched Ziggy chatting with the youths she’d eyeballed previously, who always seemed to be hanging out by the entrance to the estate. She was glad he still had a social life, despite his challenging circumstances. Although those boys weren’t the friends she’d have chosen for him. She knew the type, only too well. They were trouble.
“Quick, Kylie! Retreat!” she said as she saw Ziggy walking toward them. She stubbed out her cigarette and tossed it into the bushes several floors below. The bushes already contained a couple of plastic bags, a football boot, and a broken microwave oven, so adding a cigarette butt to the mix wouldn’t make much of an impact.
Daphne sprayed herself with the perfume she kept in her handbag, sat Kylie on her knee, and picked up the worn copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar she’d had prepared for exactly this eventuality.
“?‘In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf,’?” she read. Why on earth, when there were so many more important things they could be teaching their children, would parents waste their time reading stories about an insect with a dysfunctional relationship with food? And she objected to the use of a butterfly as an aspirational ending. Butterflies were fragile, and had extremely short life expectancies and the tiniest imaginable brains. What sort of a role model was that? A unicorn would be far more appropriate. At least they carried a built-in weapon on their heads.
Daphne heard the front door open. She continued reading, in that overly enthusiastic voice she’d heard Janine use with the kids in the nursery. It was exactly the same singsong tone people used to address retirees. How are you feeling today, dear? Lovely weather we’re having… Nobody ever spoke to Daphne like that more than once, thankfully.
“Hi, Daphne!” said Ziggy. “Everything OK?”
“We’ve been having a lovely time, haven’t we, Kylie?” said Daphne. Ziggy, she noted, did not look his usual, sunny self. He seemed stressed. Maybe these extra lessons weren’t a good idea at all.
“How’s the internet dating going?” said Ziggy, hanging up his coat and schoolbag on the pegs in the hall and kicking off his trainers, without undoing the laces.
“Good. Those photos seem to have done the trick. I have three dates lined up over the next three days, actually,” said Daphne. “I did have four, but one sent me what I think you young people would call a ‘prick picture,’ so I had to cancel him.”
“You mean a dick pic, I think,” said Ziggy.
“Well, whatever you choose to call it, it looked like the scrawny neck of the last turkey in the chiller cabinet. I can’t imagine why he thought that would help his cause. Here’s the chap I’m meeting this evening.” Daphne passed Ziggy her phone, displaying Tony’s picture.
“He looks nice. I like his dog,” said Ziggy. Why was it that people assumed dogs were some form of positive character reference? “Cool phone, by the way.”
“It’s an iPhone Fourteen Plus, with a dual-camera system, face ID, and five hundred and twelve gigabytes of storage,” said Daphne, which—judging by the expression on Ziggy’s face—was an unnecessary amount of detail.
“Now, you do know the internet dating rules, don’t you?” said Ziggy, handing her back the phone.
“What rules?” said Daphne, with a shudder. The only good rules—with the exception of grammar—were broken ones.
“Always tell someone where you’re going, and who with.”
“With whom,” corrected Daphne.
“Don’t correct their grammar. They’ll find it intensely irritating,” said Ziggy. Daphne suspected he’d added that one on the spur of the moment, but she let it go. “Meet in a public place, like a café. Keep the initial meeting brief. Oh, and have a friend lined up, in case you need to get out of there quickly. Tell them you’ll text them if you need an exit, so they can call you and you can say, ‘Oh no, my friend Marge has had a fall and needs help. Must go,’?” said Ziggy.
“Why do you assume that I only have friends called something like Marge who have no sense of balance?” said Daphne.
“Sorry, Daphne. I’m sure you have lots of cool friends,” said Ziggy.
“Actually, I don’t,” said Daphne. “I’m sure I told you that. I don’t have any friends at all. Apart from Kylie.” Where had that come from? Then, even more humiliatingly, she heard herself say: “Will you be my emergency contact, Ziggy?”
“Sure I will, Daphne,” said Ziggy.
Daphne felt unaccountably warm, despite her menopausal days being well behind her. She’d rather missed having an accomplice.
“And just so I know, what name would you like your imaginary friend to have?” asked Ziggy.
“Taylor,” said Daphne. “Like Swift.”
She admired a self-made woman.
···
The man sitting opposite Daphne, wearing a paisley-patterned cravat around his jowly neck and a silk handkerchief poking imperiously out of his jacket pocket, was at least ten years older than in the photo on his profile. He had far less hair on top, and far more sprouting from his nose and his ears, and the dog Ziggy had been so enthusiastic about had been buried under the apple tree in his garden for some time.
Tony had long since retired from the job he’d mentioned, and it turned out that when he’d said he worked in the Foreign Office, he’d not been a spy, as she’d hoped. He’d actually spent his whole career processing passport applications, about which Daphne now knew more than any normal human being could ever need or want to know.
Daphne was able to see the irony in being cross about other people’s false narratives, but even so.
Daphne had spent the first half hour of their date wondering how she was going to avoid answering any searching questions, and the last half hour wondering if Tony was going to ask her any questions at all. So far, she’d just been treated to an incredibly dreary monologue.
The waitress picked up the bottle of red wine in front of them and poured some into Tony’s glass.
“Stop! Stop!” he said, shoving his hand over the top of his glass. “You complete idiot. You should never fill a wine glass more than one third, so it has room to aerate. Have you had no training at all ?”
The waitress pulled the bottle away to avoid covering Tony’s fingers with wine, causing a few drops of bloodred wine to splash onto the white linen tablecloth. She stammered an apology.
Enough was enough. Daphne reached into her pocket and surreptitiously sent the text message she’d had prepared for this eventuality. Within seconds, her phone rang.
“Who is it?” she said, feigning surprise rather well, she thought.
“Daphne, it’s Taylor!” said Ziggy, in a ridiculous falsetto voice. “I’ve had a terrible fall. Can you please leave your date immediately and come and help?”
“Oh no,” said Daphne into the phone. “How awful. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Is there a problem?” said Tony.
“Yes,” said Daphne, the prepared lie poised on her lips, before the truth barged right past it. “The problem is you’re a rude, self-centered, patronizing prig.” She picked up Tony’s wine glass and poured half of the extremely expensive red wine into his lap. “There. It’s only one-third full now, and aerating away.” Then, she winked at the waitress and left.
What a waste of her foxy, smoky eyes.
···
As Daphne turned the corner, she spotted two familiar figures, bundled in fur throws and sitting under a patio heater outside the pub. Usually, she’d have avoided them like the plague, but she didn’t want to go straight home. She needed time to decompress, so the memory of that oaf didn’t infect the atmosphere of her lovely apartment. Her safe place.
“Art, William,” she said. “What are you doing sitting out here in the cold and damp?”
“Lydia’s husband is in there, with another woman,” said Art, who was wearing a trilby and a turned-up collar, in a poor approximation of a John le Carré spy. “We’re keeping an eye out.”
“How very good of you,” said Daphne, trying not to let her irritation leech into her voice. Why was it that every good deed Art insisted on doing just made her feel more…grubby? She could be thoughtful and kind, too, if she wanted. She just didn’t. Life was too short to spend it worrying about other people.
“Although Lydia doesn’t know we’re still tailing him, so keep it under your hat,” said Art, tipping his hat to accentuate his point. “You want to join us?”
“Thanks,” said Daphne, pulling up a chair and wiping it down with the end of William’s throw before sitting on it. “I will, actually.”
“Talking of eyes,” said Art, “what on earth happened to yours? Did someone punch you?”
“You obviously know nothing about the latest makeup trends,” said Daphne.
“Ebola or dengue fever?” said William.
“What?” said Daphne.
“We’re playing ‘Best Way to Die.’ Endless fun,” said William.
“Oh, I see. Ebola,” said Daphne. “So dramatic. All that bleeding from the eyeballs.”
“Interesting viewpoint. Not what I expected,” said William. “Your turn.”
“OK. Being patronized to death or bored to death?” she said.
“Bored to death,” said Art.
“Well, quite,” said Daphne. “Which is why I’m sitting here with you two and not with my date.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Art.
“Poor Lydia,” said Daphne. “She doesn’t deserve that scumbag.”
“How on earth are we going to tell her?” said William.
“Let’s at least wait until after Christmas,” said Art. “Nobody wants that sort of news at Christmas.”
“It looks like Lydia may not have a job soon, either,” said William. “If the council accept that proposal from the developers, to replace the hall with luxury apartments.” He said “luxury apartments” in the tone most people would use to say “rat-infested slum.” “Unless we can completely blow their socks off with the nativity, and make a big splash in the media, we’re all out on our ears. There’s a council vote at the end of January.”
“Mmmm. Let’s burn that bridge when we come to it, shall we?” said Daphne.
“Cross that bridge, you mean?” said William.
“No, dear boy. I’m all about burning my bridges. There’s never any point in going back,” said Daphne, who was, despite herself, actually having fun. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d indulged in a bit of banter.
“Daphne, I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually,” said Art tentatively, as if he expected her to shout at him. Which was ridiculous, since NO SHOUTING OR GLARING was on the whiteboard. “You see, I could do with spending more time with Maggie, and I’m sure you could do without the extra hassle of having her to stay. Why don’t I take on your shifts for you?”
Daphne stared at Art in horror. How dare he? The utter gall of the man, trying to usurp her relationship with her dog.
“That’s an outrageous suggestion!” shouted Daphne, rising to her feet so she could, just about, glare down at Art. “It is quite clear that Maggie loves me best. Frankly, I feel terrible every time I send her away. The poor thing is obviously distraught. If anyone were to become her primary carer, it would be me.”
“Ha!” said Art. “That dog has far more fun with me, actually. We’re more than just pet and owner. We’re friends, colleagues, comrades . We have a purpose.”
William snorted with laughter.
“What?” said Art.
“You two. You’re far more similar than you think,” he said.
“We are not,” said Daphne and Art simultaneously.
Daphne wasn’t going to listen to this nonsense any longer. She turned her back on the both of them and stalked off into the night.
“Let me know if you change your mind!” she heard Art call after her.
As if.