Chapter 9
NINE
I am having coffee with my father-in-law, George. He lives literally seconds away from me, and I try to call in every day. This house used to belong to Archie and the girls, and George lived in a much bigger thatched cottage on the front of the green. Last year they simply swapped, because it made sense – more room for the growing family, and a cosier space for George. I’m still getting used to walking in here and seeing George’s things instead of Archie’s. I’m also still getting used to there being no Lottie, his old Golden Retriever. Every time I walk in, I expect to hear her tail thumping on the floor.
“So,” George says, sitting across from me at the little table, “I have something for you.”
As ever, there’s a twinkle in his eyes, and I wonder what might be coming next.
He reaches into his pocket and produces a whistle. It’s on a string, the kind a referee might use during a football match – in fact it’s probably exactly that, as George used to be a teacher and oversee a lot of sport.
I pick it up and give it a blow. Still going strong.
“Okay. Thank you. It’s a very nice whistle. I shall treasure it.”
“I thought you might wear it this afternoon, when you go on your dates.”
“Ah. I see. Are you worried about axe murderers too?”
“Not really, but it pays to be cautious, doesn’t it? Any problems, three sharp puffs on this and the cavalry will come running. Or at the very least you’ll have eyes on you.”
I nod, and know it will put his mind at rest if I accept this wisdom. I put the string over my head, and tuck the whistle beneath my top.
“Are you okay with this, George?” I ask, reaching out to hold his hand on the table. He is, after all, Simon’s father, and for years now he’s been my surrogate dad as well. He lost two of his children in that car accident, and I can’t even imagine the agony of that – I don’t want him thinking that he might lose me as well.
“Of course I am! I was happy when Archie met Cally, and I’ll be happy to see you find someone, my lovely – you’re much too young to give up on love. Simon wouldn’t want that, and neither do I. No, I’m fine with it… It’s just the technique I feel a bit uncertain about.”
“I know,” I say, giving his fingers a final squeeze, “me too. I knew you didn’t mind really, I think I was just looking for an excuse to cancel. I feel… guilty.”
“You really mustn’t. He wouldn’t want that, and you know it. It’s been a long time. You’ll always love him, and he’ll always be part of you – but he wouldn’t want you to put yourself in cold storage, would he?”
“No. No, he wouldn’t. Maybe it’s not just guilt, though, George – maybe I’m also a bit nervous. It’s been a long time since I’ve put myself in a position where someone can judge me.”
“Well, what could they possibly find lacking in you? Any man would be lucky to have you.”
George has a shock of silver hair and blues eyes that put Daniel Craig to shame. Even at his age he’s a good-looking man, and I suspect he’d be a hit on a dating app himself.
“Thank you, George, but I think you might be biased.”
“Not at all, I’m speaking as an objective observer! Anyway, what’s that thing you always say – be more Dolly? Would Dolly be nervous about going on a date?”
“She might be – but she’d hold her head high, plaster on a smile, and stride forth to dazzle the world.”
“Exactly! So that’s just what you should do, Connie. Stride forth and dazzle.”
“But take an emergency whistle just in case?”
He nods approvingly. “That’s right. You never know when you might need an emergency whistle. Will I see you later, so you can tell me all about it?”
“Of course. I suspect there won’t be much to tell. If it’s really boring, I’ll just make something up, okay?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. Right, off with you, madam – time’s ticking and you don’t want to be late!”
I pull a face as I get up to leave. I kind of do want to be late, actually. In fact I kind of want to abandon the whole idea, because I wasn’t lying – I am strangely nervous.
I head home and realise that I also have no clue what to wear, or what to do with my hair, or if I should bother with make-up. These are all issues that usually have little relevance to my life, and I start to suspect that I have lived for so long in my cosy little bubble that stepping outside it feels terrifying. Part of me knows that this is a good thing – stepping outside my comfort zone – but part of me also thinks it’s stupid. I mean, why would you want to step outside a comfort zone? Comfort zones are nice – the clue is in the name.
I head upstairs and start to go through my clothes. Before too long, my bed is covered with tried on then discarded outfits, and my wardrobe looks like it’s been ransacked, empty coat hangers rattling as I’ve pulled out various dresses, tops and skirts. None of them feel right.
I decide that I will start from the bottom up and have in mind a certain pair of sandals that I haven’t worn for ages, but always make me feel good. I root around in the bottom of my wardrobe, but they’re not there. Next I run downstairs in case they’re in the dumping ground of footwear that lives in the porch. Also a bust. I go back up to my room, and pull out the storage boxes I keep under my bed, rummaging through the contents.
“What are you looking for?” Sophie says, as she ambles into my room. She’s in her pyjamas still and stifles a yawn as she clears a space on the bed.
“My sandals!”
“Which ones?”
“The ones with the low cork wedge. My favourites.”
“Well, they can’t really have been your favourites, because you gave them to the charity shop before Christmas.”
“Did I? Why would I do that? I loved those sandals!”
She joins me on the floor, and picks out another pair from the debris.
“Wear these. They’re almost exactly the same.”
She has a point, I think. Okay. That’s good – one thing at least has been decided.
“Your room looks like someone threw a hand grenade in it,” says Sophie, looking around at the chaos.
I am a messy person, and my room is never what you’d call minimalist, but this is, I have to agree, a whole new level of mess.
I shrug and say: “To be honest, Soph, I’m a bit freaked out at the thought of these dates. Even simple stuff like what to wear is making me feel a bit bamboozled.”
“That’s a good word, bamboozled. And this is supposed to be fun, you know – not an ordeal!”
“I know it is, but it doesn’t feel much like fun at the moment. I mean, what do I wear? And what should I do with my hair? And should I put make-up on? I don’t want to seem like I’ve made too much effort, but at the same time it seems rude not to make any effort…”
I’m rambling, and shoving shoes back into the storage box as I do it. Why do I own stilettoes, I think, staring at the pair in my hands. I never wear them. I put them to one side to take to the charity shop – which means I’ll probably have a desperate need for some high heels in the near future.
Sophie helps me with the tidy-up, then says: “Look, Mum, you don’t have to go on a date. It was just an idea. Now me and Dan are away and you have more time, I just thought it’d be… well, like I said, fun.”
I glance up at her, and see that she is frowning. Ah, I deduce – Zack was right. She has been worrying about me, and I hate that. I need to reassure her. I need to do what all us grown-ups do, and fake it till I make it.
“It will be, I’m sure, love – it was a great idea! I’m just nervous, that’s all. It’s been a long time, and I’m blowing off steam. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to go – ignore me.”
“No, I’m not going to ignore you,” she replies. “I’m going to help you. Come on, let’s get you sorted. You’ll feel better once you’ve got your casually stylish glad-rags on. I told Dan you were going out on a date, by the way.”
“Right. Did he make vomiting noises?”
“He did! But he also thinks it’s a good idea.”
Everybody else in the whole world, it seems, thinks that this is a good idea. I am very much in the minority thinking that it’s a spectacularly bad idea.
Within minutes, Sophie has selected my outfit. Cropped jeans and a pretty pink peasant-style blouse that I’d forgotten I owned. It looks nice, and is also flowing enough to hide my emergency whistle. She puts my hair up with combs, leaving a few tendrils loose, and hands me a pair of hoopy gold earrings to put in. We settle on very light make-up, and a spritz of my favourite perfume.
Once we’re done and I look at myself in the mirror, I realise that Sophie was right – I do now feel a bit better about the whole thing. I am a middle-aged woman who has had three babies and loves cake, so I can’t expect to look like a supermodel. But, I have to admit, I look okay. Better than usual, but still recognisably me. Surely that’s good enough? And if not, then I’m not on a date with the right person.
“There,” she says, grinning at me, “job done. You look great. And you are great – just be yourself, and you can’t go wrong!”
“Ha! People always say that: ‘just be yourself’. Then you spend ages wondering what that is.”
“Well, in your case, it’s super-nosy, always hungry, and ready to do karaoke at the drop of a hat.”
“Hmmm. You’re right. I suppose the being nosy bit might help.”
“Exactly – it’s not like you’ll ever run short of conversation is it, Mum? You and silence are mortal enemies.”
“What if I talk too much though?” I say, suddenly gripped by yet another fear. “What if I just don’t stop, and words keep flooding out of me in a stream of consciousness rant? What if I come across as a lunatic?”
“Then that would be pretty accurate. Look, don’t get so stressed – and remember they’ll be nervous too.”
I hadn’t even thought about that, but I know she’s right. It makes me feel marginally better. It’s not like I’m going to an audition or a job interview – I’m going to enjoy a pleasant social interaction with a couple of new people. When I think about it like that, I feel calmer. I like pleasant social interactions. In fact I am the queen of pleasant social interactions.
“Thank you. For everything. How did you get so wise?” I ask her. “Actually, if the answer to that is ‘because I am on a million dating apps and hook up with strangers all the time’, then don’t tell me.”
She stays ominously quiet, and I remind myself that she will be twenty this year. Of course she’s on dating apps.
“Thank you anyway,” I say. “I think I might have been on the verge of exploding before you came in.”
“I know. I’m amazing. You can repay the favour by making me and Marcy some pancakes.”
I nod eagerly, and head downstairs. I put on my apron, and get to work. As I whisk up the ingredients in a big bowl, I feel even better – soothed by the familiar actions of cooking, comforted by doing something that comes so naturally to me. In fact, I have a sneaky suspicion that that’s why Sophie asked for pancakes, now I come to think about it – she knew that it would help. My daughter, the benign manipulator.
I am pouring the batter into the pan when there is a knock on the door. The traditional mode of entry into my house is to knock, shout something like ‘it’s only me!’ and then walk straight in. The fact that nobody does this after the knock means that it is either a delivery person, or Zack. Or, you know, an axe murderer, because I seem to be thinking about them a lot these days. Though I’m guessing they don’t knock on the front door, so maybe not.
I dash to the door, open it, and run back into the kitchen, jumping over random piles of shoes and boots as I go. They were casualties in the Great Missing Sandal War, and I tell myself I really must get around to tidying them back up again. Famous last words.
“Sorry!” I say as Zack follows me through, looking amused. “I was at a critical point in pancake-land!”
He leans back against the island, and I see him gazing around. I wonder what this place looks like from another person’s view, with its clutter and organised chaos. I don’t suppose it looks organised to anyone else, though, just chaotic.
I flip the pancakes, managing a spectacular catch, and he applauds. I give a little bow and carry on. Bear looks incredibly disappointed each time I flip and catch, and if he wasn’t on a diet I’d have deliberately dropped one just to cheer him up. He follows my every move, nose twitching in excitement, tail swishing against the tiles.
I clear a space on the table, and lay out a big stack of pancakes, adding bowls of strawberries and sliced bananas, along with some home-made blueberry compote and a jar of Nutella. Pancakes aren’t complete without Nutella, in my professional opinion. I fetch some cream from the fridge and decant it into a pouring jug, knowing that Sophie likes hers drowned in the stuff.
“This looks good,” Zack says, gesturing to the spread. “And so do you. I especially like that flour smudge on your face.”
I realise as he compliments me that hearing those words makes me feel warm inside. And it strikes me all of a sudden that all the time I was trying on outfits and looking for shoes, it wasn’t just my dates’ reaction I was thinking about – it was Zack’s.
I give myself a rub, and say: “Did I get it? The flour?”
“No. Allow me.”
He closes the distance between us, and gently smooths his thumb across my cheekbone. It is unexpected, the feel of his hand on my face, the closeness of his body, and I just about stop myself from gasping out loud. I am so surprised I wobble a little, and instinctively put my hand on his hip to steady myself.
I rally, trying to look cool, calm and collected, but the intimacy of the gesture, the touch of his skin on mine, is enough to turn my heart into a jackhammer. His fingers linger a little longer than they need to, and our eyes meet. He looks as surprised as I am, and I wonder if he felt the same kind of zing – the same little jolt of electricity.
Of course he didn’t, I tell myself. I’ve seen the kinds of women he goes for, and they ain’t me. He’s the one who is encouraging me to see other men, talking me into going on dates. If he was at all interested in me, he wouldn’t have done that, would he? I am an idiot to have even imagined there was more to that touch than friendship.
“There,” he says, finally taking his hand away. “All gone.”
He’s still standing close, though, still gazing down at me with a look of… well, I’m not quite sure what it is. Curiosity, maybe – combined with a touch of surprise? What the hell is happening here?
I return his look, and manage what I hope is a casual ‘everything’s fine’ smile – but inside, I am fighting a raging battle with my own urges. What if I reached out and placed my palm on his chest? What if I pulled him closer? What if I wound my fingers in his hair? What if I emptied a full packet of flour all over myself, so then he’d have to wipe smudges from the whole of my body?
The moment is well and truly broken by the dainty sound of our two hungry daughters galloping down the stairs. Zack and I immediately pull apart, putting a table between us for safety.
I’m glad they didn’t come a few seconds earlier, and I’m equally glad of the distraction. Zack touching me like that was perfectly innocent, I’m sure, but my reaction to it was not. I’m still tingling where he made contact, and I go and open the fridge door for absolutely no reason other than I want to stand in front of it and cool down. Phew. It’s getting hot in here, in all kinds of ways.
I let the cool air flow over my face, and listen in on Sophie and Marcy’s chatter. The café is closed today, and they’re planning a trip to Bristol on the train, staying overnight in a cheap hotel. Apparently they’re suffering from Big City Withdrawal Syndrome, and need to up their quota of inhaled traffic fumes and angry people in queues. Zack came down here to spend time with his girl, but he is left picking up scraps – something most parents of teenagers have to accept early on in the process.
“So,” he says, as we all sit down to tuck into our feast, “I have a proposition for you, Connie.”
I’m embarrassingly mid-chew with a mouthful of pancake, so I simply nod. I’m still a little befuddled by the flour-on-face incident anyway.
“Both of your dates are in Lyme Regis, and I’m really keen to see Lyme Regis. I went there as a boy with my grandparents, and remember it being magical. So, why don’t I drive us? That way, I get some company for part of the day, and you get less stress.”
“You can also drink,” Marcy points out helpfully. “You might need a G&T if things don’t go well… or even if they do!”
If this was Archie or Jake or Ella offering me a lift, I wouldn’t hesitate – it would be a whopping big ‘hell, yes’. But it’s Zack, and I’m not sure that spending time alone in a car with him will do anything positive for my stress levels. I take my time while I try and come up with a way of saying no that doesn’t sound rude – ‘I’m sorry, you’re just too hot to be around’ somehow feels wrong.
“Go on, Mum,” Sophie says. “You know you always hate parking in Lyme.”
She does have a fair point, and I have to concede.
“Okay,” I finally say. “Sounds like a plan. I have an emergency whistle, Zack, so if you hear me blowing on it, come running.”
“An emergency whistle?”
“Yep. George gave it to me as a safety precaution. I think he’s worried I might get taken.”
I pull the whistle out from my blouse and give it a light toot. Sophie laughs and points at me.
“See how it feels?” she says. I know what she’s talking about but the others don’t, and she explains: “When I first moved to London Mum bought me three different attack alarms – one for my pocket, one for my keychain, and one for my bag!”
“I was just covering all the bases,” I reply, refusing to feel embarrassed. “I wish I’d got you one on a string around your neck as well now. Plus I assumed you’d lose at least one of them.”
She has nothing to say to that, so I assume I was right.
“So, when should we leave?” Zack asks. Bear has his big head rested on his thighs and is gazing up at him with adoration. Possibly because he has a Nutella-coated chunk of pancake on his fork.
“I’m pretty much ready. I’ll just clear this stuff away, then meet you at the inn in half an hour? We’ll get there early, but that suits me.”
“Perfect. It’s a date.”
Ha, I think. As if I need another one of those.