The Pick Up

Chapter 3

Poppy strong-armed me into ‘jeans and a red lip’ for tonight’s date and would not listen when I told her, repeatedly, that I did not want to do it. That’s the problem with Poppy. She’s hell-bent on finding me a man even though I have made it crystal clear that as a thirty-three-year-old divorcee, I am perfectly happy with my life without one.

But the thing is, my little sister is always there for us. She babysits, helps out with pick-ups and comes to my rescue for every Lila emergency. She was my absolute rock through the hardest time of my life. She was living in London when I got pregnant and moved to Bristol, but she’d visit loads and was even my labour partner when Lila showed up. I love that she’s in Bristol now, marginally less so when she’s interfering, but she has the best relationship with my daughter.

And the truth is, begrudgingly going on a few dates to save from arguing feels like a small price to pay. Besides, Mum thinks that since Poppy jacked in her big career in the city, it’s understandable for her to want to find a sense of achievement through other outlets, and I get that.

So I let her bundle me into a cab and spend the journey thinking of all the better ways I could be spending this evening. For example, the online shop. Lila is currently averaging a jar of pesto a week and we’re running dangerously low, plus those broken washing-up gloves aren’t going to replace themselves.

After a busy day of Duplo at Dawn, emergency drop-offs, business in Bath and a frankly odd pick-up, I could do with a lie-down. Instead I’m now taking a seat at a swanky restaurant awaiting another blind date, telling myself that I’m not only a morning person but also an evening person. I can do this! Maybe some adult conversation will be just the tonic after a weird school pick-up, I think charitably.

Let’s just hope my date is not the man walking towards me with jeans so tight I can see the outline of his penis. What is with the spray-on denim obsession? It’s so … revealing. I turn my attention back to the menu and my stomach rumbles. On the bright side, I’ll get to enjoy some food I didn’t have to cook myself.

‘Sophie?’

Spray-on jeans is flashing his bright white teeth at me. His denim-encased penis is at eye level. My heart plummets.

‘Paul?’

Say it ain’t so.

Alas, he’s now leaning down for a kiss on the cheek and suffocating me with obnoxious aftershave.

I notice that he’s wearing shoes with no socks, but I force myself to switch into polite first-date patter. ‘Hello. How are you?’

‘Yeah mate,’ he sits down opposite, ‘just parked up outside, did you see?’

I must look confused.

‘Always causes a bit of a stir, the Lambo.’ Paul puffs out his chest and points to the bright orange sports car parked opposite. ‘It’s double yellows out there, mate, but do you know what? Fuck it HA HA HA.’

‘Not worried about a parking ticket, then?’

‘When you earn as much as I do, mate, a couple of fines here and there are no bother.’

Mate. Ick. Bragging about income. Double ick.

I’m afraid to report that the assault on my nostrils, the visible display of appendage and the bolshy attitude are not the worst of it. In lieu of conversation, Paul spends the next ten minutes playing me a photo slideshow on his phone, comprising ‘progress’ pictures of gym work set to a tinny disco beat. In one picture, he is splayed across the bonnet of his car in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks, an image I would forever like to erase from my memory.

‘That was the day I got my black belt,’ Paul interjects at one point, literally flexing one of his biceps at me.

By the time the slideshow ting tings to an end I have decided that Poppy is dead to me. How could she think this guy would make me a good match? Offended, I order the cod, a side of fries and a very large glass of wine because only carbs and booze can save me now.

Paul tells me he’s ‘pumped’. Something to do with the apparent thrill of ‘legs day’ tomorrow. ‘So I’m doing steak tonight, you know?’ he adds.

WHY AM I HERE?!

‘So, Soph.’ He leans back, arms behind head. Only my family call me Soph. ‘Poppy tells me you’ve got a kid. I’m cool with that. I’m one of the good guys.’

I suspect the opposite.

‘Yes, Lila, she’s four.’

‘To be honest I’ve probably got a couple of kids knocking around, do you know what I mean? HA HA HA.’ When he finishes laughing, Paul winks at me and I try not to vomit.

‘You’re thirty-three, right? Nice. I’ve been getting hacked off with the twentysomethings. All they seem to want is nice holidays and designer bags.’

So now I’m horrified on behalf of all women. Honestly, is this really what we have to put up with? Abysmal.

‘I’m broadening my horizons with older birds now.’ Paul’s still talking. Temptation to stick my fork directly into his eye: high. ‘And you’re quite fit still. Have you ever thought about getting your teeth done?’

If ever there was a candidate for a solo shipwrecking, it would be Paul.

One of the wait staff arrives and I realise in horror that Paul has ordered a starter, adding at least another twenty minutes to this debacle. My shoulders sink and while he tucks into his crab salad, I attack the bread bowl.

‘You wanna be careful with carbs,’ he says with a shake of the head. ‘Hips and thighs, mate.’

Slowly and deliberately, I stick the whole roll into my mouth in an act of defiance. Then I slather the next roll, destined for him, with so much butter it looks like a cupcake. I take a bite out of that too.

‘You do you. I’m just saying that as you get older your metabolism—’

‘Paul, can I stop you right there? I’m not interested in a lecture on metabolism, mate. Shall we talk about something that interests both of us?’

He sniffs. ‘Is that a fake tat?’

He’s looking at my arm and I realise there is still a bit of temporary Elsa tattoo there. Pre-motherhood, I’d never have allowed this to stay on for so long, but now there is so much stuff running through my mind at all times that small tasks like ‘scrub off tattoo’ fall by the wayside.

‘Got any real ones?’

‘No. I’d be too worried that I might change my mind about the design later in life.’

‘I’ve got one.’

I get an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. ‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. The words “lucky you” tattooed above my groin, mate.’

My soul has exited my body. I bid it a fond farewell.

‘You know, for all the lucky birds to see before …’

I swallow back the rising bile. Paul is saying something about me playing my cards right but it’s all background noise, now. Something inside me has snapped. I do not have to put up with this! I am over and I am out. I stand up, throw my napkin down on the table and leg it.

Literally leg it!

I’m tempted to shout fuck it into the abyss but I feel bad for the other diners so land on a more family-friendly dramatic exit.

‘Eff you, Paul! And eff this!’ I call out as I clatter out of the restaurant.

I run on my long legs all the way down College Green. As my heels clack I feel a strange mix of elation and guilt. How rude of me to run away from a dinner date and yet, how thrilling.

I am free! I am Braveheart!

I am … way too early to go home because then Poppy will know I didn’t stick with it.

Being a hot, cross mum on the run has given me a certain clarity. I’m quite flustered by now, and people are staring because only lunatics go for a jog in heels. But I’ve decided to capitalise on this time to myself which, as a single parent, never happens.

Like a homing pigeon, I head for the harbour. There I find Tara, an old client of mine, and her super popular food truck Hook + Bait. She waves as she spots me and I join the queue to order some of her fabulous fresh seafood. It smells so good and I get a real glow from seeing how well she’s doing, even on a cold February evening like this one. We have a brief chat as she hands over lobster rolls and she promises to come over as soon as the queue’s gone down, so I grab a spot on the water’s edge, still sticky from the run, and tuck in.

Her food is mouth-wateringly good and I can feel my frayed temper soothing with each delicious bite. I watch the boats bob on the water, their sails jangling in the wind.

‘Hey, Sophie.’ Tara perches next to me.

I clap my hands and gesture madly towards the now empty cardboard box by my side. ‘These lobster rolls are your best yet. I’d happily moisturise my whole body in that mayo.’

She hoots. ‘I’m not sure even you could make a business out of garlic mayo moisturiser.’ She wipes her hands down an apron and sets a tin of white wine down next to me. ‘On the house.’

‘Tara, that’s really kind but I can’t accept freebies from clients.’ I’m about to launch into a monologue about nurturing financial growth when I notice that she is giving me quite a stern look. I pull the ring back obediently and take a slurp.

‘Good.’ Tara nods. ‘After everything you’ve done for me, you can expect drinks on the house whenever you visit. If we hadn’t got chatting that day …’ She trails off, lost in thought.

‘You had the vision, I just nudged you in the right direction.’

‘I could never have set Hook and Bait up as a proper brand without your guidance and expertise,’ Tara insists, squinting over at her blue-and-white food truck with pride. Another queue is forming and she flashes me a smile before hurrying back to work. Just for a moment, I sit back and observe the pride on her face as she serves. Tara reminds me so much of myself when I was first starting out with my own fledgling business idea. The hard work. The joy and fear mixed together in equal parts.

A message from my sister comes through.

How’s the date going?

Another message flashes up on my lock screen.

Isn’t Paul hot?!

Third time’s a charm!

Don’t rush home …

Oh she’s persistent.

Enjoy every minute!

I gulp. I feel guilty. Sitting by the harbour stuffing lobster rolls into my chops has been the most indulgent twenty minutes in recent memory. No small-person interruptions. No being badgered about my love life. No stress! But the fact is, I do need to get home and face the music. Goodbye glorious moment of peace, I think stoically as I take one last look at the reflections on the water and wave goodbye to Tara.

Poppy is peering around the frame of my front door with an accusatory look and my heart sinks. She knows, I can tell.

‘Am I to assume from your complete silence on WhatsApp that the date was a resounding success?’ she asks, voice laden with sarcasm.

‘At least let me get in first,’ I whisper, not wanting to wake up Lila as I step into the hallway. ‘It … wasn’t great.’

Poppy throws her hands around as if she’s never found herself in a more ridiculous position. She marches me into my own kitchen and closes the door in dramatic fashion.

‘What could possibly have gone wrong this time?’ she harrumphs.

‘I see you’ve helped yourself to my clothes again,’ I stall, eyeing up her stolen outfit of my new yoga leggings and the XXL T-shirt I bought when heavily pregnant. ‘You know I wore that T-shirt while in labour?’

‘Of course I do, I was there, remember? I still get wrist pains from where you gripped my hand so hard the bones crunched. I should probably get physio. But stop changing the subject.’

I’m making a ‘poor you’ face when my gaze settles on a half-eaten box of expensive chocolates on the kitchen table. Honestly, my clothes, my treats … is nothing sacred?

‘I knew you’d sniff those out! You’re like a truffle pig. How do you always manage to find them?’

‘Because you have one hiding place and that hiding place is the top shelf of your fridge? Again, you’re changing the subject.’

Damn it. I fold my arms across my chest.

Poppy does the same.

Apparently we have reached a stand-off.

‘Sophieeeeee,’ Poppy sing-songs. She’s been singing my name this way since she was born and I am always powerless to resist. Needless to say my little sister has me wrapped around her little finger. I can still remember the moment she burst into our lives. I was four, the same age as Lila is now, when Mum and Dad came home with Poppy curled up in blankets, a crown of blond hair around her head, just like mine and Mum’s. For something so small she made an incredible amount of noise, a trait she has carried with her to this day, and I have loved her unconditionally ever since.

‘What?’ I ask, flicking the kettle on.

‘What happened with Paul? I tracked you on Find My Friends. You’ve been sat at the harbour rather than on the date I sent you on.’

‘Stalker!’

‘I prefer “engaged sibling”. And don’t even try to tell me that you were there with Paul because he doesn’t go down to the waterfront. He once told me that the humidity messes with his hair.’

I snort. ‘How wasn’t that your first red flag? We live in the West Country, not West Coast America. Remind me again why you thought we’d be a good match? I am genuinely offended.’

Poppy shoves me to one side and takes charge of the tea.

‘His hair is immaculate, though. Besides, we’re running out of options here, Soph.’ She gives the teabags a squeeze.

‘That’s a good thing! That means you should stop trying, not start scraping the barrel. Honestly, Pop, Paul was awful. His trousers were so tight that he could barely walk.’

‘Bit judgemental.’

‘Wait until you hear the rest.’ I wag my finger at her before going through the sheer extent of the awfulness. As I talk my sense of indignation builds. Poppy listens to this post-date debrief in silence, her facial expressions running the gamut from horrified to amused and back again.

‘Oh Soph, I am sorry,’ she says, carrying our tea into the living room.

‘You should be,’ I say, following with the chocolates. ‘He showed me a photo of himself spread across his Lamborghini in nothing but a pair of very tight underpants.’

Poppy stuffs her hand into her mouth to stop from laughing any harder and it’s not long before I’m doing the same in spite of myself. As we tuck ourselves under a blanket Poppy turns to me with an earnest look. ‘I thought he’d make a good match but I suppose I don’t know him that well,’ she concedes, biting her lip. ‘We bump into each other at the gym sometimes and he always seemed friendly enough. I am appalled about what he said about the gap between your teeth. I love that gap.’

To be fair to her, she looks full of regret and quite crestfallen.

‘Don’t be sad, Pop. I appreciate that you want what’s best for me but,’ deep breath, time for some honesty, ‘it’s time to accept that what’s best for me is going on no dates whatsoever. They’ve all been hideous.’

‘You make it sound like you’re out every night. This is only the third date I’ve organised.’

‘In one month!’ I protest. ‘I’ve been out more this past four weeks than I have in the last five years combined and each one has been repugnant.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Clearly it’s a no to Paul but what about the other two? You’re always coming up with crap excuses! Your main reason for rejecting Rich was that he “smelt too meaty”. And remind me what the problem was with James again?’

‘He didn’t eat vegetables.’

‘Case closed, your honour.’

‘Case very much still open. Is it so wrong that I don’t want to date a dude with possible vitamin deficiencies? What you’re failing to grasp is that I’m happy with my life as it is, Pop. Also Rich’s main problem was the fact that he didn’t like children. So I don’t think that’s a “crap excuse” given that I do have one of my own, remember?’

Poppy’s face breaks into a smile.

‘Lila was superlative tonight,’ she says. ‘I took her for pizza and she spent the whole time telling me how she plans to be a unicorn called Deborah Davenport when she’s older. She’s got Deborah’s wardrobe planned out and it sounds amazing.’

I chuckle. ‘Thank you for babysitting.’

‘It’s honestly a pleasure. Lila is my favourite human.’

‘She’s lucky to have you.’

‘It also means that I get to sleep here in your fresh bed sheets and use your expensive beauty products. And you do make excellent pancakes for breakfast …?’

Sometimes it feels like I have two young children to look after. Lila in reception class at school and Poppy, aged twenty-nine, equally as jubilant, carefree and demanding. I guess that’s what happens when you’re mortgage free and going through a “rebrand” as she calls it. Poppy spent most of her twenties working like a dog in client liaison for a big bank, earning eye-watering amounts for entertaining clients on yachts in Monaco or flying first class to Switzerland for meetings. But she was also never ever off duty. She had to abandon countless family Christmases at the whim of her clients. By twenty-seven she quit before she burnt out and moved back to Bristol.

‘So you’re staying over then?’ I cock an eyebrow.

‘Obviously.’

‘Maybe next time we could have a night in together? It’s been ages since we hung out and talked about something other than men. I’d love to settle down for a good old chat about politics or the price of a pint of milk these days.’

Poppy scrunches up her face. ‘You’ll be too busy going on your next date.’

‘Poppy, no. Tonight’s fiasco with Paul was the final straw. I refuse to do this anymore. There will be no more set-ups,’ I say as firmly as possible.

Poppy nods. ‘I hear you and I agree.’

‘You do?’

Finally! A break-through! I throw another chocolate into my gob in relief.

‘Yes. We need to branch out.’

I stop chewing. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Get you out there properly, rather than wait for me to find some new potential suitors.’

‘That’s absolutely not what I meant,’ I protest. ‘And can we stop calling them potential suitors? This isn’t Bridgerton! I do not want to date full stop.’

‘Don’t be absurd!’

‘I’m being truthful. I don’t want a partner. I’m so happy with my life as it is. I have you, Lila, this beautiful home. I feel really lucky and fulfilled.’

She sighs. ‘You can’t go through life knowing that the most successful relationship you’ve ever had was with your childhood Tamagotchi, Sophie.’

‘I loved that Tamagotchi. Anyway, you’re just being silly.’

‘I’m not! I know you have us but what about the other stuff? What about finding your great love?’

‘I don’t need a great love.’

‘Pah! You’ve been single and divorced for almost five years. That’s a long time to go without even a whiff of romance. Aren’t you worried about your vagina?’

‘I went for a smear test last week and everything is perfectly well with my vagina, thanks for asking.’

‘You know very well that’s not what I mean.’

‘Listen,’ I say, taking Poppy’s hand. ‘I know you’re looking out for me and I love you for that but I am not in the market for a partner. You have to understand, Pop. I have absolutely no intention of going through a divorce again.’

‘I’m not saying you should!’ She seems exasperated. ‘I know that was a really painful chapter of your life. What I am saying is that your relationship with Mark cannot be your last ever relationship. You have to give yourself the chance, the hope, that one day you might find someone who loves you unconditionally. Imagine turning ninety and flicking back through your Rolodex of memories and stumbling across bloody Mark as the last person you dated.’

Poppy shudders.

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Oh it is. Mark was a snivelling turd of a human being,’ she says, setting her empty mug down on the coffee table with such force that I worry it might smash.

‘A bit much?’

‘It’s literally the tip of the iceberg. He abandoned you the minute you got pregnant.’

‘He didn’t abandon me, I chose to leave,’ I say firmly, annoyed by her narrative. Mark didn’t want kids, I knew that. To be honest, I didn’t think I did either. The pregnancy wasn’t planned but it changed everything for me, and it was my decision to forge ahead with a divorce.

‘Potato pot-ah-to,’ Poppy says. ‘What kind of man wants nothing to do with his unborn baby? And don’t even get me started on the fact that he was cheating on you as well. Mark was a wet drip with a posh accent. He used your brilliant, shining light for his own gain and the minute things didn’t go according to his plan, he bailed.’ She pauses then before holding her index finger aloft. ‘Mark is mistletoe.’

I furrow my brow, confused. ‘Why is my ex-husband a Christmas decoration?’

‘Mistletoe’s a parasite,’ she replies, her cheeks growing a pretty shade of pink as she gets more animated. ‘It clings onto trees and sucks their blood.’

‘Pretty sure trees don’t have blood, Pop.’

‘You know what I mean!’ She’s googling mistletoe. ‘Listen to this. “Mistletoe won’t kill the host tree but can weaken it.” That’s exactly what happened with you.’

I bristle. ‘I wasn’t weakened by my divorce. I don’t think I’ve ever felt stronger.’

‘Oh, you are strong now,’ Poppy agrees. ‘Some may say too strong, with those great big walls you’ve built around you.’

‘Wow, don’t hold back or anything,’ I mutter into my mug of tea.

‘But you were a mess,’ she goes on. ‘You had to work through a pregnancy, a relationship breakdown and untangle yourself from the business all at the same time. I think it has changed your outlook on life forever.’

There is truth in this. For me, it’s a source of pride that I got myself back up and running after that dark time, and a lot of it is thanks to Poppy’s endless support.

Still.

‘You’re being extremely dramatic,’ I argue. ‘I did not know that you felt so strongly about Mark.’

‘Mark was an horrific bore, Sophie! You always have deserved so much better.’

‘Is this about the proposal again?’ Poppy has remained incandescent with rage over the way Mark asked me to marry him.

‘Where’s the romance in proposing after a meeting IN A LIFT?’ she simmers, hunching her shoulders up to her ears. ‘You were both wearing suits from Reiss, for goodness sake! He didn’t even have a ring and he actually used the words “convenient timing”. He might as well have just sent you a calendar invite and have done with it. Can’t you see that it was all incredibly lacklustre?’

‘I was happy.’ I shrug. And I was. ‘We all go through hard times, that’s part of life. I’m in a good place now and I’m happy on my own.’

‘Well, I’m not having it. Mum isn’t either.’

‘You’ve spoken to Mum about this?’

‘Obviously. And Dad. And the Aussie Aunties.’

I groan. Suddenly she springs up and kisses me on the forehead. ‘Don’t worry, sis, I’m going to fix this for you.’

‘I don’t need fixing!’ I protest, throwing a cushion at her.

She dances out of its way and gives me a sympathetic look. ‘You definitely do. Seriously, it’s a good job you’ve got me. As from this evening, I’m making it my mission to find your perfect man.’

Why do I feel like I’m banging my head against a sweet and irritatingly persistent wall?

‘Hang on, I thought the three blind dates I’ve already endured were your mission?’

Her eyes twinkles as she grabs her phone from the arm of the sofa. I watch warily, my energy truly flagging. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting you out there.’

‘That’s a hard no, Poppy.’

‘Online dating.’ She smiles. ‘It’s time.’

‘Absolutely not.’ I shake my head. Why is she grinning at me like I’m the hapless lead character at the start of a sweet romantic comedy? I’ve got plenty of hap!

The beginnings of a headache bloom behind my left eye.