Chapter Five
Mike peered at his daughter’s face on the screen, most of which was covered by greenery. ‘You got me a plant? I’m here for the next three weeks minimum and you got me a plant? Why?’
She lowered the plant, setting it on his countertop. ‘Because you’re lonely and you need a friend. You won’t make a real one, so you get Barney. He’s your plant friend.’
Mike rubbed his tired eyes, which already felt gritty and red from staring at a screen. His day had consisted of a short meeting with clients, a truly epic number of emails for not only this job but other projects he was still a part of, and then sketching on his tablet. His eyeballs felt like old grapes rolled in sand.
It didn’t help, either, that Amaya was right – Mike had no real friends. Not any more. When he’d lost his wife, some of his friends had avoided him, like his condition might be catching. A few friends had tried, but he’d let those relationships wither and die with time. They hadn’t done anything wrong; he just couldn’t see the point any more. He had work. He had his kids. He would make a life of that and be happy. He sighed. ‘I’m going to murder Barney. You know that, right?’
Amaya frowned at him, her mouth curving down into a natural pout that reminded him so much of Tara that he felt his chest squeeze tight. His wife had never had purple streaks in her dark hair, mind you. But they would have suited her. It was so unfair that he got to see Amaya fully grown and Tara never would.
Amaya bracketed the plant with her hands like she was covering its ears. ‘Why would you say that in front of Barney? You’ll hurt his feelings.’
He would argue that plants didn’t have feelings, but that would only make his daughter send him several articles about plants that he didn’t want to read, especially since she was teasing him anyway. ‘Greatest apologies to Barney.’
She put her hands on her hips. ‘Seriously, Dad, your flat is lifeless and sad. No pets. No people. No plants.’
‘Lots of people live that way,’ Mike said.
Amaya’s mouth was pursed, her brows furrowed, every inch Tara when she’d been stern. ‘You are not lots of people. You need a livelier space.’ She pointed at the plant. ‘So you get Barney.’
He rubbed his eyes again. ‘Fine. Thank you.’
Her scowl deepened. ‘Why do you keep rubbing your eyes like that?’
‘They’re a little dried out from looking at the screen.’
Amaya made a muffled screeching sound. ‘Dad! Use the eye drops! What is wrong with you?’
‘If only Barney were here,’ Mike muttered as he grabbed the phone and took it with him to do as she demanded.
Her exasperated expression morphed into one of concern. ‘You sound grumpy. You don’t usually sound grumpy. Are you okay?’
He set down his phone and dug out his drops, blinking as the liquid hit his eye. ‘A little worn out, that’s all.’
It was more than that. Mike was the first to admit that he functioned mostly like a machine these days, except for the rare times when he was able to be with his family. The rest of his days were full of work and only work. This didn’t usually bother him. He liked work. What else did he need?
And yet, his mind kept swerving back to Sophie. It had been three days since their dinner. He didn’t know her. They’d shared a meal, that was all. So why did he keep checking his phone for texts and getting disappointed when there weren’t any? He also kept picking up his phone to text her . . . well, anything, really, just to see what she would say.
But he hadn’t and he wouldn’t, and it was making him crabby, like little Archie when he hadn’t had his nap.
Amaya made a thoughtful hmmm noise. Her eyes narrowed and grew speculative as she tapped her fingers along her hips. ‘Ra says you had dinner with the luggage lady. The one with the OnlyFans.’
‘She does not have an OnlyFans,’ he said sharply. Too sharply. ‘Or maybe she does. I don’t know.’
Amaya looked like she wanted to reach through the phone and pat his shoulder reassuringly. ‘It would be okay if she did, Dad. Nothing wrong with porn.’
Mike sighed and dropped his head back. ‘Sometimes I wish my relationship with my children was a little less open.’
‘No you don’t,’ Amaya said automatically. ‘Okay, so that’s a maybe on the OnlyFans. What do you know about her?’
‘We had one dinner, Ama. One.’ A dinner so warm, so lovely, that it had smoothed out the irritations of the day.
A slow, Cheshire cat smile unfurled on his daughter’s face. ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’
‘I also regret taking you to see Shakespeare.’ He gave up, getting his phone and heading to the kitchen. He popped the cap off his beer and took a sip, propping his phone up against a fruit bowl as he rested his elbows on the counter. ‘She has a travel blog. A son named Tom and his wife or maybe fiancée, Marisa. They were very nice, though Tom seems worried that I’m up to no good.’
‘We only wish you were up to no good.’ Amaya opened her laptop and started clicking. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Sophie Swann.’ He took another long swallow of his beer. ‘She’s funny. A little weird.’ He picked at the corner of the label on his bottle. ‘I liked talking to her.’
Amaya made a thoughtful noise but kept clicking.
‘She’s divorced.’ He bit down on the other words that wanted to spill out of him. She smells like peaches and honey and it felt good to hold her. Her eyes have more brown than green in them; she laughs with her whole body; and I can’t stop thinking about the things I found in her luggage. Was that her only toy, or just her favourite? Does she have more? Did she buy those lacy underthings to please other people, or were they just for her?
Mike rolled the chilled bottle of beer against his forehead and wondered if he was getting a fever.
Amaya was focused on her laptop. ‘Have you read any of her blog? It’s funny.’
He’d been very carefully, very deliberately, avoiding it. He had a feeling that if he read it, the last fragile band of his restraint would snap. And then what? ‘No.’
‘You should read it, Dad.’ She clicked again and raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, I see . She’s kind of fit, isn’t she?’
The chilled bottle wasn’t working. He definitely had a fever, or a virus, or maybe something worse, like malaria. ‘I didn’t notice.’
That Cheshire grin was back. ‘You do like funny women, Dad. Why not ask her out? Go . . .’ She trailed off. ‘Do whatever old people do on a date.’
Mike thunked his bottle against the counter. ‘Oh, fuck off.’
She laughed. ‘You’re blushing. I can see it . Ooooh, wait until I tell Ra. He’s going to shit.’
Mike took a long pull of his beer. ‘I tried to raise you with manners, I swear. I don’t know what happened.’
‘We didn’t listen, thankfully.’ Amaya huffed a breath, causing her fringe to float up. ‘Okay, I’ll back off, just . . . message her, okay? Talk to her. Don’t think about dating. Just have a good time.’
He didn’t want to lie to her but he also really thought it would be a terrible idea. ‘I’ll consider it.’
Amaya checked her phone. ‘I’ve got to go, but Dad?’
‘Yes?’
Her expression was concerned, her tone serious. ‘When you do go out with her, make sure you have condoms. You have no idea how many STI outbreaks they’ve had at retirement homes. Just chlamydia all the time around there.’
‘Bit of an ageist stereotype, don’t you think?’
She threw up her hands. ‘I have data! It’s not an unfair stereotype if it’s real!’
He grabbed another beer. ‘I’m also not in a retirement home! I’m fifty-three, for fuck’s sake!’
‘At least if you were in a home, you’d be getting some action. If you don’t use it, Dad, it falls off. Ra told me that.’
‘That’s not remotely true, you’re both weirdly fixated on this, and I’m hanging up now.’
‘We just want you to be safe and happy!’ She cackled as he reached over and turned off the phone.
Mike had meant to stick with his plan, avoiding all temptation where Sophie was concerned, he really had. But as he was drinking his second beer, he sat down in front of his laptop. Since he was in front of his laptop, he tapped it, bringing it to life. Now that it was awake, he might as well search for Sophie Swann’s blog. It was a little bit like that book, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie , but with some light internet stalking instead.
He found Swanning About easily, a picture of Sophie front and centre, leaning over and laughing, a giant Highland steer chewing on her blouse. There was so much joy in that photo, he had to smile, almost like he was contractually obliged. He clicked on one of the links at random, finding a post from a year earlier when she’d gone to Little Venice in London.
I found a cafe where I could sit and sip my tea and watch the lively waterways. It’s such a bright, fun corner of London. Walking along the canal felt like I was in a charming storybook, the people kind and friendly. (I did see a drunk fellow relieving himself in one of the side streets, but that’s neither here nor there.) One of the boats along the canal had been converted into a little bookshop! The afternoon felt like a dream, and between transport, tea and my book, it still came in under forty quid . . .
The next link took him to a post where Sophie and her friend Edie had tried a free pottery class. It hadn’t gone well for Sophie – she was covered in clay, her bowl entirely misshapen. Edie’s didn’t look much better, but both of them were smiling like they’d made something worthy of display in the Louvre. What must it be like to live with that much joy inside you all the time?
He started reading through the comments, which was usually a mistake. There were a few nasty ones, but her core followers were nothing but supportive. He could see why they were so enamoured of her. Her style was so casual, her writing so kind, and the things she wrote about easily accessible. Reading her words felt like talking to a friend. Not all posts were long, some just linking to her Instagram. He found one from the day he’d met her in the airport. Her picture was unfiltered – she looked pale, like she might be sick at any moment, but she looked determined, too.
I’ve made it on the plane. I can do this. Thanks to all of you that reminded me that a small step would do.
As he was staring down at her face, he realized that he missed her. A few conversations and one meal and he missed her . This was so dangerous.
His hands shook a little as he clicked on the last link, posted the day after their dinner.
I cannot tell you the relief I’ve felt, being on land again! The flight itself went smoothly, but after the flight was full of turbulence. I felt vastly unwell when I got off the plane. (Note to future Sophie, limit your G&Ts on your next flight.) I had to sit down on the floor on the way to customs. Despite my triumph over my fears, I was feeling very down and self-critical as I sat by the bins, hoping I wouldn’t embarrass myself. Luckily, a kindly gentleman checked on me and gave me some medicine and water. He even walked me to customs. Kindness, my loves, is out there. Revived, I made it to my son and my temporary new abode!
My new apartment is very American – it’s loud, full of colour and over the top. I’m a bit in love with it. I’m sitting in the kitchenette now, enjoying my tea and simply feeling grateful for the fact that I am here. I get to hug my son and his beloved, and that means more than I can say.
But it wouldn’t be Swanning About without a few bumps and hiccups. I immediately lost my luggage upon arrival. Or more accurately, my suitcase was accidentally mixed up with someone else’s! At the time, I wanted nothing more than a shower, a nap and a meal, not in that order, and so I was quite irritated that this plan had been thwarted.
But as I often tell you, my Swannies, sometimes ruined plans lead to better stories. Do you know who had my luggage? The kindly gentleman, that’s who! My first dinner in New York involved my son, my daughter in all but legalities, and the kind of man who made a travel-sick woman feel one thousand times better. I couldn’t have imagined this welcome dinner, and I’m so glad things went awry. As I always say, you’ll have a lot more fun if you stay flexible. (And yes, I know that’s a bit of a double entendre, and I won’t apologize for it one bit.)
Suddenly the ache in Mike’s chest was too much to bear. It seemed so silly, not talking to her. He was a grown man. He was perfectly capable of keeping it friendly. He could talk to her, surely, without risk of it becoming more.
He took out his phone and stared at it. It had been three days. He couldn’t simply send her a, ‘dinner was lovely’ kind of text. Sending her a text for no reason felt . . . risky. Like it was saying too much. He tapped his fingers along the tabletop. A reason. That’s what he needed. A good excuse for texting her after three days of radio silence.
His gaze drifted back to her blog. What if he texted her something related to that? Maybe an interesting building to visit? She probably already had a list of prospective places – this was her job, after all, and she was very good at it. What did he know about travel blogging? Nothing. He did know all about architecture, however, and New York had some very interesting spots. What to send? Something joyful. Full of whimsy. It had to be something to catch her attention, but also be a good fit for her blog.
He took a deep breath and started typing. Have you ever visited Jane’s Carousel? It’s in Brooklyn Bridge Park. At night the lights show off the beautiful artistry of the restored carousel and make the glass enclosure glow like a beacon.
He hit send, then realized that out of context, it might be a little . . . weird? Like he was just sending her random trivia. Or maybe she’d think it was a lead-in to a, ‘we should go there on a date’ conversation, giving her the wrong idea.
Mike quickly sent her a follow-up message. Thought you might find it interesting.
Well, that didn’t help at all . He might have actually made it worse. His body, unhelpfully, erupted into a panic sweat. A casual observer might think he was doing something dangerous, like disarming a bomb, not trying to have a normal, human conversation with a woman he fancied.
He wiped his forehead with a free hand, drying it on his jeans, then sent another text. For your blog.
There. Perfect. He’d fixed it. Assuming she’d saved his number into her phone and not thought some rando was texting her. Mike groaned. This. This was why he didn’t date. This was why he didn’t even friend.
He was just going to have to send another text. This is Mike Tremblay, by the way.
He tapped his phone against his forehead as he blew out a long breath. Mike Tremblay, you absolute muppet. At this rate, it’s just going to be you and Barney the houseplant for the rest of your life, and you’re probably going to kill the houseplant.
He sighed and went to get himself a glass of water.