Chapter 3
SOPHIE
Connie and Harlow chatter all the way home after the party, Harlow’s play-by-play peppered with Maisie this and Maisie that – seems like a budding friendship. I love that for Harlow – even though Maisie is Drew Parker’s niece.
God, he looked good in that slightly too-big shirt, his chin covered in stubble. He was so sweet with Maisie too – she obviously adores him – but I’m not sure I’m ready for Uncle Drew’s charm offensive. Talking to him, seeing him with Maisie… He was almost human.
‘Mummy, may I have your phone please?’
Harlow’s being ultra polite – suspicious.
‘What for, Lo?’
‘Umm, I told Maisie I’d follow her on HappyChat so we can play games.’
I glance at Connie in the passenger seat. She shrugs at me, her way of saying, What’s the harm?
‘In my handbag,’ I say and she digs it out and passes it to Harlow – gleefully. Also suspicious.
‘Did you change the passcode?’ whines Harlow. ‘It’s not working.’
‘Zero one zero three eight nine,’ I rattle off.
‘Daddy’s birthday.’
She’s right. I changed it last week after too much wine and a bout of woe-is-me reminiscing. And I could have said it like that – it’s your dad’s birthday – but even now I struggle with the weight of those words. Any words that hint at Daniel still being with us.
In my periphery, Connie’s looking at me. She reaches over and pats me on the leg.
‘Keith seems nice,’ I say, directing the conversation away from Daniel.
‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ she replies. ‘A bit shy though. I had to jump on him.’
I inhale so sharply, I start choking on my saliva.
‘And where did you meet?’ I ask after clearing my throat.
‘Dance class – the one on Wednesday nights.’
Connie goes to two dances classes each week – ballroom and sacred feminine movement. I’m guessing Wednesdays are ballroom. Unless Keith’s way more progressive than most men his age.
‘It was Keith’s first time and you have to be quick, you know.’
‘Quick?’ I ask.
‘Yes. At my age, good-looking older men are a bit thin on the ground. Especially ones with moves.’
Are we still talking about dancing?
‘I took one look at him, marched straight over, and asked him to dance before anyone else could snap him up,’ she says with obvious pride.
‘Well, good on you for getting in first.’
‘Quite.’
‘And what’s his story? Divorced? Widower?’
‘Oh, it’s terrible, Sophie. His wife ran off with his best friend.’
‘What? That is terrible.’
‘I know. And he’s such a lovely man. So thoughtful. If a little dull sometimes,’ she adds wistfully.
‘Well, you can’t expect your partner to meet all your needs,’ I say, spouting wisdom from a meme I saw on social media. ‘That’s why friendships are so important.’
‘Quite right – and family.’
‘And family, yes,’ I reply, shooting a smile across the car.
Thank god for Connie. If she hadn’t been there for me in the early days after Daniel died, I honestly don’t know what I would have done.
With Harlow being so young – and a little Brit through and through – I couldn’t just uproot her and take her back to Australia.
Besides, that would have broken Connie’s heart.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she says, ‘about Keith, I mean. I’d rather be with someone I can trust not to run off with the first trollop who bats her trollopy little eyes at him. And the second and the third.’
This, of course, is a reference to Daniel’s father.
‘So, it’s serious then?’ I ask, redirecting the conversation a second time.
‘Maybe someday. We’ve only been seeing each other for a month. But we are off to Kent next weekend to see Sissinghurst Castle Garden. I’ve been, but Keith hasn’t.’
‘Do you mean a mini-break? Are you staying overnight, Connie?’ I ask, sounding more like her mother than her daughter-in-law.
She laughs. ‘No, nothing like that. Not yet, anyway,’ she says, a naughty note in her voice.
When I glance over, she’s wagging her eyebrows suggestively. No, just… no.
‘I don’t mean to be rude, asking all this,’ I continue. ‘Only… well, you don’t really date much.’
‘Much’ equals ‘not ever’, which has always surprised me. Connie’s a striking, intelligent, loving woman – a total catch. She deserves to find someone special.
‘No, you’re right,’ she replies. ‘I’ve purposefully avoided it, but I’m a woman of a certain age now and… Well, it can get a bit lonely sometimes.’
It can get a bit lonely when you’re not a woman of a certain age.
‘And what about your American fellow?’ she asks, angling towards me in her seat. ‘Very handsome. And you’re both expats living in London…’ she adds as if that means something. It doesn’t.
‘Oh, Drew’s not my— He’s a colleague, that’s all.’
‘Does he know that?’
It’s a good thing we’re stopped at a traffic light because my head snaps towards Connie of its own accord. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, just that he was checking you out – when you weren’t looking.’
I’m not sure what’s more of a shock – that Connie said ‘checking you out’ or that Drew was actually doing it.
‘I think he’s got a thing for you,’ she concludes.
I scoff, dismissing Connie’s suggestion outright – no matter how sure she seems.
‘He was probably figuring out a new way to piss me off, which he does with alarming regularity. He’s a total pain in the bum.’
Okay, I didn’t mean to say that quite so vehemently and Connie’s sly grin tells me I’ve revealed too much. A car horn bleats behind us and I look up to see that the light has turned green. I drive off, grateful we’re only a few minutes from Connie’s.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes, Harlow.’
‘Am I allowed to say trollop?’
‘No,’ Connie and I reply together.
‘Oh,’ says Harlow, disappointed.
‘Did you find Maisie on HappyChat?’ I ask.
‘Yep.’
‘It’s yes, darling, not yep,’ Connie reminds her and I smile to myself. I never bother correcting Harlow on little things like that, but I don’t mind when Connie does. She’s been co-parenting Harlow for more than half her life.
‘Sorry, yes,’ says Harlow. ‘And Mum?’
‘Yep? I mean, yes?’
‘Coco’s right about Maisie’s Uncle Drew. He likes you.’
‘What?’ I screech, my eyes meeting hers in the rear-view mirror.
‘Definitely,’ she says with a smug nod. Which I don’t love – for the smugness or how grown-up she’s getting. Where’s my little girl who sat in her car seat belting out nursery rhymes off-key?
But worse than my daughter growing up way too fast for my liking – my two closest people seem convinced that Drew Parker has a thing for me. Hah!
With a rush of relief, I turn onto Connie’s road and pull up outside her house. ‘Thanks for coming today,’ I say brightly. Now get out of my car.
‘Thank you for the invitation.’ She leans across and kisses my cheek.
Harlow unclips her seatbelt and scooches forward to hug her grandmother from behind. ‘Bye, Coco.’
‘Goodbye, darling. See you tomorrow – and wear a dress please, Harlow.’
Harlow huffs out a gentle sigh. She detests wearing dresses, but she’ll do it for afternoon tea with Connie and her friends. They fawn over Harlow and she comes home stuffed to the gills with cake and cucumber sandwiches.
‘Oh, and remember…’ Connie looks over her shoulder and mimes zipping her lips, her brows lifted.
Harlow nods solemnly, zipping her own lips, and my spidey senses go on full alert. What are these two up to?
Connie gets out and jogs up her front path, spry as ever, waving when she gets to her door. We wave back and I pull away from the kerb.
‘So, what was that about?’ I ask, watching Harlow in the mirror.
‘Nothing,’ she replies, the picture of wide-eyed innocence despite the zombie face paint.
My eyes return to the road. This better not be about ‘Uncle Drew’. It’s bad enough coming from Connie, but Harlow?
I think he’s got a thing for you.
Does he? And if he does, are we talking lust or something else, something more—
Nope!
It’s taken years to construct the wall between my fantasy life and real life – years of carefully curated disdain and feigned indifference. No sense in picking up a sledgehammer because Drew Parker is a half-decent uncle.
One redeeming quality does not a love interest make. No matter how hot he is.
First thing on Monday, before I’ve even sat down, Jane perches on the edge of my desk – her go-to spot for our morning catch-ups. As usual, she’s brought us takeaway coffees, and I prise mine from the cardboard tray.
‘Thanks.’
‘What did I miss?’ she asks, ignoring my thanks. ‘Tell me everything.’
Poor Jane missed the Family her divorce left her with more money than she knows what to do with – her words.
The possibility of losing Angus would have had her in knots.
And there’s no way she’d ever ship him off to her mum’s.
He’s her ‘little man’, the only man allowed to sleep in her bed – also her words.
‘Now,’ she prods, ‘how was the party?’
‘Yeah, pretty good – better than last year. I even had a half-decent kebab.’
‘I don’t give a rat’s arse about the food. I want gossip. Who got sloppy drunk? Who got off with who?’
‘It’s whom, and it was a family event, not an office Christmas party. They had balloon animals and face painting. Harlow was painted like a zombie.’
‘Seriously, there’s no gossip?’ she asks, visibly deflating. ‘How boring! Well, except for the zombie part. I just adore your daughter – marches to the beat of her own drum, that one.’
She’s right about Harlow, but maybe I should toss Jane a crumb – tell her about my encounter with ‘Uncle Drew’.