Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dylan and I finished brunch, then had a second coffee together – but this time it was accompanied with some handholding across the table. We also did rather a lot of staring into each other’s eyes, complete with silly smiles.
We were under no delusions about anything. Both of us were widowed. Both of us were the wrong side of fifty. I’d reminded Dylan that I was eight years older than him.
‘And your point is?’ he now asked.
‘My point is’ – I took a deep breath – ‘you can take your pick of younger women. Wouldn’t you prefer a female who is forty-something rather than–’
‘Maggie.’ Dylan’s voice was grave, but his eyes held a soft light. Tenderness? ‘I don’t let my brain make romantic decisions. I let my heart do that. And my heart swells every time I see you. With joy. Happiness.’ He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Sorry, I don’t want to frighten you off by coming on too keen too soon.’
‘You’re not,’ I grinned. Right now, I felt like a teenager in the first flush of crush.
‘And anyway’ – he added – ‘I have another confession for you. Recently I secretly read one of Terry’s girly magazines. It said that sixty was the new thirty.’
‘Thirty?’ I scoffed. ‘That seems like a lifetime ago.’
Well, it did, and it didn’t. Some things seemed like donkey’s years ago. Others, only moments ago. Time was a weird thing. It could mess with your head if you let it.
‘When I first met you’ – Dylan continued – I thought you were in your late forties. Fifty at an absolute push.’
‘You’re too kind,’ I giggled.
‘I’m being honest,’ he insisted. ‘And I’m also being open about my feelings for you. I like you.’
‘I like you too,’ I said shyly.
‘I like you a lot,’ he murmured.
I gave him a smile gooier than a cream cake.
‘Ditto,’ I whispered.
‘What I’m trying to say is…’ For a moment he looked bashful. ‘I feel like an awkward teenager right now. I want to ask you something.’
‘Go on,’ I urged.
‘Will you be my girlfriend?’
I snorted with laughter.
‘Can a sixty-one-year-old legitimately be called a girlfriend?’ I teased.
‘Can a fifty-three-year-old male be called a boyfriend?’ he countered.
‘I think so,’ I said, my eyes dancing with merriment. ‘After all, we’re not ancient.’
‘Of course we’re not ancient,’ he cried, pretending to shudder at the very idea. ‘However, you’ve not answered my question.’
‘I’ve forgotten what it was,’ I laughed. ‘Uh-oh, memory blank. You see! That’s an age thing.’
He rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation.
‘I think you’re pretending to have forgotten, and that you’re secretly thrilled to see me squirming like a gauche adolescent. But it’s fine. I’ll ask again.’ He tutted theatrically. ‘Maggie King. Will you be my girlfriend?’
My smile was now so wide, it was a wonder I didn’t have wraparound lips.
‘Dylan Alexander,’ I bantered back. ‘I’d be delighted to be your girlfriend.’
And with that, Dylan leant across the table and planted a kiss on my mouth.
The subsequent zingers scorched my lips, shot through the back of my head, exploded through my brain, and possibly made my eyeballs rotate like a fruit machine.
‘You’re beautiful, Maggie,’ Dylan murmured.
‘Give over,’ I muttered, blushing like mad.
‘It’s true,’ he insisted. ‘You have the most amazing eyes and your hair is the colour of autumn leaves. I’d love to run my hands through it. And one day I will,’ he twinkled. ‘But for now, how about we see where we go? No pressure.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ I murmured. He could run his hands through my hair – and anywhere else for that matter – whenever he liked.
‘I know we only met a few days ago,’ he said. ‘But I feel as if I’ve known you for so much longer.’
Never a truer word. It was that timeline thing again. It could make things go out of whack. I felt like I’d known Dylan for yonks.
It was with great reluctance that we ended brunch. However, I needed to get back to Bess, and Dylan had Charlie waiting. Also, I had a load of veg to prep. Sunday dinner wasn’t going to cook itself. The kids – and their partners – were always starving when they came over.
‘Can I call you tomorrow?’ Dylan asked, as he signalled to the waitress for the bill. ‘And put your handbag down, Maggie,’ he said firmly. ‘This is my treat.’
‘Thank you. And yes, of course you can call me tomorrow.’
‘I don’t want to come on too strong.’ He gave an imperceptible shake of his head. ‘I’m so badly out of touch with dating a woman. If you prefer, you can call me. Do you still have my business card?’’
‘I do,’ I nodded. ‘That reminds me,’ I frowned. ‘The card says manager,but not what you’re a manager of.’
And then Dylan said something that completely took me by surprise.
‘I manage a care home. For old folks, obviously. Actually, I own it.’
I blinked in astonishment. Of all the potential professions out there, running an old peoples’ home was the last thing I imagined this man doing. Somehow, Dylan seemed more like… maybe a football coach. Or a personal trainer. Even the manager of a gym. His athletic build was at odds with someone who dealt with the nuts and bolts of people approaching the end of life’s journey.
‘When my parents needed care’ – he explained – ‘I couldn’t find professionals prepared to do the job long-term. And the person that I did temporarily find, wasn’t honest.’
The waitress brought the card terminal, momentarily interrupting the conversation. After an exchange of pleasantries, Dylan tucked his wallet into his back pocket before continuing.
‘My late father was obsessed with money. He’d draw out cash, then hide it in bizarre places. He’d then forget what he’d done with it and accuse me of stealing. It was a defining moment when a large sum of money couldn’t be accounted for, and the carer wouldn’t look me in the eye. I had Power of Attorney, so sold Dad’s home. Then, with Jennifer’s agreement, remortgaged the family home. We bought a large Victorian house in West Malling and turned it into a care home. The venture gave me peace of mind. I could now spend quality time with my parents and keep an eye on them at the same time. My parents have since departed this world, but Primrose House goes on. I have kind staff, and immense job satisfaction. I’m helping not just old folks, but their families too – people who are usually at their wits’ end.’
‘I know that feeling,’ I muttered.
Dylan regarded me kindly.
‘In which case, I know what you’re going through,’ he said with sympathy. ‘They call people like us the sandwich generation. People who have raised their kids only to find themselves caring for ageing parents. Except the parents behave like small kids. Their tantrums can be epic.’
‘You can say that again,’ I nodded. ‘And how does young Charlie fit into your work schedule?’
Dylan chuckled.
‘As from tomorrow, Charlie will be coming to Primrose House with me. He’s going to be the home’s pat dog. All my Golden Oldies will love it.’ Dylan stood up. ‘Come on.’ He jerked his head. ‘The waitress is looking our way. I think our table is required for the lunchtime sitting.’
Outside, the sky remained a leaden grey although the rain had stopped. Dylan walked me back to my car. He also took me in his arms and gently lowered his mouth to mine.
‘I’d like to kiss you properly,’ he murmured. ‘But Tesco’s carpark isn’t particularly romantic.’
Dylan was wrong. Right now, the cars, the shoppers, the sounds of harassed mothers trailing grizzling children, all seemed to fade into a haze dreamier than a Santorini sunset.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, darling,’ he promised.
Darling!I mentally squealed with delight. How wonderful to be referred to so endearingly.
As I watched Dylan walk away, it would be fair to say my smile was slushier than one of those neon-coloured ice drinks.
‘Excuse me,’ said a pained voice. I turned to see a motorist, a dead ringer for Victor Meldrew, impatiently waiting for my space. He leant out of his window. ‘Are you going to keep me waiting all day, or what?’
There was nothing like a grumpy old pensioner to pop your rosy bubble.