Stevie Wonder
SIGNED, SEALED, DELIVERED (I’M YOURS)
The message alert dinged, and I snatched at the handset how a woman ten years older than me might snatch at a yellow-stickered item in Tesco.
I was hungry for what Sheila might say next – and I wasn’t proud of it.
But somewhere in the last week I’d come to thrive on these daily exchanges of ours.
The odd Good morning message, the occasional How was your day?
at the end of it. And in between that, the innocuous exchanges of minute details: Sheila enjoyed renovating furniture; Sheila’s favourite colour was lavender (of course, for a gay, she joked, which was a reference I had to google); Sheila played seven musical instruments–
‘And what have we garnered about Sheila today, hm?’ David handed me a hot chocolate before crossing to the sofa and settling with his own.
It had become a strange information exchange at the end of each evening.
I would tell David, in gushing tones, how Sheila loved classical music but also liked contemporary pop, how she adored fish and chips for the sheer fact that she was never allowed it as a child, how she nursed her ailing mother in a similar way to how I’d nursed mine.
And at the end of every exchange, he would inevitably ask: ‘Have you asked her to dinner yet?’
I huffed like a disgruntled teenager. These early days of romance had made me everything from an old woman – Little Mix had been another of Sheila’s references, which had aged my musical tastes considerably – to a yuppy child.
‘No, David’ – I threw the handset down next to me – ‘I have not asked her to dinner yet.’
‘Patti, it’s been a week.’
‘That’s no time at all.’
‘Don’t be absurd, in the space of a week I can do dinner, have sex, and never speak to a woman again.’
‘I don’t know that that’s anything to be proud of,’ I answered with a raised eyebrow.
‘That really comes down to who you ask.’
‘David’ – I stared into my drink as I spoke, unable to face the wanton vulnerability of what I knew was coming – ‘has it crossed your mind that Sheila just mightn’t like me in person?’
A disconcertingly long silence stretched out before he answered.
He was so quiet for so long that I actually looked up again, to check he was still in the room with me.
But it turned out that direct eye contact had been what he was waiting for.
David fixed me with a soft stare and an easy smile and said, ‘No.’
He set his drink down on the squat coffee table and moved to where I was tucked up in my chair.
Awkwardly, he positioned himself on what little space there was available, precariously balanced on the edge of the arm, and leaned over to tuck himself around me.
The warmth of him, and the hot chocolate I was still cradling, was everything I’d needed.
I almost didn’t want him to say anything, lest he ruin the moment.
‘Patti,’ he spoke into the crown of my head, ‘you are unequivocally the best woman I’ve ever met. There is nothing not to like about you, my dear girl.’ He kissed my hair. ‘Why do you think I married you?’
‘Oh, David…’
‘I know.’ He answered in a tone that was almost tinged with disappointment. ‘Don’t tell anyone, will you?’
I reached up to tap his hand. ‘It’s our secret.’
‘You’re a love.’
‘Although, you do raise another concern.’
‘Hm, and what’s that?’ He moved and stood in the centre of the room; hands on hips.
‘How do I explain to her that I’m married?’
David’s expression dropped. He looked as though I’d wet fish-slapped him. ‘You’re being absurd again.’
‘Be fair now, I have to tell her.’
‘Why?’ His voice peeked an octave. ‘I don’t tell anyone and it never causes me any harm! Speaking of which.’ He checked his watch. ‘I have an engagement tonight so…’
I rolled my eyes. ‘So don’t offer anyone breakfast in the morning.’
‘So don’t offer anyone breakfast in the morning,’ he echoed as he padded out of the room. ‘Feel free to tell her you’re my wife, though,’ he shouted back, ‘that’s still okay.’
* * *
Sheila: Honestly, I’ve never felt so concerned for my safety in all my life.
Patti: How did you even get out of that situation?
Sheila: I explained that I didn’t take German at O Level.
Sheila: Though I explained it in very bad German so that didn’t help much.
Sheila: We laughed about it in the end though.
Patti: You’ve been to so many places!
Sheila: I’m an impulsive traveller.
Sheila: And an ignorant Brit. So I’ve never worried about language barriers.
Sheila: Where have you been? Impulsively?
Patti: I booked last minute flights to Vegas once.
Patti: My best friend and I thought it was a good idea.
Sheila: I’ll bet it was a bloody fantastic idea!
Sheila. You dark horse. Vegas of all places!
Patti: We met Elvis and everything.
Sheila: I’m told that’s the law, in Vegas. Elvis and Dolly.
Patti: Ah, see, we didn’t meet Dolly.
Sheila: Shameful. You must go again.
Patti: I’ll browse Last Minute Booking while I’m at work today.
Sheila: Of course, you’ll be working today!
Sheila: You still haven’t told me much about the shop.
Patti: Bric-a-brac and beautiful nonsense
Patti: Though customers enjoy that.
Patti: Speaking of which…
Sheila: Yes, go, sell your nonsense.
Sheila: If you fancy a coffee break at any point…
* * *
I typed approximately twelve different messages asking Sheila if she wanted to meet for a coffee when I’d finished work.
And one bolder message asking if she fancied an early dinner.
Then I promptly deleted everything within seconds of having typed it, pocketed my phone, and went about my day.
I’d found that typing the messages alone was enough to scratch the itch of asking her out, without the fear of, well, actually asking.
I didn’t know what the etiquette was for online dating, though – if such a thing existed.
It couldn’t be too soon, I reasoned, given that Sheila had asked without asking at least three times now whether I wanted to meet in real life.
But I was starting to wonder whether leaving it too long might mean we’d essentially become pen pals – albeit, pen pals according to a digital age.
I was also long past the point of consulting David for any advice on the matter.
David, who had taken to leaving small Post-its around the apartment that read things like Just do it and You’ve got this.
Much as I appreciated the effort, I had to assume that he’d pulled the idea from a website targeted at teenage girls.
I even found one of them in the pocket of my coat while I was searching out my keys to the shop one morning.
‘Morning, Patti.’
My head snapped up at the sound. ‘Oh, morning, Phil.’
Phil was a regular of mine, with a gruff voice and a Tom Selleck moustache that was the envy of my husband. He was also a welcome distraction on a day when I’d managed to do nothing apart from think about Sheila. Is this normal? I wondered.
‘Busy day ahead?’ he asked.
‘Quiet, I suspect Delivery day tomorrow though, so…’
‘Ah, so I’m early?’
I smiled. ‘I’ll always let you know if there’s anything.’
Phil wasn’t a collector of anything in particular. Over the years he’d bought ancient telephones, distinct snow globes, and silk flowers from the shop. But he enjoyed a browse of everything, and the company was always welcome.
‘You seem…’ He looked up from the shelf he was skimming. ‘Different, somehow, today.’
I forced a laugh that came out as an awkward sound. ‘I washed my hair?’
‘No, no, that isn’t it. There’s a glow, though, I’ll give you that.’
A glow? I parroted in my head. Isn’t that phrase reserved for expectant mothers?
‘Whatever it is,’ he added, ‘it suits you.’
My phone chirped from under the counter.
Sheila: Saw these and thought of you.
The message was followed by a picture of brilliant mustard daffodils, and I smiled so wide I felt the matte of my lipstick pinch. Maybe Phil was right, I thought, maybe something about all of this was starting to suit me…