by Adele Parks
‘Oh, yes, no problem. You know I love looking after your kiddies. Such nice manners on them boys,’ replied Mrs Evans. ‘If only all kids minded their Ps and Qs the way your bunch do, the world would be a nicer place.’
Stephanie happily accepted the compliment without recalling how argumentative and grumpy her boys had been at breakfast. Stephanie found that a little self-deception, now and then, went a long way when mothering.
6
Pip’s journey home was entirely different from her journey into London. She decided that rather than take a tube, which meant entering the bowels of London and risking fatal injury in a stampede for a seat, she’d walk back to Waterloo.
Pip breezed along Oxford Street, dodging shoppers with large bags full of early season bargains and turned right on to Regent Street. The name alone made her straighten her back and hold her head up a fraction higher, it offered such promise, the street was swollen with grand history and achievement. Usually, Pip slunk along Regent Street, enviously staring at the glamorous windows which framed garments with out-of-reach price tags, but today she thought the pretty window displays, incorporating Easter bunnies and frolicking lambs, seemed fun and frivolous. She did not find them intimidating. She actually twirled around, arms spread wide, when she reached Trafalgar Square. Every step she took was a celebration in its own right. She crossed the Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo and actually smiled at passing strangers, forgetting her own rule that dictated by doing so she might appear insane. She beamed unselfconsciously and was pleasantly surprised that most people smiled back at her – who knew? Her steps were vivid. Her hair lifted in the breeze. She turned her head to The Gherkin, St Paul’s and the OXO tower and felt she was part of it all.
Part of the history. Part of the future.
Finally life was falling into place. Easily, naturally, like a routine by impressive synchronised swimmers. She belonged. She was a success. Nothing was the same as it had been this morning. For a start she was carrying two rather large, sleek, yellow cardboard bags. Selfridges bags. Hurrah! Somehow the quality card and jaunty colour said it all – the person carrying these bags is having a fantastic life.
Everything had changed in a matter of forty-five minutes. In forty-five minutes Pip had become the sort of person who could buy an expensive jar of whole kalamata olives (in a marinade of fresh oregano, garlic, peppercorns and extra virgin olive oil), when usually she bought basic green ones, by the quarter, over the counter in the supermarket and then only as a treat. She had been transformed into the sort of person who bought organic hand-cut crisps (cracked sea salt and refined balsamic vinegar), rather than Walkers. She was the sort of person who could buy a chocolate fountain. No one had a real need for a chocolate fountain, Pip realised that. But she and Chloe had once seen such a thing in action, at Pip’s uncle’s sixtieth birthday party, and Chloe had been mesmerised. She thought the fountain was magical, that the chocolate was unlimited which was surely the stuff of girls’ dreams everywhere. Pip wanted to make Chloe’s dreams come true. If she could, she’d buy her a pony, give her the ability to recall her eight-times table at will and conjure up a prince for her to marry; as it was, she was limited to buying the chocolate fountain. Still, it was a start. A glorious, indulgent, wrapped-in-a-yellow-cardboard-bag start! Not that she’d actually earned any hard cash in those forty-five minutes but the promise of it was enough to buoy her up.
She stepped on to the train with a full three minutes to spare. She felt secure and organised. She paused and looked for a free seat facing the direction of travel, away from a skanky loo. She settled into a seat and placed her shopping bags on the one next to her so as to discourage anyone sitting close by, she wanted to have a few moments to privately luxuriate in the glorious thought of her success.
Pip stared out of the window as the train sped, unstopping, through small stations. She noticed that at each station there was a tiny drama playing out. At the first, there was a mother frantically trying to persuade her reluctant, plank-like toddler to submit to sitting in the buggy. Pip knew from experience that the toddler was unlikely to do so, preferring instead to carelessly charge around the platform, causing the mother’s heart to leap into her mouth time and time again. At the next station Pip briefly glimpsed embracing lovers. The girl was holding the lapels of the boy’s jacket, he was holding the belt loops of her jeans, they pulled one another close. They melted into each other, unaware that a train had just whizzed by and unconcerned that they were being watched. At another station a middle-aged couple silently shared a sandwich, rather than an embrace, but Pip saw that there was something quite marvellous about the sandwich sharing, it had a special intimacy. Pip spotted business people with laptops, waiting for their trains. They stood shoulder to shoulder with grandparents visiting their offsprings’ offspring and at a cautious distance from moody and bleak teenagers, hidden under heavy hoods.
Pip wanted to lean out of the window and yell to the teenagers that it was all OK. She wanted to reassure them that they did not need to feel so bleak or look so glum. Life was stretched out in front of them, just like a long rail track, it was all theirs for the taking, but she couldn’t. The windows of modern trains were not designed for such romantic gestures. They were designed to open just an inch or so, to allow ventilation but minimise the amount of rubbish that could be thrown on to the tracks (or maybe minimise the amount of bodies thrown on to the tracks. Something that Pip thought was more likely to happen because people were unable to shout encouragement to one another when the urge took them).
Pip was in such a fabulous mood that everywhere she looked she saw potential and possibilities. She wondered if the group of middle-aged ladies, with bright blouses, that she’d travelled with this morning was having fun in London. She hoped so. Now, she imagined that perhaps they’d have lunch in a smart restaurant and then buy expensive cosmetics.
‘Hello, again.’
Pip looked up and saw that the man who wasn’t a teacher was sitting diagonally opposite her. She was stunned. What were the chances? Minuscule. Less than that. And yet here he was, on her train. It took Pip just a fraction of a moment to decide that this second coincidental meeting must mean something. Something beyond the fact that he too must have had a meeting in London, which just happened to last as long as hers had and therefore he was going home at about the same time too.
‘I’m not stalking you,’ exclaimed Pip. The instant she said as much, she regretted it. She would have been better advised to simply smile and say hello back.
‘No, I realise that. You sat down first. I saw you and moved seat. I came to sit near you on the off chance we could strike up a conversation,’ he said, with a wide and cheerful grin which exposed slightly crooked teeth.
Pip was somehow reassured by his frank confession and the small imperfection. Crooked teeth were standard issue for a kid growing up in Britain in the 1980s, nowadays dentists worried about overbites and whitening as though all their patients were destined to have careers as TV presenters but it wasn’t always the case. He looked about her age, maybe a bit younger, it was hard to tell with men, people her age only had perfect teeth if they’d bought them as an adult and that level of spare time and spare money was alien to Pip. Somewhere deep inside she felt something urgent that made her sure that she didn’t want this man to be alien. Besides, if it wasn’t for his slightly dodgy teeth, this man might be ridiculously attractive and then she would do something stupid like lose her ability to speak.
‘Oh,’ she replied.
‘So, you might think I’m stalking you. Except that you moved seats first on the journey in. That makes it one all. Not so much stalking as mutual appreciation.’
‘Oh.’
He spoke quickly and confidently. He had a Scottish accent, a soft lilt that made her feel instantly at ease with him. She was incredibly flattered by his attention.
He was probably a serial killer.
‘Robbie Donaldson.’
Robbie stretched across the
aisle to hold out his hand for Pip to shake. A polite serial killer, she noted.
Pip looked around the train. It was full of teenagers who had spent the day in London shopping, although they’d probably tell their parents they’d been researching in galleries and libraries for their GCSEs. She thought it was probably safe enough to have a conversation with this man, in public, in broad daylight.
‘Pip,’ she said, taking his hand and shaking it. She decided not to offer up her second name, just to be on the safe side.
‘So you’ve had a pretty good day at Selfridges,’ he asserted, in his charming, attractive tone.
Was he a mind-reader? wondered Pip. How could he possibly know about the contract? Then she realised he was looking at her huge yellow bags, stuffed with goodies, and he simply meant she’d had a good day shopping. For reasons that she didn’t have time to fully analyse Pip realised that she wanted to draw a distinction between her and all the other shoppers on the train, she wanted to impress him.
‘Actually these are congratulatory treats.’
‘Who are you congratulating?’
‘Myself.’
Robbie Donaldson cocked an eyebrow which invited her to go on and Pip didn’t need to be asked twice. Delighted with her own success, she told him all about her fruitful meeting.
‘So you’re going to be one of those women that I read about in the Guardian. Women who become cottage industry millionaires,’ he commented, with a broad grin, clearly impressed.
‘Maybe,’ she laughed, enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of being impressive.
For the first time in a long time good fortune seemed possible. Probable, even. Why the heck couldn’t she become a millionaire? Well, at least a success. Maybe a stonking success. He was right, you did read about it all the time. It happened. Why might it not happen to her? She beamed at Robbie and he grinned back at her. The strangest thing happened. It was probably the successful meeting that was making her feel so free and frivolous but Pip couldn’t deny it. His smile detonated a fizzy bomb of sensations throughout her body. A fizzy bomb that, if she scurried around her deepest memories, she vaguely recognised. Yes, yes it was. Lust. Oh. My. God. She checked, mentally taking her own temperature and pulse. It was true. A definite, intoxicating mix of curiosity, delight and magnetism sloshed and swished around her stomach and head, with the rapidity and determination of a babbling stream rushing over a stone. There was nothing serial killer about him, she was pretty sure of it. Everything about him was glowing and positive and gentle.
‘So, we’ve established you’re not a teacher then?’ she commented.
She’d been talking about herself for twenty minutes, it was only polite to ask a bit about him and besides, she wanted to know all about him. In fact, she had an urge to start compiling a dossier because while it had been only twenty minutes, Pip was beginning to think that Robbie Donaldson might be someone she’d like to get to know a little better. A lot better? Pip was surprised to feel any sort of interest or attraction. True, before Dylan she’d been in the habit of falling utterly in love, or at least in lust, within the first three minutes of setting eyes on a bloke. But since Dylan she hadn’t met anyone she felt the slightest bit curious about, despite well-intentioned friends occasionally arranging dinner parties that often had a spare man, who just happened to be seated next to Pip. While Pip understood that these meddlesome friends were trying to be helpful, her repeated response to a situation like that was to stay in the kitchen for as long as possible. She sometimes washed up (even when the hosts had a dishwasher), just to avoid the embarrassing and cloying set-ups. And yet, here she was having a conversation with Robbie Donaldson that while not actually flirty was certainly encouraging.
‘I’m a nurse,’ said Robbie.
Pip put a lot of effort into resisting quipping that she thought he’d have a terrific bedside manner. ‘What sort of nurse?’
‘I’m a fertility nurse.’
Pip gasped despite herself. She didn’t know what to say to this man who looked at vaginas for a living. She silently berated herself. What a shallow thing to think! She pushed the thought out of her mind but was distressed to find it was replaced with the question, ‘What sort of man becomes a fertility nurse?’ She shook her head a fraction, in order to clear it. That was a petty, small-minded thought too. Pip was not in the habit of being small-minded. She knew full well that gender should have nothing to do with career choice. Hadn’t she always been in favour of equal rights? Hadn’t she often staunchly defended a woman’s right to become an astronaut, or a footballer or a forklift truck driver (if the desire struck) with the more sexist men she’d come across in her past (usually in Steph’s front room, Steph knew a lot of conservative people)? Pip had worked in fashion, a traditionally feminine industry where men thrived. Gay men mostly, she admitted reluctantly. She stole a look at Robbie. Was he gay? Oh please, God, don’t let him be gay, she silently muttered.
‘It always throws people,’ said Robbie, flashing an understanding smile that seemed to communicate that he’d read her mind and that he’d forgiven her prejudice. ‘It does take a bit of getting used to. But I love my work.’
Pip wanted to ask what bit did he love exactly, but before she could, Robbie commented, ‘The hours are long and sometimes unpredictable though. Shift work is an assassin to a social life.’
‘Oh.’
‘But I am free tonight. I don’t know if you have any plans?’
It had been so long since Pip had been asked on a date that, for a moment, she didn’t compute that she was being asked on one. Once she had registered as much she was completely at a loss as to how to respond. Should she instantly snap up his offer? Should she be demure and say she had plans? After all, she did have plans. She was supposed to be knocking up a skirted apron for the Selfridges buyer. Pip was extremely tempted to ignore her responsibilities and scamper off into the sunset with this man, as she had always done in the past. She fought her instinctual response and thought of Chloe. She would need a babysitter for her if she went out tonight and she could hardly ask Steph to do the honours, as she’d refused Steph’s offer to celebrate on the grounds she had to work.
‘We could catch a movie,’ added Robbie. She still didn’t respond, so Robbie began to adjust his offer. ‘Or grab a bowl of pasta. Whatever you fancy doing.’
He didn’t know whether he was being too full on and therefore off-putting. Should he downgrade to a less demanding offer, like a drink? Or wasn’t he being impressive enough? Did this woman expect champagne cocktails in a trendy London watering hole and then theatre and an after-show dinner, at least three courses? He had no idea. He was out of practice when it came to asking women out.
‘I’ll need to get a babysitter,’ said Pip finally.
‘You have children?’
‘One child. A daughter, Chloe. She’s eight.’ Pip waited to see if the lovely fertility nurse liked offspring in theory but recoiled from them in reality, the way some of her prospective dates had in the past.
‘Beautiful name,’ he commented. Pip scanned his face but couldn’t see any outward signs of panic. ‘So going out tonight is a bit unrealistic. I imagine you’ll need more notice to find a sitter.’
Pip hardly dared breathe. Was he back-pedalling? She hoped not and feared so. Naturally, the moment there was the slightest hint that he might be at all reluctant or recanting, she found she wanted him with a certainty and ferocity. It wasn’t her fault so much as her habit.
She realised she had nothing to worry about when he added, ‘How about Friday? Do you think that might work? That will give you time to find a sitter. If I give you my mobile and my home number then you can call me to confirm.’
‘OK,’ she mumbled.
Damn, damn, damn. If she took his number, it was up to her to make a call to him. She hated that idea. She already knew that either she’d lose her nerve and never call, or even if she had the intention of calling, she might lose his number and not be able to do so! At the very l
east, assuming she managed to keep hold of the number (and her nerve), she would then be faced with that awful dilemma of wondering when exactly she ought to call. Was it right to call as soon as she had a sitter confirmed or should she wait a little longer? She’d probably phone Steph to ask her to sit as soon as she got off the train, but she couldn’t call Robbie today to confirm for a Friday date, could she? That would appear far too eager. Too desperate. She’d have to leave it at least twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight. What were the rules nowadays? Pip didn’t know. She’d always got it wrong. Even before Dylan. She blamed the plethora of self-help guides and rule books that she’d read on the subject. They were confidence-sapping, confusing, contradictory and yet compulsive.
It all started when someone or other wrote an entire book of dating rules, detailing exactly when a woman should call, how long the call should last and what she should say if she got voicemail. Pip had devoured that book and played by the suggested rules for some months (although admittedly without finding true love). Then someone else had come along and written another book which said the first rule book had got it all wrong. The second author claimed there were no rules and that you had to treat each case on an individual basis and exactly like a business deal. Then there was the third book that argued, no matter what, a girl must never approach a romantic situation like a business deal but she must follow her heart instead.
Pip had read all the books, The Definitive Rules for Dating, More Rules for Dating, The Little Book of Dating Rules, The Big Book of Dating Rules, The Ten Essential Dating Rules, The Lifetime of Rules, The Text Rules for Dating. What had she been reading when she met Dylan? she wondered. The truth was, while she knew all the rules and had sometimes followed them, sometimes broken them, it didn’t seem to make any difference. The only real winners when it came to dating guidebooks were the authors, who no doubt laughed all the way to the bank. Pip felt fretful and anguished. Why couldn’t she just take his number and enjoy the moment? Why was she paralysed with indecision?