Chapter Six
Max
Tom: Dude, I’m bored. Why are you working on a Saturday?
Max: I’m not.
Tom: Average age of current company?
Max: Seventy-nine?
Tom: I knew it.
I look up from my phone and across the courtyard, the community garden party in full swing. We put them on every quarter, each season lending itself to a different celebration. And God knows the patients here deserve a reason to celebrate, Peggy more than anyone. I know you shouldn’t have favourites in this job, but I’ve worked with Peggy for over a year now. She was one of the first patients I visited, and we just clicked. Her family remind me of my own, and, well, there was the tiny fact that we met just after the chance to visit my grandmother was gone.
Looking at her now, chair pushed up to the plastic picnic table, laughing and surrounded by friends, I can tell she’s having a good day. From across the courtyard she smiles and waves. I raise a hand in response before I realise that she’s actually smiling past me. Turning around, I see Amy striding confidently over to her, a plate of burgers in hand. It’s probably too early in the year for a barbecue, but the sun is shining, and with spring just around the corner, there didn’t seem any reason to wait. Seeing Peggy and the other care-home residents reaching for the burgers, laughing and chatting, I’m really glad we didn’t.
Tom: Let’s go for a drink.
Max: No date tonight?
Tom: No, you’ve edited out my normal crowd.
Max: I promise it’ll be better in the long run. You don’t want women like that anyway.
Tom: No, you’re right.
Max: I’m always right.
Tom: No you’re not. You’re spending your Saturday surrounded by a bunch of old folk.
Max: The average age has just come down a bit actually.
Tom: Shit, someone died?
Max: No, you idiot.
Max: Amy’s here.
I watch as Amy helps an elderly patient to her feet, guiding her across the courtyard and towards her room for a lie-down. I know this is my chance to make a move.
‘Is this seat taken?’ I say a little flirtatiously as I gesture to the worn plastic chair.
‘I thought you’d never ask.’ Peggy smiles up at me. Her deep brown eyes swim with memories, even when she’s feeling muddled. After watching the early symptoms of her dementia deteriorate, my heart leaps at her instant recognition of me. I know the stats: that once the symptoms start, they never really go, but Peggy’s strength shines through regardless.
As I take a seat beside her, my phone buzzes to life in my pocket. Tom’s been surrounded by strong women too, ever since I poked his dating profile into shape, but I can tell from the messages he’s been sending me all day that he’s not been chatting to many of them. Turns out it’s much easier to get a conversation going with a cheeky Netflix and chill than actually having to think of something witty or insightful to say.
Tom: Tell her I say hi.
Max: Tell her yourself. Swing round here before we go for a drink.
I used to miss Tom when he was with Yvonne every weekend. It was one of the reasons I ramped up my visits to the care homes in the first place. But clearly without the distraction of a catch-all approach to dating, he now has more time on his hands.
‘You young people and your computers,’ Peggy says, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.
‘It’s not a computer, Peggy, it’s a . . .’ I begin, before I realise she’s joking.
‘How old do you think I am?’ Her laugh is dirty and deep. ‘Don’t answer that.’
‘I would like to pretend I don’t know.’ I reach across the table to grab the lemonade and pour us both a glass. ‘But your eighty-fourth was a hoot.’
‘Max,’ she reaches a heavily veined hand to rest on mine, ‘you’re twenty-seven years old. Please don’t use words like hoot.’ She erupts into laughter again and I can’t help but do the same.
‘It was, though.’ I squeeze her hand tight. ‘Roger was trying to dance with you all night.’
‘Roger tries to dance with all the girls,’ Peggy says, and even though Roger has a good sixty years on Tom, I can’t help but think of my friend. ‘He can be a right little whacker.’
I spray my mouthful of lemonade everywhere.
‘What did you just say?’
‘Whacker, Max, whacker,’ Peggy scolds me, before adding, ‘Bit of a wanker too, to be fair.’
And that’s it. I’m gone. Where on earth can I find a woman like Peggy, just perhaps fifty or so years younger?
‘What are you troublemakers laughing at?’ Amy’s voice rings through our spluttering, as Peggy wipes a tear of laughter from her eyes. Amy narrows hers at me: you’ll tire her out if you’re not careful, Max. But I’m pretty sure Peggy will be the last one standing at the party, as usual – well, sitting and chatting at this table, at least.
‘There’s only one troublemaker around here, Amy.’ I smile as Peggy pretends to look innocent. Amy laughs, brushing a loose strand of long curly hair behind her ear.
‘Burger?’ She thrusts a fresh plate of them under my nose.
‘I shouldn’t, dear,’ Peggy says mischievously. ‘I’m watching my weight.’
‘So are we,’ Amy says. The staff here are brilliant at knowing what to watch out for, how to keep the patients well watered and well fed. Also how to say it in a way that doesn’t make them sound like plants. ‘Max?’ She elongates my name, eyes trying to tempt me.
‘I’d better not,’ I sigh. ‘I’m going out for food later.’
‘Ooh, who with?’ Amy looks genuinely interested.
‘Just Tom,’ I say, and I swear her face lights up. She’s seen him in passing once or twice: trying to sneak into the odd fund-raiser, or waiting discreetly in our office reception. Turns out sneak and discreetly are tricky words for a man as tall as him.
‘Again?’ Amy plays with her hair. Peggy nudges me under the table. Ow. She’s pretty strong for a woman her age.
‘What?’ I hiss.
‘What are you doing with your weekend, sweetheart?’ Peggy smiles up at Amy.
‘Thanks for asking, Peggy,’ Amy says. It sounds like a dig. What have I done now? ‘Just having some drinks. Us single late-twenties girls have to stick together of a weekend.’
‘So do we mid-eighties ones.’ Peggy nods.
‘Speak for yourself, Peggy,’ Tabatha shouts from the other side of the picnic table. ‘I’m only seventy-seven.’ Everyone who registers the comment laughs; Tabatha is hardly a spring chicken. ‘Amy, can you help me to my room?’
‘That, Tabatha,’ Amy looks at me with a wink, ‘is an offer I can’t refuse.’
As soon as Amy is gone, Peggy gives me another whack under the table. Turns out she’s a bit of a whacker too.
‘What is your problem?’ I can’t help but laugh.
‘The early stages of dementia?’ Peggy looks deadly serious for a second; I don’t take the bait.
‘I mean with Amy.’
‘She likes you.’ Peggy says it like it’s obvious.
‘She doesn’t,’ I hiss back. ‘And even if she did, I don’t see her in that way.’
‘You have to put yourself out there sometime, Max. Life is short’ – easy for her to say; she’s eighty-four – ‘and love is wonderful.’
I know she misses her husband, Edwin, who passed away eight years ago. Her only son married an Australian woman, and though he Skypes from time to time and the world is getting smaller and all that, Sydney is still over ten thousand miles away. Your grandma was too far away too. Too far for you to visit. The thoughts threaten to surface before I push them back down.
‘Why don’t you get on that Kindling dating site?’
‘It’s called Tinder, Peggy.’
‘That’s r
ight.’ She nods as if it was on the tip of her tongue. How the hell does Peggy know about Tinder? I’d love to find out what she and the girls get up to when the staff and volunteers aren’t around. ‘Why don’t you try to find love on Tinder? Love is wonderful,’ she repeats, and for a moment I wonder whether she remembers saying it first time around.
‘I’m not sure people really find love on Tinder?’
‘Well, lust is pretty wonderful too,’ and Peggy’s dirty laugh is back. ‘Back in my day, I used to be quite the looker.’
‘I believe it,’ I say.
‘Flirt with someone your own age.’ She gives me a little slap on the wrist.
‘This man bothering you again, Margaret?’
I look up to see Tom striding across the courtyard.
‘You know it.’ Peggy raises her arms towards him, inviting him to bend down to her. ‘And you also know you can call me Peggy. Margaret sounds like an old person’s name.’
Tom grins. I love him for loving her too. For not trying to compare her to my grandma or equate my fondness of her with grief.
‘Mind if I take Max from you?’ Tom asks.
‘Be my guest.’ Peggy waves me away.
‘See you in a couple of days, Peggy.’ I lean in to kiss her on the cheek. It’s the most action I’ve got all year.
‘Oh hey, Tom.’ Amy walks back out into the courtyard and grins up at him – all of him – before turning to me. ‘Bye, Max, thanks for all your help today.’ Hey, Tom, bye, Max. Although I’m not in the market for a date, it’s always pretty hard to market yourself next to a friend like him.
‘It’s not really working.’ Tom takes a swig of his beer, looking down at his phone.
‘You breaking up with me?’
‘No, I mean your profile.’ He laughs, but he actually looks a little concerned.
‘Define not working?’
‘Well, I’ve matched with some stunners,’ he explains as I take a sip of my own pint, the foretaste of ‘but’ laced in his sentence. ‘But no one is really talking to me.’
‘Have you tried chatting to them?’
‘Isn’t the girl meant to start the conversation?’ Tom asks, as if I’m an expert.
‘I think it’s just on Bumble where the girl speaks first.’
‘No, I mean like as a rule . . . like, dating app etiquette?’
I shake my head. ‘I think it works both ways.’
‘Oh, right. Well, before they would always start the conversation, be really forward.’
‘Like propose-on-the-first-date forward?’
‘That was only one time!’ Tom laughs before realising he’s just given me an inch. ‘Not that that’s what happened. I was tying my shoelace and I promise I . . .’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘Shut up, mate, I’m being serious.’
‘I know, I know.’ I try to muster some sensitivity, which to be fair is usually quite close to the surface. ‘Well maybe these new women want you to work a bit harder.’
‘I know,’ Tom says. ‘But I don’t know what to say.’
He swipes across his screen to a picture of a woman in her late twenties with long braided hair and a killer smile. She’s stylishly dressed, hands on hips in a Superwoman stance. I read through her profile: Makena, aged twenty-nine. Writer. Loves drinks with her girlfriends in Camden. Art galleries and exhibitions are her vibe.
‘I mean, she’s proper fit and she likes all this high-brow stuff and . . . well, I can’t just drop in with a “hey”, can I?’
‘I mean, you could,’ I say. Isn’t that what normal people do?
‘But a girl like that is going to get loads of matches. I need to stand out from the crowd.’ Tom is six foot something and as stacked as anything; if he can’t stand out from the crowd, there’s little hope for the rest of us.
I look at him and it’s then that I realise just how much Yvonne’s cheating has knocked him. And as sad as it is, I totally get it. If you don’t have trust in your relationship, romantic or otherwise, what’s the point? It’s hard to come back from a let-down like that. My mind shoots to my grandma, how I let her down, how I wasn’t there for her, before I force my focus back into the room.
‘Is this about Yvonne?’ I ask, taking another sip of my drink, trying to dilute the directness of my question.
‘No, not really.’ The silence stretching between us gives him permission to go on. ‘Well, maybe,’ he sighs. ‘A little. Like, before, it was easy to just meet up, hook up and end things. But I could properly have a future with these other women, and that’s a bit scary . . .’
‘It is.’ I nod. I get that. It’s hard to put your heart on the line, especially if it’s already bruised. ‘Okay, so what you need is someone you can go a bit slower with; dip your toe in the water without swimming all the way down the aisle . . .’
‘Mate, your metaphors are getting worse.’ Tom smiles.
‘Let’s have a look at these profiles.’ I hold out my hand. ‘Maybe I’ll have more luck.’ Even as I say it, I don’t believe it, but Tom needs help.
‘Okay, and while you do that . . .’ he passes me his phone, replacing it with his work phone in record time; the screen version of a safety blanket, ‘I’ll get us another one.’
I look down at his cracked screen, caused by dropping a weight on it when he saw Yvonne at his gym after the break-up. A shattered screen to go with his shattered heart. It’s not like I can even blame her that much. He thought they were exclusive, she thought they weren’t – a classic case of mixed messages. Now Tom just needs to find a profile on the same page.
Lucy, aged twenty-six . . . Nope, he won’t want to date someone with the same name as his sister. Yvon – no way; all Yvonnes are out. Katie, aged thirty-three, proud single mother . . . I can’t imagine how brave you must be to put yourself out there like that: this is me, this is my life – take it or leave it. But Tom needs someone at the same life stage right now. Alice, aged twenty-four, actress, enjoys late nights out in Soho, sleeping until midday on Sundays . . . She looks like a model, they’d look great together. But Tom doesn’t need late nights out and sleeping until midday right now. He needs someone a little sweeter, kinder, funnier. Someone who’ll make dating fun and remind him that a bit of romance doesn’t go amiss either.
I swipe on, looking from face to face. Man, some of these girls are pretty, but I’m not going to find the girl of my dreams online. Becky, twenty-eight, nights in watching French movies with Camembert and wine. I scan over her answer to the favourite music question. ‘The first time I went to see the Coronas it was in Dublin and I was just thirteen. I sang along with thousands of people, feeling seen but safe in that rowdy crowd. They’ve been my favourite ever since.’ I look at her deep brown eyes and her petite figure and her massive smile. I know I’m not going to find the girl of my dreams online, but I’m pretty sure I’ve just found Tom’s.
Chapter Seven
Eve
‘Eve.’ I look up to see Becky back in her bundle on the sofa, Buster pretending to be a cushion by her side. ‘I think I drank too much last night.’ Her tired eyes gaze at me.
‘You think?’ I glance back at my diary; Sunday mornings are for planning ahead. ‘I know I did.’
Becky groans. ‘He bought shots,’ she explains, as if it’s a valid excuse. ‘I’m impressed you managed to run.’ She looks down at my workout gear, caught between respect and disdain.
‘I’m impressed you didn’t bring that guy home.’ I smile across at her before my face falls, eyes darting to the bedroom.
‘I didn’t.’ She laughs. ‘Turned out to be like forty-five, far too old for me.’
‘Not too old for you to accept his drinks, though.’
‘Eve.’ Becky pushes herself up. ‘Generosity has been shown to seriously decrease anxiety.’ She assumes a serious expression. ‘Who am I to take that from him?’
&nbs
p; ‘You’re such a giver,’ I say, rolling my eyes towards the ceiling; man, it’s so mouldy.
‘I am.’ She nods. ‘Thus bringing my own anxiety down in the process.’ For a woman as hung-over as she is, she’s making quite a valid point.
My mind skims over last night. Becky and Lola downing shots with ‘just call me Warren’. Makena, Lola and me swiping through Becky’s dating apps. Makena making shapes on the dance floor; Benj appearing to take Lola home when she began making slumping shapes of her own.
‘Have any luck with that guy?’ I ask over my weekly meal planner and open recipe book, trying not to sound too interested.
‘Who?’ Becky looks up from her phone, confused.
‘Tom, was it?’
For a moment Becky looks scared. She was drunk last night but not too drunk to forget speaking to someone. ‘Who the hell is—’
‘I matched with him on one of your apps last night,’ I explain. ‘Seemed pretty promising.’
She scrolls through her matches. ‘Oh man, he’s gorgeous.’ She seems to come to life. ‘Personal trainer, loves long walks, reading books and watching films with subtitles . . . Eve, he’s you in guy form.’
‘He’s not me.’ He seemed calmer than me, a little more balanced.
‘Well, to be fair, I really love you . . .’ Becky looks at me.
‘No, I’m not making you breakfast.’
‘No, I’m serious.’ She grins. ‘If he’s a bit like you, maybe we’ll actually work.’
‘He seems pretty great.’
‘Plus he’s fit.’ Her eyes widen at his photos, trying to take him all in. ‘But you matched with him last night, and he’s not said anything yet.’
‘Maybe you should make the first move.’
‘You know I don’t like doing that,’ she objects.
‘Becky, you stormed across a bar to drink shots with a middle-aged man called Warren last night. You can message some stranger a hello.’
Max
‘Hello?’ Tom looks at me over his coffee cup.
‘Too generic.’ I swipe away his suggestion. ‘I think you should go in with a question, something to open the conversation right up.’
What Are Friends For?: The will-they-won't-they romance of the year! Page 6