Million Love Songs

by Carole Matthews

  ‘What do you think, Gary?’ I ask him.

  No answer. Then I realise that I’m talking out loud to a cardboard cut-out and wonder what has become of my life.

  So I decide to take a bit of action. I have a few hours before work, so I’m going to get out in the world and give it all I’ve got. Exercise is the way forward! I can expend all my excess energy – not that I have any of it – and while away a pleasant few hours to boot.

  I swipe my boldest red lipstick on as I pout at the mirror. Then I remember that I’ve just decided to go running and think about swiping it off again. I don’t want to be one of those women running round the lake in full war paint. Actually, I don’t want to be one of those women running full stop. I don’t like the feeling of everything jiggling around. Yoga sounds more appealing, as you get to sit down a lot. But all my money has been blown on stupid scuba-diving lessons which means I can’t afford classes and running is free. So running it is. Where I live I can literally run out of my door and be right on the path around the lake. That has to be some kind of incentive. Plus exercise releases endorphins and I am desperately in need of a few of those.

  So here I am in my ratty old jogging bottoms – I’m sure they weren’t this tight when I last wore them – and a vest top that’s seen better days. But I’m only going to get all hot and sweaty so who cares what I look like. I scrape my hair into a scrunchie and am all good to go. When I come back I’ll have to wash my hair and put on my slap ready for work. It would be nice if all the walking I do while waiting tables kept on top of my calorie consumption, but it doesn’t. So needs must. I can’t slide into middle age without at least trying to make a valiant effort. Basically, I’m running out of time to get this relationship shit together. No pressure at all.

  There’s been no contact from either Joe or Mason. Not even a measly phone call. I am back wandering round the eternal desert of dating. I’m even considering Tinder – that’s how desperate I am. I’m not sure anyone on Tinder would swipe left because I don’t have toned thighs. Many of the men on there seem to set their criteria quite low.

  ‘What do you think of Tinder, Gary?’ I ask The Barlow. ‘Shall I give it a go?’

  As usual, he keeps his counsel.

  In the absence of any useful relationship advice from my cardboard friend, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and head out to the lake. It’s a glorious summer Saturday morning. The sun is already high in the sky and it’s a day for barbecuing or something like that. Everything looks better with a bit of sunshine on it. That’s probably why I’ve got this ridiculous urge to run. The circular path around the lake is already busy with folk enjoying the weather. Dotted around the edge of the sparkling water are fishermen with their tents and paraphernalia already set up for the day, families out for a stroll and the ubiquitous Lycra-clad cyclists.

  I pop in my headphones, flick the iPod to ‘Running Music’ – though I think the Trade Descriptions Act might have occasion to rebuke me for calling what I actually do ‘running’ – and set off at a sedate lumber around the lake. Within seconds I’m gasping for breath. I can’t remember last when I did this, but I’m sure it wasn’t quite so painful or pitiful. I stagger past the kids on Star Wars scooters and pink bikes with stabilisers and sparkly streamers from the handlebars. I dodge the dog walkers and the daydreaming dawdlers, all the time puffing like an old train. No one should need to humiliate themselves thus. Why can’t you get fit by lying on the sofa with a good glass of Pinot and a box set of Breaking Bad? It seems to me that, as a species, we have some very basic design flaws.

  By the time I reach the opposite side of the lake to my granny annexe – the point of no return – my face is the shade of a ripe tomato, there’s a fire in my lungs and I think I might actually expire on the spot. I stand doubled over, trying to catch what very well might be the last breath in my body. I’ve got a stitch under my ribs, calves that are threatening to cramp and thighs that are wobbling like jellies. Oh, the indignity of it all.

  As I’m bending over, attractively dripping sweat on the floor, I feel a nip on the back of my leg and shoot upright. As I whirl round there’s a black-necked Canada goose an inch behind me. It hisses at me and I step back, only to find that it’s brought all its mates with it too for backup. They are the thugs of the goose world as, in a flash, they have me completely surrounded, honking and hissing in a threatening manner. They’re clearly hungry and in search of bread. They must think I’ve got some secreted down my joggers or perhaps I eat so much bread that I carry the air of it about my person. Whichever way, they obviously think I’m holding out on the carb front.

  ‘Shoo,’ I say and the ringleader nips me again. ‘Ouch.’ I try stamping my foot while looking as menacing as I can, but it rears up and flexes its wings. Bugger. I’m the one who backs down. The goose gives me the evil eye. His glinty-eyed expression says ‘Unless there’s bread, lady, you’re not getting out of here alive.’

  I try edging away from them, but they’re immoveable and bold. A few more have a test nip at me. Perhaps these aren’t bread-eating geese, but have morphed into cannibals and are looking to eat me instead of a bit of stale Warburtons’ Toastie. Shit. I’m a townie and live in the middle of a city, but Costa del Keynes is a hotbed of wildlife. They’re everywhere – ducks, woodpeckers, kingfishers, foxes, you name it, and, of course, these wretched geese.

  ‘Nice geese,’ I say and have another go at breaching their defences, but they have me corralled.

  I think they are pretty useless as geese go. I don’t think you can eat them and they poo everywhere. What exactly is their purpose in the food chain? While I’m contemplating this, another one bites me and it’s a proper bite this time, not a nip.

  ‘Fucker!’ I jump up and down a bit, but that only attracts more geese. Soon, I’m in a sea of them, marooned in the middle. I lift up my arms and wave them, but that only makes them stand taller and some of them come right up to my chest. I’m thinking about shouting for help, but don’t know if anyone would hear me above all this threatening hissing and honking. I might have to jump in the lake and swim for it, but then I remember that geese are fully capable of being water borne too. Yikes. What on earth am I going to do?

  Then I hear a voice say, ‘Come on, boys. Leave the nice lady alone,’ and I spin round. Joe is approaching in a purposeful manner, he claps his hands in a very manly way and strides towards me.

  The geese scatter instantly. Bastards. Why didn’t they do that for me? In an instant, they’re looking innocent again, foraging on the bank of the lake, gliding about serenely on the water. Yeah, butter wouldn’t melt in your mouths, evil geese. I know differently.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ I say with genuine relief. ‘I thought I was a goner.’

  ‘Always available to rescue a damsel in distress,’ he says with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I couldn’t leave you there being goosed.’

  Quite.

  ‘I’m not good with animals. I try to avoid them at all costs unless they’re on my plate. It’s a good job you came along when you did.’

  ‘We’re just out for a walk.’ He looks over his shoulder and there are two children hanging back. Both of them looking as if they’d rather be anywhere else. ‘I wanted to drag them away from their computer screens for an hour.’ The boy has headphones in and both have every atom of their being concentrated on their phones. ‘I thought it would be fun.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m beginning to realise that I’m in the minority.’

  Wow, so these are actually Joe’s children. Until now they’ve been a kind of abstract concept. There in the background, but not exactly three-dimensional. I did, indeed, begin to wonder if they might be imaginary kids, but here they are, flesh and blood. Joe’s flesh and blood even. They’re certainly good-looking kids. They’re dark-haired like Joe and have his eyes. They look even more like him in real life than they did in the photo he showed me on the dive day. I’m sure Joe has also told me all about them, but I can’t quite remember the details
. I should have paid more attention, but perhaps I never really believed that I’d ever meet them.

  The girl, Daisy I think, looks about twelve. Her curly hair falls to her shoulders and she’s heartbreakingly pretty. She’s tall for her age, but as thin as a pin. Her pink sweatshirt, leggings and sparkly pink trainers announce to the world that she’s the girliest of girly girls – and no harm in that. As you know I’m partial to a bit of girly stuff myself. Maybe we’d get along just fine.

  The boy, Tom, is about fifteen and is tall, rangy, uncomfortable in the way he holds his body – as only teenage boys do when they’re not quite sure whether they’re a man or still a boy. His hair is gelled within an inch of its life in an attempt to tame his curls, I’d guess. He looks pretty cool in his Superdry T-shirt and skinny jeans and I bet he’s the school heartthrob.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen Joe with his children and it seems weird. Until now I’ve only really seen him as a single entity hottie, now here he is as a family man and a father. Although we’ve discussed it enough, it suddenly feels like a step change. A bit like when you see your dentist out of uniform at the pub and, for a minute, you don’t quite recognise the person you think you know.

  Joe shouts over his shoulder, ‘Daisy, Tom, come and say hello to Ruby.’

  They barely look up and both mutter ‘Hi,’ in my general direction.

  ‘Hi, kids.’ I sound overly chirpy, like a CBeebies presenter.

  Neither of them looks impressed and I wish I’d bumped into all of them while dressed in proper clothing, in full make-up and not being mugged by greedy geese. I know that Joe’s told me that he’s not ready for a relationship as he has commitments and wants to put his kids first after what they’ve been through. I understand that. But it’s different seeing them here in front of me. He does have other priorities. I get that now. Keeping two traumatised teenagers happy must be a full-time job.

  ‘I’ve been showing Ruby how to scuba-dive,’ Joe explains to them.

  Clearly, this doesn’t rock their world. Eventually, Tom tears himself away from his screen and glances up through his fringe. ‘Cool.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ Joe asks.

  ‘I haven’t really been going,’ I confess. ‘Busy and all that. I should phone Bob and explain.’

  ‘That’s a shame. You were doing well.’

  I shrug. ‘You know how it is.’ Somehow I have lost the incentive.

  Then we’re a bit awkward with each other and Joe has half of his attention on the kids.

  ‘I’d better carry on before they come back,’ I say, one eye on the geese who are waddling determinedly in my direction again. Though I don’t really want Joe to see how much of me jiggles when I jog. ‘Thanks again. I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He looks thoughtful when he says it. ‘Bye, Ruby.’

  I wave and set off again, trying to look like a proper runner and not like a slug. I hope to God and all that is good that he’s not watching me.

  ‘Damn,’ I mutter to myself again. ‘Damn.’ I like him and, in different circumstances, I think he might like me too.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Then Joe calls after me: ‘The kids are going to Gina next weekend. I’m free on Saturday night, if you’re around.’

  That stops me in my tracks. I’m working and have no idea how I’ll get out of my shift as no one, NO ONE, wants to swap a Saturday shift. ‘Yes, I’m free too.’ I shout back.

  ‘Great. Pizza or something?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  He grins at me. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’

  I refrain from saying, ‘It’s a date,’ because, quite obviously, IT IS a flipping date! Yay! Go me! I have a date with the rather delectable and previously reluctant Joe Edwards. Clearly, he can’t resist my skanky running look.

  Now his kids are paying attention too. They’ve both looked up from their phones and are gaping, slightly open-mouthed. Take that, teens! The oldies still have it.

  Waving, I set off again. IhaveadateIhaveadateIhaveadate! I also have wings on my feet all the way back to the granny annexe and, until I collapse gasping on the steps up to my flat with oxygen debt, I barely notice that I’m in complete agony.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  ‘Swap shifts with me,’ I beg Charlie on our bench.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pretty please.’

  She sucks on her e-cigarette. ‘No, no, no. Thrice no.’

  It’s too cold to be sitting out on the bench today, but I don’t want any of the other staff overhearing this conversation, particularly not our manager. Charlie and I huddle together and she pulls her jacket around her. Our summer is coming and going as British summers are prone to do. Yesterday, shorts and scorchio. Today, cold enough for coats. The sky is as flat and dreary as Farrow and Ball paint.

  ‘I can’t miss this date with Joe.’ I try to sound as pathetic as I can. ‘He could be the love of my life, the one I’ve been looking for.’

  ‘He’ll wait,’ Charlie says.

  ‘He might not.’ I do my imploring face. ‘He hardly ever gets any free time to himself. He’s always got his kids and his ex-wife yanks his chain.’

  ‘That should tell you something.’

  But I don’t listen to that bit. ‘I’ll swap you one shift for two shifts. Double bubble.’

  ‘No. And don’t even think about phoning in sick and dumping your work on the rest of us.’

  ‘I would never do that.’ I was thinking of it.

  ‘I’ll grass you up to Shagger Soames.’

  ‘It’s just one little Saturday. I’ll never do it again. I promise.’

  She sighs. ‘Have you ever heard of playing hard to get?’ Charlie fixes me with a stern gaze. ‘First you go running off to Paris with Shagger and we both know how that ended up.’ She makes lascivious movements with her fingers, giving me a flashback to the night of my threesome with Mason as my dear friend had intended.

  I hold up a hand. ‘Don’t.’

  Unperturbed, she continues, ‘Now you’re chasing after this bloke who’s saddled with a couple of surly kids.’

  ‘I’m not chasing him,’ I point out. ‘He’s the one who changed his mind.’ I hug my knees to my chest and try to pretend I’m not on the verge of shivering. ‘The thing is, there are so few good guys out there that I want the chance to grab one while I can.’ I don’t mention that I think Charlie is letting one of the good guys slip through her fingers. And I don’t mean Gary Barlow. She could have a lovely relationship with Nice Paul but, for very good reasons, she’s closed herself off to any possibility of that happening.

  ‘I can’t keep up with you,’ Charlie says. ‘One minute it’s all on with Shagger. The next it’s Joe. I don’t know how you cope.’

  ‘I confuse myself,’ I admit. ‘Though, in fairness, I haven’t even had a proper date with Joe yet and I haven’t seen Mason for weeks. I’m not in a mutually exclusive relationship with either of them.’

  ‘Mutually exclusive, eh? Big words. Sounds as if you’ve swallowed a copy of Cosmo. I should also point out that you’re not exactly in any sort of relationship with either of them.’

  ‘Good point, well made,’ I tell her.

  The trouble is, I want to be cautious and not get involved with the wrong sort again. I know, like Charlie, you’re thinking of my dalliance with Mason – but that was me having fun. Although it didn’t quite turn out as I expected and I learned my lesson. This time, I’m staying away from the baddies. I’ve realised that I can’t do sex without strings. I like to be in a relationship. I’m coming to understand more of who I am and, at fast approaching forty years old, that has to be a good thing, right?

  ‘I want you to know that I’m doing this under extreme duress,’ Charlie says. ‘Also, because I have two Gary events on the calendar that I might need you to cover.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I say without hesitation.

  ‘OK. I’ll swap shifts,’ she says. ‘I’ll leave you to tell Jay.’

&n
bsp; ‘I love you.’

  Charlie waves a hand, dismissively. ‘Cupboard love.’

  ‘Let’s hang out after we finish work tonight,’ I suggest. ‘We can watch a crap film and crack a bottle of something. My treat.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ Charlie says. Then she fixes me with a stare. ‘You’re my best friend and I love you but don’t come crying to me when it all goes horribly wrong, Ruby Brown.’

  ‘I won’t. Cross my heart and hope to die.’ Besides, and I’m only telling you this, I have a very good feeling about this one.

  Later, much later, I’m behind the bar pulling a pint when Mason rocks up at the pub. I’ve kind of been dreading seeing him and wondering why I haven’t at the same time.

  ‘Evening, Ms Brown,’ he says. ‘What are you doing behind the bar?’

  ‘Ben didn’t turn in for his shift. It’s all hands to the pump. Literally.’ Clearly our boss has finished his taxing stint at the Grand Prix season for the time being and is coming to see what his minions are up to. ‘The place has been madness.’

  ‘I’ll take over,’ he says.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say a bit tartly. ‘I can manage.’

  Mason sighs at me. ‘Brown, no need to fight me on everything. Let me help.’

  So I capitulate and he finishes pulling the pint with expert skill. ‘I should have called,’ he says. ‘I’ve been busy, but it was very remiss of me.’

  I shrug as if I couldn’t care less. Which I almost don’t. ‘I’ve been busy too.’

  ‘Come to the club tonight after we’ve finished here. We can catch up over cocktails.’ He puts a hand on my waist.

  I slap his hand away. ‘That’s sexual harassment. Hands off the workers.’

  ‘You didn’t seem to protest too much in Paris,’ he reminds me and he gives me a cheeky squeeze. Part of me – a tiny part – is pleased to see Mason back in the pub and it’s not simply because we’re so short-handed tonight.