The Woman Who Met Her Match

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Wow! How long since you’ve seen each other?’

  ‘Oh, only thirty years—’

  ‘So, what’s he like now? Assuming you’ve forensically examined all his photos?’ She raises a brow.

  ‘’Course I have,’ I admit with a grin.

  And so the evening goes on, with us sniggering over my teenage Antoine obsession, the way I prowled about waiting for the postman, and once stopped him in the street and asked, ‘D’you have anything for number seventy- two?’ Sorry, he said, he wasn’t allowed to hand out mail in the street. We chuckle over Pearl’s first love – a boy at her judo club, which caused her to continue with the sport, even though she detested being thrown around and sat upon, until an ankle sprain forced her to quit. By our second drinks we are convulsing with laughter over Ralph’s bile-making panting in his office loo, and she is dismayed that I’ve suspended my datemylovelymum.com account.

  ‘Aw, what about all the work your kids put in, researching the sites, choosing the best one—’

  ‘Oh, come on! They just chose the one with the funniest name.’

  ‘Well, writing your profile, then—’

  ‘It was just a bit of fun to them,’ I remind her. ‘Not an exam essay. I mean, their futures won’t be affected just because their couple of paragraphs didn’t result in me meeting someone I actually want to see a second time.’

  Pearl tuts and delves into a packet of crisps. ‘I think you should have a few more goes.’

  I smile. ‘You’re making it sound like a coconut shy.’

  ‘Well, the more balls you throw, the better your chance of knocking one off …’

  ‘Sage advice,’ I tease her as we finish our drinks and set off for one final circuit of the park.

  A tall, red-headed man waves in the distance, and Pearl waves back. His syrup-coloured spaniel pulls on its lead.

  ‘You know him?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes – well, sort of. It’s a dog thing. His spaniel’s called Rosie. When you have a dog, you get to know all the other dog people but you rarely find out the humans’ names.’

  ‘Toby looks pleased to see them,’ I remark as he pulls forward, yapping excitedly.

  ‘Oh, yeah, he loves Rosie. They usually have a play about, bit of bum-sniffing, the usual date stuff …’ No sooner has she uttered the words when the man unclips Rosie’s lead, just as Pearl frees Toby. They bound towards each other in a whirl of wagging tails.

  ‘Hey, haven’t seen you in a while.’ The man smiles as he comes over, and what a smile he has: wide and warm and unguarded. He is wearing a faded sweatshirt over dark jeans and his red hair catches the evening sun. The park, I realise now, is milling with dog people stopping to chat, exchanging pleasantries while their charges play in the fading evening light.

  ‘Been away in Dubai for a month,’ Pearl explains.

  ‘Oh, a nannying job, right?’

  ‘That’s it,’ she says.

  ‘Rosie’s missed Toby. Look at the pair of them now.’ Like proud parents they turn and watch as the two dogs scamper together, Rosie’s ears flapping, Toby’s tail a blur of delight.

  ‘It’s so lovely to see,’ I remark, cheered by the sight of them playing.

  ‘Best thing about having one,’ the man remarks. ‘I wasn’t sure, you know, about fitting in the walks on top of work and everything else, and of course, my daughter promised she’d take care of all of that …’ He laughs.

  ‘And does she?’ I ask.

  ‘Not a chance. She loves her, of course she does, but her idea of walking Rosie is to take her to the street corner and back, and now she’s off travelling …’ He shrugs good-naturedly. ‘So it’s just the two of us. Luckily, I can take her to work with me …’ He calls Rosie, and she charges towards him, obligingly allowing him to clip on her lead. ‘I have an off-licence,’ he adds. ‘You might’ve seen it, just across from the tube? It’s called Tipples …’

  ‘Yes, I know it,’ I say.

  ‘I’m changing the name,’ he adds quickly, ‘and sprucing the place up. Planning wine tastings, gin evenings, that kind of thing …’

  ‘Count us in for those,’ Pearl says with a smile. It’s a little more challenging for her to attract Toby’s attention, so enraptured is he with his friend. Finally, she manages to secure his lead, and the three of us fall into step.

  ‘So where’s your daughter travelling?’ I ask.

  ‘Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam …’ The man smiles again, and I register the pale blue of his eyes. ‘Terrifying for me,’ he adds, laughing.

  ‘God, yes, I can imagine. I’d be tempted to put a tracker device on mine.’

  ‘So you have teenagers?’

  ‘Yes, both still at home. My daughter’s fifteen, my son’s seventeen, so not long till I’m an empty nester …’

  He nods, and we stop as the dogs investigate an alluring clump of long grass. ‘Well, it feels like I’m there already.’ He indicates Rosie. ‘Luckily, I have her …’

  ‘They’re the best company,’ Pearl adds. ‘Affectionate, undemanding …’ She turns to me. ‘You should get one, Lorrie.’

  The man chuckles. ‘So you’re Lorrie and …’ He rakes back his hair. ‘Funny, isn’t it, how we know each other’s dogs’ names—’

  ‘And not each other’s,’ Pearl agrees. ‘I was just saying that to Lorrie. I could probably tell you the names of pretty much every regular dog in this park, but none of the owners. I’m Pearl—’

  ‘And I’m Eric …’

  ‘So you live around here?’ I ask.

  ‘Yep, just five minutes away. And you?’

  ‘Pine Street. Been there for what seems like forever – well, since the kids were tiny, anyway.’

  ‘So it’s just you, your teenagers …’

  ‘And our lodger, Stu …’ I break off as my phone rings in my bag. It stops as I pull it out.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Pearl asks, catching my concerned expression.

  I sigh and check the time on my phone; somehow the evening has flown by and it’s gone 10 p.m. ‘Three missed calls. Mum’s been trying to get hold of me. I’d better call her …’ I turn and hug Pearl. ‘I’m so glad you’re back, and nice meeting you, Eric …’

  ‘You too,’ he says, flashing another disarming smile. ‘Maybe we’ll run into each other sometime?’

  ‘Hope so,’ I say, tension gathering deep in my gut as I say goodbye and call Mum. Perhaps she wants to apologise for inferring that she had it so much harder, what with throwing her husband out of the house instead of him dying in the road …

  ‘Lorrie, at last! I’ve been calling all evening, tried your landline, Stu said you were out with Pearl …’

  ‘Yes, we just had a quick drink. Didn’t hear my phone. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Um, I suppose so … but I have to say, I’m rather upset.’

  I inhale deeply. ‘What about?’

  ‘Well, the wedding of course!’

  ‘Oh,’ I frown. ‘Has something else happened?’

  ‘You know what’s happened. It’s all changed now, hasn’t it? The venue, the theme – everything—’ Her words morph into a sob. I suspect more booze has been consumed.

  ‘Oh, Mum. Does there really need to be a theme?’

  ‘Well, Haimie doesn’t seem to think so …’

  ‘Maybe he’s right? And look, I said I’d help you find another venue. There must be somewhere within easy reach of the church—’

  ‘There’s just no time!’

  ‘Yes, there is. I can make some calls tomorrow—’

  ‘Oh, is this your Saturday off?’

  ‘No,’ I say with exaggerated patience, ‘but I do get breaks, Mum …’

  She sniffs loudly. Thank you, Lorrie, for offering to spend your lunchbreak ringing round every darn village hall in the vicinity … ‘I’ll need a different dress,’ she adds.

  ‘Mum, the dress is fine. Stu said it’s lovely …’

  ‘Oh. Did he?’ I sense a flurry of pleasure, and then: ‘But
it’s Jacobean! How ridiculous will that look in some tawdry little hotel?’

  ‘Mum, you’ll look beautiful …’ I turn into our street, eager to end this conversation before I step into the house.

  ‘Can you come shopping with me tomorrow?’ she barks.

  Oh, dear God … ‘I’ve told you, I’m working …’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course …’ Yep, that’s me – always working, leaving my almost-adult children to forage for food in supermarkets’ bins … ‘Sunday, then? Or are you working then too?’

  I pause a couple of doors away from my own, weighing up the prospect of enjoying my day off, and taking my time to get ready for my date – sorry, drink – with Antoine, against being trapped in a Phase Eight changing room with my mother.

  ‘No, Mum, I’m free on Sunday.’

  ‘We could go shopping then. What about your own outfit for the wedding? Have you bought anything yet?’

  ‘No, but there’s plenty of time …’

  ‘Let’s go shopping together then, on Sunday. Come on – it’ll be fun. Can you please do this for me?’

  I sigh as I let myself into my house. ‘Okay, Mum, if it’ll make you feel better. Sunday, I’m all yours.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The following lunchtime – a gloriously sunny Saturday, with a sky such a brilliant blue it looks painted by a child – I am hunched in the so-called staff ‘canteen’ making numerous calls to hotels, restaurants and village halls out in the wilds of Hertfordshire.

  Hardly anyone uses the canteen; understandably, as it isn’t one anymore. Whereas a few years ago it was a popular subsidised staff restaurant, cost-cutting measures have reduced facilities to a kettle, an industrial-sized tin of Nescafé, another of powdered milk and a temperamental vending machine stocked with the kind of confectionery you rarely see these days (Caramac, Fry’s Turkish Delight). There is also a small fridge, which seems to be used solely by Craig from homewares, who brings in a tuna sandwich in a grey Tupperware box every day. On the plus side, it’s eerily quiet, and therefore ideal for my wedding venue search.

  Of course, everywhere is booked. I must be insane to think anyone can casually call up a venue at such short notice. August next year, you mean? What … this year? Haha, no, I don’t think so, but good luck with that! At one place I ring – an ostentatious modern hotel that looks as if its sole purpose is weddings – the woman I speak to clonks down the phone as soon as I mention the date. ‘Shotgun wedding, is it?’ barks a cocky-sounding young man at a golf club function suite, even though the term hasn’t been in common usage since, well, Jacobean times.

  With my lunchbreak ebbing away, I start to wonder how I’ve ended up taking this on, which leads me, rather irrationally, to feel cross that my parents didn’t at least produce one more child, so at least there’d be someone to share this with.

  Any luck yet?

  That’s Mum texting.

  I’ll have to Google more places tonight, I reply. Immediately my phone rings, and it’s the radiant bride-to-be again.

  ‘I’m just not sure about you getting any old place off the internet.’ She says ‘off the internet’, as if we were talking about discreetly packaged Viagra.

  ‘It’s how you research things these days, Mum.’ In fact, it’s how it’s been for about the past fifteen years …

  Craig strolls in and smiles benignly before extracting his plastic tub from the fridge and parking himself in the seat opposite me.

  ‘Yes, but it just seems very, I don’t know, risky,’ Mum whines.

  ‘Well, it’s the only way I can help,’ I explain, trying to erase the tetchiness that’s creeping into my voice. ‘It’s just not feasible for me to drive all over Hertfordshire, checking places out personally.’

  ‘Oh!’

  A terse silence hangs between us.

  Craig has peeled the lid off his tub, emitting a powerful fishy smell, and nibbles at his sandwich like a rodent.

  ‘Mum, it’ll be okay. We’ll find somewhere. But, look, I really should get back to work.’

  ‘All right, love,’ she says, sounding choked now, and causing a little needle of guilt to stab at my stomach. We say goodbye, and as Craig uses a licked finger to gather up the crumbs left in his tub, I decide to make one last call. I have tried the number several times already and left increasingly pleading messages on an answerphone. Now, a person answers: an elderly- sounding gentleman named Walter Fadgett, keeper of Little Cambersham village hall, just five miles from the church where Mum and Hamish are to be married. His establishment is indeed available on the day my mother is to be betrothed. ‘£8.50 an hour, love,’ he explains.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I enthuse.

  ‘Used to be £7.50, but we’re building up funds to replace the cistern in the ladies’ …’

  ‘No, no, £8.50 is perfect …’

  ‘It’s a bit cracked, you see, but still functional …’

  ‘I’m sure it’s great.’

  Sandwich finished, Craig is now hunched over a word search magazine.

  ‘And you will tidy up afterwards?’

  Of course I will. I’ll clean the floor with my tongue if it means I can book the place … ‘That’s no problem at all. Um, is there any chance Mum and I could come over tomorrow afternoon and take a look?’

  ‘No problem, love. The ladies from the Evergreen Club are having a birthday bash but they won’t mind you dropping by. They love a bit of a singalong, that lot. Perhaps your mum might like to join in?’

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ I say, my mouth twitching as we finish the call.

  Craig looks up and smiles as I head for the door. ‘Very efficiently done. Took my daughter six months to find a venue for her wedding.’

  I laugh, as if my last-minute approach was entirely intentional. ‘Yes, it’s amazing, isn’t it, how complicated weddings can become?’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he chuckles.

  As I make my way along the beige-painted corridor I bring up a picture of Little Cambersham village hall on my phone. An unremarkable pebble-dashed building, it has a moss-smattered roof and a rather saggy wooden lean-to attached to one side. It’s not a grand family seat but, Christ, at this stage it will have to do.

  Unwilling to embroil myself in another conversation, I fire off a text to Mum. Just found the perfect wedding venue close to the church. We can check it out on Sunday after shopping. Can you ask Hamish to meet us at Little Cambersham village hall at 3? It’s only fair that he sees it too. PLEASE do this, Mum.

  Back at the counter, bolstered by my success as a wedding planner, I throw myself into cheery work mode. Saturdays are generally our busiest days, and as the afternoon progresses we serve numerous regular customers who are stocking up on favourites. However, free samples are handed out sparingly, and when traffic stopping we offer to demonstrate a single product rather than giving full make-overs (far too time-consuming under the new regime). As I’m ringing through a purchase, I spot the approaching spectre of our new chief.

  In a tightly belted black dress and towering heels, Sonia Richardson strides towards us. As yet, there have been no repercussions after my little speech yesterday, but the sight of her isn’t a welcome one.

  I fix on a bright smile. ‘Hi, Sonia. This is a surprise. How are you?’

  She flicks back her dark bob and smiles grimly. ‘Hi, Lorrie. Hi, girls. I’m fine, thank you. Just here to get a feeling for what happens on the floor, so please carry on.’ She bares her startlingly white teeth, then leans against the counter and folds her slim brown arms.

  Although a woman is perusing our lipstick testers, I am unsure whether to approach her or to engage Sonia in chit-chat, to find how things are going in the tomato fertiliser market these days.

  ‘Please don’t mind me,’ she reiterates, in the manner of a stern boarding school headmistress conducting a dormitory inspection. And so, feeling horribly scrutinised, I ask the customer if she needs any help.

  Perhaps in her early fifties, she has the
air of someone who finds acres of make-up in gleaming packaging quite intimidating. ‘I think I do, actually. I’ve been wearing the same old natural pinky-brown lipstick for about twenty years and it’s washing me out.’ She adjusts her silver-rimmed spectacles and smiles apologetically.

  ‘Natural’s fine,’ I assure her. ‘It’s easy to apply and suits everyone, and you don’t have to even think about it. But I agree, sometimes it’s fun to try something a little bolder …’

  She nods and studies our selection of reds. ‘I like the look of these but I’ve never worn red in my life. I mean, they’re all so similar, but different … how on earth does one choose?’

  I glance towards Sonia. Her immaculately-outlined lips are pursed, and her gaze drills into my forehead.

  ‘Well, the thing is,’ I continue, ‘red can be intimidating but there actually is the right shade of red for everyone.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, d’you have a few minutes so I can show you a couple of options?’

  The woman nods and climbs onto the stool. Although this is the part of my job I love most, I sense my confidence seeping floorwards as I select two options to try. I have never felt nervous when interacting with customers; at least, not since those first few days when I was let loose in the store, and even then the counter manager, Nicky, was so encouraging I soon relaxed into my own way of doing things. However, now I am aware of Sonia watching intently, as if she were a store detective convinced I’m about to slip a pot of night cream into my pocket.

  I cleanse off the customer’s lipstick and brush on a red – ‘Wow, that is nice!’ she enthuses – then remove it before applying another, all the while conscious of stool time ticking away, like a cab driver’s meter, under Sonia’s unwavering gaze. ‘What d’you think?’ I ask brightly.

  The woman studies her reflection. ‘I do like this one. But maybe the first …?’

  ‘Mmm, yes, that was slightly warmer. Both look great on you.’

  She picks up each lipstick and studies it in turn. ‘Or this one? I’m not sure I can apply it like you did. Won’t it smudge, the first time I have a sip of coffee?’