The Woman Who Met Her Match

by Fiona Gibson

  My phone bleeps: a text from Antoine, reading simply, Lovely to spend time with you Lorrie x.

  I smile and tap out a reply – Lovely to see you too xxxxx – deciding that five kisses is perhaps a little excessive and deleting two, then three, then putting one back. I finally leave it at a demure two, and fire it off. And now, because the kids and their friends are back upstairs in their rooms, I am free to log onto Facebook and stare at pictures of Antoine. How dare Stu insinuate that I am obsessed?

  I ogle Corporate Antoine in an array of beige conference rooms, and Casual Antoine on the beach. I pore over his various comments about all manner of trivia, and then rake through his entire picture library again. Ten o’clock comes and goes – two hours I’ve spent hunched over my laptop – then eleven, at which point Cam and Amy’s friends start to drift off home.

  ‘Bye, Lorrie. Thanks for the pizza.’ Mo’s head appears around the living room door.

  ‘Oh, you’re welcome, Mo. Everything okay? Going away this summer?’

  His handsome face angles towards my screen, and he smirks. She’s on Facebook, his amused look says. How quaint. ‘Uh, me and Cam might do something. A festival, maybe, if we can still get tickets …’

  ‘Yes, he mentioned that.’

  ‘Yeah. Depends on money and stuff.’ More teenagers clatter downstairs. Mo grins and raises a hand, and is gone.

  Midnight arrives, and with it the startling realisation that Stu hasn’t returned – is that five hours he’s been gone now, on one delivery? I seem to have lost track of time. I set my laptop on the sofa and check the street from the living room window, hoping to hear the approaching growl of his motorbike. Rain is falling steadily. I open the front door and peer out. The only people in sight are a young couple hurrying into a house on the corner.

  I get ready for bed, no longer drawn to Antoine’s Facebook profile but aware of a niggling sense of unease somewhere in my ribcage. Ever since David’s death, I’ve found it hard to relax if the people I care about fail to show up when I expect them to. I’m being silly, of course. It’s not unheard of for Stu to receive more calls when he’s out, in which case he’ll simply work through them until all deliveries have been made. Or perhaps he decided to head over to Bob’s instead, to discuss further expansion plans for the business? He might even have decided to stay over; I know Bob has a spare room in the converted pub he’s just moved into. But surely Stu would have let me know? Although we don’t monitor each other’s movements, there’s an understanding that we sort of check in, because we don’t want to cause each other any worry. I have never set out on a date without telling Stu precisely where I’m going, and who I’m meeting.

  I call his mobile, which goes straight to voicemail. I check the weather again – insistent heavy rain – and, remembering that I have Bob’s number, I tap out a text, rewording it several times so as not to sound too alarmed: Hey Bob, Stu went out on a delivery a few hours ago and hasn’t come back yet, don’t suppose he’s with you? Am sure it’s nothing. Thanks, Lorrie.

  I send and re-read it. I sound like his anxious mother.

  Sorry, comes the reply, haven’t heard from him either, just tried to call but he’s not answering. Everything okay you think?

  Yes, he’s probably had a few more calls. He’ll no doubt be back soon. Thanks anyway.

  Is that what’s actually happened, though? I climb into bed, with calculations whirring in my head – was it about sevenish when he set out? Even with two or three more deliveries, this is still taking way too long. Stu is on intimate terms with every North London supermarket, deli and specialist store, and can snatch the required items with remarkable efficiency.

  I lie still, staring at the ceiling whilst trying to calm my breathing. The delicious effects of the rosé wine with Antoine have long worn off. I close my eyes and commence the favoured activity of the middle-aged woman: night-time worrying.

  Before David died, I would be unconscious within minutes of climbing into bed, shattered from a long day at the counter and coming home and trying to compensate for not being able to greet my kids with an array of home-baked goodies on their return from school; ridiculous parental guilt, as Cam and Amy had numerous after-school activities, or they’d have had a perfectly lovely time at Pearl’s. The four of us would catch up on each other’s days, and David might even have suggested a board game; he had a seemingly endless supply of enthusiasm for doing stuff with the kids. Then suddenly there were just three of us, and I noticed it would take me longer to drift off to sleep as I succumbed to a loop-tape of fretting: about Amy, always excelling at sports, but what about English, maths and science? Might things have turned out differently if her dad had still been there to enthuse her? I worried about Cam, too, who frequently lost crucial textbooks and seemed ‘rather dreamy’, according to his class teacher.

  Of course, I’ve involved myself in their homework, I remind myself, eyes wide open now at nearly 1 a.m. I’ve done my best. As they moved up to secondary school I bought study guides and tried to familiarise myself with photosynthesis and the Battle of Trafalgar. But have I done enough? What about tonight’s dinner – a load of cheap pizza chucked in the oven, probably seething with additives and saturated fat?

  I sit bolt upright in bed, grab my mobile from my bedside table and try Stu’s number again. I don’t care whether he thinks I’m being neurotic.

  Hi, you’ve reached Stu from Parsley Force, please leave a message, I’ll get back to you soon as I can … bye!

  ‘It’s me,’ I croak. ‘Just wondering where you are, is everything okay? I’m sure it is. It’s just … ha, I know I’m being silly. It’s just the rain, you know. It’s a terrible night. I worry about you skidding and coming off the bike or something … yes, I know I’m being mad. Just humour me. Call me please, would you? I don’t mind what time.’

  And I wait, primed for the trill of my phone but hearing only insistent pattering against my window as the rain comes down.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Stu still isn’t home when I wake up with a jolt at 6.23 a.m. I know this because I am already up and tapping gently on his bedroom door. ‘Stu?’ I call out softly. ‘Are you there?’ No reply. I hover on the landing, wondering whether or not to push the door open. He wouldn’t mind if I went into his room, but I decided when he moved in that it would be solely his domain, his private quarters away from me, Cam and Amy and our assorted personal gubbins. I certainly wouldn’t march straight in without warning if I thought he was there. What if he was splayed, naked, on his bed? What if he had company and I hadn’t realised? Christ – perish the thought.

  I peer around the door and see the double bed neatly made, his glossy books on motorbikes and outdoor adventuring, plus a couple of Jack Kerouacs and Truman Capotes, stacked tidily on the shelf. Rather sweetly, there are also a few of the Jennings novels he loved as a boy, their spines peeling from much handling. He keeps his room in pretty good order, with a stack of clothes folded on a chair, a small selection of man toiletries – including La Beauté’s newest male fragrance, a present from me, its box still sealed in cellophane – on the chest of drawers. Two pairs of rather scruffy black shoes, plus burgundy Converse, are lined up beneath the window. On another shelf sit various photos in cheap clip-frames: of Stu and a bunch of his mates from the motorcycle shop where they worked, all grinning goofily at the camera on a day out at the coast. There are his parents, Bernard and Barbara, also at the seaside somewhere, sitting side by side with ice creams on a bench.

  My stomach twists at the sight of a blurry shot of me and David, with Stu sandwiched between us, gangly arms flung tipsily around our shoulders. David looks incredibly young – but then, he always did have one of those eager boyish faces: ‘Looks so much younger than you,’ as Mum was fond of saying, adding quickly, ‘but only when you stand side by side.’ Hmmm. She was right, though. In this photo we were at the wedding of friends with whom I’ve long lost touch. I remember a yellow marquee somewhere in Wiltshire and St
u asking me to dance, and then him stumbling off and being rather too enthusiastic with the free champagne, slipping on a drinks spillage and cracking his head on a chair leg. He had to be bundled into a cab and escorted by David back to the ropey B&B where the three of us were staying. David had always regarded Stu as a bit of a loose cannon, and this didn’t help his case, especially when he failed to surface for the full English breakfast next morning. Although the two of them got along fine, David always regarded Stu as my mate, and they never socialised together if I wasn’t there.

  The front door opens. I spring out of his room, heart thumping, as if I’ve been rifling through his pants drawer. ‘Is that you, Stu?’

  ‘Yeah,’ comes the gruff reply.

  Relief surges over me. He’s alive at least, and in the kitchen now; I can hear the tap gushing. Still in pyjamas, I bolt downstairs to find him glugging from a tumbler of water.

  ‘Here you are,’ I exclaim.

  ‘Hi.’ He smiles awkwardly.

  I blink at him, knowing I shouldn’t be annoyed or demand an explanation as to where he’s been all night. He’s a grown man, not an errant fifteen-year-old, and it’s no business of mine what he gets up to, but … ‘I called you three times last night,’ I start.

  He pulls off his leather jacket and dumps it over a chair. ‘Did you? Oh, God, I didn’t mean to worry you. Time just ran away—’

  ‘Time ran away?’ I repeat, conscious of my burning cheeks. ‘But you’ve been gone all night! Where on earth were you delivering to – Kuala Lumpur?’

  ‘No, er, Kilburn actually.’ He studies the floor.

  ‘Kilburn? But—’ I stop abruptly as it dawns on me: the possibility that the handsome, dark-eyed Parsley Force man doesn’t just deliver fancy foods. He’s stayed the night with someone. Of course, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t, and he certainly doesn’t need to ask my permission; he can do whatever he likes. It’s just that this hasn’t happened since he’s lived here – and even before scary Roz, Stu was never a casual shagger – and I’m not quite sure what to make of it.

  I clear my throat and take in his dishevelled appearance. His dark, wavy hair is flattened in some places and sticking up in others, his T-shirt badly creased. ‘Sorry,’ I murmur. ‘I know it was silly. I was just panicking and I couldn’t sleep. I even texted Bob, so now he’ll be all worried too. It was such awful weather, I thought you’d had an accident or …’ I tail off and glare at him.

  ‘Sorry. My phone, er … well, this is a bit embarrassing, but it sort of broke.’

  ‘It broke? How?’ Oh God, now I am interrogating him like a vexed teacher. And how did this jotter get into such a disgusting state?

  ‘It kind of slipped out of my jeans pocket.’ He turns to open the fridge and takes out the milk, and that’s when I spot it.

  The mark on his neck.

  ‘Stu?’ I stare as he spoons coffee into the cafetière. ‘What’s that bruise?’

  ‘Huh?’ He clicks on the kettle and stands there with his back to me – staring at it, as everyone knows you have to watch a kettle while it boils.

  I step towards him, both shocked and fascinated at the sight of a love bite on a properly adult man. ‘Let me see!’ I demand, peering closely.

  He jumps back. ‘Let you see what?’

  ‘That mark. Oh, my God, it is. You’ve been bitten. Someone was at your neck last night!’

  He clamps a hand over it. ‘Just leave it, would you? Can we not make a big thing out of this?’

  ‘C’mon, let me have a proper look. Oh, I’m feeling all nostalgic, Stu. It’s like a relic from a bygone era – I don’t think I’ve seen once since 1989. I thought they’d died out, like snow-washed denim and Betamax videos …’

  He’s blushing furiously. ‘Okay, very funny …’

  ‘So,’ I splutter, ‘where were you last night when you were breaking your phone and getting bitten?’

  ‘Nowhere!’

  ‘You were somewhere, Stu.’

  Even his ears have turned a furious pink. ‘Just … someone’s place, that’s all.’

  ‘A vampire’s place? Like, one of those creepy Hammer Horror kind of houses where you’re likely to get an artery savaged?’ Even he manages to snigger at that. ‘You should put something on it,’ I add, ‘like toothpaste, I’m sure that was the thing when people used to suck necks, or is that just a myth?’

  ‘No idea,’ he huffs.

  ‘Shall I see if I can dig out a polo neck? Or a cravat?’ Although I should be getting ready for work, I can’t bear to tear myself away. ‘Come on – tell me. Who is she?’

  He coughs and grabs the nearest utensil to hand – a vegetable paring knife – to stir the cafetière. ‘Her name’s Ginny Benson, okay?’

  ‘Oh, the one who likes that weird cheese!’

  Stu squints at me. ‘What are you on about now?’

  ‘I found one of your lists lying around and her name was on it. It just stuck in my mind. So, she’s the one who called last night?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The fregola, raw cider vinegar one?’

  He nods. ‘That’s her.’

  ‘Oh, Stu. You shagged one of your customers, talk about providing a full service …’

  He winces. ‘Thanks for putting it so delicately.’

  ‘Fregola,’ I chuckle. ‘What is that anyway? Another kind of cheese, or a sexual practice?’ I am now laughing uncontrollably. ‘Don’t tell me you gave her fregola on a first date? Isn’t that rushing things a bit? I thought it was the kind of thing you had to work up to …’ He, too, is sniggering, albeit in a pained, trying-not-to sort of way. ‘Was it your first time with her? Or are all your deliveries actually secret visits to Ginny’s place with the broken doorbell and, in fact, Parsley Force is just a cover-up for a rampant sex thing you’ve got going on?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he blusters.

  ‘What is it anyway? I need to know, Stu. Please tell me.’

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘Fregola. I’m worried now. I’m forty-six years old and I’ve never had it; I virtually feel like a virgin …’

  He touches his neck distractedly, as if hoping to erase the mark with his fingers. ‘It’s pasta. Just very small pasta.’

  ‘Aw, like mini macaroni? That’s not so thrilling.’

  ‘More like … little beads really. In fact, it behaves more like couscous when you cook it …’

  ‘Well, that’s good to know.’ I beam at him. ‘So, did you waive the delivery charge?’

  He splutters. ‘Christ, Lorrie, it’s like living with the bloody Gestapo …’

  I’m still laughing hysterically as I make my way upstairs, both thrilled and appalled by the damage inflicted on my friend’s neck. What kind of grown woman has a desire to mark a lover in that way? Maybe she’s bitten him in other places too. The mind boggles. I’ve never had a love bite myself, although I remember a period at school when they were as de rigueur as mullets, and Wendy Settrey and I were so desperate to be part of it all that we bruised each other’s necks with our fingers. ‘Twisters,’ they were called, and mine was apparently as convincing as ‘that French boyfriend you went on and on about’.

  In the bathroom now, I pull off my PJs, stuff my hair into a polka-dot shower cap and wash quickly. In record time, I dress for work and apply my make-up; I can have the full face in place in under four minutes.

  Back downstairs I find Stu, sipping his coffee at the kitchen table.

  I slip on my jacket. ‘So, Ginny Benson? You know her pretty well, then, I take it?’

  He shrugs. ‘She’s just a customer. I’ve been over a few times – just to deliver,’ he stresses.

  ‘But this time …’ I prompt him.

  He frowns at the chipped rim of his mug. ‘Well, yeah, she was getting stuff ready for a dinner – a supper party, she calls it – and she was all tearful when she came to the door; said the guy who was supposed to be coming just called to say he couldn’t make it.’

 
I feign a concerned face. ‘All those pine nuts – wasted. So, uh, you consoled her, I assume?’ Another shrug. ‘God, Stu, it sounds like a bad porn movie.’

  He smiles faintly, reddening again. ‘Well, we got talking, you know. She invited me in and I had a cup of tea with her. Heard the whole story, about what a useless arse he is and how stupid she felt, trying to impress him with elaborate food like some kind of Stepford wife …’

  ‘So you felt sorry for her. Don’t tell me it was a pity shag?’

  ‘I’m not going into it, okay?’ He shakes his head as if not quite sure what kind of shag it was.

  I smile and rub his shoulder. ‘D’you feel sullied?’

  He frowns and looks up at me. ‘Kind of. Is it really that bad?’

  I study the small bruise. It’s not the kind of accessory you’d expect to find on a forty-seven-year-old man. Not even Cam has had one, to my knowledge. ‘Well, it’s visible but it’s not … you know. Not horrendously livid …’

  ‘Cheers for that.’

  ‘It’s more of a casual marking of territory, like a dog peeing against a fence.’

  ‘Okay, you’ve made your point.’

  I pause, feeling quite sorry for him now, and imagining having to face my customers with my neck all ravaged. Christ – I’d have to feign an injury and slap a plaster on it. ‘Did you realise she was doing it? I’d have said, “Stop! What d’you think you’re—”’

  ‘Lorrie, just leave it!’ We blink at each other. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘It’s just a bit embarrassing, that’s all.’

  I exhale and study it again. ‘D’you want me to put something on it?’

  ‘Toothpaste?’ He frowns.

  ‘No, something better than that. But I need to be quick, okay? I’m running late now …’

  I retrieve my make-up bag and, moments later, we are agreeing that La Beauté’s Concealer Deluxe in mid beige is a perfect match for Stu’s skin tone.