The Woman Who Met Her Match

by Fiona Gibson

  He smiles. ‘I just said you look pretty damn hot in that dress with your hair like that.’

  ‘Jesus, Stu,’ I exclaim, ‘I’m too old to be hot. I’m well out of the hot demographic …’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he says, giving my arm a matey squeeze. ‘You look bloody gorgeous actually. Am I allowed to say that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, kissing his cheek, ‘but only because you’re drunk.’ Then, as the band launches into an enthusiastic rendition of ‘Dancing Queen’, I grab his hand and pull him across the room to the floor. ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘let’s dance before Mum gets her hands all over you again.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  As Walter seems in no hurry to shovel us out, we overrun our allotted time slot and party well into the night until, finally, out we all tumble into waiting taxis.

  ‘You won’t forget about cleaning up tomorrow, will you?’ is his parting shot before we are whisked back to the cosiness of The Laughing Duck.

  On the landing I hug Stu, wishing for a moment that we could stay here like this for a few minutes more; I’m not sure if it’s gratitude I feel or something more. ‘I’m so glad you were there today,’ I murmur, pulling away.

  ‘Me too,’ he says fondly. ‘Seriously, a big bash in Venice wouldn’t have been a patch on that.’

  I laugh, and we part company, the kids already tucked up in their beds by the time I step into our room. In the bathroom I peel off my dress and pull on pyjamas. I fall asleep instantly, dreaming of speeding along a coastal road on the back of a motorbike.

  Amy is the only one who isn’t feeling fragile over breakfast. We lounge over a full English and the Saturday newspapers until my conscience pricks me and the four of us take a taxi back to the village hall. Here, we literally roll up our sleeves and tear into washing up and sweeping, all of us working flat out.

  As I drive us back to London, everyone dozes. I am grateful for this. If Stu started asking what I’m up to later today, I’d have to tell him about meeting Eric, and it doesn’t feel like the right time. I glance at him snoozing, his dark eyelashes grazing his cheeks. You look pretty damn hot in that dress with your hair like that. Did he mean it? I’m not looking too hot today, I muse, with my bare, beleaguered face, ratty sweatshirt and jeans.

  I sense a stab of regret as I drop Stu at Bob’s. It still doesn’t feel right, but then, it’s where he’s chosen to live, and anyway, I need to get home and sort myself out in time for this evening’s date.

  Back home, I change into a denim skirt and a reasonable dressy top, squirt my hair with a water spray and shoosh it up with my hands, then apply the lightest of make-up.

  By the time I’m ready, I am already running five minutes late. I call out goodbye to the kids and speed-walk towards London Fields, past Eric’s off-licence – there’s a poster for a gin tasting evening in the window – and the cafe where I stumbled upon Ralph and the undead Belinda. I march across the fields, past groups of dog walkers all chatting, and a young mum with her little boy. The child is clinging to his mum, as Cam used to do with me, gripping my hand or jacket sleeve, eager for physical contact. Amy rarely did that. Instead, I’d be tearing after her across the park. Clinging tightly or running away – sometimes it seemed as if there was nothing in between.

  I spot another woman with a child, her russet hair caught in an untidy ponytail, as she chases her son in a good-natured game. Her face is familiar, and I realise it’s Jane, my customer; an NPC actually. The buggy is parked nearby. A handsome young blond man is absent-mindedly pushing it back and forth. Jane catches her son – Archie, that’s what he’s called. I’m pretty good with names, it’s part of the job. I hear him laughing delightedly as I step into the pub.

  ‘Hi, good to see you!’ Eric is already here, wearing smart black jeans and a red checked shirt, and springs up from his seat to kiss my cheek.

  ‘Good to see you too.’ It feels a little awkward, the two of us here without Pearl and the dogs.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Yes, a white wine please,’ I say, taking a seat at the small table and reminding myself: it’s just a drink, that’s all. A nice simple date, no pretending to appreciate lobster pots or Brillo pads, no being cajoled to try on an outsized stinky jacket.

  Eric returns to the table with a beer and a glass of wine, and as we fall into easy conversation my nervousness ebbs away.

  I learn that Eric and his wife split up after she had a fling on a girls’ holiday and blurted it all out in a fit of guilt. ‘Things hadn’t been right for a long time, though,’ he explains. ‘In fact, we almost broke up the second year we were together, and then Lily came along and, well …’ He smiles and shrugs. ‘She kept us occupied, as little children do, and we pottered along for years … I’m sorry, do you really want to hear this?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it started to fall apart when Lily was gearing up for leaving home and it would just be the two of us.’ He pauses. ‘Amanda went on that holiday – said she needed time away from me and just wanted to let her hair down with her mates.’ He chuckles ruefully. ‘Not a good sign, huh?’

  ‘Probably not,’ I agree.

  ‘And that was that. Twenty years, we’d been together – and it was all over in a flash.’ He sips his beer and shakes his head in wonderment. I suspect now that he’s heartbroken, and is trying his darnedest to gloss over the fact. ‘Mad, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ I agree. ‘So, are you friends again now? I mean, is it okay between you?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, it really is – I mean, we’re always going to be parents together. I’m sorry, I’ve been going on about myself … what about you? How did things work out with your job?’

  He is suitably impressed when I fill him in on my chat with Romilly Connaught-Jones and the subsequent meeting at Geddes and Cox Towers, listening with rapt interest and probing me with questions about what I might do next. I study his face, this handsome, red-haired man who hasn’t done anything untoward. In fact, he seems interested in a terribly endearing and non-worrying way. Yet our conversation has remained at a certain level, and I am aware of holding back and giving little away. While he has told me about his marriage breakdown, I have no desire to tell him about the snowy night, and me asking for wine, and David obligingly setting out to buy me a bottle of chardonnay. I don’t want to share anything about the accident, and the following terrible months, or becoming a widow at thirty-nine years old. There is only one man who truly knows how it was, and he was there, and has always been there for me. I miss him so badly, I realise with a pang. I know Stu says we’ll still see each other, but what if it’s too late, and I’ve already lost him forever?

  I drain my glass as Eric finishes his drink. ‘Would you like another?’ he asks.

  ‘Thanks but I’d better go,’ I tell him. ‘This has been really lovely but, you know, I was at my mother’s wedding yesterday …’

  ‘Yes, sure. I’m up early tomorrow anyway. I’ve really enjoyed it too.’ There’s a polite cheek-kiss as we leave together, and we part company without making definite plans to see each other again. ‘See you in the park, hopefully,’ he says before striding away.

  I hurry home, having already been informed that both Cam and Amy have gone out for the evening – the stamina of young people! – and for once, I’m grateful to have the house to myself. Tonight, I have a serious job to get on with. First, I wrap Amy’s presents for her birthday tomorrow. She is celebrating with friends next weekend – no input needed from me on that score, apart from hard cash – but still, I want to make the day special for her.

  A cake, I decide. Of course I should make a cake. If Stu were here, he’d do it – funny how I’ve relied on him for little things without even realising. But how hard can it be? I find a recipe online and burrow about in a cupboard for the right sort of receptacles. ‘Spring-form’ tins are required, according to the recipe, which I take as an omen that my sponge will indeed be springy and feather
-light. I assume they’re the ones with a little lever for opening and closing, and unbeknown to me, we have them. We also have eggs, vanilla and both kinds of sugar (caster, icing) so I’m all set. Hell, what about flour? There’s plain, but none of the required self-raising. I rummage through the entire cupboard just to make sure.

  Of course, there’s a shop five minutes away. This is London, after all. But still … it’s drizzly out there now, and gone 10 p.m. and, actually, that’s when our nearest corner shop closes. There’s another a little further down the street, but I’m not sure they stock baking ingredients. I can’t drive anywhere – I’ve had a large glass of wine – so really, there’s only one option open to me.

  I pick up my mobile and pause before selecting the number, willing him to answer my call.

  ‘Lorrie? You okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s just, um … look, I’m sorry, you’re probably shattered after last night …’

  ‘What’s up?’ Stu asks, sounding the very opposite of shattered. He’s quite perky, in fact.

  ‘Oh, I’m just trying to bake a cake for Amy’s birthday tomorrow …’

  Silence hovers between us. ‘You’re baking a cake? Am I hearing this correctly or is there something wrong with my phone?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, smiling, ‘I really am – or at least, I’m trying to. But there’s a small hiccup in my plan.’

  ‘Really? What’s that?’ I can sense him smirking.

  ‘I’ve just realised we don’t have any self-raising flour …’ I say we, as if he still lives here.

  ‘Can’t you just pop out and get some?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, I could, but I wondered … what I mean is …’ I lower myself onto a kitchen chair. ‘What I mean is, Stu, the thing is, at the wedding, I realised …’ I break off and rub at my glowing face. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is …’

  ‘… You need Parsley Force,’ he chips in.

  ‘I really do. It’s an emergency, actually. Would you mind—’

  He chuckles and makes a big show of umming and arrring just to torture me. ‘’Course I’ll come over,’ he says finally. ‘Anything else you need while I’m at it?’

  I laugh awkwardly. ‘No. Just, er …’ I pause, wanting to say so much, but not having the nerve. ‘Just you,’ I say lightly, hoping he’ll understand.

  ‘Okay. I’m leaving right now.’

  I wait, my heart thumping, deciding there’s no point in touching up my make-up or fixing my hair because he knows what I’m like. He knows me better than anyone. I pace the kitchen and wait, poised for the sound of his motorbike, every minute seeming to stretch forever.

  Back up in my bedroom now, I check my emails, and my heart does a flip at the sight of a message from Claudine. Sorry to be brief, Lorrie. We’re getting ready for Mimi’s birthday party. It’s her 80th and quite a big occasion – Eighty? I had her down for mid-seventies – but we were very excited to receive your email and would like to meet you when we come to London, probably in November, to start to look at properties. Let’s have afternoon tea. We always enjoyed that when we came to London …

  I break off at the sound of the front door opening. The email can wait, I decide, rushing downstairs to find Stu standing in the hallway, a huge grin on his face.

  ‘I bring self-raising flour for the maiden!’ he announces, holding the packet aloft.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say, hugging him. I pull away, not quite knowing what to do next.

  ‘D’you know what?’ he says, striding to the kitchen. ‘At first, I wondered if you phoning for flour was just an excuse to get me over here …’

  ‘As if I’d do that,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Yeah, I know. That’s what I thought. I reckoned, well, if you wanted me to come over, then …’ He stops, his gaze meeting mine. My heart seems to stop as I study his face; his gorgeous greeny-blue eyes, framed by dark lashes, and that lovely sensuous mouth that I kissed once before, what feels like a million years ago … and now, all of a sudden, I so want to kiss again.

  ‘Then I’d just have said so,’ I murmur. Stu nods and smiles. ‘Actually …’ I clear my throat. ‘I did want you here, and it was an excuse. I could have just gone out to the shops myself. I mean, this is London …’

  ‘… Not the Shetlands,’ he says with a grin. We laugh and look at each other. ‘Well, it’s okay,’ he adds, ‘because I wanted to come. I miss you, you know. It’s crazy because I’ve only been at Bob’s for a week but …’ He shrugs. ‘I’m not sure it was the best idea, moving out …’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ I say quickly. ‘You can just come back whenever you like. Now, if you want to …’

  He takes my hand in his, sending shivers right through me. ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to mess you around—’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say quickly, ‘and you’ve never messed me around.’

  His hand squeezes mine. ‘I never will, I promise you that.’ We fall silent then, as if neither of us can muster the words we need to say. Then he speaks, finally. ‘Lorrie … you really must know by now.’

  ‘Know what?’ I whisper.

  ‘That I’m completely in love with you.’ I open my mouth to respond, but he continues: ‘I mean, I’ve always loved you. You’re the most important person in my life, you know that? But this past year, being here, being your housemate …’ He breaks off. ‘Well – it made me realise that I don’t just love you as a friend. What I mean is …’ He stops as my lips touch his. It’s the lightest of kisses, yet it sends my head spinning. He pulls back, and that’s how we are for a moment or two, just looking as if seeing each other properly for the very first time. ‘What I mean is,’ he adds, ‘I realised I’m madly in love with you, if that’s okay …’

  I move a strand of hair from his eyes and smile. ‘Of course it is. It’s more than okay. I love you too, and I hope you know that …’

  ‘I think I do,’ he says softly, and then his arms are around me, and we are kissing deeply for the first time since 1986. We are kissing and kissing, and I feel as if I could dissolve right here in my hallway, and then he takes both of my hands in his and says, ‘Okay, my darling, now I’m going to show you how to bake a cake.’

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks as ever to my amazing agent, Caroline Sheldon, and to Helen Huthwaite, Natasha Harding, Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks and all the wonderful Avon team. Cheers to Kedi Simpson, Yasmin Boland, Barbara Smith and Steve Fletcher for tips and reminiscences of budget travel to Paris back in the eighties. Thanks, lovely Nicki Wallis, for obligingly checking the French bits. Before this book was finished, I very naughtily snuck off for a few days to Ibiza with my girl pals. Jenno, Kath, Riggsy, Susan and Laura, thanks for making me laugh to the point of collapse and for filling me with sangria. We must do it again sometime (oh, we are?!). Huge thanks to Jimmy, Sam, Dexter and Erin for being all-round brilliant. Finally, a gratitude-filled shout-out to Misha McCullagh, who not only spent hours with me, filling me in on life as a department store beauty consultant, but also treated me to a restorative make-over. Naturally, I couldn’t resist splurging on a few items from her counter. All in the name of research, of course.

  The Woman Who Upped and Left

  If you enjoyed The Woman Who Met Her Match, we think you’ll love The Woman Who Upped and Left. Turn over to read the first chapter …

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  Chapter One

  Fried Chicken

  Pants. There’s a lot of them about. Tomato-red boxers are strewn on the sofa, while another specimen – turquoise, emblazoned with cartoon palm trees and pineapples – has come to rest under the coffee table like a snoozing pet. A third pair – in a murky mustard hue – are parked in front of the TV as if waiting for their favourite programme to come on. I’m conducting an experiment to see how long they’ll all remain there if I refuse to round them all up. Perhaps, if left for long enough, they’ll fossilise and I can donate them to a museum.

&nbs
p; Yet more are to be found upstairs, in the bathroom, slung close to – but crucially not in – the linen basket. The act of lifting the wicker lid, and dropping them into it, is clearly too arduous a task for a perfectly able-bodied boy of eighteen years old. It’s infuriating. I’ve mentioned it so many times, Morgan must have stopped hearing me – like the way you eventually become unaware of a ticking clock. Either that, or he simply doesn’t give a stuff. Not for the first time I figure that boys of this age and their mothers are just not designed to live together. But I won’t pick them up, not this time. We can live in filth – crucially, he’ll also run out of clean pants and have to start re-wearing dirty ones, turned inside out – and see if I care …

  Beside the scattering of worn boxers lies a tiny scrap of pale lemon lace, which on closer inspection appears to be a thong. This would be Jenna’s. Morgan’s girlfriend is also prone to leaving a scattering of personal effects in her wake.

  I stare down at the thong, trying to figure how such a minuscule item can possibly function as pants. I have never worn one myself, being unable to conquer the fear that they could work their way actually into your bottom, and require an embarrassing medical procedure to dig them back out. I know they’re meant to be sexy – my own sturdy knickers come in multipacks, like loo roll – but all I can think is: chafing risk. And what am I supposed to do with it?

  Although Morgan has been seeing Jenna for nearly a year, I’m still unsure of the etiquette where her underwear is concerned. Should I pick it up delicately – with eyebrow tweezers, perhaps – and seal it in a clear plastic bag, like evidence from a crime scene? Tentatively, as if it might snap at my ankle, I nudge it into the corner of the bathroom with the toe of my shoe.

  Stifled giggles filter through Morgan’s closed bedroom door as I march past. He locks it these days, i.e. with a proper bolt, which he nailed on without prior permission, irreparably damaging the original Victorian door in the process. We’ve just had a Chinese takeaway and now they’re … well, obviously they’re not playing Scrabble. Having known each other since primary school, they’ve been inseparable since a barbecue at Jenna’s last summer. Favouring our house to hang out in, they are forever draped all over each other in a languid heap, as if suffering from one of those olden-day illnesses: consumption or scarlet fever. They certainly look pretty flushed whenever I happen to walk into the room. ‘Yes, Mum?’ my son is prone to saying, as if I have no right to move from room to room in my own home.