There was a beep of a horn; my taxi was here. When I walked down the stairs, cringing quite badly (the lady of the manor appearing from her sweeping staircase to gasps from the servants, genuflecting below…), Will was at the top of the ladder again. He turned his head to face me, widened his eyes slightly as though surprised, and then gave me an almighty grin.
‘So, you did scrub up,’ he said. ‘You scrubbed up very well. You look really nice.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. I was embarrassed; it was time for me to start babbling again. ‘Oh Will, you’re making me feel ever so guilty. There’s me, tarting myself up upstairs while you’re down here painting my hall, it doesn’t seem right… I’m ever so grateful…’ My voice sounded a bit shaky. I hoped he hadn’t noticed. I also did sound like some ridiculous aristocratic fop – ‘I’m ever so grateful’? – terrible! Actually, thinking about it, I sounded more like Dot Cotton!
‘Daryl. Don’t be. If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth finishing. And you look far from a tart. You look lovely.’
‘Well, thank you, I really appreciate it.’ I meant the painting. I meant the compliment. I stood awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs, on one of Will’s woolly dust sheets, fidgeting with the bottom of my suddenly ridiculous skinny tie, while he looked down on me.
A smile hung suspended between us. My cheeks, under their dollop of shimmer, felt really hot. I was blushing. I was ridiculous. ‘So, my taxi’s outside. I’ve got to go.
‘Yes,’ said Will, still smiling. ‘Your door’s the same as mine isn’t it? Yale lock? I’ll just let myself out when I’m done.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
All the earlier ease had gone. The atmosphere had changed since I’d gone upstairs to get ready. I felt silly all dressed up, and like I didn’t want to go; I wanted to put my paint-splattered jeans and my paint-splattered brand new top back on and paint with my friend and neighbour, Will.
‘Have a great time,’ he said, suddenly coming down the ladder and opening the door for me.
‘Thanks, Will.’ I said, and stepped outside the house into the chill night air. ‘I’ll try.’
Chapter Eleven
I was meeting Ben in a little pub in Richmond, near the river, and as I thanked the taxi driver and walked down the street towards it, I was incredibly nervous about seeing him. I started doubting the make-up, the outfit, the stupid skinny tie. I hoped I looked cute and perky, not old and desperate; I dreaded it was the latter.
I had to get in the mood for this, I told myself. I was on a date; Ben was waiting for me. It was supposed to be exciting. Why, then, did I feel like I was going to the guillotine?
It was freezing cold. I could see the pub at the end of the street, on the corner. Ben’s text, telling me where to meet him, had arrived whilst I was leaving B&Q. He was a very chirpy person, I decided. Even his texts were chirpy; he’d put a smiley face and four kisses. He sent another one whilst I was in the taxi, that just said, ‘In pub, waiting for you!’ and another smiley face. I needed that, as just before I’d received it, I’d almost decided not to come. I’d almost told the taxi driver to turn round, but I was too embarrassed and far too polite to do so. I had a bit of a wobble. What was I doing? Sitting in a taxi on my way to meet a man I barely knew, going on a date two days after receiving my decree absolute, putting my toe back into waters that could be murky and full of danger… I was scared stiff. Then I tried to get a grip – it was only a man, it was only a date. Ben was waiting for me; I wouldn’t let him down. How many women had a nice man waiting in a pub for them and wanting to take them to a party, on a Tuesday night?
I arrived at the pub. It had a rosy orange glow pulsing behind its double doors and a man was lolling outside, smoking.
‘Evening, love,’ he muttered.
‘Evening,’ I replied, as I pushed one of the doors open. A whoosh of chilly air swept me inside, along with a handful of swirling autumn leaves – the evening’s drizzle had cleared to leave a clear, dry night with a bracing bite. An orange leaf landed on my shoulder and I flicked it off my fur jacket, then looked around me.
I felt like I’d stepped back in time into Victorian England. The pub was tiny, very warm and a shade of rich, ruby red the Victorians may have referred to as ‘tart’s knickers’. There was red patterned carpet, red flocked wallpaper, red heavy velvet curtains, red walls and a bar panelled in red leather. The Old Bull, it was called. I didn’t know if it was full of it or not, but there were lots of old men in wool overcoats who looked like they were about to put the world to rights. Their conversation was a Dickensian rumble; the background piano music was parlour-style. There was even a scrappy-looking dog, by the fire, its head in a silver bowl of water. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Bill Sykes himself had turned up, swearing at everyone and brandishing a stick.
Before the smoking ban, this pub would have been filled floor to ceiling with the choking fumes of cigarettes and cigars and it would have been impossible to see to the bar, from where I was standing, but the air was smoke-free and as one old boy moved slightly left of his companion, I could see Ben leaning against the bar with a bottle of beer in his hand and a huge smile on his face.
‘Daryl! Over here!’
I smiled back, nervously and a little shakily – and stepped towards him, circumnavigating my way round the old men. One let me past with a wink and a raising of his glass. Thank you, Sir. A toast, to the middle-aged lady on her first date in twenty-five years…
Ben looked… cute. He was wearing a red checked shirt, blue jeans and the same brown work-y boots. His hair was damp, the curls darkened – he looked like a friendly lumberjack who’d been caught in a forest rainstorm.
My nerves were really racing now. I wasn’t sure, I wasn’t sure. There were no instant butterflies here. Give it a chance, I thought. Give him a chance. It’s just a date, a pub, a party. Get on with it.
‘Hello,’ I said, as I arrived at Ben. I sounded out of breath, although I wasn’t.
‘All right?’ said Ben. He was grinning. His face made me relax a bit. He liked me. He was nice. I should go with it.
‘Yes, I’m good, thanks. Are you all right?’
‘I certainly am.’
He reached his arm towards me. I wondered what he was going to do. ‘You’ve got a leaf in your hair,’ he said, and he picked it out then smoothed my hair with his hand. I didn’t know how to feel. I didn’t know if I wanted him touching my hair. And I didn’t get a tingle or anything. But then again it was only hair.
‘Oak,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Oh, you should really get to know your trees.’
‘Country boy,’ I teased.
‘All the way,’ he said. ‘Right, what are you having?’
‘A vodka, lime and soda, please.’ I needed it. I had a feeling my hands were shaking.
‘Coming right up,’ he said. And he gave a silly little half bow, like a circus ringmaster.
‘Thank you.’
He winked, downed the rest of his beer and turned to the bar. As he waited to be served I looked around the pub, to distract myself from my nerves. I felt exactly as I had in the taxi. Why had I come here? Why was I on this date? The whole thing was making me feel weird. I was way out of my comfort zone – my comfort zone was lying in a onesie on the sofa flicking through Chat magazine and letting Minstrels dissolve on my tongue. I wished that was what I was doing.
I was the only woman in there, apart from a peeling bust of Rita Hayworth on the wall above the jukebox. It didn’t particularly bother me – all those old men supping and talking; I liked the fact that Ben hadn’t brought me somewhere trendy. I may not have felt wholly comfortable being on a date, but his choice of pub showed he was down to earth and un-showy and it was warm and comfortable in here. The pub was also close to the party, he’d said, and I was glad of that. It was not a night for traipsing the streets, especially in these boots, and I was grateful Ben had possibly taken such logistics into
account.
Some Halloween decorations were up, for tomorrow night. A few cobwebs hung from the ceiling, a couple of black felt spiders were dangling from the corners of the room – one tickling an elderly gent on the shoulder. I thought of Will’s summerhouse and all its spiders, and smiled. The end of the bar had a half-baked white sheet draped over it, which someone had cut jagged holes in. There was a broom – which I presumed was a witch’s broom and not just one the cleaner had left lying around – standing upright next to one of the windows, all straggly and dirty-looking. It was all a bit of a token effort, but the locals no doubt appreciated it.
I turned back to the bar and there was Ben’s bum. He had one foot up on the gold pole that ran along the base of the bar, and his bum was sticking out. My first thought was that it wasn’t as nice as Will’s and that it was generally a little slimmer than my ideal. Ben was a bit slimmer all over than my absolute ideal; I liked a quite chunky man, despite Jeff having been as thin and reedy as a rake. Funny that, being married all those years to someone who wasn’t even my type. And hilarious that I’d spent all those years with him only for him to run off with someone else…
‘Okay, Daryl?’
Ben flicked his head briefly back from the bar to me, his face all friendly and genial.
‘Yes, thank you.’
He turned back again.
My second thought was that I must stop looking at blokes’ bums. I looked further up. I liked Ben’s shirt. It was brushed cotton and cosy-looking. He had the sleeves slightly rolled up and the hair on his arms was fair and quite bushy. As he reached into his back pocket for his wallet, I noted nails which were clean and neatly trimmed. Okay, these were all Brownie points, as far as I was concerned. A few boxes were being ticked. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
The bar was busy. Ben kept turning back to grin at me and missing his slot. Eventually he got served. I was hot now and I wanted to take my jacket off, but I knew it would keep slipping off my arm, if I put it over it, so I kept it on. My cheeks, with their added shimmer. were probably glowing bright pink, but that was okay – it was a better look for me than pasty and pale, and they no doubt distracted from my wrinkles.
Ben handed me my drink.
‘There you go.’
‘Thank you, Ben.’
‘It’s Absolut.’
‘Absolute?’
‘Absolut Vodka.’
How fitting. I took a grateful gulp. Ah, alcohol, my old friend in time of need, I thought. I needed its steadying influence tonight. As I savoured it going down my throat to warm my stomach and take the edge off my nerves, I looked around me at all the old men, also gratefully gulping their beers, their whiskeys and their brandies. We’re a funny old nation aren’t we? A nation of right old boozers. Drink after drink after drink we chuck down our throats, down the hatch, bottoms up, before we starting shouting in obnoxious voices, getting off with each other and falling over in the gutter until the least drunk person drags us home. What was that quote? Something like, We may be in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars? Not true if we’ve had a skinful and have passed out with our dress round our hips, an empty bottle of Smirnoff Ice rolling down the street away from our outstretched hand. And I should know; I’ve been there. Well, not quite that bad, but almost. The night Will found me on the drive was not that pretty, that was for sure.
‘Cheers,’ Ben said and clinked his bottle against my glass. He took a big swig. I took another slug of mine. I was glad the pub was so warm and the drink so cold. I still felt a bit weird. Effectively, I was here with a total stranger. Someone I’d met last night for all of ten minutes. I glanced at him, swigging his beer, one hand in his back pocket. He looked happy, friendly, harmless. He seemed okay. I needed to relax. ‘We’ll have a couple here,’ he said, ‘then move on to the party.’
Actually, Ben had three beers before we moved on; I made my drink last the whole time as I suspected it was a double. I relaxed. Conversation with Ben proved to be easy. There were no awkward silences, no stilted non sequiturs. He was very chatty, animated, amusing. He told me all about the day he’d had at work, how he was working on the garden of a huge house three streets away. The couple whose party it was tonight had recommended him for the job.
‘So tell me about these crazy people who have a house party on a Tuesday night,’ I said. I looked forward to hearing about them. I was beginning to quite enjoy his funny stories and his little anecdotes. He was easy on the eye, too. His curls had dried now and he looked very handsome. I looked at his blue eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like if they locked with mine, then I did the same with his lips. Both were plausible situations, at this moment in time, weren’t they?
‘They’re former clients. Arty types. So cool, both of them. She has a quirky gallery and makes sculptures out of chicken wire or something – he’s a film producer. Art school stuff. Black and white. Subtitles because the accents are so obscure you can’t make anything out.’ I laughed. I’d seen some films like that… Jeff had liked a bit of pretension. ‘They don’t do the nine-to-five. That’s how I got to know them. When I was working at their gaff they were always hanging around, drinking gin and stuff. Felix ended up helping me with some of the work – he had some great ideas – and Flick floated around looking glamorous and bringing me endless cups of green tea.’
‘They sound really interesting,’ I said.
‘Yeah, totally. They’re pretty awesome.’ Ben sometimes spoke like a Californian valley girl, which was strange for a grown man in his forties. ‘I’ve had a few subsequent jobs through them. Met some great people.’ He polished off his current beer. ‘Come on then, my lovely. Let’s get out of here and go meet these fabulous folks!’
He put his hand on my back and steered me through the pub. The old men winked at me and nodded at Ben, and the double doors sent us out into the night with a tailwind of heat and light.
It was cold but I didn’t feel it due to my snuggly jacket, the effects of the double vodka and the lingering warmth of The Old Bull. No stars were out tonight, the clouds gathered over London were showing no sign of budging, but our walk was quite pleasant. The pavement was wide and the street was empty of cars. My heels struck loudly on the wide pavement as Ben walked close to me. I noticed his hand was swinging close to mine and I had a feeling he was going to take it, but he didn’t; he sort of bounced along the pavement like an over-excited dog. And he kept looking at me and grinning.
‘You all right?’ he kept asking, every five seconds.
‘Wonderful,’ I said.
And I did feel pretty good. I was out on a date with a lovely man and going to a party at the house of fascinating people on a Tuesday night. What was there to not feel great about?
We arrived outside a massive, double-fronted house. I looked up to three stucco storeys silhouetted by black sky, a massive, walled front garden with a dramatic wrought iron gate and a fairy-lit tiled path that led to the front door. It was beautiful. The house was chucking out the sounds of chatter and laughter and music and through the windows I could see people, and colour, and life. It looked so promising inside, like anything could happen.
Suddenly, I was nervous again. Oh god, they were horrendously posh, trendy people, weren’t they? Was I going to fit in? Of course, I lived in Wimbledon, I was pretty much surrounded by well-to-do people with lots of money, but I wasn’t like that. I was pretty ordinary. I was of East End stock. My Mum still said ‘we was’ instead of ‘we were’ and ‘I done’ instead of ‘I’ve done’. I used to try and correct her but I’ve given up now. I hadn’t been to many posh parties; I hoped there wouldn’t be too many Tarquins and Jocastas barking things I didn’t understand.
I stopped still and just stared at the house for a few moments.
‘Shall we?’ said Ben. This time he did take my hand, and we walked up the beautiful path and the three steps to the porch, my small cold hand in his warm, large one. Two people were already standing on the doorstep; a couple in the doorwa
y were greeting them. There was a bustle of air kisses and hugs and squeals of laughter, and scarves and pashminas and pearls and diamante and dangly earrings and everyone’s breath misted and mingled in the cold night air. Suddenly, the guests disappeared past the couple and were swallowed up into the house, and there we were, on the smooth top step by the front door with its gorgeous stained glass panels.
‘Ben! Oh, how wonderful!’ A petite woman with huge hair and a tiny bird-like body, shrouded in cream wool and feathers, launched herself round his neck. A tall guy in a black polo neck extended his hand for a shake. ‘And you brought a plus one, after all!’ she cried. ‘Miranda is it? Marvellous! Welcome, welcome!’ The tiny rocket of a woman hurled herself at me. My chin nestled in a feathery fluff ball of Chanel No. 5 and cashmere.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘No, I’m Daryl.’
‘Daryl! Yes, of course! Wonderful! I’m Flick, and this is Felix.’ She pulled back from me and allowed Felix to lean forward and air kiss me on both cheeks. Once he’d finished, she put her hands on my shoulders and did that thing where she stared at my face for far too long. I was able to count the specs of glitter on her eyelids; I could see where the foundation on her face met her neck. ‘Where did you find this wonderful creature, my darling Ben?’
I wondered if Ben would say.
He laughed and shrugged. ‘We met last night, in town. She’s a lovely girl.’ That was nice of him. And it was even nicer (and somewhat surprising) to be called a girl.
‘Fabulous! Well, come in, come in. The young people are going round with champagne and we’ll have some flaming margaritas in about ten minutes or so.’
We stepped inside, onto a gorgeous black and white tiled floor. The walls were white and bare, apart from candles set into sconces. Someone stepped forward to take our coats and whisk them away. And Ben took my hand again – still no frisson, pleasant, but no cigar – and in the easy manner of someone who’d obviously been to this house many times before, led me into the party.
Cloudy with a Chance of Love Page 11