Cloudy with a Chance of Love

by Fiona Collins

  The first thing I noticed was that U2 was playing – their first album, War. The second was that impossibly trendy people were lounging on the edges of white leather sofas, standing in clusters by a huge marble fireplace and gathering in chattering packs around waitresses with trays of canapes and drinks. There were a lot of polo necks and arty, statement earrings.

  Ben grabbed a beer in a tall glass from a passing tray. ‘What can I get you? Champers?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Coming up m’lady,’ said Ben, in a sudden and rather poor impression of Parker from Thunderbirds and grabbed one for me from another passing tray. I took a sip and we stood there, amongst the posh, madding throng.

  ‘So…’ he said, smiling broadly.

  ‘So…’ I said, smiling back at him.

  And we didn’t actually speak to each other again for an hour. A couple appeared at Ben’s side, some people he’d met through Flick and Felix, and they wanted to talk to him for ages about lilac trees and bee-keeping, of which he had scant knowledge. A man in a brown shirt started chatting to me about art and literature and what did I think of the Serpentine; I wondered if he meant the gallery or the river. Then Ben got talking to some girls about pergolas, and someone else came up and started chattering on about their bespoke scarf business and was I interested in investing?

  The people at that party were extremely sociable. It must be the well-to-do, bohemian vibe. Everyone was over-effusive, huggy and generous with their air kisses: sometimes two, sometimes three, sometimes four. There was a lot of wild gesticulating and high-pitched shrieking. Ben knew a lot of the people there. He slapped people on the back, roared with laughter and high-fived along with the best of them. He was one of the gang.

  Everyone was really gorgeous in this gang. Exquisitely dressed. There were a lot of very beautiful girls there and they all seemed to be acquainted with Ben. They approached, they stroked his arm. One actually tousled his hair. He appeared to be a sort of dazzling nucleus. And I was seemingly as popular. Loads of people came up to chat. Who was I, they hadn’t seen me before? Where did I live? Who and what did I know?

  I’d done all this very posh chitchat for quite a while, when a very animated young blonde in an oxblood leather dress – her eyes slightly bloodshot, her hand gestures way over the top – dragged me off to the kitchen to ‘admire the cheese board’. I wondered if ‘the cheese board’ was a euphemism for something highly illegal, but no, it was an actual cheese board; it was on a massive piece of grey slate and looked amazing – there must have been at least four different types of stilton. I made all the right noises, said yes, it truly was a remarkable brie, then she fixed her bloodshot eyes on mine and told me she worked making prosthetics for films – all the gory scars and stuff. She told me all about her current project: werewolves and zombies, some sort of apocalypse. She never asked me what I did. All the time she was talking, she was leaning against the fridge, and I don’t know why she didn’t stand somewhere else, as she had to keep moving to let people open it. They’d get out what they wanted, then close it again, and she’d move back into place.

  ‘Ben’s fun, isn’t he?’ she said. She gripped my arm with pincer-like, gold-tipped fingers as she spoke.

  ‘Yes, he’s great,’ I replied. We were like sentries now, either side of the fridge. I felt a bit of a lemon and wondered where Ben was.

  ‘I used to date him. Oh, it was ages ago,’ she added hurriedly. What, when she was about ten? I wondered. She was really young. Way younger than me. I wondered, not for the first time, what Ben was doing with me. He was super popular, knew all the right people, obviously knew a lot of younger, hot women. I had the feeling he was out all the time, making friends, making connections. I was just a forty-something, curvy-to-fat weather presenter with a big bum who never went to parties and had forgotten how to make connections and what they were even for.

  I waited for her to say something else, but it seemed there was nothing else to add to her story. She just stood there. After a while she opened the fridge to let someone look for a bottle of loganberry cider.

  ‘It didn’t work out?’ I offered.

  ‘No.’ Her lips closed with a snap and she started looking vaguely round the room. Then she glanced back at me again ‘Let’s just say we weren’t too good for each other.’ I wondered what she meant and why she didn’t want to say more. Perhaps she was too high maintenance for him. She had that air; she looked a bit… needy, fragile, with her skinny arms and long, aristocratic neck. I bet that was it. She was high-maintenance and he couldn’t be doing with it. He was far too easy-going and carefree for her.

  She started talking to someone else – who was rooting in the fridge for more champagne – and ended up swigging out of the bottle with him. I had the urge to do the same, but instead wandered back into the party to find Ben. He was hopping around talking to a guy with a massive hipster beard and put his arm round me as I came up.

  ‘This is who I brought!’ he announced. ‘This is Daryl.’

  ‘Hi, Daryl,’ said the guy. It was hard to tell what the lower half of his face actually looked like but he had the most amazing, dazzling green eyes, framed by dark lashes, and some mesmerising eyebrows. Cor, he was quite tasty. And he winked at me.

  Ah. I realised what was missing with Ben. This immediate lurch at the bottom of my stomach when he looked at me. This lusty feeling. I’d tried. I’d seen Ben at a distance for much of the evening. He’d be talking to someone else and so would I and he’d catch my eye and give me a slight raise of the eyebrows and a smile. From a certain kind of man this would make a woman’s heart race, make them go all giddy and give them that feeling, but it didn’t with Ben. I was worried a serious spark was missing between us, at least on my part, but I wouldn’t give up on him just yet. There was still time for a spark, wasn’t there? Sometimes sparks took a while to get going, like when you’re trying to strike a match to light a candle on a birthday cake and it takes a few goes? Or when you have a dodgy plastic lighter for the same purpose and it simply won’t ignite?

  ‘How’re you doing?’ said Ben, close to my ear. ‘Mad party, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ I said. ‘Very friendly people.’

  ‘The friendliest people in London,’ said Hipster Beard. No one thought to introduce him properly to me. Perhaps he was too good looking for such formalities. Perhaps he was too good looking to even have a name. He smiled in the gap between his beard with full, velvety lips. Sexy, I thought.

  ‘Oh yeah, yeah.’ Ben nodded really enthusiastically. ‘The best.’

  Suddenly the music got turned up. It was David Bowie’s ‘Golden Years.’ An impromptu dancefloor manifested in the middle of the room and Posh Dancing started up. There was a lot of shuffling, some theatrical arm-waving. A bit of swaying. Everyone looked polite though; courteous. There would be no moshing or knee-pumping Madness dancing here.

  Ben suddenly seemed more than a bit tipsy. He was all bouncy and skippy, like a kangaroo. He started bobbing energetically up and down on the spot, as though he was on a pogo stick. Perhaps he should have given Sam more of a chance, I thought, at the speed dating tables. Think of the calories they could burn together! Sam, I wished she was here. And Peony.

  ‘Let’s dance!’ Ben shouted.

  ‘Okay!’ I shouted back. Give the poor man a chance, I told myself. At least he’s fun. He grabbed my hand – his was all hot and sweaty now – and we took a whirl on the dancefloor. I don’t mean to show off or anything, but I can throw some serious shapes, especially after a couple of drinks. I can hold my own on the dancefloor, especially if I have a good partner. Sam, in particular, is great for a boogie, when we’re both in the mood.

  I wasn’t sure how good a dance partner Ben was. He was slightly manic and definitely drunk; he was staggering a bit, wandering a bit, tripping over a bit. I had to pull him back to where he wanted to be more than a couple of times, apologise to a couple of people he bounced off. Yet, despite all that, I began to enjoy
myself. Golden Years finished and INXS came on – ‘I Need You Tonight’. I loved that one. I was going with it, at last. Ben and I danced opposite each other and grinned in each other’s faces. His grins were wider and more manic than mine. He was really quite drunk, I decided.

  Suddenly he snaked both arms around me and turned me round in what I thought was going to be a dance move, but he pushed me gently out of the dancefloor and to a corner of the room. I was protesting slightly; I’d been really enjoying that. Before I knew it we were away from the crowd and under a Klimt – probably an original – the one of the girl wrapped in the gold blanket (wasn’t that in a film?), and beside a huge sash window which overlooked the posh, tree-lined street outside. The window was open slightly at the bottom, despite the cold night and an ethereal bit of sheer white drapery was wavering in the breeze. The cool air was very welcome to my flushed cheeks.

  ‘I like you, Daryl,’ said Ben. He took both my hands as though we were about to do-si-do. I had a flashback of school and country dancing, Tommy Jones swinging me round and round until I fell over and got a nosebleed. Then Ben stepped forward so our hands were clasped upwards, like we were making the arch for the end of Oranges and Lemons. Oh god, was he going to kiss me?

  He released one hand. He pulled me closer by gently tugging on my skinny tie. He leant his face towards mine.

  Oh god. He was going to kiss me.

  He kissed me. His lips were hot and dry. Firm. He tasted of beer and brandy. He pressed his lips against mine. I didn’t know how to feel. I hadn’t been kissed for such a very long time. It wasn’t unpleasant. I closed my eyes. He started kissing me properly. I reciprocated. A warm tongue came into play – just. I was glad. I didn’t think I was ready for full-on tongue action. He kissed me a bit more, then pulled his face back from mine and smiled.

  I smiled back at him but I was conflicted. I felt a bit weird.

  The kiss hadn’t given me any sexual feelings, like a kiss normally does. Like a kiss should do. I didn’t feel any stirrings in the action area, any fizzing in the knickers. I wondered with a terrible start – not that I had ever done it, of course – if this was a bit like kissing your brother.

  I don’t think Ben saw it like that. He took my hands again and simply said, ‘Daryl.’ He obviously did really like me. It was a kiss with intent, and that was a very nice feeling indeed. Maybe once we’d given it a few more goes (like the dodgy plastic lighter?) those yummy feelings would come. I had a sudden moment of panic – was I drying up, were there not going to be any more sexual feelings? Had I had all I was going to have? Gabby always used to joke about dried up old spinsters and we used to laugh ourselves silly. Oh god, was it happening? Was it impossible to turn me on?

  Then again, I reasoned with myself, I had a feeling that if Hipster Beard were kissing me in this corner, despite the inevitable chin rash, I would have been a lot more enthusiastic. A lot more. Then I felt incredibly guilty. Hipster man didn’t want to kiss me. Ben did. Love the one you’re with, and all that.

  Ben certainly hadn’t seemed to notice that anything was slightly… wrong. He looked as happy as a sandboy. He looked like he was about to say something else, when Flick approached him from behind and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Come on lovebirds, I saw you two making out! Ben, darling, it’s time for cake.’ How embarrassing! Making out? Didn’t they say awful things like that on American TV? And we were hardly lovebirds. I was an old bird – that was about it.

  We followed Flick to an enormous glass coffee table to one side of the room, and a pretty brunette waitress came out with a cake in the shape of a director’s chair, Felix’s name on the back. The loud, horsey voices joined in unison for ‘Happy Birthday’ and Ben squeezed my hand again. I grinned at him, he grinned back. I pretended I was really feeling it. I could, I was sure. In time. I had to remember I’d recently come out of a long-term marriage – everything was bound to feel a bit odd.

  The crowd was now clapping and cheering. ‘There’ll be a quick turnaround by staff and this place will look like the Addams Family mansion tomorrow night,’ he shouted at me, over the din. ‘Another party. I’m not invited to that one. Probably be an entirely different set of folks. A circle I don’t move in.’ He seemed to move in enough circles, I thought.

  ‘Are you bothered?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve got other plans. I’m out most nights.’

  Most nights? At his age? What was that all about? Mid-life crisis perhaps? They were all the rage. Did he have a yellow Porsche at home and a gold medallion under his lumberjack shirt? A Jacuzzi bath and a pair of snakeskin slip-ons? I wondered what Ben was doing tomorrow night. Would he ask me what I was doing? Was that the done thing, these days – two dates in a row? And even if it was, did I want to go on another date with him? He’d kissed me, but it hadn’t been a roaring success. He was Mr ‘Out Most Nights’ Party Party; I was beginning to see him as a little immature.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked me. What could I say: I’m not sure because I don’t know what the actual hell I’m doing here, or whether I even fancy you and can I just go home and think about it for a week or two please? And then let you know?

  Instead I said, ‘I’m absolutely fine.’

  The cake was whisked off the kitchen to be cut and the crowd around it dispersed, exposing Hipster Beard man and a young blonde, perched on a couple of chairs and snogging each other’s faces off. Lucky cow, I thought, and then, oh sod it. The music was starting up again and Ben was limbering up. I was going to have to dance some more and give this man a chance.

  So we danced some more – loads more. To eighties cheese, nineties house, a post-2000 bit of everything. Sam would be impressed. All those calories being danced away. She would have been hilarious about all these posh people. Would have got right in there, talking nineteen to the dozen, dancing her arse off… I wished, yet again, she was here. Gabby would have loved it too. A bit too much. She would have been showing off, doing crazy dancing, flicking her hair around all over the place. Trying to ingratiate herself. Seeing who she could latch onto…

  I suddenly wanted my bed. With just me in it. I wanted to go home. I couldn’t dance any more. Not tonight.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ben, but I think I want to call it a night. I’ve got work in the morning.’ It must have been at least midnight, anyway. Time to go home.

  ‘Me too,’ replied Ben. ‘I’ve got to level a lawn tomorrow, but I might stay a bit longer. Work off all this beer.’ The amount of beer he’d drunk, he’d be here until five in the morning. ‘Unless you want to come back to mine?’

  I really didn’t and I knew from the way he was smiling that he was joking – again. That was a relief.

  ‘Ha, no, I’m all right thanks!’

  ‘You don’t mind if I stay?’

  ‘No, I don’t mind at all.’

  ‘I’ll see you to a taxi, though.’

  ‘Great, thank you. I’ve really had a lovely time.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Outside, he used Uber to get me a minicab. He gave me one more kiss, beer in hand, a long peck I had to pull away from as the taxi drew up to the pavement. Again, it wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t amazing.

  ‘Bye, Ben.’

  ‘Bye, Daryl. Speak soon.’

  I sped away. He was waving to me, like a small child, and I waved back.

  I wasn’t sure.

  I really wasn’t sure

  I still had the horrible feeling I didn’t really fancy him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wednesday

  I woke to UB40 and Chrissie Hynde singing ‘I Got You Babe’ and took a few moments to see if I had a hangover or not. I sat up and turned my head from left to right. Headache? No. Crushing need to eat carbs and sugar until ten o’clock tonight? Not apparent. Good. I really hadn’t had that much to drink so I should have been fine and was glad I was.

  I also had a very weird and vivid dream last night, that Ben and I kissed again – this time by a clear
Italian lake, ‘Manic Monday’ style – and it was much, much better than it had been at the party. Not quite amazing, but almost, and in the dream I got all the right feelings in all the right places.

  I shouldn’t write him off just yet, I thought. I mustn’t be too picky or too prescriptive. All right, during the real kiss there hadn’t been Catherine wheels going off and our pretty, winged friends jumping up and down in my stomach, but if you looked at him objectively he was a catch, wasn’t he? Nice looking, friendly, fun… and he had a good, interesting job. Plus, he liked me. That was all good stuff as far as I was concerned. It sounded good. I decided not to close myself off from him. I decided, as I padded downstairs for my first coffee of the day, we could work on that kiss. It was like what they said about sex, wasn’t it? It was always disappointing the first time and then it got better and better. The same must be true of kissing. It was something we could work on, if we wanted to.

  As I left for work, there was Will, coming down his drive. He was all suited and booted and had a charcoal grey overcoat on, with the collar turned up. It was a really good look on him.

  ‘Morning!’ he said jauntily.

  ‘Morning,’ I replied. ‘Thanks so much again for last night. I really appreciate it. And for tidying up.’

  When I’d got home from the party, the dust sheets had all been neatly folded and left in a corner of the hall and there were two paint tins lined up, the lids firmly on, next to them, on a sheet of newspaper. In the kitchen were the paint brushes we’d used, sitting neatly in jam jars of water. And my hall was all beautifully painted, including the skirting boards. I hadn’t even bought any paint for those so I was impressed. And I currently didn’t have any jam jars or newspaper either so he’d done a really good job.

  ‘No problem at all. How was the date?’

  ‘Yeah, okay. It was pretty good actually.’ A great start, Ms Positive, I thought. Full marks. Think and sound positive and positive things will come your way.