Cloudy with a Chance of Love

by Fiona Collins

  ‘Oh, good!’ said Will, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. ‘Great!’ He had that bright smile again. ‘Do you think you’ll see him again?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Oh, fantastic! Oh, well done.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, pulling his car keys from one pocket and giving them a good rattle. ‘So, I’d better get going.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Thanks again for helping me paint the hall.’

  ‘No worries. See you later, Daryl.’

  ‘Bye, Will.’

  And he got in his car and I got in mine and I drove to work. I whacked up the radio full blast as I navigated my way down Wimbledon High Street. ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’ was on – oh I loved this – and it was exactly what I wanted to do; have fun, live a little. I was oh so perky, I was very, very positive. I was going to walk in the sun; I was going to live my life right. I also decided I was going to be all American about this dating lark, all New York – I would treat the situation with Ben as casual dating, but with a business-like attitude. Head up, options open, plan ahead and work at it. Yes, a New York state of mind was where I’d be at, not an English one where it’s all about lust and snogging unsuitable people in nightclubs and discounting men without properly evaluating their merits. I was actually glad Ben had plans for tonight and I would let him get on with them – I had a life too. And right now it was to be the best weather presenter who had ever walked the earth and simply wow today’s listeners.

  ‘So, how did it go last night? Did you get it on?’ Sam was waiting at my desk, as I got into work, resplendent in a tight-fitting tweed dress and sassy ankle boots. She looked amazing – she’d been working hard on those thighs, I could tell. Lunges, it had to be…

  ‘Sshh!’ I laughed. I dragged Sam over to the kitchen, gently closed the saloon doors so they would stay shut and put the microwave on as though we were doing one of her ninety-nine calorie Cup-a-Soups. What actually happened when you put on a microwave with nothing in it? We would soon find out.

  ‘Well?’ she said, hand on hip.

  ‘It was good.’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Great. Great, actually,’

  ‘Okay, brilliant. Percentage chance of falling in love?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that! None? I’m not falling in love, remember?’

  ‘Okay, then, percentage of it going somewhere?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I replied, ‘And keep your voice down, I don’t want the whole office hearing! Look, it’s very early days.’ The microwave pinged and I reset it again – nothing had blown up…

  ‘You haven’t got early days!’ exclaimed Sam. The forecast said by Friday. A slight possibility? Seventy percent? Eighty?’

  I thought about it. ‘Honestly, I don’t know. We’re kind of around the fifty mark, at the moment, if I had to quantify it.’

  ‘Fifty!’

  ‘Well, yeah. That’s quite good, isn’t it? I’ve only had one date with the man!’

  ‘If it’s written in the stars, it’s written in the stars,’ mooned Sam, leaning against the sink. ‘Time will tell. Although you haven’t got a lot of it. Do you think there’s a chance of him being The One?’ She narrowed her eyes and looked serious.

  ‘The One? What does The One even mean?’ I said. I thought Jeff was The One but he turned out to be The One who hurt me, The One who let me down, The One who abandoned me… ‘No.’

  ‘Damn it! But you like him?’

  ‘Yes, I like him.’

  ‘Good kisser?’

  ‘How do you know we kissed?’

  ‘I can tell you have. You’ve got that I was kissed last night glint in your eye.’ I wasn’t sure the kiss with Ben warranted a glint, I wasn’t sure any part of my date with him warranted a glint, but perhaps I just felt hopeful of better to come and it was showing in my face.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Everyone kisses on the first date, anyway. So…?’

  ‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘Although I may have to have another go.’

  ‘Well, that’s fantastic!’ Sam was getting all bouncy and beaming. I feared she might break out into impromptu star jumps. ‘Fireworks? Thunderbolts and lightening?’

  ‘Potential for them,’ I said, which was slightly over-egging a bit of an undercooked pudding, but then I remembered Ben grinning at me, Ben taking my hand, Ben saying ‘I like you, Daryl.’ There was potential. I’d dreamed of it, hadn’t I?

  ‘How did the skinny tie go down?’ I’d texted her, in the taxi, with a rundown of what I was wearing – just after I’d had my slight wobble and almost hadn’t gone.

  ‘He seemed to like it.’ I blushed a little as I recalled him pulling me closer with the ridiculous thing.

  ‘You’re blushing!’ Sam enthused. ‘Right. Well, good. It’s all a good foundation to build on. You’ve got to start small, build up your strength.’ Was she referring to some kind of exercise regime? This wasn’t Pilates. ‘When are you seeing him again?’

  ‘We didn’t say. We haven’t arranged anything yet.’

  ‘You’re not seeing him tonight then?’

  ‘Tonight? No, he’s got plans.’

  ‘Good, because I’ve got something else lined up for us.’

  ‘What! Like what? I can’t go out again! That’ll be three nights on the trot! Well, four, if you count Sunday.’

  ‘Of course you can! Remember what I said? A date a night? If Ben’s not available and you’re not a hundred percent sure about him, you need to go out and meet some other men.’ She laced her fingers into a little platform and placed her chin on it. ‘There’s another singles thing tonight.’

  I groaned. ‘Sam!’

  ‘Don’t groan! You met Ben at a singles thing. You can meet another man at this one. Keep all those options open. It’s a cookery night, at a lovely country cottage, edge of Richmond Park. I’m a bit excited about it.’

  ‘Are you? Why’s that?’

  ‘I’m going to meet someone with “heat” remember, cooking involves heat. Ta dah!’ She unlaced her fingers and threw them in the air. ‘Come with me. Let’s keep Ben on the back-burner – if you excuse the pun – see what happens there, by all means, but let’s make some new strides. If you want fireworks you have to go out and get them.’

  I sighed. The microwave pinged again; we really should get back to work. ‘You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?’

  Sam grinned and headed through the saloon doors.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Mum called me at two o’clock, just as I was grappling with a wind chart freshly emailed from the Met Office’s weather station at Kew Gardens. As soon as I answered the phone I could hear the plink plonking of the upright piano in Mum’s dining room: Chas and Dave’s finest – I could make out the stirring chorus of ‘Gertcha’.

  ‘Hi Daryl, I just thought I’d give you a quick call to tell you I’ve had three offers on the gentleman’s pouffe. I should make a tidy tenner on that little beauty.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s great, Mum,’ I said, as I deciphered isobars. ‘Auntie Margaret round?’

  ‘Yes, love.’

  ‘You rehearsing again?’

  ‘Well, just some general jamming, really.’

  ‘Nice,’ I said, half-listening. ‘You got some more gigs coming up?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘Fabulous,’ I murmured, absentmindedly, then, my ears pricking up slightly, ‘Is that Bruno Mars I can hear?’

  ‘Yes, dear. Auntie Margaret’s bought the sheet music for ‘Locked out of Heaven’. She might leave out the word “sex” though. Substitute it with “vest”’.

  ‘Great idea,’ I muttered. ‘Has she bought any Kings of Leon?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind… Blimey, Mum, that’s a bit of a departure. Bruno… modern music.’

  ‘We’re branching out. Trying some of the modern ones.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So,
my dear. How are you? You been on any more singles nights? Met any men?’

  ‘Nope, but I’m going on another one tonight. Cookery thing.’

  ‘Ooh, fab, have fun. And how’s Bill?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bill, who lives next door to you.’

  ‘It’s Will.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘He’s fine, Mum, why do you ask?’

  ‘You like him.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes, you told me you did.’

  I may have mentioned him in one of our phone calls the week after I moved in. I may have told her about the lemon drizzle and him carrying a box for me.

  ‘Not in that way, Mum. He’s just a friend.’ Good lord, it must never, ever be in that way – it wouldn’t be good for anyone, especially me. ‘Right, well, I’m quite busy, Mum, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Keep it up, love – the socialising. The singles nights. He’s out there somewhere. He really is, poppet.’

  Auntie Margaret had moved onto safer ground and ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.’ She started to warble along. The piano got louder; she was really giving it some welly. I really had to go; I had a lot work to do.

  ‘Goodbye, Mum.’

  ‘Bye darling.’

  I shook my head as I carried on extracting information from my chart. He’s out there somewhere. What a ridiculous notion. Just because people always said it didn’t make it true. And, besides, I didn’t want it to be true. Perhaps whoever was out there should just stay there and leave me be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Explain tonight to me again?’ I asked.

  Sam and I were in a taxi. She was quite out of breath when she got in. She smelled of Thierry Mugler’s Angel and her hair had been straightened to within an inch of its life – it was a long, lovely sheet of brown glass. Her cheeks were flushed and highlighted, her eyebrows meant business and she had a handful of metallic, jangling bracelets, which she put on as we drove off. They were all I could see of her outfit, as she was wrapped in a kind of enormous grey, woollen shroud.

  I was wearing a variation on a theme – another pencil skirt, another blouse, this one sheer, with a black camisole underneath, another pair of killer heels courtesy of my black ankle boots. And more wear out of my glam furry jacket. I had also re-blonded for the occasion with a Clairol root touch-up, and a hopeful diamante clip was twinkling in my hair. I believed I’d fulfilled the brief of glam casual, which Sam had told me was the dress code.

  It was also another outfit Will had had the benefit of.

  He had been at his window, washing up, when I’d tottered out of the house and into the waiting taxi – trying not to totter, I should add, but it was pretty impossible in these shoes. He’d looked surprised, at first, and had sort of frozen for a second, framed in the window. Then he lifted his hand and gave me a small wave. I waved back. He probably thought I was meeting Ben again, that my date last night had been a giant success. He was unlikely to guess I was venturing out on another singles’ evening. I wasn’t sure which was the better scenario, to be honest. Second date, second night running, or losers’ minglathon? What would he think of me, in either case? That his neighbour was a right sort, probably. Off to get lucky again. Actually, he probably wasn’t thinking anything at all, and it was just me projecting stuff onto the situation that didn’t exist. His neighbour was going out for the night, that was all – so what?

  I wasn’t expecting to get lucky, anyway – one man a week was probably enough for me – but I was determined to have a good night, for Sam’s sake. It did sound good, I had to admit. When we told Peony about it – roaring fires, steaming pans, chinking cutlery, candlelight and men in aprons looking flustered and sexy – she’d looked quite jealous and said she almost wished she wasn’t getting married!

  ‘We learn to cook cannelloni and meet desirables,’ Sam answered. She pulled a compact from her bag and checked her reflection in its tiny mirror. ‘That’s about it. It’ll be amazing.’ She snapped the compact shut and turned to look at me, her voice going all soft and emotional. ‘You know what, Daryl, I’m so glad you’re coming with me, tonight. You really are moving on with your life. I’m so proud of you.’

  I felt tears prick at my eyes. ‘Thank you.’ Sam – and Peony – had been an amazing support to me. They’d supplied constant prosecco, cakes and four sympathetic ears. They’d dried my tears and hoiked me up from the depths of despair. They’d been there for me, in those dark early days, to stop me from going under. And Sam had also told me she’d never really liked Jeff, which sped me on my healing process. I felt vindicated. She helped make me see I’d viewed so much of my marriage through rose-tinted specs and that he wasn’t actually that nice. She said she thought he was snippy and had never supported me in my career. This was true. I knew that now. Whatsherface was welcome to him.

  ‘I wonder what amazing men we’ll meet,’ she continued. ‘Food plus single men plus wine goggles should a good evening make.’

  I blinked my tears away, laughing at the thought of wine goggles. Sam wouldn’t need a man to be wearing them; she was gorgeous.

  ‘Well, I think I can see them both now,’ I launched into. ‘The men we’ll meet. A hot personal trainer for you, all Lycra and five hundred calories and day-long cycle rides only stopping for rice cakes and protein bars…’ Sam grinned, ‘… and a suave salt and pepper hero for me,’ I said ‘who likes chocolate and Dallas re-runs and slightly fat, curvy women. They’ll both fall madly in love with us at first sight.’

  ‘You’re so not fat,’ protested Sam. ‘Stop that! You’re gorgeous.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think so,’ I said, ‘but I try my best. Hang on,’ I said, ‘this whole evening could be a nightmare for you. Are you even going to eat anything?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am. I’ve eaten really calorie-light all day and I’ve got my phone. Once I’ve reached my daily limit, you know what, I’ll just stop eating and pass my plates onto you.’

  ‘Ha, thanks, so I’ll get fatter and fatter while you prance around, light as a feather, doing downward dogs with Mr Lycra.’

  ‘Hey, you’re not fat remember. And what a delightful image. You won’t even care what I’m doing – you’ll be snogging the face off Salt and Pepper Man.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I smiled. Whatever happened, I decided it was going to be a good night. I was young-ish (sort of), free and single. Sam was right; it was good to keep my options open. Ben and I had only had one date – he wasn’t my boyfriend or anything – and he hadn’t called me today, although I wasn’t really expecting him to. If I wanted to meet another man, I could.

  The taxi drove for a while. It was raining, again; all my weather reports were dismally boring and samey at the moment. Cold and rain. Rain and cold – that was it. We didn’t even get the promised excitement of the hail shower the other day, in the end. It was all very dull. Literally. Adele came on the radio and we annoyed the taxi driver by singing along. We erupted into giggles on the high bits, which was most of it.

  ‘I think this is it,’ I said, as the driver queried where we were going. ‘A right turn here, isn’t it?’ He swung a right and we drove up a single track lane and then into a tiny, dimly lit car park with only three or four other cars in it. We pulled into a parking space and the driver turned off the engine.

  ‘Here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, but I didn’t feel too confident we were at the right place. There was no sign of any cottage or anyone else around. The place looked deserted. We were fifteen minutes late though (there’d been some roadworks at the last junction), and we’d definitely been signposted in – there’d been one of those brown signs saying ‘Phyllis Law’s Cottage,’ at the entrance to the car park. This must be right!

  We got out of the taxi and it drove off, the driver’s ears relieved no doubt, and looked around us. Along three sides of the car park was a high, dense hedge. We scanned our eyes along it, our steamy breath escaping into the chill night air
and our perfumes mingling with the strong scent of pine. I’d over-done mine a bit; a passing bat veered off in the opposite direction.

  ‘There!’ exclaimed Sam. She pointed to a tall wooden gate set back into the hedge, at one corner of the car park. It was barely visible in the gloom. We trotted over in our unsuitable heels and Sam turned the latch like Alice in Wonderland.

  ‘Bloody hell! Wow!’ That was me. There, on the other side of the gate, was a beautiful cottage. It was thatched, like all the cottages were in my dreams, the roof squatting low on the gables like poured-on Lego hair or a Gallagher brother’s brow. It had dozens of small sash windows with tiny, separate panes. A crimson front door, lit from above. A winding path up to the front porch, lit by cute Victorian lamps. All it needed was a sprinkling of snow and it would make a wonderful Christmas card. It was perfect: the most heart-warming and inviting place I’d ever seen. And I’ve been to Cadbury World.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Sam, ‘It’s gorgeous. So romantic. Let’s hope there’re some equally gorgeous men waiting inside.’

  She flung her shroud round herself dramatically, almost having my eye out, and we walked to the cottage, our heels crunching on the gravel path. With Sam was a good two foot taller than me, she looked like a crane, me like a mad, fluffy owl. We were a right pair.

  The front door had ivy all the way round it and a lion’s head for a knocker. I felt I was about step into a book – my mum would have loved it, it was very Enid Blyton. Sam rapped on the door, it immediately opened and a young girl in a black waitress uniform welcomed us with a smile and took our ‘outer garments’, as she put it.

  As Sam shrugged off her cloak, I said ‘Wow’ for the second time that evening. She was clearly ready for any ‘heat’ coming her way. Bits of her body she’d spent hours toning and honing were all out on show. Shoulders, triceps, biceps, racehorse legs, firm calves, non-saggy knees. Haunches like steel. She was wearing a short, tight silver dress. Black suede knee high boots with Pocahontas fringing and extremely high heels. She looked amazing, but I couldn’t ever be jealous of her because I loved her so much, and I’d never honed or toned anything in my life.