by Karen Clarke
‘The one who took you to see Alvin and the Chipmunks?’
‘It was meant to be quirky,’ I said, turning to the mirror on the wall by the door and patting my eye-bags with the pads of my fingers. ‘He was actually really nice.’
‘Wasn’t he obsessed with volcanoes?’
‘Not in a swivel-eyed way,’ I said. ‘It was educational. The word volcano is from the Roman name Vulcan. Which is also a planet in Star Trek.’
‘Fascinating. So why did you stop seeing him?’
‘Oh, Jas, you know why,’ I said. ‘He smelt wrong.’
‘Another of your excellent excuses.’
‘It wasn’t an excuse, I…’ I glanced at my phone screen. ‘Jas, what are you doing?’
She’d jutted one knee low down and thrown her arms wide, as though balancing on a tight-rope. ‘I’m exercising,’ she said.
‘Why?’
The doorbell shrilled. ‘That’ll be Vinnie.’ She straightened and spruced her hair with her fingers. ‘He’s taking me out to dinner.’
‘He’s keen.’
‘Obviously.’ She gave a ‘why wouldn’t he be?’ grin. ‘Listen, I’d better let him in and get changed,’ she said. ‘Have fun tonight, Carrie, and if it goes tits up remember there are plenty more—’
‘— fish in the sea. I know.’
‘I was going to say, “fit men online”.’
‘Whatever.’
‘You go, girlfriend.’ She snapped her fingers to and fro. ‘Ciao.’
I’d barely rung off when Mum called, despite it being almost bedtime in Kazakhstan.
‘I’m getting ready to go out,’ I said, wedging my phone between my shoulder and ear, while I eased some underwear on, glad she couldn’t see me. Mum’s mobile was an old model and she didn’t understand FaceTime. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Just checking in,’ she said. ‘Your dad’s constipated because of the change of water.’
‘Too much information, Mum.’ At least it wasn’t sexual, thank god.
‘How’s your aunt?’
‘OK,’ I said, warily. ‘A bit better, I think.’
There was a thoughtful pause. ‘Have you seen anyone you know over there?’
I froze. ‘Like who?’
A sigh gusted down the line. ‘I was just thinking of you being in Dorset and I realised I sometimes miss it,’ she said. ‘Your dad and I were hiking the Charyn Canyon this morning, which is nice, but basically a bunch of rocks, and it struck me how lucky we were to live on the Jurassic Coast.’ She sounded nostalgic. ‘I think we used to take it for granted,’ she said. ‘We even stopped going for walks once you and Sarah were teenagers. Do you remember our walks? Sarah nearly pushed you off a cliff once, but your dad managed to grab you by your hood.’
‘How could I forget?’ I said, drily. ‘We always argued on those walks.’
‘I’m just being silly.’ She sniffed. ‘I think I’m missing the twins.’
‘You’ve only been gone a few days.’
‘We might come and visit Ruby once we’re back,’ she said. ‘She is family, after all.’
My eyes popped. She must be feeling homesick. ‘She’d like that,’ I said. ‘There’s a lot about her you don’t know.’ Understatement of the year.
‘I’m glad you’re getting on.’
I looked at the time. ‘Sorry, Mum, I’ve got to go.’
‘Ooh, another of your dates?’
I’d got into the habit of making a funny story out of my dating disasters, and my family had grown to enjoy them. I sometimes thought they’d be disappointed if I ever settled down.
‘I’ll look forward to hearing about it,’ she said. ‘Now, I suppose I’d better go and get your dad into bed.’
‘Have fun.’
‘You too.’
Dropping my phone, I slipped Ruby’s silky robe on over my underwear, then removed the belt from my work trousers and looped it around my waist. The effect was quite stylish. The hem of the robe fell just below my knees, and although the colour of my shins was more rare beef than butterscotch, it made a change from mashed potato.
There was just enough cleavage on show, but I would have to be careful about leaning forward in case the robe came adrift.
I twisted my hair up, pulling a few strands forward, and brushed on mascara and lip balm, and some bronzing powder on the apples of my cheeks.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Ruby said, as I stepped into the living room and did a little twirl. She’d been surprisingly enthusiastic about my date, insisting I help myself to her Jo Malone shower gel.
Her forehead scrunched. ‘Is that my dressing gown?’
‘Do you mind?’ I said, anxiously. ‘Does it look like a dressing gown?’
‘No, I don’t, and definitely not on you.’ She pushed herself off the sofa. ‘What about shoes?’
I glanced at my feet, which were bare. ‘I can’t believe I forgot to bring sandals,’ I said. ‘I figured I could buy some flip-flops once I was here, but I haven’t got round to it.’
Her face brightened. ‘What size are you?’
‘Five and a half.’
‘I’ve got just the thing,’ she said.
As she bustled to the cupboard on the landing I resigned myself to wearing my trainers. I was trying to think of a funny story I could tell Toby to explain them, when Ruby returned with some surprisingly classy wedges in the sort of nude shade favoured by the Duchess of Cambridge.
‘They go with anything,’ she said, dropping to one knee and slipping the shoe on my foot like Prince Charming.
‘They’re lovely.’ I twisted to admire the effect. ‘Shame about my toenails.’
‘Hang on.’ Ruby sprang to her feet again, and fetched some tulip-pink varnish from her bedroom. ‘This should do the trick.’
Down on both knees, she proceeded to paint my nails. There was definitely a Cinderella vibe going on.
‘There,’ she said, standing up with a smile. ‘Now you look perfect.’ She smoothed a tendril of hair off my cheek, and, on impulse, I gathered her up in a hug. She smelt of salt-and-vinegar crisps and warm skin.
‘Sure you don’t want to come?’ I said, into her hair. ‘You could give Bob a call and ask him to meet us there.’
‘I think he’s still upset that I refused to go out with him this afternoon.’ She pulled away, sadness rolling in like mist. ‘It doesn’t seem fair to get too close with all my baggage,’ she said, plucking a hair off my sleeve.
‘I don’t think he’ll mind if he really likes you.’
‘Oh, I forgot to say that Jane called me to say she and Dennis are extending their break.’ She blinked at me. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind staying until after that wedding? I’m going to need some help.’
‘Of course I don’t,’ I said, managing to keep my smile intact.
Seeming satisfied, she headed back to the sofa, and the table she’d piled with snacks and fizzy drinks for an evening in front of the television.
‘You have a lovely time,’ she said, pulling her dressing gown tight as though suddenly chilly, before picking up the remote control.
It was clear from her middle-distance stare that her mind had drifted elsewhere, and as I located my purse and let myself out I made my mind up.
Tomorrow, I was going to visit the address tucked into my bag and talk to Peter myself.
Chapter Twenty
I arrived at The Anchor five minutes early, limping as if I’d walked across hot coals. My feet felt on fire, and I regretted my decision not to drive the short distance from Ruby’s.
Dropping in a chair at a table outside the pub, I bent to inspect the damage. No blood, thank goodness, just a pair of angry blisters on my heels.
As I eased down the shoe straps my robe fell open, revealing my balconette bra. I hastily adjusted it and tightened my belt, already hot and bothered. My hair was slipping its moorings, and the skin on my lower legs had a boiled appearance.
I hauled my bag onto my lap and pulled out my phone, h
alf hoping Toby had cancelled, but there was only a WhatsApp photo from Sarah, of the twins, dressed as Star Wars characters for a party. Seeing their puffy-cheeked smiles, a wave of homesickness rolled over me. I’d probably be looking after them now, so Sarah and Phil could have a night off. The twins liked me to read Harry Potter because I ‘did it properly’, not like Mummy and Daddy, who ‘miss bits out and think we don’t notice’.
I replied with a smiley face and a cheery ‘kiss them good night from me’ and opened another two photographs, this time from Mum. In one, she and Dad were in front of a bridge, only the tops of their heads visible, and in the other, Dad was pinching his thumb and forefinger so it looked like he was holding the sun.
Playing silly buggers!
Mum had written.
Smiling, I glanced up. The Anchor overlooked the harbour, where colourful fishing boats were bobbing on the water, burnished by the lowering sun. Most of the outside tables were busy already, and the sound of laughter and chatter mingled with clinking glasses and cutlery from inside. A mild breeze ruffled the hem of my robe, carrying the smell of the sea and a hint of cod.
On impulse, I googled some art stuff, and tried to memorise a few names before putting my phone away.
Should I wait for Toby to find me, or go and order a drink?
What if he didn’t turn up?
All the reasons I hated blind dates flooded into my head: the awkward exchanges and crushing disappointment when you realised you had nothing in common; the resolve, by dessert, to stay single forever.
At home, Jasmine and I had a system where she would ring after half an hour, and if things were going badly I would say, ‘Oh my god, are you OK?’ shooting my date a look of alarm, and Jasmine would put on a surprisingly good Russian accent and say, ‘Carrie, you haff to come at whonce, I am havink a catastrophe here, I haff set my hair alight with candle and need the lift to hospital,’ or some variation. Trying not to laugh I’d make my apologies and leave, certain my date would know I was lying, but too relieved to care. It was better than going to the toilets and doing a runner, which happened to me once. I’d watched, bemused, as my date legged it across the restaurant car park and leapt into his Aston Martin, leaving me to pay the bill.
A hand landed on my shoulder and I screamed.
‘Oh god, I’m so sorry.’
Swivelling round, I watched a Greg Rutherford lookalike backing away, hands in the air as if worried I might pull a gun.
‘You scared me,’ I said, trying to laugh, but it came out as a panicked gargle.
‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ he repeated, his local accent strong. ‘I shouldn’t have crept up on you like that.’
‘No, no, it’s fine, I was miles away.’ Heart pumping like a piston, I registered that he was better looking than his profile picture; strong-jawed, with red hair cut close at the sides, and styled in a quiff on top. His eyes were round and grey, like rain-washed pebbles, currently wide with alarm.
I stood up and held out a hand, keen to reassure him. ‘I’m Carrie,’ I said, mindful of my own profile photo, which looked nothing like me – apart from the fact I’d been wearing a dressing gown then too.
Lurching forward, he shook my hand, relief brightening his features.
‘Toby Denton.’ There was a scattering of freckles across his cheeks, giving him a friendly schoolboy look, but his vintage jeans hugged manly thighs, and beneath the sleeve of his tight, white T-shirt, a serpent tattoo curled around his bicep.
‘Good to meet you,’ I said. His handshake was the right side of firm, his palm slightly clammy with nerves – or perhaps it was mine.
‘I’m really sorry I frightened you.’ He briefly tightened his grip before letting go. ‘I’m an idiot.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said, nudging my hair into place. ‘I’m a bit jumpy lately.’
‘OK.’ His smile was wide and a little shy, his front teeth slightly crooked. The sight of them was oddly heartening.
‘Shall we go in?’ I said.
Seeming as relieved as I was that the ice was broken, he raised an imaginary sword. ‘To the pub!’ he said, the ensuing blush clashing with his hair.
Smiling, I led the way inside, trying not to hobble in Ruby’s shoes.
‘I’ll have a full-fat Coke,’ I said as he hovered, one eyebrow raised in enquiry. ‘I’ll grab us a seat.’ Casting around for somewhere to sit, I spotted a secluded booth by the window and slid into the leather seat, relieved to take the weight off my throbbing feet.
I took a moment to adjust my robe and shoes, and place my bag on the floor, before Greg returned with two tall glasses rattling with ice cubes.
‘So,’ I said, as he settled opposite, racking my brains to remember his profile description. ‘You’re a painter.’
He nodded, and took a sip of his drink. ‘That is correct, ma’am.’
‘What do you paint?’
He cast his eyes upwards. ‘Houses mostly, but other buildings too,’ he said. ‘I did the sweet shop along the parade last year, and a church a few months ago. That was interesting.’
‘I bet,’ I said, rummaging around my limited knowledge. ‘So, you chronicle real life, a bit like Lowry, or’ – I tried to think of an artist who painted buildings – ‘wasn’t there an Italian chap?’ I wanted to say Cornetto, but knew it wasn’t right. ‘Cannellini.’ Was that a bean?
‘I’m not an artist,’ he said with a half-laugh. ‘I’m a painter and decorator.’
‘Ah. Right. Sorry about that.’ Cheeks prickling with heat, I picked up my glass, took a large gulp, and swallowed an ice-cube whole.
‘I suppose it’s a bit of a come-down if you were expecting Banksy,’ Toby said, interpreting my stunned silence and watering eyes as disappointment.
‘Not at all,’ I croaked, blinking away tears and flapping a hand at my throat.
Realising what had happened, he half rose from his seat. ‘Shall I thump you on the back?’
‘Not on a first date,’ I managed, as the ice cube slid down my windpipe. ‘You must have wondered what I was on about in my texts.’
‘I kind of guessed you’d got the wrong idea.’ Toby smiled and sank back down. ‘You’re not the first, to be honest.’
I noticed a spot of yellow paint on his temple. ‘Have you been working today?’
He nodded. ‘My boss, Harry, keeps us busy,’ he said. ‘He and his wife had a baby girl a few months ago, and he’s so besotted he keeps knocking off early to go home.’
‘Us?’ I raised my voice over a babble of voices as a group settled into the booth behind ours. ‘Is it a big company?’
‘Not really.’ His gaze fell to the table, and he traced a pattern on the surface with his finger.
Silence bloomed, the easiness suddenly gone.
A waiter passed, carrying a tray piled with plates of spaghetti. ‘Should we have something to eat?’ I said, though I wasn’t really hungry.
‘If you’d like to.’ He looked up, eyes politely expectant.
‘I’m happy to have something if you’re hungry.’
‘Likewise.’
We stared at each other and smiled, and the atmosphere relaxed again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s so long since I’ve been on a date, I’ve no idea how they work.’
‘I’ve been on quite a few,’ I said, ‘and this one’s already better than those.’
As the tips of his ears reddened, I realised it was true. Probably because he wasn’t a serial dater, he had a refreshing air of being himself, rather than out to impress.
‘I should be honest, though,’ he said, spinning his glass on the table.
My stomach tightened. Here we go.
‘I’ve never seen Game of Thrones,’ he said, solemnly.
An involuntary laugh escaped. ‘There’s no hope for us, then. I’m a massive fan. What about The Walking Dead?’
But he’d hunched forward now, forearms on the table, and I realised that the real confession was coming. ‘I have a
wife, Em, she’s the one I work with, we work together, with Harry,’ he said in a rush. ‘We’ve not been separated long.’
I let his words settle in. They weren’t that surprising, really. Most of the men I’d met in the past had been newly separated, as if they couldn’t bear being alone. It was just a question of how much baggage they were carrying.
‘Go on.’
He studied his fingers. They were nice; long and square-tipped with clean nails. ‘We were hoping to start a family, but it wasn’t happening,’ he said. ‘It… caused problems.’ From the way he said it, I guessed it was an understatement. ‘We decided that we needed some time apart.’
Not sure how I felt about that, I said, ‘So you’re not looking for anything serious?’
‘I don’t know.’ He held my gaze. ‘I thought it best to be upfront, in case your biological clock was ticking.’ He said it as if my clock was a precious thing, and there was something admirable about his openness.
‘It isn’t,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’ve a niece and nephew I love to bits, but I’m not ready for children yet.’
Having got that out of the way, Toby visibly relaxed and we chatted for a while. I gave him the bare bones of why I was in Shipley, and he told me Ruby’s stall was such a part of the landscape he didn’t really notice it any more.
‘I’d love to visit Manchester, for the music scene,’ he said.
‘I don’t know what it’s like these days,’ I admitted. ‘There hasn’t been an Oasis or Joy Division for a while.’ I had a sudden flashback to Megan and me in my bedroom, miming dramatically to ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’, after I let her listen to my album.
As if I’d conjured her up, I thought I heard her laugh.
‘Didn’t the lead singer kill himself?’ Toby was saying, as my pulse sky-rocketed.
There it was again, from the booth behind us.
‘Weren’t The Smiths from Manchester too?’ Toby continued, widening his shoulders and sitting back. ‘Morrissey was a bit of a misery, too. I prefer something more upbeat, if I’m honest, like Olly Murs.’ He grinned. ‘I’m joking,’ he said. ‘Actually, I’m not.’
I raised a smile, but I’d tuned in to Megan’s voice now, which seemed to have risen high above everyone else’s.