The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights

by Sarah Lefebve

  “No,” I reply. And promptly leave the bar.

  On Wednesday I meet Andy. A chef from Putney. Has just opened his own restaurant.

  We are off to a good start when he does actually resemble the picture on his profile. Tall, dark, handsome – ish.

  And he is quite interesting too. He knows all about food, and wine, and how to make delicious chocolate desserts – three of my all-time favourite things, in fact.

  We spend a lovely evening getting to know each other, at the end of which he asks if he can see me again the following evening.

  And I say yes. But then I go to the toilet, and as I am coming back to the table I hear him telling somebody by the name of “darling” that he is really sorry but he is going to have to work late tomorrow evening and that he’ll make it up to her when he gets home… So I tell him I pity his poor girlfriend and promptly leave the bar.

  And on Thursday I meet Ian. A property developer from Wimbledon. Divorced six months ago after being married for five years. No children.

  Just like his picture. Tall, blond, slim, with bright blue eyes and a smile to make you weak at the knees.

  And he sounds just like a Munchkin from the Wizard of Oz. Which just won’t do at all.

  I stay for one drink and then promptly leave the bar (I’m not completely heartless after all).

  I miss Alex. I do. I know I made the right decision, but I miss the easiness of it all. I didn’t have to go on dates with complete idiots, men who lie about their credentials just to get a woman to at least turn up, men who would happily hurt their girlfriends just to have a bit of fun on a weekday night. I didn’t have to spend my evenings weeding out the dross from the guys who might be able to make me happy. I didn’t have to put on a show. I didn’t have to make sure I always looked my best, because Alex had seen me at my worst and he loved me anyway.

  “What about speed dating?” Katie suggests on Friday evening after hearing the latest instalment over a takeaway pizza.

  “Or I could have a pre-wedding party? Invite lots of single men? Not that I know that many,” she says, mentally flicking through her address book while she licks tomato sauce from her little finger. “Although I’m sure between us Matt and I could come up with a few.”

  She pokes her husband-to-be.

  “What?” he says, his head turned towards Katie, his eyes still fixed on the football on the television. It’s a tense match, by all accounts. One-nil with only five minutes to go. Don’t ask me who’s winning. I don’t even know who’s playing.

  “Men. You and I. We can come up with some.”

  Totally blank. But at least he’s looking at her now.

  “For Becky,” she says, exasperated.

  “Oh, yeah – sure, I know loads of nice blokes.”

  “See!” Katie says – to me this time, already forming a mental checklist for her impromptu party. Vodka jelly, plastic beer glasses, sausages on sticks, single men for Becky…

  I know what she’s like. She’d stop at nothing. She’d have us playing spin the bottle, truth and dare, and if all else failed she’d just lock me in a cupboard with the nearest available guy and turn the lights off.

  “No. Honestly guys,” I tell Katie firmly, before she gets carried away and starts petitioning both Cilla Black and ITV for a re-launch of Blind Date.

  “But it’d be fun,” she argues. “I feel like a bit of a party.”

  “Have a party if you want one. Just not one designed to find me a man.”

  “But you need a man, B. It’s been ages since you had a good…”

  “Don’t say it!” I shout, slapping my hand over her mouth, startling Matt, whose nerves are already frayed with the tension of the match.

  “Sorry,” she says sheepishly when I take my hand away.

  “I don’t need a man in my life,” I tell her.

  “I’m not saying you need one, but wouldn’t it be nice?”

  “No. It wouldn’t. I’m happy as I am right now. I don’t need a man. I don’t want a man. Now, Ben & Jerry’s or Häagen Dazs?” I say, picking up the pizza box and heading for the kitchen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  When it comes, will it come without warning

  Just as I’m picking my nose?

  Will it knock on my door in the morning,

  Or tread in the bus on my toes?

  Will it come like a change in the weather?

  Will its greeting be courteous or rough?

  Will it alter my life altogether?

  O tell me the truth about love

  ‘O Tell Me The Truth About Love’, W.H.Auden (1907-1873)

  So…

  I’ve met a man.

  Yes, I know what I said.

  But that was then.

  And this is now.

  And he’s fabulous.

  I’ve met him before actually. Well, sort of. At the gym – when I was all sweaty and about to hyperventilate on the exercise bike, and then again at the Vod Kerr Baa – the night Emma locked herself in the loos.

  It’s him.

  He came into Potty Wotty this morning.

  He’s gorgeous. He’s funny. He’s sweet. He has all his own hair and all his own teeth. (Okay, so I don’t actually know that for sure, but they certainly didn’t look false to me.) He has lovely brown eyes that I could look into all day. And a smile that makes me go all funny. And a mouth that…well, you get the idea.

  And a wife.

  And two children.

  Bollocks.

  I was emptying the kiln of a set of miniature garden gnomes when he came into my world – well, into the café anyway.

  The bell on the door rang as he opened it.

  “I’ll be right with you,” I called out.

  “No problem.” A male voice. A sexy, vaguely familiar, male voice.

  Putting a miniature motorcyclist gnome safely onto the worktop alongside a policeman and a cowboy (a birthday gift from a husband to his wife whose two greatest loves are gardening and The Village People – and who’s probably hoping for a subscription to Homes & Gardens and tickets to see a tribute band,) I rubbed my hands on my apron and went back into the café.

  “Hi,” I said, to the owner of said sexy male voice. “Oh, hi,” I said when I realised who it was.

  “So this time we have met before!” he said, with a big cheesy grin.

  “Indeed we have! In the Vod Kerr Baa. Just before my friend locked herself in the loos and refused to come out.” I decided not to mention the whole gym hyperventilation thing, hoping he had forgotten.

  “That doesn’t sound like fun!”

  “Oh, you know us girls, we take it in turns,” I said. “Anyway, how can I help you?”

  “Well I’m not sure I’ve got the right place actually. There’s not another Potty Wotty Doodah around here is there?”

  “No,” I laughed. “Just us. Are you here to collect something?”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I was completely crushed. Devastated. Depressed.

  If he was here to collect something, it could only be for a child. If he was here to collect something for a child, then he had a child. If he had a child, then there was every chance he also had a wife.

  Bollocks.

  “Yes. Ella Collins’.” Ah, the face-painter. The one with the brother and the custard cream.

  “I’m a bit late actually,” he said. “I promised her mum I’d pick it up days ago. But I forgot.”

  “Yes, I remember Ella,” I told him. “She painted her face!” I smiled at him. Please note, though, I was smiling on the outside only. On the inside I was scowling – at Ella’s mum – who bagged herself this amazing specimen of fabulousness long before I could even get a look in.

  “Very creative,” I said, still smiling.

  He laughed and I noticed he had a really cute dimple in his cheek. I didn’t notice that in the Vod Kerr Baa – or the little scar above his left eye.

  “Well whatever artistic talent she might have, she definitely didn
’t get it from my side of the family. When I was at school I had trouble drawing stick-men, never mind anything else!”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “So you didn’t do any of these then?” He gestured to the crockery around the walls.

  “God no! Caroline did those. She’s the owner. She’s very artistic – used to be an art teacher, in fact. I, on the other hand, am worse than useless.”

  “That must be tricky, then, when a kid asks you to draw something – like a dog, or a cat…”

  “Or two spiders holding hands?”

  He laughed at this. He had probably heard stranger things, being a dad himself.

  Grrr.

  “That’s what this is for,” I confessed, patting a pile of tracing paper on the desk.

  “You cheat,” he laughed. That dimple again …

  I held up my hands. “Guilty!” I said. “I’ll go and fetch Ella’s plate. I won’t be a minute.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “I was right wasn’t I?” he asked, when I returned with the plate. “We have met before. Before the Vod Kerr Baa, I mean?”

  I made a feeble attempt at looking like I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “At the gym,” he said, “when…” - don’t say it, please, just don’t say it, “you were about to keel over on the exercise bike?”

  Damn. He said it. And I couldn’t just pretend I was at the end of a ten-mile bike ride because he saw me get on the bloody thing.

  “Let’s just say exercise bikes aren’t my thing,” I said instead, and he laughed.

  “Nor mine. My brother made me join because he got a discount for a joint membership. Sorry – I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he added.

  “Don’t be silly, I’m not embarrassed,” I told him. “Why on earth would I be embarrassed at nearly keeling over on an exercise bike at one mile an hour?”

  “Oh I think it was a bit faster than that,” he said, out of the goodness of his heart, I suspect, and not because it was in the least bit true. “And you were climbing up a very steep hill.” Now that was true.

  “Anyway – here it is,” I said, handing him the plate. I had wrapped it in bubble wrap and put it in a bag so his present wouldn’t be spoiled.

  “Is it paid for?” he asked.

  “Yes, her mum paid before she left.”

  “Great,” he said, putting the box under his arm and walking towards the door.

  Just before he left he turned back and smiled at me.

  “What a lovely place to work,” he said. And then he went. Out of my life. As quickly as he came into it.

  Sob.

  In the words of Hugh Grant in Four Weddings: Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.

  All I can say is that it is a cruel world that would put this beautiful man within my grasp, only to yank him away again, blatantly mocking me: You’re too late – this one’s taken already.

  It is a cruel, cruel world, I tell you.

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  Do you think it’s a sign? Do you think it’s fate’s way of telling me that I have given up everything for something that doesn’t even exist?

  Here was someone who could easily have been my Mr Right, I’m sure. And yet, there was no way he could be. Because he’s already someone else’s.

  So maybe I was wrong about Alex? Maybe he is my Mr Right, after all.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Have you ever tried searching for Mr Right on the Internet?

  Try it.

  Type it into Google.

  You won’t believe it.

  Mr Right. These two words alone generate more than 1.26 billion findings. I kid you not.

  It’s Saturday night.

  I could be out.

  No, really, I could. Katie and Matt are out with friends for dinner. They invited me along. But I was too depressed, the love of my life having just passed me by, and all. So I’ve decided to spend a night in with my laptop, a bottle of wine and a tube of Pringles, researching Mr Right on the Internet.

  How sad am I?

  On second thoughts, don’t answer that. Just don’t tell any of my friends.

  Scrolling down the results, I feel faintly embarrassed to be a woman (I bet googling ‘Mrs Right’ doesn’t even bring up 125 results, never mind 1.25 billion.)

  Do we really need all this help with our love lives?

  How to find Mr Right – www.getyourselfanewman.com, Love & Relationship Advice – www.findingyourmrright.com, The Secret to finding Mr Right – www.therelationshipdoctor.com/find-mr-right, Sill Dating jerks – www.reclaimyourheart.com, Finding Mr Right Tips - www.insideamansmind.com …

  You couldn’t make it up!

  And none of it is any use whatsoever. All this expert advice really does is tell you how to meet a guy – and we all know how to do that.

  Lurk in the frozen food aisle at your local supermarket.

  Borrow your neighbour’s dog for the day.

  Stop a bloke and ask him for a light (it tends to help if you actually smoke).

  Etc.

  Etc.

  What it doesn’t tell you is how to know whether he is Mr Right or not.

  Having said that, I’m intrigued. So I click at random and find myself on www.getyourselfanewman.com where I am introduced to the kind of information that is now – literally – at my fingertips. Just a click away, in fact. And a quick £50, of course.

  The mistakes women make with men; Things women do that annoy men; When your man has a wandering eye.

  Err … Hang on … How about The whopping great big mistakes men make with women; Things men do that drive women totally insane; When your man is a total prat…?

  Read on to discover how to find your Mr Right – in eighteen months or less.

  Eighteen months? You’ve got to be kidding. I don’t have eighteen weeks, let alone eighteen months. I need to know now.

  I scroll down further. Maybe there’s a fast track programme…

  ‘Within six months I met my dream man’, begins a testimony from Hayley from Derbyshire.

  ‘Tall, dark, handsome, interesting…the most amazing man I have ever met.’

  Of course you did love. And I’m sure you weren’t paid a penny to say so.

  ‘I’d like to say it was all down to me, but it was all down to you,’ she goes on to tell the author of Find Your Mr Right – in a book store near you for just £21.99.

  ‘I have great news,’ the same author tells visitors to his site. ‘Imagine sharing your life with a man who is not only your best friend, but someone you find physically attractive.’

  Hmm. Sounds nice.

  ‘Picture yourself waking up in his arms, looking at him with love as he smiles and leans towards you to kiss you tenderly.’

  And you pass out from his morning breath.

  ‘You relax, knowing that your search is over. Can you picture yourself with him right now?’

  Err, no.

  ‘If you could have all this, what would it be worth to you?’

  Here we go. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  ‘Would it be worth a little time?’

  Yes.

  ‘Would it be worth a little effort?’

  Yes.

  ‘A little money?’

  No. Piss off. I thought love was supposed to be free.

  What a load of bollocks, I tut to myself, closing my laptop and reaching for another Pringle.

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  Don’t shut love out of your life by saying it’s impossible to find.

  The quickest way to receive love is to give love.

  The fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly;

  and the best way to keep love is to give it wings.

  Don’t dismiss your dreams.

  To be without dreams is to be without hope;

  to be without hope is to be without purpose.

  ‘A Creed to Live By’, Nancye Sims

  “Where can I find a picture of a ladybird, Becky?” Katie asks me on Monday evening.


  Caroline has a hospital appointment and Fiona has taken the afternoon off to do shop stuff so Katie has volunteered to help me with the late opening.

  I think she’s beginning to regret this act of genuine kindness. Ever since I lost the love of my life I have been under a big black cloud.

  I think I’m in mourning.

  “What?” I say vacantly, flicking through this month’s copy of Love Life. There’s a very interesting article on how to spot a married man.

  “Ladybirds? Pictures?” she says, mildly irritated.

  “Try Bugs and Beetles. Bottom shelf,” I mutter.

  “Snap out of it B,” she orders me, reaching for the book. “He was probably a twat anyway.”

  “He wasn’t,” I protest, like a stubborn child. Any minute now I’ll probably start stamping my foot. “He was lovely.”

  “Well he’s married. So get over it. And put the kettle on,” she adds.

  I am dropping tea bags into two mugs when I hear the door open.

  “I’ve come to collect Ella Collins’ pottery,” a woman tells Katie.

  “Oh, right, I’ll just get the manager,” Katie replies. Excellent – I’ve been promoted.

  She opens the door to the kitchen and looks at me, contorting her face as if to say ‘that’s the wife, isn’t it?’ We know each other very well, remember.

  I scowl at her, dragging my fingers through the air – signifying my desire to scratch the woman’s eyes out. I’m guessing this answers her question.

  “Hello again,” I say sweetly, putting two mugs of tea on the counter. It’s incredibly restrained of me given what I’d really like to do is hurl them at her. She did steal my Mr Right, after all. Okay, so technically she didn’t steal him, but she did get to him first, which is more or less the same thing if you ask me.

  “How can I help? Have you come to paint something yourself this time?”

  “I’ve come to collect Ella’s pottery,” she says.

  “Oh – your husband actually came in on Saturday and collected it,” I tell her.

  “Yes, I know, but he forgot to pick up the clown money box she painted at her friend’s birthday party. You know what men are like!” she laughs. “If you want a job doing properly, you’re better off doing it yourself!”