To: Laura
From: Jess
Subject: God is in the detail . . .
Well then, Clever Clogs, I’m afraid you’ll need to rethink this section:
10. I don’t care if the world’s most famous ‘starchitect’ did design your tables – they don’t work as tables. Their unique multi-faceted corners stab you, uniquely, in the hips.
11. Plus they wobble.
12. And they’re rammed too close together.
13. I’m 5’7” – no giant – yet my knees were hitting the underside – so please make your table legs taller.
14. Or your chair legs shorter.
To: Jess
From: Laura
Subject: Er, why?
What’s the problem exactly?
To: Laura
From: Jess
Subject: Er, because
You talk about your height, and 5’7” doesn’t sound like a man’s height.
To: Jess
From: Laura
Subject: I am the same height as Tom Cruise, so there!
I’ve double-checked and the star of Top Gun is 5’7”.
To: Laura
From: Jess
Subject: Seriously
Have you nothing better to do with your time?
To: Jess
From: Laura
Subject: No, actually.
We’ve just put March’s issue to bed, and everyone else has gone down the pub – and I would have too, if I wasn’t feeling nauseous.
To: Laura
From: Jess
Subject: Good grief
Pub at 3.30 on a work day? You media folk still live in the ’80s.
As for your review – next time if you don’t actually want my opinion don’t ask for it!!!
PS Can you buy me four packets of Parmesan biscuits from Flour Palace for next Saturday? My Eurostar gets in as per the attached agenda. I will have 90 minutes; need to be at Kensington Roof Gardens for drinks with European Heads of Trading at 5.30 p.m. so be on time!
To: Jess
From: Laura
Subject: re: Good grief
Have a great weekend, Jess. Love to the girls. L xx
Way too weak to take her on this afternoon. On which note . . .
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: Tomorrow . . .
Are you doing farmers’ market? If so, I probably shouldn’t work the stall – meal from hell last night and now food poisoned. I could still drive the van, but might need to wear Hong Kong style bird flu mask to avoid infecting your brownies.
To: Laura
From: Sophie
Subject: re: Tomorrow . . .
Shit, forgot to tell you! Going up to Sheffield to see Will – first weekend off in five months! Was going to leave new Battenberg flavour trial outside your door this afternoon – should I leave chicken soup instead?
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: Don’t worry
I’m pretty much nil by mouth, so planning on being in bed by 8.30 p.m. Need to be fully recovered for Sunday; made it past the date three bump, who knows? Russell and I may even make it through date four . . .
To: Laura
From: Sophie
Subject: Yay, date four!
You’ll be fine. Make sure you do something fun on Saturday. Game of Thrones on your own does not count.
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: GoT
You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen season three, episode nine x
When I first moved back to London, Saturdays were savage. I used to forge myself military-style routines to battle those endless hours: walk and shop and clean and tidy; cook, read book, nails, wash and sleep. Days so full but my God, they felt empty.
Four years on and I’m no longer lonely, well, no more so than the next person. I’ve come to value my freedom. This morning I had a lie-in, then brewed a pot of coffee from Caconde in Brazil. The rich, chocolatey smell filled the flat like sunshine. As I was drinking it I noticed Annalex looking at me forlornly, so I took her for a walk along the canal, over to Regent’s Park. She made a beeline for the snowdrops – they’re toxic for dogs – and I wondered if it wasn’t a cry for help, so just in case, I gave her some extra Chewdles when we stopped for a break on a bench. Sitting next to us was an old couple feeding the ducks. They were holding hands and wearing matching scarlet hats: those hats really stood out against the grey sky.
On my way home I detoured via The Sea Shell because I missed out on fish and chips yesterday, but when I walked in the smell of deep fat frying made me feel peaky. Instead, I went home and made fusilli with butter and peas – simple but comforting. Then I Skyped Dad and Jess, had a bath and watched Game of Thrones – the dragons! The blood! I meant to watch only one episode but it was so exciting, I just had to keep going.
And Sophie says sometimes she worries I’m avoiding life, but I disagree entirely, I am living it. Why would I give up my freedom just to have any old man? Of course there are nights, like tonight, when I lie in the bath until the water’s run cold, my toes resting on the taps, and I dream about the sort of love you only see in the movies: a love like in The Notebook. But that sort of love is a fantasy. It doesn’t exist in the real world.
I’m not saying there are no good men out there – of course there are, and if one came along, terrific. But he’d better be terrific or there’s no point. And Russell? It might be Russell. Three dates in is far too early to tell, isn’t it?
When I get into bed tonight I have the strangest sensation, a tightness in my abdomen. It might be the return of the dodgy eels. But I don’t think so. It feels more like nerves, adrenalin, anticipation. A feeling that something’s about to happen, my life is about to change.
5
I wouldn’t have been so late this morning if Amber hadn’t been hogging the bathroom, performing a ‘dry oil sub-dermal scrub’. Still, I’ve managed to make myself look presentable in seven minutes. If I hadn’t wasted another five working out whether it was going to rain, I’d have been on time. I wouldn’t have had to race for the bus, and I wouldn’t now be standing here, sweaty, and without an umbrella in the drizzle. Though I’m not sure it matters – I’m outside No.1 Columbia Road, but Russell isn’t.
It’s 10.03 a.m. I’m sure we said 9.30 a.m? Start at the flower market, then head to St John for the legendary bacon sandwich; cinema for the new Ridley Scott and then a curry. My perfect day.
I check my phone. No text.
Is that him, walking along, hands stuffed in his raincoat pockets, looking panicked? Why can’t I remember exactly what he looks like? When I think of him – do I think of him? – I just remember the profile photos from Tinder: one where he’s snowboarding and you can’t see his face. One at his daughter’s fifth birthday party – he looks happy in that one, twinkly brown eyes, neat smile. And then a photo of him riding a mountain bike.
No, that’s not him . . . Where is he?
Jess would approve of Russell, I’m sure. On paper, he ticks lots of boxes:
Highly respectable job (software; something to do with vertical interfaces? I still can’t compute)
Sporty (running, footy)
Does not play PlayStation (thinks it’s for kids: correct!)
Is tall (six foot)
Tick, tick, tick tick. Lots of annoying ticks . . .
No, that’s harsh. He’s an all-round strong 7/10. And I do think he has potential, I do. We have a lot in common: an ex-spouse who couldn’t keep their pants on. He understands what it’s like to go through that. What else? We both hate liquorice. We both like parks . . .
Hold on . . . is that . . . no, still not him. He’s always been on time before today. Ah, perhaps that’s why I like him. Because he’s still here. Because he’s the only man since Tom who I’ve had more than three dates with; turning up – that’s all it takes!
Ah, finally! 10.09 a.m. He looks stressed, I’ll give him a break.
/>
‘Laura, sorry,’ he says, pulling me close for a kiss.
‘Goodness, heavy night?’ I say, smelling the vodka leaking from his pores.
‘Just a few drinks,’ he says, scratching his chin and looking over my shoulder towards the market. ‘Christ, it’s busy. Anywhere we can get a quick bite to eat before we do this flower thing?’
‘I thought we’d do twenty minutes of the market, then grab a bacon sandwich? They stop serving at eleven a.m.’
‘Is there anything round here I could have in the meantime? I’ll still have the sandwich, but I need a little something.’
He does look rough, bless him. It must be hard, adjusting to this new way of life, juggling being a dad with being a newly single man.
‘There’s a bagel place up there, a cheese shop on Ezra Street . . . there’s Lee’s – they do amazing seafood, probably a little early in the . . .’
‘Seafood’s good, if I can get a Bloody Mary chaser?’ he says, flashing a sheepish smile.
‘You want to go to the pub?’
‘Hair of the dog.’
‘All right. The one up the top’s the nicest.’
We slowly pick our way through the crowds of people balancing bunches of tulips and miniature lemon trees; terracotta urns and trays of rosemary plants.
‘The fried prawns and calamari are delicious,’ I say, as we queue at the window and the smell of the seaside drifts over us.
‘Cockles! I haven’t had them for years! Used to eat them out of a jar when I was a kid. You’re not a fan?’
‘You go for it.’ Just don’t expect me to eat any of them.
‘How’s Lilly getting on?’ I say, as he stabs his wooden fork into the white polystyrene cup and fishes out a rubbery grey splodge.
‘Mmm . . . difficult week,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Becky wants her all of Christmas but I don’t think that’s fair. It’s been getting me down.’
‘That’s why you’ve turned to drink?’ I say, smiling.
‘Huh?’
‘Nothing, just the hangover . . . the pub . . .’
‘I should buy you some flowers, shouldn’t I?’
‘There’s no need, I’m happy just looking at them.’
He darts towards the nearest vendor who’s bellowing, ‘TWO FOR A FIVER, TWO FOR A FIVER,’ and returns a moment later with two bunches of slightly droopy pale pink roses, which he hands over as if they’re his tracksuit that needs washing.
‘Thank you!’ I say, moving to kiss him. Our lips touch, but he goes in for the full snog and ends up licking the outside of my mouth with a vinegar-tipped tongue.
‘Let’s grab that drink,’ I say, steering him towards the pub.
‘Right, Bloody Mary and . . .?’
‘I’ll have a Diet Coke.’
‘Don’t make me drink on my own, Laura, I’ll look like an alcoholic!’
‘It’s ten a.m.’
‘Gin and tonic? A single?’
‘Oh go on then. But can we drink it quickly?’
‘Yes, sir!’
We move to the corner table and he settles down with his arm around me. I readjust myself into his body; I can never seem to get quite the right angle with Russell, he’s lean and bony, all those half marathons. That’s definitely something we do not have in common.
‘So you’ve booked the tickets?’ he says, absently kissing the top of my head.
‘Yup, three fifteen p.m. trailer, loads of time. Are you going to fall asleep in it? You look knackered.’
‘I’ll be fine, as long as there’s a car chase.’
‘So where were you last night, anyway, that you’re this hung-over?’ I say, running my finger down his unshaven cheek. The stubble quite suits him.
‘Huh?’
‘Did you go out locally?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘With the boys?’
‘What?’
‘Were you out with the boys, after football?’
‘Oh. No.’
Oh no.
‘Oh. I thought you were playing football yesterday?’
‘Yeah, I did, I just ended up meeting up with a friend.’
‘A friend?’
‘Just a friend.’
Just a friend.
My stomach flips. I have been here before.
Those three little words are a sign: a sign that means: don’t ask who.
‘Who?’
‘Why?’
Answering a question with a question. That’s another sign.
‘I’m curious,’ I say.
‘. . . A friend I met recently.’
‘A girl?’
He nods and shifts in his chair. Oh please don’t make me Paxman this out of you.
‘Was she a girl you met on Tinder?’
He leans forward and puts his hand on his glass and rests it there, then turns to look at me with a face that says there’s no point in trying to style this out, is there?
‘Ah,’ I say, though it comes out more like ‘ouch’.
‘Don’t be like that, Laura, it’s not a big thing.’
‘Be like what?’
‘You look so . . .’
‘No, I’m not anything. But just to be absolutely clear, was it a date?’
He pauses before nodding.
‘A first date?’ I say, feeling my temper rise.
‘Laura, I think you’re lovely.’
Yes. I think I’m OK too.
‘The thing is . . .’ He takes a deep breath and sighs with the exhaustion of it all. ‘It’s only been six months since I broke up with Becky. I’m just finding my feet again.’
Your feet or your dick?
‘You understand what it’s like,’ he says, swiftly changing gear from caught in the act to we’re on the same side.
‘I understand what what is like?’ I say.
‘Divorce. Splitting up from your other half.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s not easy.’
‘Yes, I do vaguely recall that.’
He nods and takes another slow sip.
‘Are you about to say something else, Russell?’
‘Like what?’
‘You were saying, “It’s not easy getting divorced . . .”’
‘My point is, you’ll understand why I don’t want to rush things . . .’
He means rush things emotionally; he was certainly in a rush physically last time we met.
‘But I genuinely do think you’re very attractive,’ he says. ‘I’d like to see where this goes.’
I can tell you where this goes: nowhere.
‘Laura, you said yourself you weren’t ready for anything for ages after you broke up with Tom.’
‘I did say that, Russell, that is true.’
‘So then . . .’
I pause while I try to formulate my thought, to make it sound as unemotional as possible; I fail. ‘When I broke up with Tom I wasn’t ready for anything so I didn’t go round shagging more than one person at a time. I was acutely aware that I didn’t want to be on the giving or receiving end of that. I wasn’t prepared to muck anyone about.’
‘Exactly, and I don’t want to muck you about, which is why I’m telling you the truth now. I could have lied.’
‘You’re doing me a favour by telling me you’re shagging other women?’
‘What? How am I meant to win in this conversation?’
There are definitely no winners in this conversation.
‘If I wouldn’t put up with an unfaithful husband, why would I put up with it from you?’ I say, trying hard to keep my voice low but hearing it get louder nonetheless.
‘OK! Fine, sorry. I didn’t realise you’d feel this way. I must have misread the signals. I thought you’d understand, that’s all.’
‘But I do understand. I understand perfectly.’ I stand up and nod. ‘Thanks for the gin.’ I gather up the flowers, drain the last of my glass and head for the door, trying to ignore the stares of the hipsters next to us.
We
ll, we didn’t make it through date four after all. I storm through the back streets towards St John. Why did I bring these manky old flowers with me anyway? I should have flung them onto the table like a proper diva.
Being honest with me . . . Jesus, what is wrong with these men? Do they think they can get away with anything, as long as they do it in plain sight? That’s almost as bad as hiding it. I should never have let him have a third date. I knew it, I should have trusted my gut when he claimed he didn’t have money for a cab home and could he crash at mine. Another lie!
Right – bacon sandwich, then home to watch back-to-back Game of Thrones – time to turn this day around.
The waiter who normally serves me isn’t here, and an earnest young guy shows me to a table with a view into the kitchen. I dump the flowers on the chair opposite and sit back to watch the chefs pull the golden sourdoughs from the wood-fired oven: very therapeutic.
‘Can I order right away, please?’ I ask, as the waiter heads off to fetch a menu.
‘I’ll be two minutes.’
I take my phone out – 10.55 a.m. Still five minutes to order, I’m home and dry. I’ve been dreaming about this sandwich since yesterday morning. Ah, a message on Tinder! Probably Russell, telling me why it’s my fault he shagged another girl . . .
‘Yes, could I please have the bacon sandwich and a black coffee?’ I say, grabbing the waiter.
He looks awkwardly over my shoulder. ‘I don’t think we’ve got any left, let me just check.’
He heads back to the kitchen and comes back a moment later. ‘I’m so sorry, we just sold the last one to the table behind you.’
I turn around and see some guy, head down over a laptop, typing. Typical, some City boy writing emails to Merrill Lynch has just nicked my sandwich. Not happy about that.
‘Is there no way they can make me half of one or something?’
The waiter looks confused.
‘I’m happy to pay for the whole thing, but I really do need that sandwich.’
He comes back again from the kitchen, shaking his head. ‘Sorry, there’s actually no bacon left. We could give you the sandwich without the bacon?’
‘Do you mean two pieces of bread?’
‘Erm, let me just go and double-check that for you . . .’
‘No, don’t worry,’ I say, taking the menu back from his hand. ‘I’ll find something else.’
I glance over it. That’s so annoying! At 11 a.m. they switch to the elevenses menu: Eccles cake, Brownie, or Seed Cake and Madeira.
The Dish Page 4