Would Like to Meet

by Polly James

  The Fembot doesn’t know about the lack of thinking, but she does approve of the busy part.

  “You’ve been coming into work unusually early, Hannah,” she says, first thing this morning. “I’m impressed. That’s what I expect from a dedicated member of the team. Are you after a promotion or something?”

  “God, no,” I say, “I just can’t sleep, so I thought I might as well make myself useful rather than sitting around on my arse at home.”

  The Fembot stopped listening at “God, no”, judging by her unamused expression.

  Mine is more panic-stricken than unamused, as I probably should be chasing promotion, in case Joel doesn’t pay his new, realistic rent at the end of the month (the one he described as “extortionate” last time I mentioned it), but it’s too late now. The Fembot’s gone off to upload photos of her latest batch of cupcakes to the company blog. They’re owls, with faces made of chocolate icing and chocolate buttons, though I’m not sure about the Fembot’s claims that they denote the wisdom of our users. Most of their opinions aren’t worth having, as I discover when I scroll through the site while eating my lunch.

  An hour later, I’ve finished my sandwiches and written a load of answers to questions asked by women worried about ageing, such as, “I don’t think my husband fancies me any more – what do I do?” It’s a lot easier helping other people who are crushed by insecurity than dealing with the same thing in yourself. Even the Fembot’s impressed by the shameless lies I’ve told, of which the most outrageous is “love conquers all”.

  The trouble is, I don’t believe a word I’ve said and now I feel a bit depressed, so when Esther asks if I’d like to go salsa dancing after work, I say, “yes”, even though I’ve never been before. It’s got to be better than what I did have planned for this evening: attending a talk on the lifecycle of the electric eel. Much better, when you consider that in a couple of hours, I’ll be salsa-ing my butt off with loads of good-looking, snake-hipped men.

  * * *

  Esther’s got two left feet, which I know for a fact because she’s the only person who’s asked me to dance all night. The ratio of men to women at this salsa class is 1:20, whether you’re counting ones with snake-like hips or not, and I’m still ranting about why they all refused to dance with any women they weren’t married to by the time Esther drives me home.

  When she drops me off, I walk inside and promptly start to rant again, though this time about men in general, not just the salsa-dancing kind. Joel’s broken the tumble dryer and left a mountain of wet washing inside the drum. He’s also left me a note telling me that he’s “just popped out”, together with a totally-useless explanation of what happened to the dryer: “It started rattling like mad, so I turned it off.”

  My first thought is that Dan will sort it out, until I recall that he’s not here. At that point I get even crosser, and then I start to cry. Once I’ve stopped, I watch a video about repairing tumble dryers on YouTube and then I have a go myself. It’s not easy when your only equipment’s a knife and fork.

  Joel’s obviously been raiding the toolkit I bought from Ikea after Dan moved out because, when I open it, the only things left inside are a full set of screwdriver heads without a single screwdriver to attach them to. Meanwhile, the tumble dryer’s not rattling any more – now it won’t turn on at all.

  * * *

  “Haven’t you solved the problem yet?” asks Joel, when he walks in at 10pm to find me on my knees, my head virtually inside the drum.

  “No,” I say. “And if that’s supposed to be so easy, then maybe you should try.”

  “Already did,” says Joel. “Why haven’t you heated this up?”

  He points at a pan containing some dried-out pasta sauce he must have made before he went out. It’s the only thing he knows how to make, so I probably shouldn’t keep leaving the cooking to him. The trouble is that Dan always used to do it and I don’t get hungry since he moved out.

  I shrug, in answer to Joel’s question about the sauce.

  “For God’s sake, Mum,” he says. “You have to eat. I’ll cook you some spaghetti now, and heat this up to go with it.”

  While the pasta cooks, Joel explains that he spent several hours trying to repair the dryer but then had to abandon the attempt because he was late to meet someone.

  “Who?” I ask, though I’m not really listening any more.

  I’m burrowing in the cupboard under the stairs, where the meter is. Maybe the dryer just blew a fuse.

  “I met Dad,” says Joel. “Whoa, be careful, Mum! Are you okay?”

  No, I’m not. I’ve just banged my head on the shelf that holds the iron and a pile of miscellaneous household goods – all previously broken by Joel – and I banged it so hard that now I’m seeing several Joels, all at once. It’s like looking at a young Henry VIII through a kaleidoscope. After he first grew his hipster beard.

  “Did you say you’ve just been for a drink with your dad?” I ask, a few minutes later, while Joel chucks a load of ice cubes into a plastic bag, then hammers the hell out of them with the mallet Dan bought to tenderise meat. It’s the one with pointy edges, so now there’s crushed ice everywhere, except inside the plastic bag.

  Joel pauses, picks up the bag and holds it to the light, then nods with satisfaction. He always likes to know why things don’t turn out as expected, though he never seems to retain that information long enough to make practical use of it.

  “Holes,” he says, as he scoops the ice up off the counter, wraps it in a tea towel, and then orders to me to press it against the giant bump that’s been forming on my forehead while he’s been considering the physics of the situation.

  “You look like one of those body-modification loonies,” he says, when he removes the ice pack ten minutes later, then stands back to admire the effect. “Except they prefer holes in their bumps, so it looks as if they’ve got doughnuts in the middle of their foreheads.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” I say. “Tell me about your father.”

  “Well, I told him about the dryer,” says Joel. “And he said if you call him tonight, he’ll arrange to pop round and fix it tomorrow if that’s convenient for you. I said it would be, seeing as you never go anywhere, other than to boring evening classes and to Pearl’s.”

  Honestly, that’s so not true – and how did Dan know I wouldn’t be able to fix the dryer? I’m not totally incompetent, and I can manage perfectly well by myself, thank you very much. Or I could, if I didn’t have to share a house with the number one tool thief in the country. I’ll prove it, now.

  I attack the dryer with renewed vigour, adding a carving fork and a pair of kitchen tongs to my arsenal of tools, along with a pack of bamboo skewers. None of them succeed in removing the back of the machine, but the skewers keep snapping off inside it so that, before long, it starts to resemble a porcupine. Then the carving fork skids off the plate hiding the motor, causing a shower of sparks to fly and me to get an electric shock.

  “Phone Dad,” says Joel. “Please, Mum. Before you kill yourself.”

  He picks up my phone, keys in a series of numbers and then passes the phone over to me. I sit and fume, while I wait for Dan to answer.

  “Hello,” says a voice, after what seems like hours. “Daniel’s phone.”

  Since when is Dan called Daniel? And, more to the point, it may be Dan’s phone, but why’s a woman answering it?

  Chapter 7

  It’s all very well for Joel to say the sex of Dan’s landlord makes no difference, but it makes all the difference in the world to me. She’s one of Dan’s colleagues, after all – he told me so – and I bet he only left me because he wanted to get involved with her. Maybe he didn’t even wait ’til then? He could have been having an affair with her behind my back for months, or even years. I can’t remember how long it’s been since he stopped paying me any attention, so it could have been decades for all I know.

  “Well, that would make more sense,” says Esther, when I ask her opinion
during this morning’s coffee break. “I mean, if Dan was having an affair before he moved out. Seems logical to me.”

  Sometimes, you can go right off Esther. I preferred Joel’s opinion, the one he gave me when I went a bit nuts last night after I finally managed to speak to Dan.

  “Don’t be stupid, Mum,” he said. “His landlady’s a right dingbat, and fugly too. I met her earlier on tonight, so I should know.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me about her, then?” I said, “That would have saved me from sounding like a nutcase when I spoke to her.”

  Spoke isn’t really the word, though screeched quite possibly is. I blame that on the shock.

  “What do you mean, Daniel’s phone?” I said to the mystery woman in the aforementioned screechy tone. “He’s not called Daniel, and who the hell are you to be answering his phone?”

  “I’m his landlady,” said the woman. “And there’s no need to be so rude. I can only assume you’re his wife? Or ex-wife, should I say?”

  That last bit stunned me into silence, but by the time I felt able to reply, intending to be ruder still, there was a scuffling noise and the woman said, “Oh, all right. If you’re sure?”

  She must have handed Dan the phone straight after that, because then he began to speak.

  “Hannah?” he said. “Are you okay?”

  Oh, my God, I hadn’t realised how long it had been since I’d heard Dan’s voice. Maybe that’s why it sounded so different to how I remembered it. Different, and better, too. Dan’s always had a nice voice, but last night it sounded smoother, and deeper, and – oh, I don’t know – warmer somehow. It was hard to listen to, whatever the reason, so I made Joel take the phone.

  “You make the arrangements,” I said. “I’ve got something urgent to do.”

  When I’d finished dealing with the emergency – which mainly involved crying myself into a state of semi-asphyxia, due to shoving my face so far into my pillow to muffle the noise – it was past 3am, and Joel was sitting on the floor outside my bedroom door, as if he was my bodyguard, except for the fact that he was fast asleep. I woke him up when I fell over him on my way to the loo.

  “She really is just Dad’s landlady, Mum,” he said, “so be cool when he gets here tomorrow night to mend the dryer. Please.”

  I agreed, but Joel looked unconvinced by my reply.

  “Cool is my middle name,” I said.

  * * *

  I make it home from work in a panic just before Dan’s due to arrive. I don’t know why, but it seems important to look my best tonight, despite the fact that he hasn’t noticed what I look like for years. Even when I’d really made an effort, the best he could usually do was, “You look fine.” That wouldn’t have been so bad in itself, if he hadn’t always qualified the compliment by adding, “for a woman of your age.”

  That’s such an insult, isn’t it? I think it’s even worse than I used to now, because of a question I read at work today, from a man who wanted advice on how to save his marriage. It only needed saving in the first place because he said he couldn’t face having sex with his wife any more, because her appearance now “repels” him. That was bad enough, but then loads of other men joined in, saying they had exactly the same problem, because their wives had also aged so much! I scrolled through hundreds of their horrible comments before I finally found one from a female user. “Do you guys look the same as when you married your wives?” it said.

  That shut the men up, and made me laugh, but now I want to look good when I see Dan – or as good as possible, anyway – but then Sod’s law ensures I don’t. I haven’t even managed to change out of my work clothes when the doorbell rings, and Joel shouts, “Mum! Dad’s here.”

  There’s a whooshing noise inside my head, and I suddenly feel boiling hot (by which I mean hot hot, not sexy hot), and my legs start to feel all funny. I’ve got pins and needles in my fingers, too and I’m oddly breathless, again not in a sexy way.

  I wish I could lie down until I feel a bit more normal, but I’ve got to go downstairs straight away. If I don’t, I’ll look as if I can’t handle seeing Dan – and then he’ll have the upper hand – so I make my way down very slowly. It’s not easy to appear nonchalant while you’re clinging for dear life to the banister, though I do my best.

  “Hi, Hannah,” says Dan, at the same time as Joel says, “Well, I’m off out. See you guys later.”

  He makes his escape so fast that I can’t stop him, and now I’m all alone with Dan.

  “I brought my bike inside,” he says. “Hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t want to risk it being nicked.”

  “Bike?” I say, as if I can’t see a shiny new one right in front of me, blocking my path to the kitchen and the tumble dryer. The bloody tumble dryer that’s the whole reason I’m having to stand here, with my sort-of ex-husband, in my grottiest dress and shiny-kneed tights. And all while my legs are wobbling and I can’t seem to pull enough air into my lungs. Thanks, Joel. Thanks a bunch.

  “Are you all right?” says Dan, moving the bike to allow me to wobble my way past. “You don’t look very well.”

  That’s just great, isn’t it? I don’t look very well, when what I wanted to do was look stunningly gorgeous, absolutely irresistible, and totally on top of everything. Especially when Dan looks better than I remembered and has obviously taken up cycling, too.

  “I’m fine,” I say, as I drag the tumble dryer out from under the counter. “Absolutely, completely fine.”

  “Oh,” says Dan. “Oh, I see.”

  He almost looks disappointed. As well as annoyingly attractive.

  “How are you?” I say, because I feel I should.

  “Um, I’m fine, too … I suppose,” says Dan.

  There’s an awkward silence, and then he adds, “You can leave me to get on with this, if you like. If you’ve got anything else to do, I mean.”

  He can’t bear to be anywhere near me, can he? Not even for a moment. I’m amazed our marriage lasted as long as it did, when he obviously finds me as repulsive as those horrible men on the internet find their wives. No wonder we hardly had sex any more, and so much for the excuses Dan made when I asked him why he thought that was, in the middle of one of our arguments. Repulsion’s a much more relevant factor than my going to bed later than him, and I’m sure he didn’t seriously think that I didn’t fancy him any more. I only mentioned middle-aged spread once, and I was joking!

  Talking of middle-aged spread, maybe I should get a bike, or do something to get myself in better shape. It looks as if that’s what Dan is up to, and I really don’t want to think about why he’s only bothering to do it now. It’s certainly not for my benefit, is it? I think he’s lost some weight already.

  I’m still trying to guess exactly how much when he finishes whatever he’s been doing to the tumble dryer, and stands back up.

  “Found the cause of the problem,” he says, though he doesn’t look too pleased about it. Bewildered might be a better word.

  “Someone’s cut through the wires to the motor,” he continues, “and removed some working parts. I’ll need to order replacements, so this could take a while.”

  I bet he thinks I caused the damage when I was trying to fix the dryer, but I know I didn’t. It must have been Joel, the bloody idiot. I wondered why he’d stolen my wire-cutters, along with all my other tools, though I can’t imagine why he thought cutting through wires would solve anything. Dan says he can’t either, “though why Joel does most things is shrouded in mystery”.

  We both laugh at that and, all of a sudden, I can breathe again. This is sometimes how it used to be: we could find the same things funny, as well as finding each other irritating.

  Dan’s eyes meet mine for the first time since he arrived, then he smiles and says, “You can always send Joel to the launderette.”

  “As punishment, you mean?” I say, at which the more relaxed mood evaporates abruptly. I have no idea why, but Dan turns round, grabs his bike and starts wheeling it backwards towards
the door.

  “Right,” he says. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch when the parts come in.”

  Then he opens the door, pushes the bike outside and rides off without a backward glance. Now my breathing’s gone all funny again.

  * * *

  I’m still sitting on the sofa, trying to work out why Dan suddenly started being so frosty, when Joel finally returns home.

  “Where’s Dad?” he says. “Still in the kitchen working on the dryer?”

  “He left,” I say. “Ages ago. As soon as he found out what you’d done to break the bloody thing.”

  “Ah,” says Joel. He looks a bit embarrassed for a moment, then treats me to the winning expression he used to rely on to get him out of trouble when he was a toddler, more than twenty years ago.

  “It worked, though, didn’t it?” he says, ignoring my scowl. “My plan, I mean, not the dryer, obviously.”

  “What plan?” I say. “Why on earth would you plan to break the tumble dryer? I’ve got half a ton of damp washing in the kitchen that’s going to go mouldy if it doesn’t stop raining soon. And most of it belongs to you.”

  It’ll serve Joel right if all his clothes end up covered in mildew, though God knows how much he spends on them each month. Almost as much as he spends on trainers, I should think, and he’s paranoid about looking after everything he owns, or about me looking after it, anyway. He went ballistic last week when I shrank one of his T-shirts by accident, so he’ll go nuts if his entire wardrobe ends up going mouldy.

  “My plan,” says Joel, disregarding the threat of damage to his precious “streetwear” in an uncharacte‌ristically offhand way, “was to get you guys back together again, or talking about it anyway. So, did it work?”