I head back towards Hemel but turn left and pop on the A41 bypass. It’s then a fifteen-minute max easy peazy to my mum’s and the car’s barely warm when I pull it onto her deserted, of course, driveway.
It’s book club night tonight; a Stephen King, apparently, which seemed like an odd choice but being a fan of his short story collections, his appeal is wide.
With everything that’s been going on, I head straight to bed. The hall light’s usually on when Mum’s out but she’d obviously gone before it got dark, not difficult being mid-May, and forgotten to switch it on for when she, or I, got home. So I do that and plod upstairs. With fourteen days down, seventeen to go, I wonder when I’m past the mid-point, whether I’ll get ploddier or have more of a spring in my step. I smile as I think of Elliott. While it has been known for me to body-wiggle, he’s the master.
Knowing there’ll be an easy article to write after tonight, I decide on taking tomorrow morning off and collecting a certain hound. With influences like Nathan and my aunt and uncle’s dog, I’m going to view the rest of the month with renewed optimism. PMA. Positive Mental Attitude. The Paper Mill at Apsley.
As my head touches the pillow and I pull the duvet up to my neck, I smile, and my thoughts drift between the wiggling pair, Duncan and his bath, and it’s microseconds before sleep takes over.
Chapter 68 – Delighted To Be Going Somewhere
Tuesday 15th May
Elliott is available for (free) ‘hire’ and is, of course, delighted to be going somewhere. Having enjoyed the walk at Apsley, I decide to return, although we only get as far as Berkhamsted as I remember there’s a lovely walk along the canal there, behind Waitrose and a small-but-usually-space-available car park.
It’s a risk bringing Elliott somewhere like this because there are so many distractions but I keep him on his expandable lead and while there are moments of frustration, for both of us, we have a whale of a time. I frown at the thought and google the expression while Elliott takes a particularly long sniff at a very ordinary-looking bush.
I scroll down past some ‘Whale of a Time’ clothing and the next few entries are for the meaning rather than origination so I add ‘origin’ to my search. Varsity.co.uk tells me that: a dictionary of American student slang by Willard C. Gore records 'whale' in 1895 as “a person who is a prodigy either physically or intellectually”, or “something exceptionally large”, giving the example “a whale of a time” to demonstrate the phrase's “jolly” connotations.
The lead’s tugging, or rather Elliott at the end of it is, and I look up to see he’s spotted something moving. There are no ducks, thankfully, but there’s another dog, a shih tzu, coming over one of the bridges. Although I work full time, I’d love to have a dog because there’s no doubt it makes us all more sociable but remind myself that should I move in with Duncan, Buddy would be mine too.
I should offer to have him one day when I’m not working and Duncan has to. Some Donna:dog bonding.
Elliott and I walk towards the bridge and the two dogs do their dog:dog bonding sniff twirl, during which time the shih tzu’s owner and I do our own little dance, trying not to get the leads entangled.
“Sorry,” the woman, a lady in her seventies I’d guess, a little older than my mum, says despite her dog, Priscilla, being the less enthusiastic one of the two. I can’t say I blame her.
“Not a problem at all,” I say as I weave the blue plastic end of Elliott’s lead through Priscilla’s cord.
The woman and Priscilla continue behind us as we walk in the opposite direction, far easier to go our separate ways, even if we’d not wanted to. Me not wanting to. Elliott would go anywhere anytime, just like the Milk Tray advert. Or was it Cinzano. Anyway…
We do a huge loop and end up back at the car, a mere five minutes before our ticket runs out. I read somewhere that you’re allowed ten minutes’ grace but I’m grateful I didn’t need it.
I pop Elliott back to my aunt and uncle’s, decline the tempting offer of a cup of tea as I have to be getting back to work but do accept a brownie wrapped in a Christmas red, white and green napkin. They have the same set every year and I imagine a big box of them up in the loft, from which they remove a handful every now and then. It would make a perfect nest for mice, I think as I make a fuss of Elliott and say a final, for now, adieu.
What’s left of the afternoon goes quickly, with my articles and emails up to date.
Tuesdays are dinner with Frank, and boy is he on form. His wife, Frankie, it turns out, has won a trip to the Bahamas and they’ve already booked to go mid-June. Not being very good at geography at school, I asked him whether it’s going to be warm there.
“Thirty-two during the day, twenty at night.” Yes, very nice.
They’re both sun worshippers, which I would never have guessed as he doesn’t look like he picks up a tan but what he overproduces in melanin, apparently, Frankie makes up for though she has to be careful.
“She has this huge…” Frank spread his arms, nearly knocking into a waiter walking by, “sun hat. Takes almost the entire suitcase.” That’s our Frank, the quiet dramatist.
Despite Frank’s comment about Nando’s last week, The Plough at Leverstock Green is our chosen destination, a Great British Inn chain this time so assured of quality and it doesn’t disappoint. Google described it as ‘spacious venue with a light modern interior serving a range of drinks and British pub grub’ and Messrs Page, Brin and co. aren’t wrong.
With a choice of ‘balanced, nutritious and tasty traditional British food’, we both go for their carvery’s Tuesday Sunday roast: lamb for me (which they only do on Tuesdays for some reason so I’m especially lucky), and too-red-for-my-liking twenty-one day aged mature British beef for Frank. I could almost imagine the meat twitch. Ew.
Even though it’s not supposed to go on lamb, I avoid the horseradish, which is gutting as I love it. That’s more for face than calories as it only has twenty-one per tablespoon (nutrionix.com). calorieking.com disputes this and suggests twenty-five pre teaspoon, although it uses Heinz’s as an example. Either way, I’d use a ladle which would be half my calories for the whole dish. I do however have a smidge of mint sauce which nutrionix says seventeen for a tablespoon. Calorieking agrees, albeit at sixteen. I only know all this because I’ve done more than one article on sauces, them being a largely unknown factor in some diets going wrong. Sauces are just flavoured water, right?
“So why did you… or was it Frankie who chose the Bahamas?”
Frank swallows his mouthful of Yorkshire Pudding, probably not Aunt Bessie’s but home (Plough) made. He blushes and I don’t think it’s because of the savoury ‘pudding’. “We went there on our honeymoon.”
“Sweet.” And it is. They’ve only been together five years so presumably married a year or two after that but as I’m thinking it, Frank answers my unasked question.
“This time last year.”
“Oh really?”
“It took a while for Frankie to go out with me,” he explains. “She’d not long lost Wyatt, her husband, and really wasn’t looking for anyone else, she said. Dancing though brings you close and well, we did.” He blushes again and points at his food as if there’s something spicy on it as an excuse. “It took another couple of years before she’d move in with me, a year after that for her to wear my ring…”
As he’s talking, I’m thinking how romantic it is, yet it reminds me of a song about unrequited love. I can’t remember the title or who sung it but remember a reference to Johnny wearing her ring. Or her wearing his. Or someone else wearing it. No, it’s a blank.
Frank stopped to eat so I’ve not missed anything he’s said. “So,” he continues, “we’re going back to where we got married, the beach. Our witnesses were a couple we’d met the day before. It wasn’t spur of the moment but neither of us have children or parents or siblings so…”
“No one important to share the day.” As I say it, it sounds really sad
but it doesn’t seem to bother him. He’s still smiling. And clearly in love. I naturally think of Duncan and I do honestly feel for him what Frank must feel for Frankie. Duncan’s my world.
As I drive home, I think about that. We’ve not messaged for a few hours, not since I got to work, so it’s long overdue. Absence is definitely making my heart grow fonder.
For all the thought that the distraction of James isn’t helping, I think it is because I’m resisting. Have resisted. Will resist. How many days down with how many to go? Oh boy.
Chapter 69 – The Us That Isn’t Us
Wednesday 16th May
I make my lazy way into work (mid-morning) but no one seems to bat their proverbial eyelids at my lateness except for James. Of course. Not that he remarks at it but he does notice me walking in his direction (I have to, to get to my desk) and goes to stand. I don’t know whether he was going to anyway but I shake my head so he sits. After thinking about him and Duncan last night, or rather him vs Duncan, it’s made me even more resolute to hold my ground.
Regardless of whether he’s having trouble at home, that’s no excuse for him hitting on me, especially when he knew I was living, practically living with someone else. Someone I adore and who adores me; Duncan told me so during a rather heated… in a good way… FaceTime last night. Needless to say my mum wasn’t there so we had free reign. I’m blushing now just thinking about it. Him. Not James. No, definitely not…
“Oh. Hi, James.” He’s walking towards my desk, looking all sexy and… ugly, he looks ugly with those shimmering almond eyes and – Married, Donna, he’s M… A… R… R…
“Donna…” He’s looking serious as he sits in my, Veronica’s, his sister’s not wife’s, visitor chair. “I was wondering if you’d like to come out to lunch with me. No strings. Just friends. Colleagues.” His eyes tell a different story. They’re saying ‘more strings than a harp’, ‘as just friends as all those movies about friends who end up together… When Harry Met Sally just friends’.
I take a sip of my coffee and almost choke as I recall the scene in the café where Meg Ryan has a fake orgasm and the woman near her says ‘I’ll have whatever she’s having’, or something like that.
“Just colleagues,” I confirm as I ignore whatever his eyes are saying about those.
He smiles a Colgate toothpaste smile. No, it’s a whatever’s classier than Colgate. Arm and Hammer. Sorry, Colgate. There’s nothing wrong with you it’s just that– “Do you have somewhere in mind?” I ask so I can prepare, google it, to have something to talk about; the building’s or company’s history for instance, instead of about ‘us’ that isn’t ‘us’.
He sticks out his chiselled chin in thought. “Nando’s?”
I’m due to go out with Greta tonight and providing she chooses, we choose, somewhere that can cater for my ‘project’, I can let all hell go loose, so to speak, this lunchtime. I recall passing Haldi a couple of weeks ago – it seems sooo much longer than that, but think an Indian would be too much for lunch, which is a shame because it looks really nice.
I nod pathetically then cough, straighten more in my seat, which seems to surprise him as he’s backed off a little. Great work, Donna! “That would be nice.” There, just a ‘nice’. An insipid non-committal, other than lunch, ‘nice’. Poor ‘nice’. What did it ever do to the world to be labelled as insipid?
“Great,” he says, standing. “See you in a few minutes.”
Huh?
When he and his Levi 501s have ‘left the building’ (the area around my desk), I look at my watch. 12:13. How did that happen? I arrived mid-morning. No later than eleven… Okay, maybe a little later than eleven, and now it’s already 12:13.
At twelve thirty on the dot, so he doesn’t have to come looking for me and make it obvious, I slink my way to his desk. He’s ready and oh too eager to go to lunch. He resembles the Duracell bunny and it makes me nervous. The coughing and standing straighter worked last time so I do it again.
“You getting another cold?” he asks as he joins me.
“Erm, no. Not that I know of,” I whimper and feel my shoulders constrict.
“After you,” he says and waves his hand in that annoyingly gallant way he has. I’m not wearing jeans, I have a pretty floral dress on – it’s the middle of May after all, so he wouldn’t be looking at my bum but my dress would still sashay. I therefore walk down the aisle, taking small steps but only end up feeling like a Mummy… and not the Yummy type but more the Egyptian type.
“You okay?” he asks from too close a distance behind me.
“Yep.” I half expect him to touch me but he at least is savvy enough to know that would constitute as sexual harassment in the workplace. Even so, I can almost feel his hot sexy breath on my neck.
There are double doors in front of us and I don’t want to slow down and certainly not stop in case the gap between us gets any closer so I swerve instead and turn, only to find he stopped a while ago. Him and his hot sexy imagined breath.
“Sorry,” he says. “Forgot the credit card. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“Okay,” I whimper and leave him to it.
Owen’s not on the phone so we chat. I’ve not got as far as downstairs when James reappears and although I’ve enjoyed Owen talking about everything other than Greta but seeing a Greta-shaped twinkle in his eyes, I wish I had, otherwise James and I would have a nearly-conjoined-at-the-back foray to the front door.
He stops to drop off some post so I use that as an excuse to make a bolt for it but feel rather foolish as it highlights the fact that I don’t want to be near him. Yet we’re going to lunch together and James knows that, of course, as does Owen because it was the first thing I said to him while (not) waiting for James.
When will this month end? Two weeks and two days, Donna. Gulp.
James is a perfect gentleman (or has taken my hints) and is companionably distant. It’s still work hours so there are no come-ons, no innuendos, no pretty much anything other than politeness. We don’t quite talk about the weather but it would be next on the agenda. We don’t talk about Callie, although Veronica’s mentioned but only in relation to me covering her.
“I’m enjoying it all, yes, thank you,” I say as if I’m being interviewed for a job between bites of chicken, dipped in the peri-peri sauce I missed last time. Unwisely or not, we’re sharing half a chicken but that’s all we’re sharing, other than a bench seat, but we’re managing not to get close to each other. Despite having held the door for me, he went to the table first and took the bench. I deliberated whether to sit opposite, ideal except I’d then have to look at him, and decided not as the long seat did look more comfortable. Risking him edging closer, I opted for that and so far he’s behaved.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m imagining all this attention but then he does indeed move closer.
“I’ve… I’m er, going to have a look at the sauces,” I blurt and get up, taking my bag with me. Of course he’s not going to steal it and I could walk back to the office should he abandon me.
Seeing as I have my bag with me and it doesn’t matter if the chicken cools any, I go to the ladies. That way it looks like it was an intended visit with the sauce happening to be on the route back. Had I not mentioned the sauces.
I pick up a coconut and lemon sauce bottle from the selection and take it back to the table. Needless to say I sit opposite. I’m sure his arms are long enough to reach my knees but we’re on a runway from the front to the sauces and cutlery so I wouldn’t be able to push my chair back.
“You okay?” he asks, putting a slab of chicken in his mouth. Even doing that looks sexy, although there’s a globule of sauce – he’s on XX Hot Peri-Peri, of course. Everything about him is extra hot – threatening to drop and I thank Mr Newton for discovering gravity except it doesn’t and the whole thing disappears between his luscious lips. James’s, not Isaac’s.
“Yes, thanks.” I try to make it sound breezy but it comes out as a croak. I clear my throat and he r
emoves a tissue from his jeans front pocket. Not a hint of blue fluff. He offers me the tissue but I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”
Without agreeing or otherwise, he returns the tissue and takes another perfect mouthful of chicken.
“We should be heading back,” I say when it’s clear we’re done. And we are done. We’re more than done. We’re overcooked in a dad’s barbeque kind of way… except my dad. He was the only person I knew who could get everything just right, all at the same time. He was a legend. A legend who wouldn’t have approved of James. But that was because Dad adored my mum, adored me, and that’s what I want. I want Duncan.
“Okay.” James stands and he looks defeated. Nothing’s been said between us about ‘us’ but he knows. We are the us that isn’t us. Finally.
Chapter 70 – Beyond Happy Might Be A Stretch
Come Wednesday evening, it’s a welcome return to the old town, Greta seems even more quiet than usual but after one drink, just a lemonade, I can see her relax. “Owen and I are dating, officially,” she whispers from behind her Mogul menu.
I lean forward to pull it away from her. “Really?”
She smiles shyly. Having skipped starters because we’re not terribly hungry, we’re waiting for our mains: tandoori lamb shashlik in my case, partly because it was less saucy and I love the name, Mogul’s special biryani in Greta’s. We’ve already ordered yet she’s still holding her menu. It’s a defence mechanism I know well, although not usually with menus.
“That’s great,” I say to the back of it.
She finally lowers it, folds it, and puts it to one side. “He’s lovely.”
He is. The little I’ve had to do with him, mostly because he’s usually on the phone, has told me that. He seems genuine, as does Greta. I think they would have got together anyway but I’m proud I sped that up. I’m certainly no cupid but I did hint at how much William liked Izzy and hey presto, they got together. Again, that probably would have happened anyway.
The Serial Dieter (The Serial Series Book 2) Page 31