True Love at the Lonely Hearts Bookshop

by Annie Darling

  The whole scene was like something from an advert. This isn’t just any brunch. This is an M&S brunch.

  At least no one seemed to be paying them any attention, Verity thought just as Wallis pulled her forward. ‘Guys! Guys!’ she called out, her voice now doing a good impersonation of a foghorn. ‘Guys! Johnny’s here and he’s BROUGHT A FRIEND! Everyone, this is Verity!’

  Verity looked down at that point just to make sure that she wasn’t naked because she’d had an anxiety dream very similar to this although that had also involved being thrust on stage to sing ‘Agadoo’ with the appropriate hand gestures. No, definitely not a dream, no amount of pinching herself awake was going to rescue her from this living hell.

  She’d hoped that Johnny’s friends wouldn’t be too intimidating, that they’d be polite if a little reserved about the interloper in their midst. But never in her wildest imaginings had Verity expected that they’d fall on her with effusive and enthusiastic greetings.

  ‘Look at you!’ one woman cried as she clasped Verity to her bosom. ‘What a lovely girl.’

  ‘And isn’t Johnny lovely too? We’re so pleased that he’s finally met someone nice. Is it serious?’

  ‘Well, it must be serious if he’s bringing her to brunch.’

  Verity was surrounded on all sides by women in their mid to late thirties, all wearing brunch casual; jeans and Breton tops, glossy hair pulled back from faces all fixed intently on her.

  ‘It’s not serious,’ she bleated. ‘We’re just friends, aren’t we? Aren’t we?’

  She turned to find Johnny, to plead for back-up, but he was in the middle of a group of men, dressed as if they all had shares in Boden, who were slapping him on the shoulders and saying things like ‘You sly, old dog!’ and ‘About bloody time!’ until Johnny’s phone rang and he excused himself to take the call, leaving Verity on her own.

  Except, Johnny’s friends didn’t leave her on her own. She was supplied with a glass of Prosecco topped up with orange juice, a bagel with scrambled eggs cooked to order (‘not too runny, please’) with a side of bacon, then led out into the garden to be given the seat of honour on the decking while the women arranged their chairs in a fan pattern around her.

  ‘So, Verity, where did you and Johnny meet?’

  She stumbled through their prearranged answer and had barely tasted her first forkful of scrambled eggs, when someone else piped up.

  ‘And do you live near here?’

  ‘Bloomsbury.’

  ‘Bloomsbury! You lucky thing!’

  There were coos of approval. Verity glanced around the half circle of affluent North-London-dwelling women. It wasn’t even that they were older than Verity; they also came from a very different place to her. It was apparent in the confident way they carried themselves, the ease and assurance that prep and private school and redbrick university had given them. Verity would have been surprised if any of them had gone to a run-down comprehensive or grown up in a leaky prefab on the edge of a sink estate because the old bishop had had it in for Mr Love after he’d refused to denounce single mothers and homosexuals from the pulpit.

  But being a vicar’s daughter also taught a girl some valuable life skills. For all her awkwardness, for all her shyness, Verity had spent her formative years mixing with all sorts of people. Whenever there’d been a knock at the vicarage door, Mr and Mrs Love expected all their daughters to be considerate of whoever was standing on the doorstep, whether it was a grieving widow or proud new father or even Billy from the greengrocers who was convinced that the devil had taken up residence in his potting shed and called around weekly to ask Mr Love to perform an exorcism.

  So, in this moment Verity knew that she’d be fine as long as she tamped down her nerves and made a concerted effort to remember to breathe.

  ‘I work in a bookshop and I live above the shop.’ She pulled her lips back in something close to a smile. ‘I couldn’t afford to live in Bloomsbury otherwise.’

  ‘A bookshop! I love bookshops!’ Wallis said and as Verity answered their questions about where she’d gone to university, where her family lived (Mr and Mrs Love were now settled in an archetypal rambling vicarage in a charming village in the East Lincolnshire Wold since the bishop who’d been her father’s nemesis had retired), what her plans for the summer were (undecided), each reply was greeted with big smiles and cries of rapturous delight as if Verity had entertained them all by balancing her plate on her nose like a performing seal or broken into a pitch-perfect rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On’. She had done neither of those things. She was just a girl sitting in front of a group of comparative strangers insisting that she and Johnny were just good friends.

  And where was Johnny while Verity was being gently interrogated? He was pacing up and down at the bottom of the long, lushly green garden, phone clamped to his ear.

  ‘Johnny is such a wonderful man,’ one of the women, Lisa, said when she saw where Verity’s attention had wandered. ‘We’ve all been hoping that he’d meet an equally wonderful woman. He’s been single for years.’

  ‘We’d practically given up hope, hadn’t we?’ chirped one of the blonder women there. ‘We’ve tried so many times to set Johnny up with so many wonderful women, but none of them stuck. And now, here you are!’

  ‘It’s early days. Very early days,’ Verity insisted with a fixed smile. ‘We’re just taking it slowly. So slowly. I’d say we were more friends than anything else.’

  ‘Of course you are, but he really is a great guy,’ Lisa insisted and the other women agreed that Johnny was hewn from greatness as the man himself glanced over at Verity. She gave him a feeble finger waggle and wished that he were close enough that she could glare at him so he’d get the message that it was not cool to abandon your fake girlfriend within thirty seconds of introducing her to your friends. Not cool at all. ‘He really deserves to be happy.’

  ‘Oh, I think he’s happy enough,’ Verity mumbled and finally Johnny was finished with his call, phone back in his pocket and striding up the garden.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry,’ he called out, a rueful smile on his face. ‘Didn’t mean to abandon you.’ He reached the group of women and stood behind Verity’s chair so he could put a hand on her shoulder. Verity wanted to wriggle away but forced herself to stay still. ‘I hope you haven’t been telling Verity all sorts of embarrassing stories about me and scaring her off.’

  ‘They’ve been telling me how lovely you are.’ If Verity were Nina, this would be where she’d bat her eyelashes, or if she were Posy, she’d blush prettily, but she was Verity so she just sat there with her agonised smile and wondered how she’d got herself into this mess.

  ‘I’d be lovelier if I hadn’t left you to face the Spanish Inquisition all by yourself.’ Johnny smiled at the assembled company who were staring at the pair of them and making no attempt to hide their avid interest. ‘Shall I take you away from all this?’

  Verity didn’t bother to hide her relief. ‘Yes, please.’ She hauled herself up from her chair then remembered her manners. ‘It was so nice to meet you all.’

  Verity had thought they were going. They’d already been there for what felt like hours, but as Johnny walked her through the kitchen, person after person wanted an introduction, until finally they were greeted by their host, Johnny’s friend, Graham, who’d cooked Verity’s scrambled eggs to non-runny perfection.

  He was as tall as Johnny, his light-brown hair streaked with grey, his kind, open face half obscured by a pair of black-framed glasses. ‘Johnny,’ he said urgently. ‘I’ve been hearing some crazy talk that you’ve only gone and got yourself a gorgeous new girlfriend. It can’t be true, can it?’

  Johnny sighed in a good-natured way then gently pushed Verity forward. ‘This is Verity. We’re just friends. Please don’t scare her off.’

  ‘Hello, we kind of met before. Or rather you made me some scrambled eggs. They were very nice,’ Verity said with as much genuine feeling as she could muster but if she was scooped up into anot
her hug or subjected to another interrogation, she might possibly cry. Thankfully, Graham did neither, but gravely shook her hand and said that it was very nice to be formally introduced.

  Maybe Johnny was as great as all his friends claimed he was, because he caught the pleading expression on Verity’s face and said, ‘I’m afraid we’re leaving now. We’ve got another thing to go to.’

  ‘The other thing,’ Verity echoed vaguely as they headed down the hall.

  ‘Don’t you want to say goodbye to everyone?’ Graham asked. He smiled slyly. ‘I’m sure Wallis has thought of at least another fifty questions to ask Verity.’

  ‘I expect you can make excuses for us,’ Johnny said firmly.

  Another three steps and they were at the door, which Graham opened for them. More farewells were exchanged – ‘Yes, it was really lovely to meet you too. And you don’t mind saying goodbye to everyone? Yes, I’m sure we’ll see each other again’ – and then freedom. Freedom! Verity practically skipped down the steps and ran up the garden path until she was back on the street and taking huge gulps of air as if she’d been trapped down a mineshaft for days.

  ‘See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Johnny asked as he caught up with her.

  Verity was all set to tell him just how bad it was. How it had been agony for her. Absolute, untold agony. But actually had it really been that bad? To insist that it had been bad would mean that she was being unkind about his friends, who’d been unfailingly welcoming, even if they had asked a lot of questions.

  One thing was bugging her though. ‘When was the last time that you brought a woman to meet your friends?’

  They were walking in the direction of Chalk Farm but Verity’s question stopped Johnny in his tracks. His lips were moving, as if he were doing sums. He frowned. ‘About five years. Give or take a few months. God. How can it have been that long?’

  Verity stared at him discreetly from under her lashes. Checking that yes, he was still as handsome as he’d been the last time she’d looked. And the time before that and all the other times because he was so handsome, so pleasing to the eye, that she wanted to look at him rather a lot. He had good manners, good conversation, he could build houses with his bare hands and yet, he was single.

  It made absolutely no sense. But then he wasn’t single by choice.

  Usually Verity avoided personal questions, both the asking and answering of them, but she had to know. Otherwise, there was a possibility that she might become the first person to ever die of curiosity. ‘This woman … the woman you’re in love with but you can’t be together—’

  ‘Please, Verity. Can we just not?’ Johnny interrupted, an awkward smile on his face to soften the blow.

  But she had to. ‘Has she met your friends?’ Another thought grabbed hold of her. ‘Is she the one you’re always talking to on … Oh! What on earth are you doing?’

  Johnny had dropped to his knees the better to seize hold of one of Verity’s hands. For one awful, world-spinning moment she thought he was about to ask for her hand in marriage. ‘Verity. Verity. We’ve come this far, met each other’s friends …’

  Immediately, Verity knew where he was going with this but this was where she jumped off the fake girlfriend train back at singleton station. ‘We have and it’s been fine. But we agreed that this was just a temporary measure to get said friends off our case. A one-off kind of deal—’

  ‘But it worked so well, why stop at one weekend? I like you, I hope you like me too.’ His voice seemed to falter and he looked up at Verity with eyes as greeny blue as any ocean that Peter Hardy had ever graphed.

  What would Elizabeth Bennet do? Verity asked herself as she had done on many an occasion. Elizabeth Bennet would stay strong. Resolute. And possibly have something sassy to say on the subject. ‘I do like you,’ Verity said hurriedly because that really wasn’t the point. ‘But no good can come of this.’

  ‘You’re wrong. Only good could come of this. A whole summer of good,’ Johnny insisted. ‘I’ve taken it right down to the wire in RSVP-ing to all the invites I’ve had to weddings and fortieth birthday parties because I’ve been dreading having to turn up on my own. Yet again. But if you agreed to be my plus one for the season, it wouldn’t have to be such an ordeal. In fact, it would be the perfect solution.’

  It was ridiculous. Johnny was being ridiculous, except … ‘Do you know … under my bed, stuffed in a box, I have seven invites that I haven’t replied to. Leaving parties and housewarmings. Engagements and thirtieth birthday parties. I never even RSVP-ed to Con’s Save the Date for her wedding.’ Verity sighed.

  ‘So, let’s make this a summer thing. We’ll get dressed up, go to some parties, dance to some naff eighties tunes,’ Johnny said cajolingly, and his reasoning might have worked on some people but Verity wasn’t some people.

  ‘Those are easily three of my least favourite activities,’ Verity said with great feeling so Johnny would know what a party pooper she was. ‘Look, this has been … I don’t even know what this has been … Like I said yesterday, let’s just quit while we’re ahead.’

  For someone who hated lying, Verity was already planning how she’d tell Nina and Posy that she and Johnny were over; that it was too soon after Peter Hardy to jump straight into another thing with another man. She was racking up fake relationships like they were in a closing-down sale.

  ‘But we are ahead.’ Johnny stood up and reached down to brush the London dirt off his jeans. The muscles in his arms rippled pleasingly and Verity was glad of the distraction. ‘We’ve met, what is it now? Four times. So we’re on the road to becoming friends. Friends who are seeing each other. Friends who are helping each other out of a tight spot. Please, Verity! We were made for each other. We’re both happy to be single and you work in what was my mother’s favourite shop, which now sells her favourite kind of novel. It’s a sign.’

  He obviously had Verity down as a soft touch when actually she was made of very stern stuff indeed. Now, she crossed her arms and fixed Johnny with a reproachful look. ‘Did you really just play the dead mother card? Really?’

  At least he had the good grace to break eye contact and shift uncomfortably where he stood. ‘Oh well, I suppose I just have to resign myself to being on the singles’ table with a bunch of people I have absolutely nothing in common with and nothing to do but drink away my despair. Though probably a buffet would be worse because then you have to mingle.’ He shuddered and Verity shuddered too.

  ‘I hate mingling,’ she said.

  ‘I think small talk is worse than mingling though, isn’t it?’ Johnny mused. ‘I hate small talk even more than I hate chutney.’

  Verity was quite partial to chutney herself but her feelings on small talk weren’t quite so positive. ‘I hate small talk more than I hate having to navigate the Hangar Lane gyratory system or people who say “pacific” when they mean specific.’

  ‘Although those people are deplorable,’ Johnny agreed. He reached a hand towards Verity as if he were thinking about touching her in anti-small-talk solidarity. Then he glanced at her face, which was still in stern mode, and withdrew his hand. ‘It’s just that, we could save each other from the small talk. From people asking in concerned voices, “So, are you seeing anyone?” From the bitter divorcees and the dodgy flatmates. From the pitying glances and the “I just can’t understand why you’re still single when you’ve got so much going for you.”’

  Verity knew exactly what Johnny was talking about. Knew and loathed it herself in equal measure. Peter Hardy had been useful for a while but only in the off-screen sense, though Merry had been desperate for Verity to hire an out-of-work actor at least once to play the part of a love-struck oceanographer. She’d even promised to pay half his fee.

  But if Verity had a real imaginary boyfriend, one made of flesh and blood and very nice suits and bluey green eyes and a killer smile, she wouldn’t have to go to every party on her own. She also wouldn’t have to spend a considerable amount of time being introduced to spare me
n and making stilted conversation with them while she wished for sudden death.

  ‘I keep forgetting about the horrors of the singles’ table,’ Verity muttered and as if he could tell that she was wavering, Johnny took hold of Verity’s hand again, stern look bedamned.

  ‘I have a fortieth birthday party to go to next weekend,’ he said mournfully, his brow furrowed as if he’d just said he had six months to live. ‘Come on, Verity! Have a heart!’

  Verity did have a heart and she also had an older sister who’d threatened to seat her next to their father’s curate at her own wedding. Jane Austen’s Mr Collins had nothing on George, a mansplaining, manspreading menace who had already declared his intentions to make an honest woman out of one of the Love sisters. But if Verity turned up with Johnny …

  She and Johnny would never be something, but they could be friends. Verity was absolutely fine with having friends and once you’d delegated a man to the friendzone, then nothing could ever come of it, according to Nina.

  ‘Well … I suppose, a fortieth birthday party is a special occasion,’ Verity remarked tremulously.

  ‘It is.’ Johnny nodded in agreement. ‘Very special. Big do in the country. Marquee. Overnight stay. I’ll book us separate rooms, I promise. Please, say you’ll come. And then I’ll return the favour. I haven’t met all your friends yet, have I?’

  He hadn’t. He’d only met her Happy Ever After friends and her Happy Ever After adjacent friends like lovely Stefan who ran the Swedish deli in Rochester Street with his girlfriend, lovely Annika. Verity had a lot more friends than that and they were all making the transition from hooking up to coupling up and couldn’t understand why Verity wasn’t doing the same.

  ‘No, you’ve hardly met anyone,’ Verity said slowly. ‘But … an overnight stay?’ That hadn’t been in the contract.

  ‘I can get down on my knees again, if it will make any difference,’ Johnny said and he was already lowering himself. Verity grabbed at his arm, fingers touching warm skin and she had to ride out an unexpected and tiny quiver of delight.