If We're Not Married by Thirty

by Anna Bell

  There’s an interesting story about gut bacteria that reminds me of a funny story from an event we’d had at work, and I turn to tell Danny only to realise he’s gone. It’s so strange as, for six days, we’ve been inseparable and I suddenly feel lonely without him.

  ‘Pull yourself together, Stoker. You’re being ridiculous,’ I say, giving myself a pep talk. Besides, he’s left me home alone. It would be a bit wrong to waste the opportunity to have a teeny tiny poke around his house whilst he’s not here.

  I need to get washed and dressed first. I’m wearing one of the skimpy nighties that Lucy gave me and I don’t want Hazel to pop in with wedding magazines and see more than she bargained for again.

  I go in search of the bathroom, pleased that Danny doesn’t have an aversion to bath towels like he does cushions, and see he’s left some out for me. I have a quick shower using his toiletries (my mini bottles didn’t make it back from Spain) and come out smelling decidedly like a man. I smell like Danny and I rather like it.

  Dressed and ready to go, I wander into the kitchen and open up the cupboards, putting on my best Loyd Grossman voice to do a Look Through the Keyhole impression. ‘Here we have some chickpeas and harissa paste. This person clearly likes their North African dishes. And over here are lemongrass and fish sauce – definitely some South-East Asian influences to his cooking,’ I say, pushing my mouth around to give my accent a twang.

  I’m secretly pleased that Danny’s got a good mix of aromatic herbs and spices. Clearly, he knows his way around the kitchen. In Spain, we lived on tapas and takeaways, and I haven’t had the chance to see his culinary skills in action yet. I’m one of those people who thinks I’m cooking if I use fresh pasta and sauce from the chilled aisle.

  Hastily, I pull open the other doors and I’m relieved to see one bulging at the seams with carbs – pasta, couscous and bulgar wheat. And there doesn’t appear to be a tub of protein powder or supplements like there would have been in Ross’s house.

  It’s funny getting to know Danny this way as I feel as if I already know so much about him, yet, in other ways, I know nothing at all. Up until half an hour ago I wouldn’t have been able to tell you if he was a marmite lover or hater. And we all know that’s a big thing. There’s literally nothing worse in my mind than giving your other half a kiss when they’ve been eating the vile stuff – I’m almost retching at the thought.

  I’m just about to leave the kitchen when I see his fridge is chock-a-block full of the garish fridge magnets I’ve sent him over the years. I look over all of them, laughing at the memories of me skulking round tourist shops trying to find the worst ones and checking out tacky seaside shops along the coast near me. I thought he was joking when he’d said he’d kept them.

  Happy that there’s a little part of me in the house already, and that I’ve discovered that Danny’s more competent in the kitchen than I am, I head towards his office. If I was going to have anything personal or incriminating, that’s where I’d keep it. But as I touch the door handle it feels wrong. I’m trying to get a feel for his life rather than snooping to catch him out. Instead, I head upstairs to check out the lounge.

  Along the wall of the lounge is a built-in bookcase and it’s filled with all manner of books, CDs and DVDs. I quickly scan the books. There’re the usual ones that find themselves on people’s shelves – classics like The Catcher and the Rye, The Great Gatsby, War and Peace. Then there’s a whole section of Ian Rankin, John Grisham and Lee Child novels. Followed by a whole shelf of what look like fantasy novels. Most surprisingly of all there’s a shelf of ‘how to’ books. How to Draw!, Car mechanics 101, Flamenco for Fun: books that I’m surprised he owns. I try and imagine Danny dressed in a little mariachi-style jacket clapping his hands and stamping his feet. I know that he’s always liked to try new things, but Flamenco?

  The DVDs are a similar eclectic mix. There’s a box set of Frasier, no surprise there, but also Scrubs,The West Wing, The Blacklist, House of Cards. All things that I’d happily watch. There’s also Game of Thrones so I guess I’m not going to be able to wriggle out of watching it.

  I start to relax. Just because someone doesn’t share my hate of Marmite doesn’t mean to say that we’d be incompatible in other ways.

  I’m just about to turn and head downstairs when I catch sight of a mix CD I sent him years ago perched at the end of the shelf. It’s as if he didn’t know where to put it in the rest of his alphabetised collection.

  I flip it over and instantly laugh at the random nature of the mix. I find the stereo and slip it in and ‘Crazy’ by Let Loose starts playing out.

  Content that I’m all alone and still deliriously happy, I pick up the remote control and start dancing around pretending it’s my microphone.

  I’m strutting around and I do a big jump round to face the door when I freeze as I realise I have an audience.

  ‘Does every woman in this town have a bloody key?’ I mutter under my breath.

  The woman in the doorway looks as shocked as I do and as I fumble with the remote control to turn off the CD, I see her trying to compose herself. She pats down her hair as if she was the one playing the air guitar and leaping around the room. I can only imagine what a mess my hair is in, seeing as I hadn’t got round to styling it after washing it.

  The immaculate woman is staring at me and I glare back at her, only it makes me feel worse about myself. Her hair’s super sleek and straight and it’s cut in a trendy angular bob with a block fringe. Her make-up is as you would expect, classic and flawless, and she’s wearing a white wool coat that is just as white as it would have been in the shop.

  I wonder who she is. She doesn’t look like Diana as she’d had fierce blonde ringlets, and I can’t imagine Danny has another girlfriend as, surely, Hazel would have known and reacted differently last night.

  ‘Sorry about that, I wasn’t expecting anyone,’ I say finally.

  ‘Evidently,’ she says, pouting.

  ‘I’m Lydia,’ I say, planting a smile on my face to counteract her pout.

  She still doesn’t smile and doesn’t bother to introduce herself.

  ‘So Dan’s not here?’

  ‘No, he’s left for work already. He’s got a meeting in Keswick.’

  ‘Oh,’ says the woman nodding, as if she should have known, and it causes my muscles to tense. ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Um,’ I say, unsure what she’s implying. ‘Yes, I was just having a little dance, I couldn’t believe the CD I’d found.’

  ‘No, I mean here. Are you finished here? Or are you just slacking?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I’m lost.

  She looks me up and down again. ‘Are you not Dan’s cleaner?’

  I can feel my cheeks flush. ‘Um, no,’ I say irritated. ‘I’m Danny’s fiancée, actually. And you are?’

  I instantly regret saying it out loud. I have no idea who this woman is and what her relationship is to Danny. We promised we wouldn’t tell people until our families knew and here I am blabbing it to just anyone. The only consolation is that she does have a key, so she must at least be close to him – or does that technically make it worse that I was the one to tell her?

  ‘His what?’ she asks. I can tell she’s taken aback by the information.

  ‘Fiancé,’ I repeat, in a less confident voice. ‘Lydia.’

  ‘Right,’ she says, smoothing down her hair, even though it’s not out of place. ‘I’m Victoria, Gaz’s wife. Dan might not have mentioned you to us, but I guess he’ll have mentioned us to you.’

  Ah, this is the famous Victoria. She looks different from the skiing photo on the wall. Her hair was longer then, and lighter.

  ‘He has, Victoria,’ I say, holding out my hand, ‘it’s so nice to meet you. Danny’s always talking about you two.’

  ‘Danny? He lets you call him Danny?’ she laughs.

  I’m confused. Danny’s his name. It’s always been his name.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, well, e
veryone else calls him Dan.’

  I think about it, but our family’s only ever called him Danny. We don’t have any friends in common so I’ve never heard what anyone else uses.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You must be special,’ she says. ‘But I guess we know that since you’re his fiancée and all.’

  I can feel a chill in the air and I don’t think that even the fancy wood burner would fix it.

  ‘Did you want to stay for a cup of tea?’ I ask, feeling the need to act as the lady of the house and stake my claim.

  ‘I am in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘But you had time to talk to Danny? That’s why you came, wasn’t it?’

  She looks agitated but nods.

  ‘A quick cup of tea, then,’ she says, turning abruptly and heading down the stairs.

  I follow her into the kitchen and I sense her watching me as I subtly look around for the kettle. I triumphantly find it and fill it up a little from the tap.

  I switch it on and it rattles away as I try to remember which cupboard I saw the cups in and if I saw any tea during my cupboard snooping.

  I open a cupboard of plates and hastily close it again. Then I peer into another one and I catch sight of Victoria’s smug smile.

  She strides over to another cupboard and finds two white mugs, before pulling what looks like a thin cupboard open, and it comes out like a drawer.

  ‘Normal tea for you?’

  I nod as I watch her put a tea bag in for me, before she undoes a packet of herbal tea for herself.

  ‘I take it you can find the milk in the fridge. Well, as long as you can find it under all those ghastly fridge magnets.’

  The fridge!

  I glide over to it.

  ‘You know, I’m the one who bought him all these ghastly magnets,’ I say, with a who’s-got-a-smug-look-on-their-face-now-then look.

  ‘You gave them to him?’ she asks, backing up towards the sideboard as if she needs to steady herself. ‘You’re Lydia? His mum’s friend’s daughter? The Lydia who sends him things?’

  She gives me another look up and down and I really wish that I’d done some washing in Spain so that I wasn’t standing here in jeans with tomato sauce stains.

  ‘So you have heard of me,’ I say.

  The kettle boils and clicks off, which helps to break the tension.

  ‘Yes, I have, but I seem to have missed the bit where you got engaged.’

  ‘We had a pact to get married if we were both single at thirty And, well, we are. So . . .’

  Victoria looks at me with disdain.

  ‘A pact? You’re getting married because you made a pact when you were teenagers?’

  ‘It’s not only the pact, obviously,’ I say, pouring water into the cups.

  ‘Obviously,’ she says, not even attempting to hide her eye roll as I hand her a mug with the tea bag left in it.

  I’m doing my best to be friendly as I know she and Danny are close, but I haven’t warmed to her in the slightest.

  ‘So, I take it you’re from around here?’

  ‘I’m originally from York, but we’ve got a family holiday home here in Ambleside. I was living in it when I met Dan and Gaz.’

  ‘Do you want a biscuit?’ I offer, before trying to rack my brains as to where I’d seen the Jaffa Cakes.

  ‘No,’ says Victoria as she slips her white coat off and hangs it over the chair at the tiny table at the end of the room.

  ‘I’d thought we could sit upstairs,’ I say, not relishing the thought of having to sit too close to her.

  She turns and I see the big baby bump that I’d failed to notice before. ‘I’d rather perch here. If I sit down on that sofa I probably won’t be able to get up again.’

  I see a fleeting hint of a genuine smile, as if she was actually sharing a joke with me.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ I say, remembering her midnight text to Danny. ‘When’s the baby due?’

  ‘April,’ she says, stroking her belly and smiling.

  I’m starting to think that I judged her too harshly and perhaps we just got off to a bad start. Perhaps we could be new BFFs after all. But no sooner has she smiled then it’s gone again and the frosty expression is back.

  ‘So how exactly did you and Dan get together? We saw him on Christmas Eve and he said nothing about you.’

  She’s clearly not a woman who does small talk.

  ‘I was in Spain, at his mum’s house, and he didn’t realise. He’d gone over to spend New Year in Barcelona with his friend Ben and had stopped off at his mum’s for a few days beforehand and ran into me. One thing led to another, and . . .’ I say, drifting off, desperately wishing I was back there with him.

  Unlike Hazel, who was transfixed – hanging on every word with an expectant smile on her face – Victoria is frowning as though I’m telling her a story about drowning puppies.

  ‘And that was when?’ she asks, as she picks up her tea and starts to sip it.

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘Last week? And you’re engaged already?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Why so soon? You can’t be pregnant or, at least, you can’t know you are.’

  ‘There are other reasons people get married quickly.’

  She sips again and stares hard at me.

  ‘I do know that, but usually it’s because someone wants something. Residency. Money.’

  ‘How about love?’

  She almost spits out her tea. ‘Right, as it only takes a week to fall in love?’

  ‘What is it you do?’ I ask Victoria.

  ‘I’m a solicitor.’

  I smile. Of course she is.

  ‘I’ve decreased my hours recently, though, for my pregnancy.’ She stops speaking and shakes her head. ‘Look, Dan’s a good guy. I don’t want to see him get hurt by anyone.’

  ‘I know that Danny’s a great guy. I’ve known him all my life.’

  ‘But you haven’t really spent much time with him over the last few years, have you?’

  ‘Well, no, but we’ve written.’

  ‘You send each other crappy Christmas decorations and fridge magnets. It’s hardly love letters you’ve been trading, is it? All I’m trying to say is that you don’t really know each other. Not anymore.’

  ‘I know enough about him to know how I feel.’

  She nods, giving me a look as if to say that I’m naive. ‘And what is it that you do, Lydia?’

  ‘I’m an events co-ordinator,’ I say, not missing the look she gives me.

  ‘You’re a party planner. Nice. Well, I specialise in family law,’ she says coldly. ‘I hear stories of love that are swiftly followed by divorce.’

  How cheery.

  ‘And you’re planning to move up here?’ she says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, not relishing the thought of being neighbours with her.

  ‘You’re moving from the other end of the country, just like that?’

  ‘Yes. It seems logical, Danny works with Gaz.

  ‘Of course he does. This is so typical of Dan. Always impulsive and ever the optimist.’

  There’s a bitter tone to her voice and I’m starting to wonder why she’s so down on the whole thing. I can understand her being protective of him, I would be too, but there’s an edge to her voice that doesn’t belong to a friend.

  She looks at her watch and drains the rest of her tea.

  ‘It was nice to meet you briefly. Perhaps if you’re up this way again, then you can come to dinner with me and Gaz. We can talk properly.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I say, lying heavily, but hopefully I make it seem convincing. ‘I’ll let Danny know you came over, shall I? Do you want me to give him a message?’

  ‘No, no. It’ll keep. I’m sure I’ll see him soon enough.’

  I go to stand up.

  ‘Sit back down, I’ll see myself out. I wouldn’t want you getting lost trying to find the front door,’ she says with a sly smile.

  I’m too stunned to even say goodb
ye and she mutters an insincere one as she struts out of the kitchen.

  I get up anyway, opening all the cupboards looking for that big packet of Jaffa Cakes. I’ve got some serious comfort eating to do to recover from her visit.

  I think back to what Danny said about how great it was going to be moving up here and how Victoria and I would become the best of friends. He was wrong about that, but I hope that doesn’t mean to say he’s going to be wrong about everything else too.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Today for dinner I ate grasshoppers and black ants. No, I haven’t been sent on some god-awful reality TV show to the back and beyond, I went to a quirky Mexican restaurant in the Village. I was going to send you some, but I wasn’t too sure how long ants kept for before being past their sell-by-date or whether they’d get through customs.

  Email; Danny to Lydia, November 2015

  Bloody hell it’s cold. I pull my coat tighter around me and start walking more quickly towards Danny’s house. I’d packed for a slightly chilly Spain, not the Lakes in the middle of winter. I keep spotting fells in the distance, which have an icing sugar-like dusting of snow and make me feel even colder. I haven’t even got my old faithful scarf or any gloves, and my coat has those useless fake pockets that have a flap at the top and nothing underneath so that I can’t even slip my hands inside it.

  I nearly bought myself a down jacket and ski gloves from one of the outdoor shops during my walk around Ambleside. I figured that they might come in handy when I move up here, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it as it made everything seem so real. In fact, it all did. I was pottering round the eclectic mix of shops and restaurants thinking how lovely they were and feeling like I was on holiday. Only then it hit me that in a few weeks’ time I’d be living here – permanently.

  It seemed like such an easy decision to make when we were in Spain, drunk on love (and probably sangria), but now that we’re here and reality is starting to sink in, it suddenly seems incredibly daunting. I’m not at the stage of changing my mind, but it’s going to be a huge adjustment.

  Danny should be back from his meeting soon and I can’t wait to see him. Whenever I start to have a wobble about moving, I just think of him and I can’t bear the thought of us being apart. It’s only been five hours since he left for his meeting, but it feels as if it’s been five days. I walk into his courtyard and feel my stomach flip as I see his car before I remember that he didn’t take it. I hurry to the door to check he’s home only to be disappointed when I see Hazel peering through the frosted window of the front door.