Time for some gardening I told myself as I reversed my car back onto the road and went to find my trowel and bucket to put the unwanted greenery in and, of course, my trusted knee pad. No one wants to kneel on gravel, any more than anyone would want to walk bare foot on it.
They say that gardening is therapeutic, relaxing and of course good exercise. All of which is true, but as it required little brain action it allowed my mind to, yet again, wander, which is exactly what it did until finally I went and got my trusty retro radio. Amazing how music can distract the mind. I sang along, in my head, to the songs blaring out from Radio 2. Luckily for the neighbours I declined to sing out loud. On hearing me singing, one boyfriend had covered his ears and groaned quietly. A little harsh, but understandable. I really wouldn’t know a tune if it jumped up and tapped my cheek.
It took a couple of hours of back-breaking bending, pulling, turning, scouring to clear all the weeds. They would be back soon enough. A combination of warm sunshine and regular downpours had provided them with the perfect conditions for growth, and grow they did.
It had been hot work. As I finally stood up I surveyed the drive to ensure I had removed every last blighter. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm, as my hands were protected by dirty gardening gloves. Looking down I saw my arm was glistening with sweat, but it was a good sign, it shouted back at me that it was the result of a job well done.
Time for a shower, I thought, looking down at the dirt spread across me. I tidied up the tools and put the weeds to one side while I moved the car back onto the drive. Once everything was back in its allotted place I sat in the back garden to cool down before heading to the bathroom.
two.
The past can haunt the present
That evening, sitting in the cool of my garden, I tucked into my low-carb Tom Kerridge-inspired salad. I had my phone for company, thinking about what a surreal day it had been and wondering if, in fact, any of it had happened at all or if indeed it was all part of my overactive imagination. That had got me into trouble more than once in the past.
I reminisced about when I was living in Nottingham, after graduating. I had tried to start a career and had applied, as had thousands of graduates across the country, to the prestigious John Lewis partnership management scheme. I had successfully progressed through the first two rounds, but then the process ground to a halt for me and I had to rethink my options.
I had contemplated moving back to my parental home and looking for a job in London. I do sometimes wonder how my life might have been different if I had taken that path. If I had my time again, knowing how it has worked out, that is probably the decision I would have changed and lived a different kind of future. But I didn’t return home. The decision was made following my experience of working in London during my gap year between finishing school and starting university. That year had started with an intensive three-month secretarial course, part of which was to learn to type. I have to say that was one of my smartest decisions, developing a ‘life skill’ as they would say today. Whenever I have relocated I have gone straight to the nearest temp agency and signed up.
After the secretarial course I applied to several London firms. I felt I wanted a career in marketing, advertising, the media – something creative at least. I was desperate to work for the great, iconic institution that is the BBC, but whilst my typing speed was up to their exacting standards, my shorthand simply was not. I could do the theory, I just couldn’t do the speed. I was lucky though, as an advertising agency was happy to take me on as a secretary for eight months before I started at university.
I loved the job, the pressure, the excitement, the adrenaline, and I loved the glamour of working for a prestigious company. I was not afraid to put in long hours and I learnt a lot about business. However, I also discovered that I didn’t like commuting in and out of London every day. On a normal day it was bad enough – the cost, the overcrowding, the oppressive heat and humidity on the tube in the summer months. Unfortunately while I was working there it also coincided with train and tube strikes that went on for weeks. So, at the age of eighteen, and having only just passed my driving test, I now found myself driving into the centre of London. Terrifying but essential if I wanted to keep my job.
No, I had thought, alone in my flat in Nottingham, returning to work in London is not for me.
At that point fate had dealt me a lifeline. My professor, under whose tutelage I had achieved a 2:1 in Geography and who later told me that he thought I would achieve a first, except I was having too much fun in my third year, got in touch. He suggested I might like to consider studying for a PhD. I was thrilled. It had never occurred to me that it was an option, let alone that I might be clever enough to undertake such an academic challenge. Dr Chloe certainly had a ring to it. My parents were thrilled of course and very proud, so I returned to university.
To cut to the chase I never became Dr Chloe. Despite numerous attempts I failed to get any significant funding, other than a few jobs around the university tutoring, working in the library, and discounted fees, none of which covered the rent, let alone food bills or heaven forbid entertainment. As a result, after just one year of full-time study I got a job – 8.30am to 5pm at work then straight to the campus where I continued my research during evenings and weekends. It soon became apparent that the research would take too long. By the time I finished the PhD part-time, the theory would have been either proven or disproven in the real world, and besides I was enjoying work and decided not to continue my studies.
However, now that I indulge myself in dwelling on memories I have to confess that I cringe with embarrassment just at the mere thought of the trouble I got myself into during my postgraduate time. It was then that my overactive imagination got me into trouble, not just once, but indeed twice.
In my first year of study, I shared an office with two older postgraduates. Sophie had made friends and had her own social circle, so we seldom met outside the office, and besides, her research often took her away for months at a time.
The other person in the office was Neil. A quiet, considerate person. About average height for a man; short, mousy-coloured hair. I guess I would describe him as a good-looking nerd. Not traditionally handsome, or striking, but he had an air of quiet confidence and there was certainly something about him that made you look more deeply. He was slender, if a little too thin for my liking, and he wore a uniform of a plain shirt, the collar always buttoned down, and the bottom hem tucked with neatness and precision into the top of his unexceptional jeans. On a rare show of exuberance the top button of the shirt was undone, revealing just a hint of the hairy chest that lay beneath.
I am not sure if it was because he was quiet or because he appeared to be shy, either way he didn’t seem to have much of a social circle, so I started inviting him out with my crowd who were made up of a handful of the hardcore who had stayed on after university and knew the best drinking holes and clubs to while away the weekends.
My friends took to him immediately. He listened rather than imposed his personality; he considered his contributions to conversations but had a wicked sense of humour that bubbled under the surface and occasionally, with an imp-like glint in his eye, he would let it shine.
The more time we spent together, particularly outside the campus life, the more I started paying attention to him – the man not the colleague – and slowly but surely I found myself falling for him. He was one of those people that slowly grows on you; not the thunderbolt type that erupts into your life, but someone who creeps up on you and suddenly they are all that you can think about. And stupidly I let myself start to believe that his interest in partying with us, his smiles and laughter, were because of me.
I liked a tipple back then, I still do if I’m honest. Today it’s ice-cold Pinot Grigio in the warm summer months, Prosecco for celebrating at any time of year and in winter a Shiraz, especially with a hearty roast dinner. Back
in the day it was pints of dry cider.
As with all tales that involve alcohol it was my downfall. In my drunken fog, in that state of disengaged rational thought and decision making, I launched myself at the poor innocent man. I guess, because we never discussed it, that out of pity, or shock, or not knowing what to do in such a socially awkward situation (at a guess he had never been confronted by a drunk friend launching herself at his lips), he reluctantly returned my kiss. I was in heaven. I thought, Finally, here is a decent man, someone I would be proud to introduce to my family.
But the euphoria was short-lived. The following Monday, whilst working in the office Neil quietly suggested a coffee. My heart was in my throat. I was embarrassed by my actions on Friday, but hopeful, so hopeful, that my imagination had been right and that the feelings were mutual.
Hope, so much hope, in the silent walk to the canteen. Hope, so much hope, as we ordered and made our way to a quiet seating area by the window. Silence. Awkward, embarrassing, painful silence as we both looked out of the window at the view across the university lake, surrounded by trees and decorated by the elegant swans majestically swimming around the lake searching for food. It was like a mirror of what was happening in the room: on the surface all was calm and peaceful and serene; beneath the surface the swan was paddling for its life, as was I internally.
My mind was racing, unsure of where to start, what to say, what he was thinking, what he would say. It was killing me. I wished a hole would miraculously open beneath me so I could fall into it and disappear.
In the end it was me who had to break the silence. Well, I guess that was only right given it was my actions that had brought us to this hellish impasse. “Look, Neil, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that on Friday.” I paused. “It was ill-judged and very unladylike to say the least. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”
I wanted to apologise. I meant what I said, that it wouldn’t happen again. However, if the truth be told I wanted nothing more than for it to happen again, and again, and again. All I wanted was for Neil to instigate a kiss by wrapping his arms around me and pulling me in close.
Instead he was a gentleman. In truth I had expected nothing less. “I appreciate the apology, thank you,” he said in his soft, unassuming tone. “To be honest I’ve been worrying about what to say to you all weekend.”
I felt ashamed at that point. Not only had I acted appallingly, but poor Neil had been wrestling with what to say to me. And, of course, it dawned on me that these were the words of a man struggling to find a polite way out of the situation, not of a man looking for the words to ask me out on a date. I did the only honourable thing and fell on my sword.
“Look, Neil, like I said I shouldn’t have done that. If I’m honest, and I apologise if this seems cruel especially after how I treated you, but you are not really my type. I was horribly drunk and behaved inexcusably. I’m genuinely sorry. I really hope we can remain friends and that it won’t be awkward in the office?”
Crisis averted, the relief on his face was palpable. He smiled. “Thank you Chloe, no offence taken and yes, I’d like to stay friends.”
Of course you would, I would say to myself when just a couple of weeks later the real reason, or should that be desire, to remain friends became abundantly clear. As I returned from a night out with friends I opened the front door straight into the front room of my tiny flat and found my flatmate Sam, who had gone home early, in the arms of Neil, who had coincidentally left not long after her. Not only was she in his arms but also they were fully engaged in a passionate kiss. One of the kisses I had imagined being destined for me. A kiss so all engrossing they didn’t even hear me enter the room, let alone see me standing there, taking in the scene before darting into my bedroom to escape the soul-destroying passion unfolding before me.
Anyone would think, or hope, that that was the end of my wild imagination, but sadly not.
The following year a new postgrad joined our motley crew. He was in the office next door and was more of a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, thump-you-in-the chest, fall-in-love-in-an-instant kind of a man. Fred was gorgeous, gooooorgeous. He was tall, all rippling muscles honed from hours in the gym every day. He had short, dark hair, a natural tan gained from an active life and a smile that would melt the coldest of hearts. And mine was not cold, mine was warm, no hot, very hot.
We had more in common than you would think. We were both specialising in human geography and yet we shared a passion for geomorphology – how the environment affects how we live, how we mess it up and then how nature gets its revenge. We had once spent an afternoon talking about flooding, batting ideas back and forth, which Fred summarised: “So, the pressure to find places to build new housing often results in developments going up in spaces previously ignored as they were difficult to build on or because it was inappropriate, like the flood plains of rivers. The thing about flood plains is they flood, so eventually home owners find their homes swamped with dirty water. The second thing about flood plains is they are designed to slow the progress of the water into the river, slowing it down as it seeps through the soil to find the water table. However, when you cover it in bricks, concrete and tarmac, there is no longer a mechanism to slow and absorb the water. It still needs to go somewhere and so it rushes at damage causing speed to the river, which is already full. The river floods, and the water continues downstream, gathering speed and flooding the next community and the community after that.”
And so went many of my conversations with Fred, putting the world to rights, discussing the issues and potential solutions. It was not all nerd talk though. We went to the cinema, we went out for dinner. I fell hook, line and sinker in lust; he remained faithfully committed to his childhood girlfriend who was back in his hometown situated a little way outside Bristol, as revealed by his accent. I guess that was one of the things I liked about him: he was open and friendly, and great fun to be with, but he was loyal to his girlfriend, going home to visit her as often as he could. Maybe it was his unavailability that was part of the attraction, the exquisite pain of unrequited love.
We did get drunk, and I had, in private, let my imagination run wild. Hope sprung eternal as I created this little world where we could be in love with each other; I even created a little white cottage, with slate roof and roses growing up the side of the porch. No doubt if it had gone on much longer there would have been an imaginary marriage and children and a happy ever after. If truth be known he knew how I felt about him, and I knew he knew, but he was the perfect gentleman and we never spoke of it and soon he was gone. He missed home, he missed his girlfriend and being a postgrad was not working out as he had hoped. He escaped Nottingham and went home, and in the letters that followed the move, I discovered that he had trained, and subsequently entered, the teaching profession.
He was the first of three men called ‘Fred’ that graced my life: one, the first one, I had lusted over; the second I had loved; and the final one I ended up loathing. Still do, even after all these intervening years. Some men that have left my life I wonder where they are and on occasions have been known to use a search engine to answer my curiosity. Others, like Fred 3, I’ve never wanted to know, nor did, or do, I care.
As a child I always assumed that one day I would be the archetypal cliché – married, with 2.4 children, a dog and a four-door family car on the drive. I never thought about it much or even questioned it, I just knew that one day I would be the stereotype. As I grew up, however, I began to realise that it just was not that easy.
Luckily I had never acted on my dreams about Fred 1, the ones I had created in the privacy of my mind. The moral? Whilst imagination and creativity are good, alcohol and action are not.
Back to the present
So back to the tale, which I carelessly drifted away from some pages ago. To recap, I was in the garden enjoying a glass of ice-cold Pinot. I cannot say it was particularly relaxing though, as my neighbours a few doors
away were having a party. It had already been going a few hours and by now the guests were well lubricated. The more they drank, the louder their voices became, the more the volume on the music system was cranked up. It was a depressing cycle of ever-increasing noise. Made all the worse for not having been invited to join in. Not that I would have. Without going into details, relations between us had been hostile for years.
As the party went on, a second music system was set up. At one end of the garden the adults were listening to 80s music – fine in my book – whilst at the other end the ‘kids’ were blaring out ‘banging’ tunes. Literally all I could hear, or indeed feel, was the bang, bang, bang of the monotonous rhythm. Then again I really know nothing about what constitutes good music.
One more shriek from the party and my patience finally gave out and I retreated inside to find some solitude.
I sank down into the sofa. It was old and saggy but it was comfy, and it was familiar. I flicked on the TV. I didn’t really care what was on, the less challenging the better, just some pictures and some noise to drown out the bedlam which was seeping into my home from outside. I turned up the volume on the TV and settled back into the sofa with my wine.
My relaxation was suddenly shattered by the buzz of my phone. It startled me and I stared at the screen, holding my breath, hoping this was the text I had been waiting for all afternoon and evening.
I reached over gingerly, hoping, but scared to check. A torrent of thoughts crashed my brain. It might not be him. If it is, he is probably making an excuse to walk away, but what if…? What if he wants to talk? To meet? To… who knows. I sighed. The only way to find out was to read the text.
Bracing myself I unlocked my phone. It didn’t provide an answer to my first question. As my phone display sprang to life it showed ‘unknown’ above the text. Could it be?
Deep breath, calm down, in fact just calm down and read the text, I told myself.
Loves Lost and Found Page 2