Loves Lost and Found

by E V Radwinter

  I nearly fainted with relief and excitement, and far too quickly and with little respect for the old-fashioned dating rules I gushed, “Yes, yes, that would be wonderful.”

  He pulled me back into him, holding me tight. We kissed once more and then, reluctantly, he turned and as he started walking down the path between the drive and the wild flower bed he turned. “I’ll call you,” he promised.

  I stood and watched him go through the open wooden gate at the end of the path. He turned to close it, looked up and gave me a hearty wave, turned and was gone.

  OMG, I thought as I unlocked the door and entered my little home. OMG, what a day. I flopped onto the sofa, tired but far too wired to sleep. As I sank into the soft cushions I felt, for the first time in ages, content. Happy at last in my own skin.

  In truth it had been a long time since I had felt this way, since I had felt happy being me. It was not just the lost loves, the bad jobs, the loneliness, the feeling of inadequacy when it came to my shape and my looks.

  I don’t believe for one minute that you need a partner to make you feel good about yourself, but sometimes I struggled, particularly when I was stressed and tired from not sleeping properly. I sometimes felt despair when I had to cope with so much on my own, because I worried that my friends would be tired of listening to my moans. Well, sometimes it all became too much and I would slip into the fog, struggling to find the goodness in life.

  At times like that I referred to my happy list to remind me of what makes me smile, makes me happy, like:

  •A riot of bright yellow daffodils in spring.

  •Cuddles with my pet.

  •The earthy, almost iron, smell as refreshing rain falls on baked, dry earth.

  •Rainbows – my aunt believes they are loved ones looking down on you.

  •Cherry blossom in spring.

  •Curling up on the sofa in front of a roaring log fire in winter.

  •Feeling the sun on my face.

  •Barbecues and ice-cold white wine on a hot summer evening.

  •Holidays.

  •The sight of bright red poppies in a field of green corn.

  •The sound of waves crashing onto the shore.

  •The smell of a freshly opened jar of coffee.

  Now, though, I didn’t need my list, I had the glow of a new relationship. I wanted to be alive, to feel alive. I felt my lifeblood rising. I felt excited and terrified. I felt the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

  four.

  Lessons from the past

  Then the wait began. I hadn’t expected it, or anticipated it for that matter. It may have been some years since I had last dated, but I remembered that appearing overly keen is not the right move. But I hated the uncertainty, always had. My imagination would run wild – He’s changed his mind, he never really felt anything anyway, I don’t care, oh, I do so care. The thoughts swirled round and round in ever-decreasing, defeating circles. I was not physically wringing my hands but I felt like my stomach was tied in sickening knots.

  I had, in the first few days, been convinced he would call, but as the days passed by, my confidence began to waver, then the doubt crept in, then the inevitable: I gave up hoping.

  As much as I wanted to know one way or the other, I was resolute that I was not going to call or text him. But that didn’t stop me checking my phone every few minutes just in case I had missed a notification. But I never did.

  Work that week was particularly hard. Not that the work was as stressful as usual, not because of the long hours I put in or the workload I had to surmount. Hard though, because my mind was elsewhere and I couldn’t afford it to be. The only joy that week was one morning, driving into work, with low mist hovering above the open fields, I spotted two majestic pheasants standing proud in the field bathed in early morning sunlight. I love nature. There is an idea about pheasants which is that they prove the theory of survival of the fittest, as the stupid ones foolishly believe they are more powerful than the mighty motor car and inevitably fail to make it across the road. The clever ones either wait for the cars to pass or simply fly over the road.

  However, even that heart-warming moment on the way to work was not enough to distract me from my phone. In the end I did a deal with my colleague at the desk opposite me. My phone would go in her desk drawer at 9am and I could only check it halfway through the morning, at lunchtime and halfway through the afternoon, only getting it back at the end of the working day. None of that, of course, stopped me trying different tactics and excuses to check it more often, but luckily my colleague was more than happy to play along and made me wait until the allotted time. I think deep down she enjoyed the power. Whatever the reason it worked, and slowly I became more convinced that it really had all been part of my overactive imagination yet again. I was focusing better, throwing myself into my work, now more as a distraction than anything else.

  And still nothing.

  Monday became Tuesday.

  Tuesday became Wednesday.

  And still nothing.

  Wednesday became Thursday and then despondency descended.

  Just as well, I thought to myself as I walked the mile from work to where I parked my car. I didn’t have to leave my car there, but it was better than sitting in traffic – stop, start, stop, start, crawling the last few yards into work. It was also relaxing and helped me set out in my mind my priorities for the work day ahead of me. And of course it was good for my fitness, my mental health and my waistline.

  The walk back to the car at the end of the working day was equally good. Finally released from the shackles of my desk, it was good for unwinding and putting to bed any worries of the day and, of course, to stretch my legs after having been stuck in front of a computer all day.

  That week, however, was different – none of the preparing for, or unwinding from, the days, this week my mind was preoccupied.

  What did I say or do wrong? I asked myself. How had I misread the signs again? Had he just been leading me on, unsure how to get out of it having met me again after all these years? What was wrong with me?

  Luckily by Thursday, though, I had mostly put this to one side, reminding myself of the promise not to subject myself to this again. Feeling safe and happy in my little cottage that night I poured a large glass of Pinot and settled back into the sofa to watch something that would entertain but not tax my brain in any way.

  Bliss. My calm, even keel restored. At least it didn’t go any further before he changed his mind. That would have been so much worse, I mused.

  My reflections were rudely interrupted, my inner sanctum shattered, by the trill ring of my phone as a message was received.

  My hand shot out and then stopped just short of the low coffee table in front of me where the phone lay. I leant further forward, resting my wine glass on the table and hesitating for a moment just staring at the phone. My logical, reasonable brain said, It’ll just be a bill update or notification of some sort. But my heart was singing, What if, what if it’s Ed?

  I desperately wanted to look but I dreaded the disappointment. Maybe I should leave it for a while, better to be hopeful than disappointed. Better not to know, I thought.

  All these thoughts tumbled through my mind, over and over. They tripped over each other and got muddled in the process. There was nothing else for it, I would just have to pick it up and find out one way or the other.

  Hope or disappointment?

  Disappointment or hope?

  I held my breath as I picked the phone up. I could see it was a text message but couldn’t make out who from. I unlocked my phone and the screen came to life.

  I pressed the text button.

  I yelped with joy. There, in front of me, I saw ‘Ed’ and the message read: ‘Hey you! How’s your week going?’

  I had waited all this time, just a few days in anyone’s book, but it felt like a lifeti
me when waiting to hear the news I was so desperately waiting for. And after all that waiting, just six words, no kiss, no ‘shall we meet?’, just six simple, noncommittal, unemotional, measly, simple words that you would send an acquaintance. Even a friend would get more than that, surely? Maybe I had been right all along and I had misread the situation. Maybe the kisses were down to me and not mutual after all. On the other hand, maybe he was not sure how to start this conversation. Maybe he had been struggling with the wording or unsure of how I was feeling and so started with a casual check-in. Well, I will never know unless I reply, I told myself.

  The time received showed as just ten minutes ago. Was it too soon to reply? Would that look too keen? Would that look like I was waiting, waiting, hoping and praying he would get in touch? Which, in truth, was exactly what I had been doing, but that was not the message I wanted to send back.

  I slowly started to craft my reply. Delete, delete, delete, delete. It took several attempts, a good few minutes before I sent an overly simple reply: ‘All good, how are you?’ There, he sent six, I replied with five. At this rate it might be a very short conversation, literally. Back in your court, I thought, surprised at myself for using a sporting analogy when I was the least sporty person alive.

  I didn’t have to wait long for a reply, but this time it was not the short bleep of a new text, but the sound of the phone ringing. I snatched the phone off the table, did a double check on the caller and with the biggest smile ever answered the phone.

  “Hi, Ed, it’s great to hear from you.”

  We talked for hours, again all the nervousness, confusion and concern drifting away after our initial exchange of pleasantries.

  It turned out that Ed had resigned from his current job as soon as he went on shift on Monday and it had caused a flurry of activity. Firstly they had tried to keep him, offering training, promotion, more money. But Ed explained to them, and as he told me my heart soared, it was not just the promotion, the new challenge or the money, it was the opportunity of a new life and the possibility of a romance with someone who had always felt like the one that got away. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. There was no game play, no second guessing, no hoping or not knowing. He wanted to be with me. Simple. Clear.

  With only a few months until he changed jobs his boss wanted to ensure they got the most out of him and that everything would be ready for a handover. That, he explained, was why he hadn’t been in touch before. He wasn’t sure if or when he would be able to get away and he didn’t want to make promises he couldn’t keep.

  How amazing, how rare to have someone that genuinely seemed to care about the other person’s feelings. I felt a tingle of excitement course through my body.

  We also talked about my week so far. I left out the bits about my colleague guarding my phone and about how many times I had checked it each night. Instead I focused on my work and what I had achieved that week, including the fact that a conversation with a trade magazine editor had resulted in my organisation being commissioned to write a series of best-practice articles. It was a massive accolade to the reputation of the company and my boss had been thrilled. I had to quickly devise a plan for what we would cover in each edition, who would write it, edit it and sign it off in order to meet the publication deadlines.

  We talked like we had never been apart. So open, so chatty, no awkward silences, no apprehension. Easy. Natural. That was until we started to draw the conversation to a close. We both had work the next day and needed our sleep.

  The tightness in my chest returned. Would he ask to see me? How do we end this?

  “So, you,” he said, “when can I see you this weekend?”

  I hesitated. Clearly we were not playing games, but did I really want him to know that I had absolutely nothing in my diary other than cleaning the house, doing the weekly shop and generally doing chores? But why lie? Why pretend I had plans if all I wanted to do was see Ed, be with Ed, feel the warmth of his embrace, his kiss, his presence?

  “Anytime,” was my simple reply, delivered quietly and unconfidently. “Anytime,” I repeated, hoping for a speedy and positive reply.

  His voice matched mine, quietly and softly. “How about I take you out for dinner tomorrow and we go from there?”

  I could hardly get my words out, I was so shocked with excitement. “Perfect,” I said. “When and where?”

  “I’ll pick you up at 7pm if that is okay with you?” he said more confidently.

  “Perfect,” I replied, kicking myself for my short, repetitive responses that didn’t do justice to the way I was feeling, but unable to order my mind into anything more eloquent.

  “7pm tomorrow then,” he whispered. “I can’t wait,” he continued.

  “Me too, me too.”

  *

  Friday I was at work. I went through the motions. I was there but it was all a bit hazy, like a dream sequence in a 1980s film. My mind was elsewhere. I was planning what to wear, what to say, imagining what might happen on this, our second date.

  Luckily my boss left early on this particular Friday, and I was finally and thankfully able to give up the pretence of concentrating intently on proofreading a report. To be thorough, I always read a page forward, as a normal person would, to ensure the content makes sense. However, when you do that your brain usually fills in the next word in the sequence, making it hard to notice small errors like ‘leant’ instead of ‘learnt’. So when I got to the end of the section I would reverse my direction and read backwards one word at a time to pick up formatting and spelling mistakes. Unfortunately I just couldn’t focus for long enough to be certain I was spotting errors. After ten minutes I would realise I had not taken in any of the words and had to return to the beginning and start again.

  By 4pm all I was able to do was tidy my desk and do some filing. It was an activity that was long overdue and provided me with the perfect excuse to disengage my brain from work. But without the need to focus my mind it wandered further and further from the workplace.

  At 4.45pm I gave up altogether and slipped out the door before anyone noticed. I managed to escape unnoticed, not because of my stealth-like abilities but because those few that remained would shortly be heading in the same direction. Well, it was Friday after all.

  I walked back to my car, twenty minutes in the heat. I hadn’t thought this through. Now I was hot, sweaty and later than I needed to be if I had, for once, driven the whole way into work. Too late to change that now. I put the air conditioning on full blast and made a conscious effort to focus on every mile of the journey home along the pretty country roads. I smiled as I saw the fields of green crops, dappled with the bright red of the poppies that had seeded themselves across the open space.

  Back at home, finally, I took a deep breath. I had an hour until Ed arrived. I fought the temptation to raid the fridge for a cold glass of Pinot, for courage of course. But I had learnt an important lesson on that some years before.

  Yet another romance that didn’t last the distance due to my incompetence when it comes to relationships. It had started online. We had liked each other’s profiles and got chatting via email, safe and secure hidden behind the site’s firewall and anonymity protocols until we were sure we wanted to take it further and exchanged phone numbers. Emails turned to texts, which turned to phone calls, which after a couple of weeks turned into a date.

  We had arranged to meet in London after work on a Friday. At that point I was working half an hour outside the city, and Friday nights at work were when everyone let their hair down, let the week’s stress dissolve – time to catch up with friends in different departments over a few drinks in the staff bar.

  On this particular Friday I popped into the bar at work for a glass of Dutch courage before running for the train. Just the one, mind.

  We met outside Costa on the concourse of Waterloo station. Very public, and I had told everyone I knew where we were meeting a
nd who he was, just in case. He was every bit the man he had described in his profile, which was rare, really rare. One liar – let’s not beat about the bush or hold back – said he had never been married, had no children and was of a similar age to me. The only truth on his profile was the fact that he was a man, although I didn’t hang around long enough to check that fact out. He had recently had the stereotypical ‘love’ and ‘hate’ tattoos removed from his fingers. He was single but had been married and was living with his daughter and grandchild!

  Another liar was the person who claimed to be taller than my diminutive five foot one and a half inches, and as he walked towards me I kept expecting him to get taller. But he never did.

  Why do people lie on their profile? Eventually the truth will out.

  Moan over, back to Costa at Waterloo. David was a tall, well-built, rugby-playing type, short dark hair, well spoken and well educated, in fact everything I had hoped for. We had a fantastic evening walking around London, popping into bars for a drink, having dinner and ending up in a club, as it was the only thing still open. We didn’t dance, we found a quiet spot and a comfy sofa and sat drinking and talking until the small hours.

  He was, actually, the perfect gentleman, hailing me a cab and giving me the money to get home – quite some distance out. Before I got into the cab we leant in for a brief but passionate kiss and a promise that he would call.

  The following week we again met after work on Friday and again I had a glass of wine before leaving work. Only this time I let my nerves get the better of me and I’m ashamed to confess that I bought another drink on arriving at Waterloo.

  At this stage of the evening I felt fine, just my tongue had been loosened and I didn’t feel as nervous or as boring. However, just after we ordered our meal, I started to feel sick and it got stronger and stronger, eventually forcing me to apologise and go to the loo. It didn’t help. On returning to the table, to a slightly concerned David, I apologised again and said I would have to leave, running out of the restaurant leaving this gentle giant to explain to the waiters that we wouldn’t be eating after all. As I made my way home I realised that in fact I had a low blood sugar, an occasional occurrence for a type 1 diabetic, and that was what had been making me feel ill. I ate some glucose and started to feel better, but by then it was too late for the relationship. I never got the chance to explain. I never heard from him again. Another one had slipped through the net and this time it was a good one.