His phone pings and he checks a text. He sighs and a world of frustration is expressed in it. Then he turns to me. ‘I need to get back for the kids,’ he says.
‘Is everything OK?’
‘Gina wants to drop them off early. There’s a surprise.’ He’s keeping a lid on his temper, but I suspect he’s seething. ‘I can get someone else to take you back, if you’re not ready to leave.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s fine.’ A night in front of the telly won’t do me any harm even though I’m supposed to be searching for the new party-party life.
So we load up and drive home. This time Brandon Flowers keeps us company and I notice that Joe is a bit quieter on the drive. An hour or so later, we pull up outside my granny annexe.
‘Do you want a quick cuppa?’ I ask.
Joe checks his watch. ‘I’d better get back. Gina will be dropping them off shortly and I don’t like to leave them alone for long otherwise they start to kill each other.’
‘Thanks for a great day. I’ve really enjoyed it.’ Even though I didn’t actually have to trouble myself with the business end of diving.
‘See you at your lesson this week?’
‘Looking forward to it already.’
I go to open the car door and he puts a hand on my arm. ‘You’re a great girl, Ruby. We’ve had a good laugh today and you’re easy company.’
I’m glad he added the word ‘company’ to the end of that sentence.
‘I have to put my kids first though,’ he says. ‘Above everything.’
‘I know. It’s what dads do.’
‘I’d like us to be friends.’
‘We are, aren’t we?’ What on earth is he on about? Then the penny drops and, once again, it sounds as if he’s trying to warn me off. WTF? Well, there’s really no need. ‘I like you, Joe. But I’m only recently divorced myself and I’m not looking for commitment. I’m not looking at all,’ I stress. ‘If I were, I’d want someone with more freedom.’ And fewer children, but I don’t think I need to spell that out. We both know exactly what I mean.
‘I just didn’t want you thinking there could be more.’
‘You should be so lucky,’ I quip and we both force a laugh. But, in truth, that stings. We hardly know each other. I don’t feel that there’s any need to put a stake in the ground so soon. He’s the one who asked me to go to the pub, the one who invited me to the dive day. I’ve done nothing to indicate that I’m interested in him.
‘I should go.’ I jump out of the car before this conversation can become any more embarrassing.
‘See you, Ruby,’ he shouts after me, but I don’t reply.
I climb the staircase to my granny annexe, fiddling with the keys, as Joe sits there for a second too long before he turns round and drives off. I don’t even watch him go which I hope shows him how very unconcerned I am.
Then, with the rest of the evening to myself and the world at my feet, I dump my stuff, pour myself a big glass of wine and fall into the sofa. I watch Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway and while the perky duo do their best to be hilariously entertaining, I lie and wonder whether I’ll actually go to my dive lesson this week. I’m never going to be able to afford the Caribbean and I certainly don’t want to go and play among the pike in a gravel pit every weekend.
I don’t think that diving is really me after all. Probably best if I try another kind of hobby. Wonder if I’d be any good at cake baking?
Chapter Eighteen
The downside of divorce is that you have to do your own DIY. All of it. I have had very little experience of power tools in my life, but I’m having to get to grips with them now. Thank you for that too, Simon the Knob. Today is putting up shelves. I gave up last time I attempted it and drank gin instead. I wish my dad was one of those dads who comes round to decorate for his daughter, but he’s not. My dad, though I love him dearly, hasn’t a practical bone in his body. If my mum wants any little jobs done round the house she has to ‘get a man in’. I want to try to avoid going down that route. Women can do anything these days and that includes putting up shelves.
This morning I’ve been onto YouTube and watched many, many videos of people putting up shelves – only getting slightly distracted by videos of Take That and cute cats doing foolish things. Anyway, on the shelf-putting-up videos, they make it look easy. I can do this. I am woman. Hear me roar.
First, I’ll have some more toast.
I’m feeling quite flat this morning and I don’t know why. I had a lovely weekend, spent time with nice friends, ogled Gary Barlow and Co., and hung out with a lot of guys in neoprene. What’s not to love? So why do I feel like a deflated balloon inside? I’m on my third coffee and still I’m not getting that lift I need. I add two chocolate digestives to the mix and wait. Still nothing. Then extra-extra toast does nothing either. This is serious.
Maybe Joe warning me off has left a weird taste in my mouth. It was a real sideswipe. We hadn’t even got into full-on flirting. I don’t want to get involved with someone like him, anyway. Why does he even think that? He might be handsome, he might be nice, but he’s not exactly without complications, is he? Two of them in particular. Perhaps it would be different if I had my own children and was looking to form a blended family, but I’m not so why should I be in a hurry to take on someone else’s offspring? And there are other handsome, nice men out there. I’m sure there are. Also, I really do want to embrace this whole single thing. I’ve been a serial monogamist since the age of fifteen and I want time finding out who I am when I’m not in a couple. Plus, I’m not getting any younger and this might be my last time to play the field. Don’t they say that women over forty become invisible to the opposite sex? That means I’ve got, at best, a few years to have some unfettered fun. Actually, that’s quite depressing.
I should look for something else to do besides diving. Something with less testosterone. I pull my iPad towards me – and two more chocolate digestives for good measure – and Google ‘hobbies for women in their thirties’. This is the list. In alphabetical order. I kid you not.
Acting. I’d get hives if I even thought about going on stage.
Biking. Mountain or road. Me and Lycra are not a good mix. At least in dive gear I’m under water where no one can see me.
Birdwatching. Seriously? Apparently, 85 million Americans enjoy this particular hobby. I didn’t even realise there were that many Americans.
Blogging. I have no life, ergo nothing to blog about.
Bowling. Described as a ‘fun group activity’. I’d rather eat my own face.
Calligraphy. Camping.
Canning. I have no idea what that even is. Oh. ‘The preserving of leftover fruit and veg.’ Not on your nelly. Surely no one can get their kicks from that?
Cards. And not even poker. Bridge is what they suggest. I didn’t think you could play bridge until you were over seventy.
Chess. Chess! ‘Wonderful for staving off Alzheimer’s to which women are particularly vulnerable.’ Oh, joy.
I skip through dancing, embroidery, floral arranging, gardening and geneology.
I dip back in at quilting. And straight out again. Did I accidentally Google ‘hobbies for women in their nineties’?
They suggest spending time with family and children. Is that even a hobby? That’s just life, no? A hobby is what you do when you need to take yourself out of your life. Or find friends. Or give yourself a thrill with something that isn’t out of an Ann Summers shop.
W is wine tasting. Now you’re talking! This is the most interesting one so far. Though solo wine tasting every night seems not to be recommended. It stresses, rather heavily, ‘occasional and social drinking’. I don’t know about you, but I’m always much more sociable when I’m drinking.
Y equals yoga. Strictly for vegetarians and people who wear Crocs without shame.
Nothing for Z. No zoology, zorbing or ziplining. Not even Zumba, which I have already tried and at which I failed.
What is a lady in her thirtie
s to do? Even the so-called expert hobby bloggers have written us off.
Now I’m really fed up. I can’t even face putting up my shelves. For the four hundredth time. Still, I’d better do it soon or my landlord might change his mind and rent this place out to a DIY whizz. I finish the last of the choccy biccies and set to. As I’ve seen on YouTube, I mark with a pencil where I want the holes for the screws. So far, so good. People do this day in, day out all around the world. How hard can it be? I get out my fancy new drill and switch it on. God it terrifies me. Still, if I don’t do this no one will. I lean in and drill two holes in the wall. Not bad, if I say so myself. I blow the dust out of them and am surprised to see that I have a lovely view of my bedroom through them. Looks like I’ve drilled into the wall and straight out the other side. Bollocky bum. Didn’t see that on YouTube. There must be a special and different way of tackling paper-thin walls. I put the drill away. I’m clearly not an independent and capable woman with power tools. I’m a stereotypical DIY disaster zone. Damn. I should do what my mum does and ‘get a man in’.
I call Charlie. She’ll cheer me up. We organise to have a coffee before we both head into work. I’ll fix the holes in the wall later. Or tomorrow. Or somehow turn them into a feature.
Chapter Nineteen
Charlie makes me laugh and she’s feeling all loved-up as she’s still basking in the Gary Barlow afterglow. By the time I start my shift, I’m feeling better again too. More or less. We’re busy, as always, and the evening flies by. We finally start quietening down at about ten o’clock and that’s when Mason rocks up.
Nudging me in the ribs, Charlie says, ‘Shagger’s here.’
This, I already know. We have fancy cars galore that turn up here, but my ear seems to have very quickly become attuned to Mason’s motor. Knowing Charlie, she probably calls it the shagmobile or something.
‘Is he?’ I try to sound disinterested. My heart says otherwise. It’s doing the heart equivalent of running round waving its pants above its head.
Mason swings through the door and, when he sees me, holds up a hand in greeting. He looks great, as he always does. He’s wearing a light blue shirt, open at the neck, and dark jeans, but they’re designer stuff, well cut. ‘Nicely turned out’ as my nana always says. My stomach, stupid thing that it is, flips a bit. I know that I shouldn’t be pleased to see him, that he’s an out-and-out smoothie, but clearly the message is not getting through to my vital organs. To teach them a lesson, I walk off in the opposite direction to clear a few tables. When they do manage to make me follow Mason – minutes later – I take a tray of empties through to the bar. Mason is talking to Jay, the manager, and I squeeze past them both to find a home for the tray.
When I turn to go back out into the restaurant, Mason steps in front of me. ‘Hello, Ruby. How are things with you?’
‘Cool,’ I say. ‘We’ve been mad busy all night. I’ll be glad to sit down for five minutes.’
He lowers his voice. ‘Stay for a drink,’ he says. ‘When everyone else has gone home.’
I’m assuming by that he means Charlie too. I’m about to make an excuse not to when I think ‘sod it’. Why shouldn’t I have a drink with him? Just the one won’t hurt. Surely? Probably best if I don’t tell Charlie though. She’ll have a fit with her foot in the air. Or she’ll want to stay too. Then I wonder why I don’t want her to – which is hardly fair of me as she includes me in everything she does. I should go home. That’s what I should do.
When I finish, I head to the staffroom. Charlie already has her coat on. ‘I’ve got to swing into the Tesco Extra before they close,’ she says. ‘No loo roll. No coffee. No bread. One of those things I can’t manage without.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Ha, ha. Very funny. Catch you tomoz?’
‘Yeah. We on the same shift again?’
‘Lates for me.’
‘Me too. We could go somewhere for brekky in the morning.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Charlie says. ‘Text me.’
‘OK.’ I fuss about, not getting my coat.
‘Love you. Laters!’ she trills and bounces out.
What do I do now? I didn’t notice where Mason was on my way in here and I don’t want to look as if I’m hanging around waiting for him. That would be too desperate. I think I’ll get my coat and make for the door as if I’m going to leave. If he asks me again then I might stay. Only might.
Leaving work never used to be so complicated at the council finance department, I tell you. But then my boss had dandruff and halitosis, so no contest really.
I get my stuff out of my locker and head out. In the bar, Mason is sitting at one of the tables, arm thrown casually over the back of his chair. He always looks so sharp, so hot – no wonder more impressionable females fall so easily for his rather obvious charm. ‘Join me for a glass of wine?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ So much for me playing hard to get. But then he did say the magic word. Wine.
With far too little persuasion, I take the chair opposite him and he pours me a glass. I hold it up and we clink glasses. ‘Cheers.’
‘Another busy night,’ Mason says. ‘The pub’s doing really well. Number one in the chain.’
‘It’s on account of the charming staff,’ I quip.
‘I wouldn’t disagree with that,’ he bats back. ‘You give great TripAdvisor.’
That makes me laugh and Mason smiles too. He has good teeth. Expensive ones. Like the ones you see in reality shows about trendy young things. Gleaming. It makes me realise that I’m probably overdue at the dentist.
‘I like the pub when it’s empty.’ Mason has dimmed the lights and it’s obviously just the two of us.
‘It is nice,’ I agree. ‘Peaceful.’
‘This place was built as a farmhouse originally. It’s been here for about four hundred years. The farmer used to give out beer to the labourers from the back door.’
‘I like the thought of that.’ We both take in the blackened, rugged beams in the bar area, the sturdy hearth that once would have been the centre of a home and exchange impressed glances. ‘It feels as if we’re a little part of history.’
‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘The custodians of the past and for the future. We should do something to celebrate.’
My heart does a little pitter-patter. Remember that CCTV, Ruby Brown!
‘Let’s go to a club.’
‘It’s Monday night.’
‘Oh, I think they open then. But only for depraved souls.’ He swigs his wine and fixes his eyes on mine. ‘I know a little place. Very exclusive. I’d like to show it to you. Fancy it?’
I look at my watch, uncertain.
‘What have you got to get back for?’ His eyes twinkle in the low light. ‘You’re not going to turn into a pumpkin are you, Brown?’
‘It feels very wicked on a school night.’ I suck in an anxious breath. ‘What will the boss say?’
‘Oh, I think he’d be all in favour.’
Then I remember I’m in my uniform of black trousers and white shirt. ‘I’m not exactly dressed for clubbing.’
‘You look gorgeous,’ he says, lightly. ‘We can snuggle up in a cosy corner.’
Charlie’s right. He’s an outrageous flirt.
‘I’m driving too.’
‘Let’s leave our cars here. I’ll call us a cab. They’ll be all right here overnight. There’s CCTV.’
Yes, I know all about that.
‘Have I convinced you?’ he asks.
I knock back my wine feeling more than a little reckless. ‘Let’s do it.’
Quick as a flash, Mason phones for a cab and I head off to the loos where I fluff my hair – which makes absolutely no difference at all to improve my general scruffiness – and make a token effort with a lippy. By the time I’m back in the bar, the cab has arrived. Mason turns off the lights and gently ushers me outside while he sets the alarm and locks up. I stand in the car park, shivering in the cool night air, feeling both a little bit sick and r
idiculously excited. But, most of all, I’m wondering exactly what I’ve just agreed to.
Chapter Twenty
A short while later and we’re in one of the posh hotels in the city centre, heading to the top floor in the lift. I’m very aware that we’re close together in a confined space. We both stand and listen to James Blunt crooning.
‘I didn’t even know there was a club up here,’ I say to Mason.
‘Ah.’ He taps the side of his nose. ‘It’s only just opened and it’s very exclusive. Members only. You have to be in the know.’
‘Or know someone who knows.’
He grins at me. ‘Or that.’ A tasteful stainless steel plaque on the wall announces that the hidden club is called the Vibe Lounge. His hand rests on my hip as he opens the door for me and steers me inside.
It’s a beautiful place: small, intimate, and well out of my usual league. No wonder I don’t know about it. I bet Charlie doesn’t either and I’d normally credit her with knowing everywhere. It’s so sophisticated in here and, even in my uniform, I wouldn’t be mistaken for staff. The waiters in here are hipsters wearing red waistcoats, the waitresses are in slinky red velvet dresses and vertiginously high heels. I hope that Mason doesn’t think about introducing this dress code at the Butcher’s Arms. My feet would die within ten minutes.
We’re greeted by a guy who looks like a model. ‘Hi, Mr Soames,’ he says. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Thanks, Callum. Busy tonight?’
He nods. ‘Word is spreading.’ Then he shows us to a blood red chesterfield sofa by the big, stone fireplace where a fire roars in the grate. The room is seductively lit, the main illumination provided by small chandeliers that hang over the side tables. All along the fireplace is a row of elegant church candles and above them is a huge modern painting depicting a coat of arms. There are more candles clustered, artfully, on a silver plate in the centre of the dark wood coffee table. Next to them is a vase of scarlet roses. On the far side of the room there’s a bar, also lit so low that I’ve no idea how they can see what they’re doing. In the corner there’s a DJ playing smooth tunes and a dance floor the size of a pocket handkerchief.