Million Love Songs

  Also, I’m thinking of not going to my scuba-diving lesson tonight. I know that I’ll have wasted the money I spent on the course, but … well … err … gahdohmehgrrrpfft. My head feels all scrambled. I’m thinking about Mason, I’m thinking about Joe. It’s a good job I’m not at work as no one would be getting their right orders today.

  I should go to my diving lesson, shouldn’t I? There must be a saying about not giving up in the face of adversity. If there is, I can’t think of it. I want to change my life, but my plan was to simplify it and have some fun. Instead, I seem to be making it more complicated by the minute. I’d ask Charlie, but I’m not sure I’d like her advice. Oh, God. Life should get easier once you leave the playground, but it doesn’t. Then you think you’ll have it sorted in your teens and you don’t. So you hurtle into your twenties when you’re sure you’ll crack the meaning of life. Yet here I am in my late thirties and I’m still all at sea. I haven’t even got Relationships sorted.

  It’s my day off and I need to grab some shopping as there is nothing but wine and wilted lettuce in my fridge. I need some fresh air too. Usually, I try to do a lap or two of shuffling around the lake during the week, but there’s a stiff breeze blowing today and I’m not feeling like being biffed about by the wind. Yet a bit of a walk will help to clear my head and burn off some of those calories from that late-nite chip and gin fest earlier in the week. So, instead of heading into the shopping centre, I go up to our nearest little market town on the outskirts of Milton Keynes. Stony Stratford has an old-fashioned high street with quirky little independent shops.

  There’s a great cycle shop/café combo there which I love. They do the best cappuccino in town and always have cool tunes playing. When I was first divorced, I hated to go into cafés by myself. I felt as if everyone was looking at me and wondering why I had no husband, no mates. Now it’s become second nature. I like the time that I spend alone, deep in contemplation – or, more likely, looking at Twitter on my phone to see what Ryan Gosling is up to. The other thing I like about this café is that it’s not full of the pram set. You’ll not find a toddler crawling beneath your table with the remains of a chocolate croissant spread round its mouth. Instead, it’s always populated by fit Lycra-clad cyclists talking about pedals and headsets and handlebars and stuff I don’t understand – nor particularly want to. Perhaps I should chat up one of those.

  Yet, when I swing in today, it’s full of glamorous lady pensioners who look like they’re having a book group meeting. Maybe they like to look at the firm thighs of cyclists while they talk about Anita Shreve novels. Perhaps I should join a book club even though I haven’t read a novel since I was about fifteen. That’s the kind of thing single women do. I don’t recall seeing it on that internet list of hobbies though.

  I have a nice relaxing coffee and listen to the mellow sounds. I think about texting Mason, then I realise that I don’t actually have his number. Then I double-realise that it would be a bad idea to text him. If there’s going to be any texting then it should come from him. Besides, he strikes me as the kind of guy who’d like to do all the running.

  Clearly, the whole chillout thing works as, when I reach the last bit of froth at the bottom of my cup, I’ve talked myself into going to my dive lesson. I shall be cool but friendly with Joe. I won’t flirt or go all giddy when he holds my hand underwater. I won’t go to the pub afterwards to socialise. I shall be an island. I’ll complete the course, learn to dive – of a fashion – and then tick the box marked ‘done’ and move on. That’s exactly what I’ll do.

  After the coffee stop, I go round to my parents’ house. Dad is at work keeping the wheels of the banking industry turning at Santander, but it’s Mum’s day off from her job-share as secretary at a local school. I stick my head round the door and shout, ‘Hiya!!’

  ‘Hello, love,’ Mum shouts back. ‘Just dead-heading the plants in the conservatory.’

  Giving them a death sentence, more like. My mum tells everyone she’s got green fingers but between you and me, she can kill an orchid stone-dead in a week. It’s a gift. One which I have inherited.

  She comes into the kitchen, wiping soil and random bits of petal from her hands. ‘It’s like the Sahara in that conservatory,’ she complains. ‘I’m having to water every day. I’m trying to persuade your father to get a proper roof put on it, but he likes the sunshine. He can fall asleep in a nano-second in there.’

  I kiss her cheek while she’s still muttering on.

  ‘Do you want lunch?’ she says. ‘I’ve only got cheese or ham. Or there’s some chicken from last night. Or I could get a pizza out of the freezer. Or whip you up a Caesar salad. I haven’t been to Sainsbury’s so there’s no cake.’

  My mother feels as if she’s failed in life if you haven’t eaten after you’ve been in the house for more than thirty seconds.

  ‘A sarnie would be fine.’

  ‘Cheese? Ham? Chicken? Or I can open a tin of tuna. Or boil some eggs. Your father’s got some pork pies hidden from me at the back of the fridge. You’re welcome to them, but on your own head be it.’

  ‘Cheese. Don’t go to any trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘How can making lunch for my favourite daughter be any trouble?’

  ‘I’m your only daughter.’

  ‘And I don’t see enough of you.’

  ‘I’m busy at the pub. I’ve been doing some extra shifts.’

  ‘Don’t let them take advantage of you,’ she warns. ‘You’re too easy.’

  I think she’s means easy-going. I’m sure of it. Though if she’d seen me letting my boss take advantage of me the other night, then she’d have a point.

  ‘No young man on the horizon?’

  ‘I’m not fifteen, Mum.’ I’ve been in the house for about three minutes before we get on to my chequered love life, so this is even a record for Mum. See what I mean about them sometimes being too close?

  ‘I want to see you settled,’ she says as she washes her hands and delves into the fridge.

  ‘What you mean is that you want me to knock out a couple of grandbabies.’ And as soon as possible.

  ‘You’re not getting any younger.’

  ‘Thanks for pointing that out.’

  ‘By the time I was your age you and your brother were both teenagers.’

  Probably about the same age as Daisy and Tom are now.

  As she butters bread in a ferocious manner and slaps some ham on it, even though I’m pretty sure we’d settled on cheese, I say, ‘It’s different now, Mum. Everything takes longer. We don’t settle down until much later. I’ll probably be a pensioner before I can buy my own home.’

  ‘You leave everything too late. We didn’t have holidays in Mexico or go out drinking cocktails. We saved up and got married.’

  ‘I tried marriage,’ I remind her. ‘Didn’t quite work out.’ It still pains me to discuss it with my parents. I know they had high hopes for me and Simon. If I was taken in by him, then they were too. They adored him. My dad used to walk down to the local pub to play darts with him – the ultimate accolade. I think it hurt them nearly as much as it hurt me when they found out he’d been cheating on me. So I never tell them how I’m really feeling. You don’t, do you? You get to a time of life when it’s your turn to protect your parents, not vice versa.

  ‘You give up too easily. Do you think my life has been all ha-ha-hee-hee with your father?’

  ‘I don’t think Dad ever shagged the woman at the local One Stop Shop though, did he?’

  ‘Your father’s no angel,’ she says, darkly.

  For the record, my father is an angel. My mother’s idea of a heinous crime is for him to put the empty cereal packet back in the cupboard rather than in the bin. Which, in fairness, he does sometimes do. Dad has barely put a foot wrong for the forty-odd years they’ve been together. He is a paragon of virtue. If someone had a notion to show my dad their bejewelled vajayjay, he’d run a flipping mile.

  ‘Simon went
off with another women. Even if he’d begged to come back – which he didn’t – I could never have forgiven him for that.’

  ‘It’s not like my days.’ My mother shakes her head, clearly perplexed by the ways of the modern world. ‘I just want you to be happy. ‘

  ‘I am.’ But you can see why I don’t say anything about Mason or Joe or anyone of the male variety who crosses my path. I daren’t even tell her about cardboard cut-out Gary Barlow or she’d be looking at hats.

  Still I’m glad that I have a supportive family, who are here for me. Like I said, they went through as much agony as I did when I divorced. My pain was their pain. It was truly awful to watch them suffer too. I couldn’t put them through that again. I feel for Mason who has a tyrant as a father and a judgemental family and for Joe whose parents live too far away from his young family to be able to help. I’m lucky. I know that.

  I just wish my mother would chill out when it comes to me finding myself another future intended. I’d like to confide in her about Mason or chat to her about Joe and his kids or my attempts at scuba-diving, but I daren’t. It’s way too early. Even I realise that one heady kiss with Mason does not a boyfriend make.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Later that evening, I’m at the swimming pool again. I’m not keen and I think that’s probably written all over my face.

  ‘Hey,’ Joe says. ‘Good to see you. I did wonder if you’d come back for another go.’

  ‘I like to see everything through to the bitter end,’ I lie through my teeth. Honestly, I thought about turning round and going home when I got to the car park.

  ‘You’re enjoying it that much?’ Joe laughs.

  ‘I’m not sure that I’m a natural in the water.’

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ he says. Then he looks over his shoulder at the group of guys by the poolside. ‘I’ve paired you with Bob for tonight. He’s very experienced.’

  I confess that I get a heart-sink moment. Of course, I thought that I’d be with Joe again. Why wouldn’t I be? Looks like he’s decided to play it cooler than me.

  Bob comes over. I’m not being fatist, ageist or sexist or anything, but he’s a fat, old bloke. Actually, I probably am being fatist, ageist and sexist He’s bald too. Maybe that’s hairist. He has a nice smile and a friendly face though and I hang onto that thought.

  ‘Ready, love,’ he says and we go through the same procedure of getting into the pool. I still experience the same amount of terror. Though I care less about putting my bum in front of Bob’s face. We sink to the bottom and sit beneath the surface. When Bob squeezes my hand to check if I’m OK, I don’t feel quite the same thrill as when Joe did it. And that’s a good thing. That’s a very good thing.

  I take more notice of the silt on the bottom of the pool and wonder when it was last cleaned. Properly cleaned. A spent Elastoplast floats by. Gross. I wonder how many children have done a wee in here this week? How many teenagers have hopped in with verrucas? I might scrub myself with bleach when I get home.

  Bob encourages me to try a little swimming and I follow him to the deep end, listening to my own breathing in my ears, the hiss of the bubbles which I think should be soothing, but is vaguely horrifying. When I get out of the pool with all the elegance of a seal on land, Bob is full of praise and, I have to say, he’s been a great instructor, very patient with his somewhat reluctant pupil. He just doesn’t look like he’s going to make Mr March of the Diving Hotties annual calendar any time soon.

  Joe is chatting to some of the other guys at the end of the pool. I think he catches my eye, but turns away. Well, two can play at that game. I am the Queen of the Cold Shoulder. I dump my gear and head to the showers where I give myself a triple wash with Zingy Lime shower gel.

  While I let the water cascade over me, I think about Joe. He’s great and there’s no doubt that my heart is quite impressed by him, but if I’m going to set my cap at anyone then it should obviously be Mason Soames. Joe is still too embroiled in his old life for him to be able to take on a girlfriend too. He said as much himself. And that’s fine. It was totally unnecessary of him to spell it out. And rather clumsy of him, I thought. Still, he’s playing it cool with me and that’s fine. I might have had a few stomach-flipping moments with Joe, but that kiss with Mason was sensational and, if it was up to him, it wouldn’t have ended there. No reluctance on Mason’s part. Oh no.

  When I’m finished, I grab my stuff and head out to reception. I don’t have the same sense of exhilaration or achievement this week – even though I’ve probably done quite a bit more. My determined step stutters a little when I see Joe hanging around by the door. He’s looking very tousled and I hadn’t realised that tousled is a good look on a man. And I want to make it really clear to you right here, right now, that my mouth only goes dry because of all the damn chlorine in the water. Right? Let’s park that one straight away. I had a conversation with myself in the shower about it not five minutes ago.

  ‘How did it go tonight?’ he asks.

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘I really enjoyed it.’ Diving is so not for me.

  ‘Are you coming to the pub?’ He sounds hopeful when he adds, ‘A few of us are going down there.’

  ‘Not tonight. I’ve got loads to do.’ Make a cup of tea, have a sandwich, watch telly. Mister, my life is all busy, busy, busy. ‘Thanks for asking though.’

  ‘See you next week, then?’

  ‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away.’ Sub-text: hell would have to freeze over before I’ll ever get in that swimming pool again. This is me so done with diving. And diving instructors.

  ‘Great.’ His smile brightens his face. ‘Maybe we could pair together again.’

  ‘I’m quite happy with Bob,’ I say, so sweetly that I nearly make myself sick. ‘He’s lovely.’

  As I breeze out of the leisure centre and walk to the car, I’m sure that I can feel Joe’s eyes on my back and I make my step just a little more jaunty.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  This weekend’s entertainment is provided by an eighties-themed party at a club in the city centre. The fortieth birthday of one of Charlie’s friends, Michaela, who I’ve met a couple of times. Forty. Blimey. It dawns on me that my big 4-0 won’t be that far away and I think I’d rather crawl into a hole than celebrate it. I had planned to do so much, be so much by the time I was forty and yet here I am bobbing on the doldrums between teenager and pensioner. Meh. I can feel a lot of prosecco coming on tonight if I’m going to get in the party mood.

  We’re only going to get there after our shift finishes as we daren’t ask Jay for a Saturday night off together, so Charlie’s taken our outfits into the staffroom at the close of play in order to get changed. My feet are killing and it would take very little encouragement for me to give this a miss and go home. My bed is calling me and I don’t really know anyone else at this party, other than Charlie and the birthday girl.

  My friend pulls two day-glo costumes out of a crumpled plastic bag. ‘Ebay,’ she says by way of explanation. She holds one of them up in front of her. ‘Cheap.’

  I would never have guessed. Our outfits comprise of a yellow net top with a perilously low neck. I’m quite well blessed in the chest department, and I think this is going to have trouble containing my girls. Maybe I shouldn’t have been rash enough to give Charlie free rein when it came to outfit choice.

  ‘You’ve got your black bra?’ she asks.

  I nod. ‘In my bag.’ The tops are also very see-through.

  The skirt is shocking pink and of the ra-ra variety and, as such, accentuates every single inch of hip. Of which, I have many. I hold it up to me and baulk at the lack of fabric. I tell you, they barely skim our bottoms. As if that isn’t bad enough, the outfit is accessorised with hot pink leg warmers and a rainbow-coloured wig that’s more Cyndi Lauper than Madonna. It’s topped with a big, pink satin bow.

  ‘You don’t really want me to be seen in public in this, do you?’

  ‘We’ll look fab,’ she insists.
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  ‘We might get arrested.’

  ‘Only if we’re lucky,’ she quips. ‘Come on, get changed. We haven’t got all night. Everyone else has been at the party for hours. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. We’ll have to self-medicate with Vitamin P.’

  At least we’re agreed that prosecco is the way forward.

  Reluctantly, I part with the sensible white shirt and black trousers ensemble required for the serious business of waitressing and wiggle into the ra-ra skirt and canary-yellow tart’s blouse. Frankly, it could have done with being a size bigger. Maybe two. As predicted, the skirt barely covers my modesty. Actually, I don’t think it does. My modesty seems very much on show. I try to pull it down at the sides.

  ‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it,’ Charlie instructs.

  ‘I don’t think I have got it. I’m pretty sure it went a long time ago.’ I put my wig on. Charlie bursts out laughing and not in a good way. ‘I’m having second thoughts about this.’

  ‘We look fabulous, darling,’ she assures me. Then she stands in front of the mirror to put her wig on and catches sight of herself. ‘Bloody hell. They are short. Did we really go out in these?’

  ‘I was about four when I last wore a ra-ra skirt and I don’t think showing my knickers then was as much of an issue.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Charlie tries in vain to make her skirt longer. ‘If I bend over you’ll be able to see what I had for breakfast.’

  A car pulls into the car park.

  ‘That must be our cab.’ Charlie stops fussing with her skirt and jams the rainbow wig on her head.