Cloudy with a Chance of Love (14 page)

He started cutting in along the skirtings and instructed me to start painting one of the walls. I was bit nervous but I decided just to go for it and after a while I got into a nice rhythm of dipping my paintbrush, wiping it gently on the side of the tin to get rid of excess paint and then doing long, languid strokes up and down the walls. Oh dear, I was thinking kinky. I had a sudden image of Will coming up behind me and holding my hand with both of his as I painted, making us a seductive, decorating version of Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore in
Ghost
.

Stop that, I thought, almost laughing to myself. Think instead of the satisfying transformation of grubby magnolia wall to rich duck egg. There, that was better. And time really did start to fly. We worked well as a team, Will and I. We painted in unison: Will on one wall, me on the opposite wall. We bumped bums a few times as I kept stepping back to admire my dubious handiwork, which was also quite satisfying, but I pretended it wasn't.

We painted; my kitchen clock ticked on, and before I knew it, it was eight o'clock and we were almost done.

‘We're almost done,' I said proudly.

‘Well, not really,' said Will. ‘What about the second coat?'

‘Oh,' I said, taking a few steps backwards and surveying our handiwork. ‘Do we have to do that?'

‘Yes, we do.'

‘All right.' I stepped forward again and peered closely at the walls. Yes, I conceded, they did need more coverage; there were patchy bits where you could see feathery lines from the brushes. ‘We'll have to do that another day.'

‘
We'll
? Are you assuming I'll provide my services again?'

‘No,' I said. ‘It was the Royal We. I meant me. I'll do it another day.' I wouldn't be – I was rather bored of decorating already, however nice the company had been. I would get a man in soon. The Royal We would be a bloke from Tradespeople.com.

‘So,' Will said, leaning on the stepladder. ‘The Cinderella of Decorating has to be all scrubbed up and ready by nine?'

‘Well, twenty-five to – the taxi's coming then. And it could be a tall order,' I quipped, looking down at myself. I was covered in both huge blobs and millions of speckles of duck egg blue. ‘You may have to dip me in white spirit.' I immediately regretted saying that, as it sounded a bit naughty. Will just laughed and didn't seem to have thought anything untoward, then he picked up his paintbrush again.

‘As it's drying so quickly,' he said… I liked the heating on high in my house, as I feel the cold. I know Will was glad he was just in a t-shirt and he was definitely too polite to ask me to turn it down… Jeff was forever casually knocking down the thermostat, in our old house, as he walked past… ‘Why don't I just carry on? You just go and get ready.'

‘What? Really? No, I can't let you do that!'

‘I can do. I'm happy to.'

‘Wow, are you sure you don't mind?
Really
?'

‘No, I don't mind. I'll finish it off. You go and get ready,' he smiled, looking up from his haunches and a tricky corner bit. ‘I don't mind carrying on being your slave.'

‘If you're sure…'

‘I'm sure.'

‘Well, thank you,
slave
. Thank you very much.'

I went upstairs to shower and get ready while Will continued to paint downstairs. I felt bad; I really did feel I had a slave, that I had a servant doing my dirty work for me. I felt like some dreadful Lady of the Manor. Still, it was amazingly nice of him. What a lovely guy…

Right, what to wear? I really had to switch my thoughts off the slave downstairs and onto Ben and the date. I rifled through my wardrobe. I hadn't been on a date for a hundred years and I wanted to look right. Not too try hard, not too couldn't-care-less. I rifled back through my wardrobe, in the other direction. It was a shame I couldn't just wear last night's outfit again as I knew it was a winner. Finally I went for skinny jeans that didn't make my bum look too much like a bowling ball, some high-heeled ankle boots and a grey drape-y jersey top that I hadn't worn for about five years; if I hadn't moved I probably would never have seen it again, as it was stuffed right at the back of the wardrobe in my old house, and I'd forgotten how much it suited me. I'd top it with my fluffy, faux-fur jacket and quickly send Freya a highly unflattering selfie which gave me six chins…

Just as I was about to head downstairs, feeling tremendously self-conscious that I was going down to Will dressed in all my dating finery, I impulsively grabbed a black skinny tie I'd once bought at Camden Market and tied it round my neck. I'd seen a similar look in a magazine and it looked all right on me. So did my make-up. I'd gone for pink-y peachy tones with a little bit of shimmer on the eyelids and cheekbones (what I had left of them). I'd do.

There was a beep of a horn; my taxi was here. When I walked down the stairs, cringing quite badly (the lady of the manor appearing from her sweeping staircase to gasps from the servants, genuflecting below…), Will was at the top of the ladder again. He turned his head to face me, widened his eyes slightly as though surprised, and then gave me an almighty grin.

‘So, you
did
scrub up,' he said. ‘You scrubbed up very well. You look really nice.'

‘Thank you,' I said. I was embarrassed; it was time for me to start babbling again. ‘Oh Will, you're making me feel ever so guilty. There's me, tarting myself up upstairs while you're down here painting my hall, it doesn't seem right… I'm ever so grateful…' My voice sounded a bit shaky. I hoped he hadn't noticed. I also
did
sound like some ridiculous aristocratic fop – ‘
I'm ever so grateful'
? – terrible! Actually, thinking about it, I sounded more like Dot Cotton!

‘Daryl. Don't be. If a job's worth doing, it's worth finishing. And you look far from a
tart
. You look lovely.'

‘Well, thank you, I really appreciate it.' I meant the painting. I meant the compliment. I stood awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs, on one of Will's woolly dust sheets, fidgeting with the bottom of my suddenly ridiculous skinny tie, while he looked down on me.

A smile hung suspended between us. My cheeks, under their dollop of shimmer, felt really hot. I was blushing. I was ridiculous. ‘So, my taxi's outside. I've got to go.

‘Yes,' said Will, still smiling. ‘Your door's the same as mine isn't it? Yale lock? I'll just let myself out when I'm done.'

‘Okay,' I said. ‘Thank you.'

All the earlier ease had gone. The atmosphere had changed since I'd gone upstairs to get ready. I felt silly all dressed up, and like I didn't want to go; I wanted to put my paint-splattered jeans and my paint-splattered brand new top back on and paint with my friend and neighbour, Will.

‘Have a great time,' he said, suddenly coming down the ladder and opening the door for me.

‘Thanks, Will.' I said, and stepped outside the house into the chill night air. ‘I'll try.'

Chapter Eleven

I was meeting Ben in a little pub in Richmond, near the river, and as I thanked the taxi driver and walked down the street towards it, I was incredibly nervous about seeing him. I started doubting the make-up, the outfit, the stupid skinny tie. I hoped I looked cute and perky, not old and desperate; I dreaded it was the latter.

I had to get in the mood for this, I told myself. I was on a date; Ben was waiting for me. It was supposed to be exciting. Why, then, did I feel like I was going to the guillotine?

It was freezing cold. I could see the pub at the end of the street, on the corner. Ben's text, telling me where to meet him, had arrived whilst I was leaving B&Q. He was a very chirpy person, I decided. Even his texts were chirpy; he'd put a smiley face and four kisses. He sent another one whilst I was in the taxi, that just said, ‘In pub, waiting for you!' and another smiley face. I needed that, as just before I'd received it, I'd almost decided not to come. I'd almost told the taxi driver to turn round, but I was too embarrassed and far too polite to do so. I had a bit of a wobble. What was I doing? Sitting in a taxi on my way to meet a man I barely knew, going on a date two days after receiving my decree absolute, putting my toe back into waters that could be murky and full of danger… I was scared stiff. Then I tried to get a grip – it was only a man, it was only a date. Ben was waiting for me; I wouldn't let him down. How many women had a nice man waiting in a pub for them and wanting to take them to a party, on a Tuesday night?

I arrived at the pub. It had a rosy orange glow pulsing behind its double doors and a man was lolling outside, smoking.

‘Evening, love,' he muttered.

‘Evening,' I replied, as I pushed one of the doors open. A whoosh of chilly air swept me inside, along with a handful of swirling autumn leaves – the evening's drizzle had cleared to leave a clear, dry night with a bracing bite. An orange leaf landed on my shoulder and I flicked it off my fur jacket, then looked around me.

I felt like I'd stepped back in time into Victorian England. The pub was tiny, very warm and a shade of rich, ruby red the Victorians may have referred to as ‘tart's knickers'. There was red patterned carpet, red flocked wallpaper, red heavy velvet curtains, red walls and a bar panelled in red leather. The Old Bull, it was called. I didn't know if it was full of it or not, but there were lots of old men in wool overcoats who looked like they were about to put the world to rights. Their conversation was a Dickensian rumble; the background piano music was parlour-style. There was even a scrappy-looking dog, by the fire, its head in a silver bowl of water. I wouldn't have been surprised if Bill Sykes himself had turned up, swearing at everyone and brandishing a stick.

Before the smoking ban, this pub would have been filled floor to ceiling with the choking fumes of cigarettes and cigars and it would have been impossible to see to the bar, from where I was standing, but the air was smoke-free and as one old boy moved slightly left of his companion, I could see Ben leaning against the bar with a bottle of beer in his hand and a huge smile on his face.

‘Daryl! Over here!'

I smiled back, nervously and a little shakily – and stepped towards him, circumnavigating my way round the old men. One let me past with a wink and a raising of his glass. Thank you, Sir. A toast, to the middle-aged lady on her first date in twenty-five years…

Ben looked… cute. He was wearing a red checked shirt, blue jeans and the same brown work-y boots. His hair was damp, the curls darkened – he looked like a friendly lumberjack who'd been caught in a forest rainstorm.

My nerves were really racing now. I wasn't sure, I wasn't sure. There were no instant butterflies here. Give it a chance, I thought. Give
him
a chance. It's just a date, a pub, a party. Get on with it.

‘Hello,' I said, as I arrived at Ben. I sounded out of breath, although I wasn't.

‘All right?' said Ben. He was grinning. His face made me relax a bit. He liked me. He was nice. I should go with it.

‘Yes, I'm good, thanks. Are you all right?'

‘I certainly am.'

He reached his arm towards me. I wondered what he was going to do. ‘You've got a leaf in your hair,' he said, and he picked it out then smoothed my hair with his hand. I didn't know how to feel. I didn't know if I wanted him touching my hair. And I didn't get a tingle or anything. But then again it was only hair.

‘Oak,' he said.

‘I wouldn't know.'

‘Oh, you should really get to know your trees.'

‘Country boy,' I teased.

‘All the way,' he said. ‘Right, what are you having?'

‘A vodka, lime and soda, please.' I needed it. I had a feeling my hands were shaking.

‘Coming right up,' he said. And he gave a silly little half bow, like a circus ringmaster.

‘Thank you.'

He winked, downed the rest of his beer and turned to the bar. As he waited to be served I looked around the pub, to distract myself from my nerves. I felt exactly as I had in the taxi. Why had I come here? Why was I on this date? The whole thing was making me feel weird. I was way out of my comfort zone – my comfort zone was lying in a onesie on the sofa flicking through Chat magazine and letting Minstrels dissolve on my tongue. I wished that was what I was doing.

I was the only woman in there, apart from a peeling bust of Rita Hayworth on the wall above the jukebox. It didn't particularly bother me – all those old men supping and talking; I liked the fact that Ben hadn't brought me somewhere trendy. I may not have felt wholly comfortable being on a date, but his choice of pub showed he was down to earth and un-showy and it
was
warm and comfortable in here. The pub was also close to the party, he'd said, and I was glad of that. It was not a night for traipsing the streets, especially in these boots, and I was grateful Ben had possibly taken such logistics into account.

Some Halloween decorations were up, for tomorrow night. A few cobwebs hung from the ceiling, a couple of black felt spiders were dangling from the corners of the room – one tickling an elderly gent on the shoulder. I thought of Will's summerhouse and all its spiders, and smiled. The end of the bar had a half-baked white sheet draped over it, which someone had cut jagged holes in. There was a broom – which I presumed was a witch's broom and not just one the cleaner had left lying around – standing
upright next to one of the windows, all straggly and dirty-looking. It was all a bit of a token effort, but the locals no doubt appreciated it.

I turned back to the bar and there was Ben's bum. He had one foot up on the gold pole that ran along the base of the bar, and his bum was sticking out. My first thought was that it wasn't as nice as Will's and that it was generally a little slimmer than my ideal. Ben was a bit slimmer all
over
than my absolute ideal; I liked a quite chunky man, despite Jeff having been as thin and reedy as a rake. Funny that, being married all those years to someone who wasn't even my type. And
hilarious
that I'd spent all those years with him only for him to run off with someone else…