Cloudy with a Chance of Love (3 page)

Too much random information? Probably.

He looked at me. Amused, I guessed. Or maybe horrified – that a mad, rambling lady had moved in next door.

‘No, I don't mind at all. Happy to.'

We walked over to the car. There was the box, loosely masking-taped at the top, as well as loads of carrier bags and paper bags and a few plastic baskets. I was not the most organised, but I was going to
try and be, from here on in. He heaved up the box and carried it in through the front door. I trooped behind him.

‘Where's it going?' he called over his shoulder.

‘Upstairs?' I ventured. ‘Sorry, is that okay?'

‘That's fine. I could do with losing a few pounds.'

That was so not true. He had a lovely body. I had a good look at it as it was going up the stairs.

‘Be careful,' I shouted. The staircase was quite narrow and I wasn't sure how secure that box was. It had been a bit damp when I'd found it at the back of my old garage, under Jeff's golf clubs. He hadn't bothered taking them when he'd moved to Gabby's – he probably wouldn't have time to play, what with all the shagging.

Will had to take very slow, measured steps. Goodness, he had a nice bum, I thought. He was wearing 501's, I could tell, by the label, and his bottom was very round and very firm. Probably one of the nicest I'd seen. Jeff's was always a bit scrawny.

Will had two more steps to go. He huffed the box to the top step, then turned his head to look at me a little quicker than I was expecting, as I was still checking out his lovely bottom. I was caught red-handed, wasn't I? I flicked my eyes back up to his face. He knew
exactly
what I'd been looking at.

‘Where do you want it?'

‘Oh,' I said, squirming. ‘Just leave it on the landing. I'll unpack it from there.'

‘Okay.' He came back down, smiling. I made sure my eyes
stayed
on his face. I didn't want them wandering downwards again. Especially as he was now facing me. Well, he would be, wouldn't he? He was hardly going to come down the stairs backwards on his hands and knees – although it wasn't a disagreeable image… Oh dear. I was becoming a bit of a nuisance in my own brain. I appeared to be a slightly pervy, out of control divorcee and I hadn't even received my absolute yet…

‘Well, nice to meet you, Daryl,' he'd said, on the doorstep, and shook my hand.

‘You too, Will.' His handshake was warm and firm. He really was very good looking. Was I blushing slightly? God, I hoped not. I watched him as he disappeared into his front door, giving a cheery wave to the back of his head in case he turned round, like the nutter that I was.

So. It was an auspicious start. Friendly neighbour helps new neighbour move in while new neighbour pervs at friendly neighbour's bum. Fabulous. Then he'd seen me illegally disposing of Freya's stuffed, cuddly whale. I'd moved it with me, just in case, but she'd told me by text ‘just to get rid of the enormous, embarrassing thing' and I couldn't face going to the tip with all those jolly people that go there for fun, at the weekends. So, last Sunday morning, I sought opportunity in the form of a skip that had appeared over the road for someone's building work and went and chucked it in there, before running back home, feeling a mixture of pleased-with-myself and terrified. Unfortunately Will had spotted me darting back across the road looking left and right like a fugitive and had waved at me jauntily from his kitchen window. He'd seen everything, hadn't he? I knew he had because last Wednesday a poster temporarily appeared in the window of his front porch saying ‘Save the Whale.'

‘Very funny,' I'd told him, on the Thursday, when I'd popped over to return the polka dot cake tin.

‘Couldn't resist it,' he said. ‘I had that old poster in my summerhouse.'

‘Very good,' I'd replied drily, ‘as was the lemon drizzle.' (Which was
so
not dry.)

I raised my eyebrows at him. He raised his back.

He'd spotted me eating it. Last Tuesday night, really late. In fact it was about two a.m., as I'd been up till then attempting to unload boxes, in between dancing to songs on my new digital radio. I'd been happily stuffing my face with lemon drizzle in front of the telly in a very unladylike fashion, whilst watching old repeats of
Sex and the City
, when he'd clocked me. Both our houses have a ‘side return' and my sitting room is in mine; I'd taken down the tragic curtains from the window in there and hadn't yet made plans to replace them. God knows what he was doing up at that time, but he'd seen me at it. I'd caught a very brief glimpse of his face at his window before he quickly pulled the blind down.

Oh dear. The secret middle-of-the-night cake eater foiled again.

‘I'm really sorry about that,' confessed Will. ‘I'm really not a stalker or anything. I was awake and just having a potter around. It was only a split second.' A split second, but he'd seen enough; me being an absolute pig. I needed to invest in a blind for that window, pronto.

So he was a bit of a joker, an insomniac, a very nice, helpful guy and
extremely
good looking. This is what I knew about Will. And
he
knew that I was a glutton, a secret bottom-watcher and someone who dumps things in other people's skips.

And now he'd seen me face down, drunk on our drive.

Oh dear bloody god.

I felt absolutely terrible but I had to go into work. There's never anyone to cover for me. Well, there's Elaine, on reception, but her voice is a bit whiny and she always takes a huge breath at the end of every line, which I think puts listeners off. I work in local radio. I'm a weather presenter. Seven times a day I read the weather at Court FM, in the centre of Wimbledon, and I have done for eighteen years. I don't mean to show off, but I am really good at it. I've got a nice voice (it's cheery, not too soft, not at all abrasive), I know my stuff and I can ad lib a bit, too. This means if a presenter wants to chat to me a bit after my weather bulletin, I can hold my own. I can sometimes be quite funny. Last week, when I was in the studio with Rob Wright, morning presenter (specialist subjects: local town planning and tennis – he's ever so good when Wimbledon is on… he can talk about retractable roofs and pitch quality for
hours
), there was a lovely guy in there with a guide dog, waiting to be interviewed about current funding and footpaths. I finished my report with ‘… So expect light rain, spells of sunshine and the odd thundery shower and there's a dog currently licking my knee, which is lovely.' The listeners love that sort of thing. They text in and say so.

It's a big, buzzy office buzzing with lots of dynamic (with a couple of exceptions), happy people. Who wouldn't want to work in radio? It's great! I met Sam there: she's a broadcast assistant and researcher. She finds people for interviews, writes the questions for the presenters, explores all the subjects that need exploring and generally keeps the content of all our daytime programming ticking. The station broadcasts from Wimbledon (fairly near the All England Club, actually) to all surrounding areas: Richmond, Wandsworth, Southfields, Putney – apparently you can pick us up in Kensington, if the wind's in the right direction. I love my job, and to be honest, apart from my friends (although they both work here anyway), it has saved me from falling apart since my marriage break-up. I have to sound perky so I've had to
fake
perky. What's the expression: fake it, till you make it? That's me. I faked it for a long time, but now I've made it and am pretty damn perky for real. I'm quite proud of myself, really. I made it through the dark days of my husband leaving me for my best friend and out the other side, into sunnier times.

My other friend, who also works here, is Peony. She's a broadcast technician – responsible for all unfathomable techie things at Court FM – and she was in reception when I walked in, chatting to Elaine. I always just feel
better
when I go into work and this morning was no exception. My hangover lifted just
stepping foot in that office. Peony said ‘All right, my love?' and gave me a wink (Sam had obviously filled her in on last night's antics). Elaine, clad in lace and ruffles as always, behind the front desk, beamed at me and handed me today's staff newsletter. Rob Wright, striding across the news area ruffling some papers looked friendly and full of the joys. And even Sam, who should have been as hungover as I was, was smiling and looking great. In fact, she was laughing. I went over to her desk and plomped my big, hungover bottom on a spare chair.

‘Oh my god, Daryl!' giggled Sam, spinning on her spinny seat. ‘What a day! What a night! Did you go straight to bed after I left?'

‘No,' I replied, with a slow smile. ‘I thought I'd take some rubbish out to the bin and then lie down on my drive for a bit of a kip and be discovered by my next door neighbour.'

‘What!'

‘Yep.'

‘Will, your
hunky
next door neighbour?' When Sam had come over, on my moving day (after her emergency date turned into a false alarm), I'd told her all about Will, and how good looking he was. She'd spent twenty minutes at my kitchen window, snacking on chopped-up green pepper and trying to catch a glimpse of him, but he didn't make an appearance. She was ever so disappointed. ‘Oh Daryl, you didn't!'

‘I certainly did. Oh, Sam, the shame of it!'

‘What on earth did he say?'

‘Not a lot. He just helped me into the house. I didn't see him this morning but I must pop round and thank him. Good god, Sam, we were absolutely hammered!'

‘We were,' she nodded, then grinned. ‘Good day though.'

‘
Very
good day.'

‘I've told Peony all about it.'

I looked into Studio One and waved at Peony, who was now behind the big console with all the knobs on doing all that technical stuff I don't understand. Peony is younger than us. She's only thirty-two. She's engaged to Max, who's also a broadcast technician; she's been in love with him ever since he first walked into Court FM with his goatee and his man bag, and they're getting married next summer. They're
really
in love and do a lot of face-stroking and talking about the wedding at the moment, but she's a great girl; one of the best.

‘What are you eating?' I asked Sam, who was dipping a spoon in a pot of something. ‘Surely you have to forego the diet when you've got a stonking hangover?'

‘I've told you, it's not a diet. It's a healthy eating plan. For life. And it's zero percent fat Greek yoghurt with a drizzle of Manuka honey and a sprinkle of sunflower seeds…'

‘Sounds delicious,' I said sarcastically.

‘It
is
!'

‘I'm more in the line for a big old bacon butty with lots of ketchup.'

‘Ha, good luck. I think they're all gone.' Max usually brought them in for everyone but I looked over to the table where they were usually piled up in paper bags, and yes, they'd all gone. ‘Can I tempt you with some of this?'

‘No thanks, I'd rather eat my own foot.'

‘Oh, yuck!'

Sam needs to know
exactly
what she's eating. She's a forty-something trim, toned-body freak who's permanently on her phone entering data into the My Fitness Pal app. She adds up and enters in the calories of every single thing she's eaten, even if it's only a Polo mint or a banana (apparently bananas have a whole 110 calories. Who knew?) and makes sure she doesn't exceed her daily allowance. It's quite a science. Thankfully for Sam, who does actually
love
food, there is exercise, which can be offset against anything she eats. She goes to the gym before work every morning (one hour's cardio burns 405 calories. That happily cancels out beans on toast, or two portions of porridge, apparently) and does loads of exercise DVDs at home. She's completely bonkers and obsessed and ridiculously focused, but she does look amazing.

‘Surely you didn't go to the gym this morning?' I asked.

‘I did,' she replied. ‘Just an hour's gentle cardio. It sweated out all the booze nicely.' Factoring wine into Sam's daily calorie allowance was quite a feat, although she always managed it.

‘Oh, you're so good.'

‘Halo polished,' she said, rubbing the top of her head.

I admire my meticulous friend. I have the willpower of a slug. The only way I lose weight (if I wanted to, which I don't) is by taking off a bit of (sometimes quite heavy) diamante. I'm quite partial to a bit of bling. I like a brooch, a necklace, a hair clip, earrings. There's nothing in life a bit of sparkle can't cure. I've discovered that. Today, I was livening up my hangover with a blingy, slightly glittery hair band which also covered up some of my horrible hair.

‘Uh oh,' said Sam, polishing off her last mouthful. ‘Bob's been stocking up.'

Bob Sullivan, the station's editor, was walking into the office clutching a Boots bag.

‘All right, ladies?' he enquired, like he always did, thumping the bag down on his desk. Bob never expects an answer to his ‘All right, ladies?' It's rhetorical. He's an antiquated old fart, the only dark cloud in an office full of sunny dispositions. He is thirty-seven going on seventy and the proud possessor of old school, sexist charm. Smarmed back hair. A pseudo posh accent (he hails from Staines.) And a nightmare tendency to get frequent colds.

He proceeded to unpack the contents of his Boots bag onto his desk. A chicken sandwich, a packet of cheese and onion crisps, a Diet Coke, a huge bottle of Night Nurse, a box of Strepsils and a box of blackcurrant Lemsip. He has a stinker of a cold at least every couple of months. He never tires of them, he's an absolute martyr to them and – along with the copious sniffing, the noisy nose-blowing and the indulgent hand-to-forehead plaintive despairing – Bob likes to employ a highly theatrical cough. When enjoying a cold, he coughs
all
the time. He coughs if you ask, ‘How's the cough?' An enquiry to how
he
is, is answered with a cough. And if you even
say
the word ‘cough' he coughs. He announces his presence in the morning with a cough and his departure in the evening with a cough. It's his unique, germ-ridden calling card.