Cloudy with a Chance of Love (4 page)

‘All right, Bob?' called out Sam. She's the cheeky one, in our office.

Bob coughed. ‘Yes, thank you, Samantha. I've just got a light cold, darling. How's the interview with the mayor coming along?'

‘Swimmingly,' said Sam. ‘She's squeezing us in between appointments on Thursday. Coming into the studio to do it live. Are you still happy with the expenses angle?'

‘Yes, just make sure we cover it subtly; we don't want a diplomatic row – no duck houses or anything. Rob will do a great job with it, I'm sure.'

‘Okay, Bob. No prob.'

She winked at me. Bob arranged his new purchases amongst his old: cough linctus, a bottle of eucalyptus, a jiffy bag of echinacea capsules and a man-sized box of tissues. His hands tend to flicker between all these miracle medicines like he's the pinball wizard. But there is no twist. Bob
with cold
is just unbearable.

I settled at my desk and attempted to tidy it. I was in a rush when I left on Friday night and had left it in a bit of a state. It was less cluttered than it used to be, though; I used to have photos of me and Jeff everywhere, even a photo of me and Jeff and
that cow
, which had obviously been ceremoniously burnt (not really, but I had chucked it in the big black bin round the back of the studio). Now there were just three gorgeous photos of Freya, from babyhood to today, the most recent of her on her first day at Smith College London. My girl. I was so bloody proud of her. I logged onto my computer and tried to get my head round checking the rolling information for today's forecast. It was going to be a long day.

My first bulletin was at twenty past nine. It's always a bit of a rush to get that one written but it went well. It wasn't a particularly complex weather story today. Grey skies all day – but no rain. A light north-westerly breeze and temperatures averaging ten degrees. Cold for the early autumn but not unheard of. My task for the day, really, after gathering all the information from the satellite and radar pictures, was to think of seven different ways to say the same thing. Easy: I just enjoyed talking about the weather. Rob Wright was very cheery this morning and we had a little bit of banter after my bulletin about pet reptiles, one of his featured topics this morning. I made him laugh by drily saying ‘I'm more of a cat person,' and he cut to the beginning of a record, grinning.

‘Lovely job, Daryl. See you for the next.'

‘Thanks, Rob.'

When I arrived back at my desk from the studio, Sam was waiting there, waggling two sachets of green tea.

‘Ugh, I don't want that,' I said. ‘I want cake and hot chocolate and cheesy mashed potato, preferably all at once.'

‘Aw, please come and make a hot drink with me? There's something I want to talk to you about.'

‘Okay,' I said. ‘As it's you.'

I trotted after her to the radio station's kitchen. It has hideous saloon type doors which ricochet off each other about twenty times after someone has pushed through them. They were still going after the kettle had boiled.

‘Only twenty-five calories per cup,' she said to me, as she poured boiling water into mugs.

‘Yummy.'

‘Hey, remember that forecast thing we did yesterday?'

‘Oh, yeah! I'd forgotten all about that.' I had actually. I hadn't forgotten chucking my wedding ring in the fountain though. I kept going to twist it round my finger, like I always used to, and it was still odd it wasn't there any more. It was good, though. It was all good.

‘What was my forecast again? A ninety percent chance of falling on my face, sorry, falling in
love
by Friday.'

‘Ninety-
nine
percent.'

‘Oh, yes, pardon me. What a load of hooey,' I said, shaking my head. ‘And I certainly won't fall in love
this
Friday. It'll be the last thing on my mind. I've got Freya's graduation and Jeff's going to be there.' I pulled a face. The nearer it got, the more I was starting to dread it.

‘You'll be okay,' said Sam. ‘You're strong now. Anyway, it says
by
Friday. So it could be before. I think we should at least give it a
chance
.'

‘But I told you yesterday,' I said. ‘I
think
I did, anyway – it's all a bit hazy. I don't
want
to fall in love. Love hurts, cheats and fails. It leads to no good. I just wouldn't mind a few dates, here and there, that's all. Though I really don't know where I'm going to find any. And please don't say online dating again,' I added, quickly. ‘No way am I doing that! Don't even think about it!'

‘Okay,' said Sam, stirring the teas before lifting out the squashed tea bags and lobbing them in the bin. ‘No online dating. But I think you should try and date as many men as you can this week. Starting tonight.'

‘
Tonight
. Right. A Monday night. What do you want me to do, just go and grab someone off the street? See if Bob Sullivan's free?' Bob had been single for years – who would have him, with that nose? ‘I
really
don't fancy spending the evening listening to him coughing over a tin of Fisherman's Friends.'

‘No! Not Bob, and not someone off the street.' She paused, sucked the end of her spoon, then paused again. ‘Speed dating.'

‘Speed dating!'

‘Yep.'

‘Do they still do that? Wasn't that a noughties thing?'

‘Well, yeah, it was. But they still do it. It's evolved.'

‘Into what? You now go round the tables on a Segway?' I sighed. ‘I can't imagine anything worse, Sam. A bunch of unattractive singles moving from table to table like a sad carousel.' I attempted a sip of the green tea then put it down on the side again. ‘Isn't it for losers who've looked for love in all the right places and come up with nothing?'

‘What a delightful picture you paint! And I'm not a loser, and neither are you!'

‘
I'm
not going!'

‘Listen, there's one in Wimbledon tonight, at the Old Brewery, and I think we should go. Think how many men will be there – all under one roof!'

‘That's what's putting me off!' I countered. ‘I said I fancied a few dates, not to have to face a roomful of gagging-for-it men. I'm not sure, Sam, I'm all hungover and… I don't feel I'm ready!'

‘Of course you're ready, you've said so! And if
you're
not,
I
am! Some of them might be quite nice. Please come with me.'

‘Ah, right, so this is all about you!' I put a teasing arm round her waist. ‘Talk about emotional blackmail!' She put a return arm round me and gave me a pleading look. We resembled a pair of same-sex figure skaters. ‘Okay, I'll think about it.'

‘Great!'

‘I'm going back to my desk now. Thanks for the tea. You know I'm not going to drink it, don't you?'

‘Yes, I know.'

My next bulletin was at three minutes past eleven, straight after the news. I had time to think about Sam's proposition. Even actually
in
the noughties, when speed dating first came out, I would have said ‘no'. That I'd rather stick pins in my eyes. Lie down in a pit of snakes and take my chances. But I
had
said I wanted to date again. That I was up for fun, flirting and frivolity. It had been one part of my four-
point plan. And Sam really wanted to go; she'd looked like an over-excited puppy with an open back door and a sunny garden in its sights. Plus, she'd come up to London at the drop of a hat yesterday, when I'd asked her. I know she'd had a semi-firm date lined up, with an accountant from East Sheen, which she'd cancelled.

‘Hey, Peony!'

Peony was walking past with a box full of tapes and stuff. She's all blonde and petite and gorgeous. Super-efficient, too; Max is a lucky man.

‘Hey, Daryl. How you doing? Feeling any better?'

‘Ah, Sam said she'd told you about our little adventure yesterday. Yes, a bit, thanks.'

‘You're incorrigible, you two.'

I shrugged and grinned. ‘I know. What can you do? So, when are you coming out with us again? It's been ages.'

‘I know. Sorry, I've been so busy with planning the wedding and all that stuff… and Max…' It was her turn to shrug. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘I know,' I said. ‘We'll be waiting for you. We're always available for meeting up.'

‘I know you are. And I'm glad you're back on social track, these days.' She gave me one of her lovely smiles. ‘We'll definitely do it soon, I promise. So… I hear the absolute came through.'

‘Yes.'

‘And you're feeling okay about it?'

‘Peony, I feel fabulous about it, I really do. A really painful chapter of my life has finally come to an end.'

‘Well, that's wonderful, Daryl. Really wonderful.' And she plonked down her box and came and gave me a hug. She always smelled like flowers.
Her
marriage would work out, I knew it would. Well, mine had, for quite a while. Until Jeff had turned out to be an absolute bastard. But she was marrying Max, who was great. They would last the distance and he wouldn't go off with any of Peony's friends – most of us were far too old for him, anyway. ‘So what are you going to do now?'

‘A housewarming, next month some time, after I've spruced my new house up a bit. And Sam wants me to go speed dating with her tonight.'

‘Oh, wow! Oh, you should!'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘What's the worst that could happen?'

I thought about it. I could meet a bunch of absolute idiots. I could meet someone who I thought wasn't an absolute idiot but then he'd turn out to be one. I could fall in love. That was the worst. I didn't want to risk my heart ever again; I couldn't bear it to be trampled on as mercilessly as Jeff had done. Yes, I was okay now. Yes, I had survived and was ready to embrace my future. But there was no way I could put myself through it all again.

My silence and the tragi-comic look on my face must have spoken volumes. Peony laughed. ‘Look, just don't go expecting to meet the love of your life, you probably won't.'

‘No, I don't want
that
. God, no. The love of my life was almost its ruin.'

She smiled at me sympathetically for a moment and then said, ‘So, go! Go for a laugh, a giggle, a good night out. Don't take it seriously.' She gathered up her box. ‘I'll see you later, Daryl. I've got to go and drive the afternoon desk.'

‘Happy driving! Thanks Peony.'

She walked away and I went to twiddle the empty spot on the third finger of my left hand, relieved once again to find my ring wasn't there any more. Peony was wise. Peony was
right.
I was divorced now, my wedding ring was off. I was
over
it. I should be ready to put myself out there, for fun, for a laugh. I could
go
speed dating, though I would make it clear to Sam there'd be no falling in love with anyone. There wouldn't even be any kissing of any frogs, and I imagine there'd be a
lot
of frogs there tonight. I couldn't see any prince among men turning up to speed dating.

I texted Sam, from across the office.

Okay, I'm up for it. Let's do it.

Chapter Three

I just had the four forty-seven weather bulletin to go. Things had been getting more exciting since my three o'clock. There was the chance of a heavy shower tonight; a new weather pattern was moving in from the north of France. I was looking at all the charts and writing my report. But my thoughts were elsewhere. I'd said ‘yes' to Sam but as soon as I had, almost at the
instant
the text had sent, I started getting the wobblies, big time.

She immediately sent me back a text saying ‘
Fabulous
!' but I was already panicking I'd made the wrong decision, and felt steadily worse as the afternoon went on. I was going
speed dating
! I'd been doing so well, making a brand new start by moving into a new house, celebrating my divorce, thinking about plans for my future, but actually dipping my toe into the waters of dating – and meeting real, actual men – was suddenly really scaring me. I'd finally emerged from the storm clouds my ex-husband had thrown me into; did I really want to risk stepping into the swirling, often dangerous mists of
romance
again, whatever that entailed?

I didn't know. I felt all weak and pathetic, far from the spirited woman who had chucked her wedding ring in the fountain and declared herself ready for flirting and dating again. I started doubting myself again. Thinking it was
me
. As I checked and double-checked the satellite picture of the cloud patterns over South West London, my brain dumped me back in the past, a place I really didn't want to visit any more…

I'd been a good wife. An excellent one. I'd been loving and attentive; there was a dinner on the table for Jeff every night, and not just a warmed-up ready meal thrown onto the kitchen table with the cutlery following it, either. I made a real effort. I put a cloth on the table. I'd sometimes do a starter. I'd sometimes even light bloody candles. I was a pretty fabulous wife, which was actually quite a feat for someone as disorganised as me who wasn't a natural cook. I worked really hard at the whole wife thing.

In my teens I'd been quite scathing about marriage and had openly scoffed at the mention of it. My mum had said things to me like ‘Make sure you get yourself a good career. You don't want to spend your life washing someone's pants!' and I had totally agreed and laughed along with her – I'd worn ra-ra skirts, electric blue eyeliner and attitude in those days. And I
did
get myself a good career, straight after university, starting as tea girl and runner at Court FM before working my way up to receptionist and, eventually, weather presenter, believing I'd never be swallowed up into the loathsome role of housewife and drudge. Even after Jeff and I had Freya, and were living together, I resisted that role. Yet, somehow in the late nineties and the early noughties I became seduced by the whole thing: a meringue wedding dress; a sleek kitchen diner with a skylight and sliding glass doors to the garden; Jamie Oliver recipes; a bread maker; and domestic bliss peddled by shows such as
Location, Location, Location
where well-to-do, loved-up couples rejected gorgeous house after gorgeous house in idyllic villages…