Cloudy with a Chance of Love (6 page)

I phoned her. We always picked up to each other. A call from Gabby never went unanswered and vice versa. She didn't answer me, though. Not today. Her phone rang and rang. I left voicemails, texts. Nothing.

I drove back round to her house. She wasn't there. I hammered on her door for half an hour – see, I have form for embarrassing myself in front of neighbours. I sobbed on her doorstep for a further hour and then I drove home. It had turned out later they'd gone to a hotel. And Jeff wouldn't be coming home again. Ever.

My last bulletin went really well. The afternoon presenter, Pippa Honeywell, was setting a competition and chatted to me about some of the prizes. They were eclectic, as always: a trip to the local owl sanctuary, a case of peach schnapps, a ticket to see this year's panto at Wimbledon Theatre. It was a giggle and cheered me up; my job always did. As I drove home, I tried to think positively again. Jeff was gone; he was no longer my concern and neither was Gabby. And thank god I had my friends Sam and Peony; they had really stepped up since everything had happened. I owed them a lot. They'd met
Gabby loads, over the years and had liked her, but their loyalty to me was fierce and they hadn't seen her since her betrayal. None of us had. My focus now was Freya – who I must ring tomorrow, actually. I needed to know the exact times for her graduation – and my own future. I decided I would definitely go speed dating tonight – to not let Sam down, mainly – and I
had
to go with what Peony said: treat it as just a laugh, just a giggle, don't take it too seriously. I could do that. There was no ninety-nine percent chance of anything. Except me having a good laugh. And my hangover had completely evaporated now, which was helping.

As I got out of my car, Will was coming out of his house and locking the front door. He worked odd hours, I knew – he'd told me when he looked round my house. He was a consultant paediatrician at St Martin's Hospital, in central London.

‘Hello. I've got a meeting,' he said simply. He looked nice; he had a very smart suit on. He always looked smart for work. I'd seen him out of my kitchen window loads of times last week, getting into his car with his files and his briefcase.

‘Oh, right.' I was embarrassed, so embarrassed. I'd planned to go round and apologise, but now I'd been caught unawares, seeing him again, I felt stupid and unprepared. Oh, the shame of it. The last time he'd clapped eyes on me,
I'd
looked far from smart. Staggering into one's house, half cut and with only one shoe on is
never
a good look. ‘I'm so sorry about last night,' I said. ‘I'm absolutely mortified.'

‘Don't worry about it,' he said, smiling and looking far from cross. ‘It was funny.'

‘Was it? I thought it was just excruciatingly embarrassing. I'm so sorry,' I repeated.

‘It's fine. Honestly. Forget about it. We've all been there.'

‘I don't think we've all quite been
there
, have we?' I quipped, motioning at the ground.

‘Well, no,' he said, ‘but most people have been daft and drunk, at one time or another.'

‘I was definitely
both
of those.' I smiled at him. He smiled back. He thought it was okay; he thought
I
was okay. I knew he had a good sense of humour, after the whole Save the Whale thing, but I hadn't known if it would extend to drunk neighbours in distress.

‘So, how's the decorating going?'

‘I haven't started yet,' I said. I hadn't. I'd spent the last week unpacking, faffing around and watching telly. Besides, I wasn't sure I was competent enough to do it. I knew I'd end up with paint everywhere and make a right hash of it. Jeff and I had always hired someone in. In fact, I was probably going to do the same in this house – it would save an awful lot of swearing.

‘Do you want me to help you? Tomorrow maybe? After work? I get home early on a Tuesday.'

I was so surprised. ‘Really? Would you? That's awfully kind of you.' Blimey, that
was
nice of him. I could hardly say no, could I? … Despite the fact it would be a lot simpler just to get some professional painters and decorators in. Despite the fact I could just
tell
him I'd be doing that and he'd just happily retract his offer… And nothing to do with the fact a tiny,
teensy
part of me thought it would be nice to spend some time with him, which I immediately told myself sternly off for. One: I was starting a whole new chapter of my life, in my new house; the last thing I wanted was some sort of torrid fling with my next door neighbour. And two: it would be a horrible cliché to get even so much as a crush on him – I'd had enough of horrible clichés, what with my husband running off with my best friend…

‘Half five?' he suggested, looking at his watch. ‘Is this the time you usually get home?'

‘Yes, it is,' I replied. ‘Half five would be fab. Thank you. That would be really great. Thank you very much indeed.' Okay, now I was sounding like a bumbling idiot. You will not get an inappropriate crush on this man, I told myself. You will not get an appropriate crush on this man – however good looking he is. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.'

Okay, time to shut up and go in.

‘Great,' he said. ‘Well, see you then.'

‘Yes, bye. Thanks, Will. Have a nice time.' And I thumped my own head with my hand once I'd got inside my front door.
Have a nice time
? He was going to
work.

Chapter Four

‘I won't be a minute. I'm in a frazz, as usual.'

I was in Sam's kitchen. The contents of her bag appeared to be scattered across her kitchen table: tissues, lipsticks, purse, nail file, powder compact, make-up brushes and something that looked like one of those Fitbit heart monitors. In the middle was an opened bottle of fizzy pink plonk with a huge half-full wine glass next to it. She took a large swig.

‘I know you're driving, but do you want a sneaky half a glass?'

‘Oh god, no thanks, Sam. There's no way I'm drinking after last night.'

‘Sure? Cup of tea?'

‘I don't think we have time, do we?'

Sam wasn't ready and I'd been five minutes late as it was.

‘Probably not,' she said, rifling through a drawer and pulling out random five pound notes to stuff in her purse. ‘Here,' she said, picking up and thrusting the glass in my hand. ‘Go on, have a quick sip. It'll calm your nerves.'

‘I'm not nervous.' Dread might be a better word. But I took a large sip anyway.

‘Hair of the dog. Never hurts.' Sam grabbed a sheer black t-shirt from the side and threw it over her balcony bra and impossibly sculpted abs.

‘You look amazing,' I said.

‘Thanks,' said Sam, attempting to see her reflection in the door of the microwave. ‘You don't think the sheerness is a bit much? I'm trying to distract from my face.'

‘What's wrong with your face?'

‘Nothing a large syringe of Botox and a week in the Bahamas wouldn't cure.'

‘Honestly, Sam, you look fabulous.' For all her zealous calorie-counting and burpees and Power Yoga DVDs, my dear friend had her insecurities, like the rest of us.

‘Thanks,' she said, sounding unconvinced. ‘And look at
you
!' she continued. ‘You'll be beating them off with a stick!'

I looked down at my black pencil skirt and black suede courts. I'd tried to make an effort tonight despite my mixed feelings about the evening. I'd put on my slinkiest cream blouse (with diamante buttons) and my most flattering skirt, and had taken
ages
with my make-up. My usual three-minute pre-work slap on probably wouldn't cut it tonight – I'd used all the players in my make-up arsenal, including a new brow pencil I was experimenting with. I was risking a slightly grumpy-looking Scouse Brow but I think it had worked okay. Sam hadn't said anything, anyway.

‘You don't think I look a bit mumsy?'

‘Not at all, you look classic.'

‘Thanks, Sam, you say all the right things.'

I have to be a careful dresser. I have a lot to
contain
. There's that phrase, isn't there, about pouring curves into clothes; in my case, it's more like stuffing them in, but I can hold up okay, with the right scaffolding (i.e. Spanx) and the right style of clothes. I never wear trousers, for example, they make me look like a traffic warden. I tried to lose weight once, but it didn't really work; my face went all gaunt and I looked weird so I decided to keep my curves. Jeff always said he liked them – he said he
loved
my sizeable bottom – but obviously he didn't, not that much. He now prefers to get a handle on the skinny witch that is Gabby. My curves were too much for him, that's all I can conclude. A better man would have appreciated them forever.

So I'd donned the scaffolding and clothes I hoped suited me. Before I'd left the house at half eight, I'd checked myself from all angles and given myself a once-over with the de-fluffing roller, then I'd thrown on my beige faux-fur coat and tottered out of the house with an enforced wiggle. This pencil skirt
was
on the tight side, but was a trusted favourite. I hoped Sam was right and that I looked classic and not an old fright.

‘Are you nearly ready?' I asked Sam.

‘Nearly,' she said. ‘I've just got to do my nails. Are you excited about tonight, Daryl?'

‘Excited? No. Looking forward to it in a weird, kind of warped-curiosity way? Yes.'

She sat down, grabbed a fuchsia nail polish from a drawer she pulled out behind her, and started painting her nails.

‘Are you scared to put yourself out there, because of what happened with Jeff?'

‘Mmm, let me see,' I said. I pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. ‘I loved a man, thought he loved me, gave him a daughter, was married to him for umpteen years despite him being a bit of an arse, then he ran off with my best friend. Of course I'm scared. You
know
I am!'

‘You'll be okay, Daryl, honestly. I'll be there. How does it feel without your wedding ring?'

I looked down at my left hand and twiddled the space where my ring used to be.

‘Honestly? Half fabulous, half really, really sad. But I'm glad it's gone.'

‘If you feel sad with it missing you can always get some big old costume jewellery for the other fingers.'

‘Hmm… there's not looking mumsy, then there's crazy lady!'

‘Ha, nothing wrong with a little bit of crazy!'

‘
You'd
know!'

‘Absolutely,' she grinned. ‘You really will be fine, you know. And if you're not, I'm here to catch you.'

‘Well, thank you. Don't do it yet, though – your nails aren't dry.'

I finally got her out of her kitchen fifteen minutes later, but she was now faffing with her hair at the hall mirror. I tried to steer her towards the front door with both hands on her shoulders.

‘Come on,' I pleaded with her as she reached for the Elnett the seventeenth time. ‘Put that down. We've done all we can. And it's going to have to be
very
speed-y dating if we turn up half an hour late!'

Chapter Five

There were an awful lot of people wearing an
awful
lot of outlandish clothes for an event that wasn't supposed to be fancy dress.

Sam had insisted it wasn't. I'd had a sudden thought about it in the car – was tonight themed, were there to be any crazy costumes involved? – but she'd assured me, no, there was no dressing up tonight. It was just normal speed dating, she'd said, reading from a flyer all about it, followed by a disco. It
was
over-forties, she admitted, which was actually quite a relief. Sam and I both were, obviously, and to be honest I was glad the place wasn't going to be full of terrible toy boys where we would feel pressure to look and act young. I didn't want to try and be down with the kids and have to pretend I knew all about Tweeting and Snapchat or whatever. I couldn't be doing with all that. Over forty was fine.

As soon as we walked into the packed gastro pub with the massive windows and the shiny oak floor, I turned to Sam and shook my head at her.

‘Sam!'

‘Oops.' She put three fingers to her lips and giggled. So did I.

There before us, some chatting away animatedly, some standing around looking nervous, were dozens of people clearly in full fancy dress. Unless of course Ringo Starr and Katy Perry (dressed in the leopard-print bikini from her Roar video) had fancied a spot of speed dating in South West London tonight. I spotted a Bublé, a Madonna (the pointy bra years), a Britney Spears (sexy flight attendant guise), two Michael Jacksons, a portly Buddy Holly and a Lady Gaga who, quite frankly, could have made a bit more of an effort – she was in a red leotard and a pair of flip-flops, and was wearing three packs of bacon round her neck, on a string. In one corner, a kaleidoscope of eighties band members and musicians had gravitated towards each other like the kindred spirits they were. Look, it's Sting! Blimey, there's Boy George with a beer belly! Hold onto your shuttlecocks; is that George Michael, in an ill-fitting wig and some tennis shorts? It looked like a microcosm of the Band Aid studio; somewhere amongst them, Bono would be lurking, looking earnest.

‘For god's sake!' I exclaimed. ‘Show me that flyer!'

Sam fished it back out of her bag. I scanned it quickly, and there, across the bottom, in hot pink letters it said,
Fancy dress. Theme: Music Icons through the Decades
.

‘I didn't read down that far,' Sam protested.

I looked down at my plain pencil skirt and my silky blouse. I suppose, if pushed, I could say I'd come as someone from an eighties band… I tried to remember what those two girls off The Human League had looked like – Susanne and Thingy. I could say I'd come as one of them, the blonde one, and that yes, she'd
obviously
put on quite a bit of weight since the good old days of working as a waitress in
a cocktail bar and gyrating behind Phil Oakey… Was she an icon though? Not especially. At least Sam had on leather leggings and that sheer black t-shirt; she could pretend she'd come as a dressed-down Cher. Or a really tall Cheryl Cole.