How to Get a (Love) Life (16 page)

My university memories of him were sparse but not all unpromising: he’d been on the tennis team, had a large head of blonde hair, was good looking in a clean-cut way (Ralph Lauren jumpers knotted over the shoulders, boating shoes when not on a boat, etc.), he’d snogged my friend Teresa in a Tesco Express petrol station, and had been on my English course. Also, once a group of us had gone to Weston–super-Mare pier on a day trip and Dan and I had managed to win big on the 10p machines and shared a bag of sugared doughnuts together, so, as I mentioned, not all unpromising. By the time I had reached the door to my flat I felt fired up once more. Perhaps my cinema trip with Dan qualified as a real date? It would surely be more of a success than meeting a stranger. After all, we’d sat in the same lecture theatre for three years together, he had attended my ‘American poetry: from Bates to Whitman’ seminars. That was a fairly firm grounding, and at least we could fall back on university-related conversation. What did you do with your degree? Do you still enjoy American poetry? Do you see anyone else from the course? Do you … Okay, so three questions is more than adequate. LOTS in common.

Chapter Nineteen

I was running, fine, tottering, to make the fair on time. The Annual Bristol Christmas Fayre, held in The Mansion House in Clifton in aid of whichever charity my mother and her friends had decided upon this year, appeared on my calendar every twelve months and was an absolute three-line whip. There was one time, in 2009, when I’d been ill with suspected appendicitis that my brother had actually appeared at my flat, an apologetic look on his face and an ominous warning that he was to ‘fireman’s lift me out of there’ if I refused to go.

I’d abandoned my Christmas present wrapping halfway through and hotfooted it out of the flat, making the brisk walk through Clifton. Sweeping across the gravel path, staring up at the mullioned windows and deep red bricks of the elegant Victorian house, I checked my watch. I pushed open the door and, following signs to the Drawing Room, appeared in the doorway only two feet from where my mother was standing, hair set in a sweeping chignon, large jewels flashing on her ears.

‘Darling, good, I thought you’d forgotten.’

My mother looked at her watch and raised one perfectly drawn-on eyebrow. I glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. I wasn’t great with Roman numerals but even I could quickly deduce I was only one minute late. She cut me off before I could protest.

‘You’re here
now
and that’s the important thing.’ She turned and waved to a woman wearing a terrifyingly large, lilac hat. ‘Penelope, I’ve found her, thank God, we haven’t been let down.’

‘Mum,’ I hissed.

‘Right, darling. We’ve got you an outfit this year. We all thought the event could do with “jazzing up” a little.’

‘Hmm …’ I said, my heart sinking.

She thrust a carrier bag at me and shooed me to the corner of the room, where a heavy oak door announced in faded gold scroll that ‘Madames’ could enter.

‘What do you mean, outfit?’ I spluttered, peering into the top of the bag and making out some green cloth. ‘I thought I was selling cakes!’

‘Penelope’s daughter,
who arrived early
, is already on the cake table and doing a fine job. Anyway, I said you’d be delighted. Do be quick, it’s for the children, darling, don’t forget.’

‘Mum, we’re raising money for Kidson Keyboards not the starving of Africa,’ I stated.

She checked her hand. ‘Oh damn, I think I’ve chipped a nail.’

Ten minutes later I was standing in the cubicle absolutely refusing to emerge.

My mother’s voice swept over me. ‘Nicola, we’re all waiting. The children want to see you.’

‘Oh God,’ I muttered, looking down at myself in hopeless resignation.

I sighed, rearranged the green felt hat and stepped out of the cubicle. Staring into the gilt mirror opposite, I didn’t recognise myself. My bobbed hair was all but hidden under the hat that was slightly too large, my entire body was encased in the colour of freshly-mown grass, and over my shoes I wore large pointed elf feet that curled up at the ends. Thrusting the rest of my clothes in my bag, I reminded myself that we were raising money for charity and I had made my mother a promise. I gave myself a crooked smile, splashed my cheeks with water, wiped under my eyes and headed reluctantly out into the fray.

After doling out sweets and posing for photos, I was now being forced over to the corner of the room to talk to three children swinging their legs as they sat on ornate padded chairs. As I walked towards them, pulling up my elf belt as I went, I felt a flash go off on my right. I turned to see Caroline standing there grinning at me, her two children in tow.

‘Don’t you look a treat,’ she laughed, clutching her stomach in mirth. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you.’ She leaned down to her offspring. ‘Ben, Alice, do you remember Nicola from the office? In her spare time, my loves, she is one of Santa’s helpers.’

Ben’s eyes grew so wide I could make out all the whites around his irises. ‘You help Santa?’ he whispered, awe written all over his cherubic face.

I knelt down to his level. ‘I do,’ I said solemnly. ‘And he has a message for you.’

Ben looked up at his mum and grinned. ‘Whoa.’

I leant forward. ‘It’s a secret message, though, so I have to whisper it. Is that okay?’

Ben nodded twice, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. Caroline smiled, giving me a thumbs up. I cupped a hand around my mouth and bent to whisper in Ben’s ear. He stepped back a moment later and nodded solemnly at me.

‘No one,’ I said again.

‘I promise,’ he whispered.

I stood up, feeling a warm glow as Ben hopped from foot to foot in excitement. Giggling, I turned to Caroline. ‘One very good boy guaranteed till Christmas,’ I laughed.

‘I’ll hold you to that.’

‘Right, I think I’ve done my bit for the kids,’ I said, going to take off my hat.

‘Nic, you’ve been here all of ten minutes! You look cute!’

‘Cute? There are other words I could use,’ I said, catching sight of my feet.

‘Oh, by the way, you did get that contract in the post for Chris yesterday, didn’t you?’ she asked.

I looked at her blankly. Oh no. I put a hand to my mouth. ‘Er …’

‘I put it on your desk for a signature?’ she prompted.

‘I got it, I just, Oh God, Caroline. I never … I forgot …’

Moving quickly to scoop up my bag, I looked at the clock. I had twenty-five minutes until the Post Office closed and the last post would be sent off. If I hurried, I could just about make it.

‘Oh God, Nic, you don’t need to do it now! I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘No, I should I have done it. I have no idea how I forgot. He’ll need it. The job starts this Wednesday.’

‘Well I can pop back and—’

‘—Mum,’ I called, to where she was chatting to Penelope by a tombola stand. ‘Emergency,’ I mimed, not giving her enough time to manoeuvre herself around from behind Penelope’s hat as I raced to the door.

I wished I hadn’t forgotten my coat that morning as I scampered up Park Street, a streak of green felt, earning myself plenty of looks from passers-by and a jeer from a small circle of men clutching pints in a fenced-off area outside the pub. The jingling from the bell in the hat reminded me of my horror but I was too cold to remove it. Anyway, I was nearly at the office. I could change there.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I pictured the contract where I had left it on my desk. It should take me all of ten seconds to find it and send it out. I took out my key and as I put it in, realised the door was already unlocked. I heard voices coming from inside. Opening the door, I stumbled in to see two figures standing in the middle of the room, metres apart, raising their voices at each other.

They turned towards the noise and I realised it was James and Thalia. She was panting slightly, her cheeks two pink spots. He looked grey, two-day-old stubble on his jaw, bloodshot eyes. His mouth was frozen in an ‘O’ as I stepped inside the room, remembering far too late that I was dressed in top-to-toe green felt and I jingled when I walked.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, feeling the heat in my face. ‘I didn’t think anyone would … I’ll just be two … I just came to get …’

‘Oh no, please,’ Thalia put up a manicured hand, stopping me straight in my tracks. ‘We’re finished,’ she said, staring across at James and then sweeping up her handbag from the floor. ‘James,’ she said in a low voice.

‘Thalia,’ he sighed heavily.

‘Shall we go home?’ She lingered over the word ‘home’.

I rushed across to my desk and tugged at the piece of paper I needed and shoved it into my bag. I threw James an apologetic glance. ‘I just knew you needed it sent out now,’ I babbled. ‘Please don’t mind me.’ I backed away towards the door, stumbling over my pointy feet.

‘Well, aren’t you just the most wonderfully helpful elf,’ Thalia said, hands on hips.

‘Nic …’ came James’ voice.

I didn’t get chance to hear what he said as I span around and slammed the door, pausing only briefly to close my eyes and run through the entire scene in my humiliated head. Beautiful, sleek Thalia and her designer handbag, me dressed in a violent shade of green looking like the Christmas hobbit. I breathed out, hearing her voice start up again from the other side of the door, and made it towards the stairs and home, blessed home. But first a rather long walk and a wait in the Post Office. I pushed back onto the high street and waited for more catcalls of and choruses of ‘Jingle Bells’.

Chapter Twenty

Single girl seeks man quite quickly as she has a deadline to meet and no one does anything over Christmas.

Contact: Box No. 2500

I was in my bedroom at the family home in Gloucestershire, perched on the edge of an open sunbed. Across the room, past the dressing table on which was balanced the entire Clinique collection, underneath the pink dumb-bells, massive inflatable ball and strange wire contraption that promised ‘Fab Abs’, was my sad single bed, complete with sad stuffed teddy bear that peered at me accusingly out of its sad solitary eye. I sighed and lay down on the sunbed. I didn’t close the top but rested my head back onto the little leather cushion and allowed myself to drift away in the peace and quiet.

I’d been home for all of three hours and my mother had already made me want to take the teaspoon I’d been using to stir my tea and use it to scoop out my own eye.

‘Nicola, that top, it’s very ageing,’ she had announced on opening the door to me, airily giving me a double kiss on the cheeks in an effort to sweeten her harsh words.

‘Thanks, Mother,’ I replied, knowing she loathed anyone reminding her she was the mother of two children. Especially two
adult
children.

She looked suitably put out as I manoeuvred myself out of her clutches.

Her latest husband, Guy, had been outside on the patio, barking down a sleek and sophisticated-looking mobile phone and had managed to raise a hand in greeting. I had raised one back and suspected that that might constitute the extent of our seasonal bonding session.

‘Nicola, must you really keep wearing your hair in such a severe style?’ mum had asked, sighing as she looked me up and down. ‘Penelope was saying to me, seconds before you abandoned us the other day, that she thought you’d suit a longer style …’

Fortunately, she had then realised her Hatha yoga session was starting any moment and had rushed out to do the ‘Reverse Warrior’ pose with a bunch of manicured local ladies for the next hour.

I took my suitcase upstairs and arranged my belongings in an orderly fashion. Placing a hand on the banister, I turned to look at my reflection in the hall mirror. I dropped the suitcase and walked forward, smoothed my hair down and ran the ends through my fingers. Maybe I would let it grow a little longer. This bobbed haircut showed off my long neck and large grey eyes but, perhaps, it could be a little softer. Maybe I could even pop some highlights in it. I blinked and looked away, feeling silly at my sudden intense scrutiny.

Padding through the upstairs hallway, I stopped next to a pile of boxes ominously labelled ‘Nicola’. A flash of silver caught my eye and I moved across to a box in the corner, under a large canvas of my mother and Guy kissing by a turquoise sea, to see a photo in a frame lying on the top of a pile of dog-eared books, pens, and other paraphernalia. I had the brief feeling of being at the top of a roller coaster about to plummet down as I bent, now in automatic, to retrieve the picture. I hadn’t seen this photo in years. It used to stand tall on my bedside table. I’d often gaze at it before reaching to turn off the bedside lamp. I picked it up and felt the hurt wash through me. Seeing us together, so confident, happy, made my heart lurch. It wasn’t like seeing him on Facebook, disconnected from me in his new, separate life. This was a stark reminder of how we used to be. How I used to be. I felt the old pain resurface.

He had one arm on my hip, I had one arm round his waist, a hand in his back pocket. I was looking up at him, grinning at something he had said. He was wearing the blue jumper I’d given him for his birthday, my body pressed up against the soft wool. I was wearing my favourite short cream dress, vintage lace around the neck, capped sleeves, brown knee-high boots that he’d loved so I’d worn them long after the scuffs and scrapes should have consigned them to a bin. We’d been at a friend’s party. It had been two weeks before the day it had all ended. I’d thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together. I’d really thought I had landed on my feet, used to smugly cock my head to one side as friends told me their tales of terrible dates, overbearing men, selfish boyfriends. I’d feel relief that I had found the one good man. The exception to all the disasters I listened to. I placed the picture back on the pile face down so that he was no longer smiling at me from seven years ago, my happiness, my world, in his hands.

My eyes had been closed for what felt like all of two minutes, when I heard the sound of Mark’s moped turning into the driveway outside. It was faint because I’d had to close the top of the sunbed to block out the sound of Guy screaming at someone called Marie about some stocks she should have sold at least an hour ago. Mark would be quick to help Mum relax and distract us all with some story from work, some documentary idea, or some grizzly animal DVD. I opened the sunbed and waited to hear his familiar resigned sigh as he took in the latest carpet colour (currently a tasteful stone grey wool) my mother had had fitted. I got up to greet him at the front door. I heard giggling, followed by girlish squealing. Frowning, I went to investigate. As I peered over the landing banister, I watched in amazement as Mark tumbled through the front door with an attractive woman in his wake. I was yet more amazed to hear him call her ‘Carol’. I instantly liked her when I heard her insisting, ‘Mark it’s a MOPED.’