Ivy Lane: Winter: (6 page)

I was thrilled for them, truly I was. I wrapped my arms around myself and tiptoed away, intent on keeping a brave smile on my face.
Tilly Parker, you are a match-making genius.

Why was it that everyone else’s love life seemed so much simpler to sort out than my own?

The following Friday, I convinced myself that my body needed some TLC more than it needed a night at the pub with Freya and her friends. So it was pamper night
chez moi
. I’d had a steaming hot bath, given myself a pedicure, massaged a hot oil treatment into my hair and was about to apply a face mask that promised to ‘re-moisturize, replenish and rehydrate’.

The cold weather had been playing havoc with my skin recently and being on playground duty every lunchtime this week had been the last straw. I had chapped lips, flaky patches on my cheeks and red nostrils from excessive nose blowing. My hair wasn’t much better either. An aversion to the hairdresser’s combined with a fondness for my hair straighteners meant that I had a serious case of the longest split ends in the western hemisphere.

Normally I would have roped Gemma in to sort me out with a few beauty treatments, but her tummy was so round and taut these days, that even brushing her own hair left her breathless. So I’d carted home half the contents of Boots’ ‘emergency repair’ counter and was going it alone.

Besides, Gemma was having an early night tonight. I knew this because she had been here earlier and we had spent an expensive hour shopping online for all her baby needs. In the end, she hadn’t fancied ‘real shopping’. She declared herself too big to waddle around sweltering shops that were packed with too many Christmas shoppers and too few loos, and so we had opted for some virtual shopping instead. In all honesty, this had suited me better. I probably wouldn’t have been the only non-pregnant woman in the baby department of John Lewis, but I would have felt like I was.

I snipped off the corner of a sachet of blueberry face mask, squeezed the contents into the palm of my hand and applied it in a gentle massaging motion, avoiding the ‘delicate eye area’ as per the instructions. I studied my reflection as I washed my hands. I certainly looked like a blueberry anyway.

My phone rang and I answered it, trying to keep the guilt out of my voice when I saw who the caller was.

‘Hello, Freya!’

‘So are you up for it tonight? We’re already in The Feathers – you know, the pub on Shenton Road – then we’re going into Kingsfield later.’

I’d thought about joining her and her friends for drinks tonight but the truth was I wasn’t ‘up for it’, whatever ‘it’ might be. I still felt awkward in social occasions on my own, I still didn’t drink much and I still had . . . I glanced at the clock . . . five hours left of November.

‘Can I take a rain check, Freya? Only I’m a bit tired and . . .’ My voice petered out. It was only seven o’clock and I’d been about to admit that I was already in my dressing gown and pyjamas. I was pathetic, certainly, but there was no need to advertise it.

‘No worries. Oh, by the way, you don’t happen to know if that gorgeous bloke at your allotment is single, do you?’

I grinned. ‘The tall, muscly, good-looking one?’

She sighed longingly. ‘The very same.’

‘That’s Charlie and yes he is. Do you want me to put in a good word?’

I held the phone away from my ear as Freya squealed her answer.

I was still smiling as I ended the call. I’d got out of that one nicely and to top it off I might have made another romantic match. I was getting to be quite the expert at this! Now I could look forward to a relaxing evening in front of the TV while my beauty treatments worked their magic.

Unfortunately, just as I was lowering my bottom onto the sofa, remote control in one hand, steaming hot chocolate in the other, there was a sudden thunderous knock at my front door. I yelped in surprise, tried to stand back up too quickly and tipped scalding hot liquid down the lapel of my white dressing gown.

The downside of a terraced house, I’d come to realize, as I dithered on the spot deciding what to do first, is that there’s no option of pretending to be out. The living room was at the front of the house; whoever had decided to call round at this particularly inconvenient moment would have seen the light on and probably even heard the TV.

There was nothing else for it, I sighed, catching my blueberry-tinted reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, I would have to answer the door.

‘Bear with me!’ I shouted in the direction of the front door and dashed into the kitchen to remove the worst of the mess.

‘Nobody ever knocks on my door when I’m looking at my best,’ I muttered to myself as I rummaged in my bag for my door keys. Why didn’t I get unexpected visitors when my hair was softly styled, my make-up immaculate and my outfit flattering? I rolled my eyes. I never looked like that.

Finally I unlocked the door, trying not to twitch as the face mask started to peel away from my upper lip.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting . . . oh! Hello.’

I don’t know who I’d been expecting; I’d been too concerned with my appearance to think that far ahead. Someone from school maybe, or the allotment or perhaps Hayley, she popped round occasionally to fill me in on her news . . . but not this stranger.

My visitor was a young woman with wiry black hair wearing a Minnie Mouse sweatshirt, a floral corduroy skirt and brogues. It was an unusual outfit by anyone’s standards, but particularly for someone in her twenties. Even more surprising was that she was holding Cally in her arms. My Cally! He sprang out of her grasp and slunk past me.

The girl gave me a nervous smile and twisted her hands together.

‘I’ve been knocking for ages, quietly at first, but you didn’t answer so I gave it one last knock. I hope I didn’t frighten you?’

I shook my head and tried to cover up the wet patch on my dressing gown.

‘Would you like to come in?’

‘Oh, no. I just wanted to let you know that your cat has been spending a lot of time in my house recently.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘So that’s where he’s been. He hardly comes home at night these days. I’m sorry about that.’

‘I live directly behind this house, our gardens back on to each other. So he hasn’t been far away.’

‘Oh right; well, thank you very much, then.’ I put my hand on the door, a gentle signal to end the conversation. After all, it was cold, she didn’t want to come in and my face was getting really itchy.

‘I, um . . . this is a bit difficult,’ she said, turning the toe of her shoe inwards awkwardly.

I looked at her foot and then up at her face, my expression questioning and waiting.

‘It’s just that I’ve got a cat called Pebbles.’ She blushed, pushed her thumb up to her mouth and began to chew on the nail. ‘She’s expecting kittens and I think your cat is the father.’

I gasped. ‘Cally? But he’s only a kitten himself! He’s not even one yet!’ My brain was whirring: what were my responsibilities, how would we know for sure if they were his kittens, would I have to keep some of the litter?

‘I believe male cats are,’ she cleared her throat, ‘sexually active from as young as six months old.’

‘Oh.’ I was momentarily glad that my face was coated in a purple layer as it probably went some way to hiding my mortification.

Slightly bewildered, I fetched my phone and we swapped numbers and she promised to get in touch when the kittens were born. I waved her off, shut the door and leaned against it heavily.

Great. Even my cat has got a girlfriend.

I turned my phone over and over in my hand and felt my heart thump against my chest.

It was the last day in November. Tonight I was officially going to give up on the idea of Aidan and me ever getting together.

I had neither heard from him nor been brave enough to contact him myself. And that meant, according to my self-imposed ultimatum, that as of tomorrow I was declaring myself on the market. I shuddered at the expression, it made me sound like a house, or a second-hand car, or worse, downright desperate. Perhaps ‘open to amorous advances’ would be more appropriate. A bit Jane Austen, though.

Well, pardon me, Jane Austen.

Gemma’s words when I’d said I was waiting for Aidan to phone me.

I still had his number.

He didn’t have mine.

Oh my word. Aidan didn’t have my number! Why on earth had that not occurred to me before?

My heart ached suddenly and I hauled myself back upstairs to the bathroom. My fingers were shaking as I rinsed the oil from my hair and peeled the rubbery mask from my face.

Was this it, then? The end of the line for Aidan and me? What if I was throwing away something special out of pride or propriety or fear? I pressed my fingers to my lips and stared at my pink face in the bathroom mirror while my heart debated the matter in hand with my head.

Heart: I’ve come so far this year, building a new life for myself, a new career, a new town, why shouldn’t I be the one to make the call? What’s the worst that could happen?

Head: He could turn you down and then you’d be devastated.

Heart: But that kiss – kisses, in fact – I haven’t been imagining it, I’m sure; there was chemistry between us, a connection.

Head: True . . .

Before my head had completely made its mind up my heart had decided on behalf of both of them and my entire body was already quivering.

I swallowed, scrolled through my contacts to where I had saved his number, as yet undialled but already stored under ‘favourites’.

My finger hovered over his name. And I pressed the call button.

The number began to ring. An English dial tone. Phew. At least he was still in the country, in the same time zone as me, it would have been awful if he was somewhere else and it was the middle of the night . . .

‘Hello, Aidan’s phone?’

It was a woman. I could hear the smile in her voice, she sounded breathless and distracted, as if I’d interrupted something . . .

Perhaps I
had
interrupted something. Something of a personal nature. My mouth went dry and my heart hammered in my ears. ‘I . . . I . . . sorry, wrong number.’

I cut off the call and dropped the phone into the sink.

Why, why, why had I listened to my heart instead of my head? Of course he would have found someone else by now – he was talented, handsome, entertaining, kind-hearted . . . Of course he wouldn’t still be single.

Arrghhh!

A sudden picture of Aidan and a woman lying in bed, languid and lazy from love-making made my stomach flip over and I clutched my throat. I shut my eyes tight to banish the image.

So that was that.

I needed a drink.

I pulled on my jeans, applied a layer of mascara, a slick of lipgloss and waved the hairdryer around until my hair was just dry enough not to give me pneumonia, and thirty minutes later I was marching to The Feathers.

As pubs go, The Feathers was nothing special; it didn’t do food, or have a play area or tables on the pavement, it was simply a place to drink. Which meant that at this precise moment it was exactly where I wanted to be.

Unfortunately, as soon as I pushed open the door I knew I’d made a mistake. The pub was packed, noisy and for a stay-at-home girl like me, totally intimidating.

There was a live band playing on a raised stage at the far end. I didn’t recognize the song but whatever it was I didn’t like it and it was too loud. I spotted Freya with her friends near the stage. There were six girls, all in full-on party mode: the table was cluttered with empty glasses, they were animated and happy, flicking their hair back and giggling, and trying to catch the eyes of the group of men on the next table.

I couldn’t do it. I didn’t belong here with them. Freya hadn’t noticed me, thankfully. A huge lump appeared in my throat and I turned around and walked out before tears gave me away.

What on earth had I been thinking? It was one thing to make new friends and have a couple of drinks when you were on top form, but quite another to go out with the sole intention of drinking yourself to forget in the company of strangers. At least I had come to my senses before ending up in some dodgy club in Kingsfield, I thought as I stomped back along Shenton Road.

I pulled my scarf up over my mouth and wrapped my collar tight around my throat against the icy winds and walked as fast as I could in the direction of home. The sooner I could get tonight over with the better. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow was December, in fact, almost Christmas. Perhaps I could go Christmas tree shopping?

I was so busy debating the merits of a real tree versus an artificial one that I paid little attention to a fire engine that rumbled silently past.

Its lights hadn’t been flashing I realized belatedly, which meant that it must be on its way back to the station. Whatever catastrophe had arisen in Kingsfield tonight, it had obviously been dealt with. Shame there wasn’t an emergency service for broken hearts . . .

As I turned into Wellington Street the fire engine reappeared and pulled to a halt beside me with a hiss of brakes. A door opened and Charlie jumped out and slammed the door behind him. The faces of four firefighters pressed up against the windows and stared at me.

I’d never seen him in his uniform before. He was every bit as handsome as usual, but more so. I felt a flutter of pride.

‘I thought it was you.’ He stood with his hands on his hips and looked around as if he was expecting someone else to jump out from the behind a lamp-post. ‘What are you doing out on your own?’

‘For the record, I’m not actually twelve, but thank you for your concern,’ I laughed and wrapped my arms around myself.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Sooo?’

I rolled my eyes and flapped a hand. ‘Oh, I was going to the pub with Freya from the café, but I changed my mind. I’m on my way home.’

‘I’ll walk you back.’ He turned to the driver of the fire engine and shouted through the window, ‘See you later.’

There were a couple of shouts of approval, which was a bit embarrassing, and then the fire engine tooted its horn and drove away. For some reason, I waved too and then felt silly.