Out of Practice (27 page)

After a quick shower, which inevitably turned into Round Two, and a long glass of water, Dan leaned against the sink to catch his breath. Who knew? He would certainly never
have foreseen the way this evening was going to pan out. Maybe Taffy had been right all along – what he needed was distraction. But even with Lindy wrapped around him in the shower,
he’d struggled to stay in the moment, his treacherous thoughts constantly veering off into dangerous territory.

But then maybe, he thought, there were lots of ways that having someone new and all-consuming in his life could remedy even that? He looked at his watch and couldn’t believe it was only
half past nine. Maybe they could cook up some pasta, watch a movie?

He was already wondering what they might be able to do together at the weekend, as he padded back into the bedroom and found Lindy perched on the edge of the bed fully dressed in her running kit
and shoes.

Dan raised an eyebrow. ‘In need of more exercise? Let me find you a shirt or something?’

She bit her bottom lip and shrugged. ‘Well, to be honest, I thought I’d kind of . . . you know . . .’ She waved one hand around and looked a bit uncomfortable. ‘I
didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.’

Dan felt completely wrong-footed and his confusion must have been obvious.

‘Shit,’ said Lindy. ‘You were thinking more . . .’

‘More something, yeah. Like supper, or a movie, or a conversation . . .’ Dan could feel himself getting defensive.

She shrugged again. ‘Hey, Dan, it was great hooking up and maybe we can . . . you know . . . another time. Friend me on Facebook if you want. But I thought we were both on the same page
here?’

‘Sure,’ he replied, wondering what the hell page that might be. He half expected a brief handshake might follow. ‘Course, yeah . . . I was only saying that if you wanted some
food or . . .’

‘I’m good. Thanks.’ Lindy slipped away, stopping briefly to kiss him on the cheek and Dan heard the front door slam moments later.

Okay, he thought, so this much is clear. I’m officially off my game. Dating has
really
changed. And I haven’t a freaking clue what to do now.

Suddenly Taffy’s recent obsession with Holly Graham made a lot more sense. In a world of ‘hooking up’ and the nausea-inducing rejection that ultimately involved, Dan could see
why someone who embodied the concept of Something Real would be undeniably attractive.

He poured himself a bowl of cereal, suddenly ravenous. He couldn’t deny the sex had been great. But – and he would never admit this to anyone – he felt a bit hollow. He
actually quite liked the kind of sex where you woke up together the next morning. Where, if at all possible, you could remember their surname. And, if wishes were on offer, that he hadn’t
just had a one-night stand with one of his patients.

‘Get a grip, Carter,’ he admonished himself as he reached for a spoon and the TV remote.

‘Shit, fuck, wank, bugger, bugger, bugger . . .’ muttered Holly under her breath, the next evening, a whole day of being virtuous and clean-living having taken its
toll. It wasn’t natural to go all day without swearing, she decided, not when your day had included quite so many orifice-related incidents! Her world seemed to consist of bodily fluids and
biscuits these days – although thankfully not yet at the same time.

Besides, she remembered reading somewhere that having a mantra to turn to in times of stress was positively beneficial. If pushed, she would probably admit that this Tourette’s-style
outburst wasn’t exactly what the guru had in mind, but she did actually feel a little bit chirpier.

In her quest to remain calm, she’d spent most of the day avoiding people: Dan and his constant apologies in particular. She was still feeling blind-sided and bruised, and no amount of
positive vibes were going to change that. Even her belief in karma was feeling dangerously shaky right now.

Maybe she was coming at this from the wrong angle after all? A moment’s indecision nibbled at the back of her mind. Maybe Lizzie was actually the one who had the right approach?

Perhaps she should take up smoking, have a gin and a quick shag – preferably not with her husband – trample over everyone else’s feelings and end the day with a bang? There was
only so much virtuousness that one person could stomach and Holly had to admit she was reaching her critical limit. Any day now, she’d be oohing and aahing over floral aprons and offering to
‘whip up a soufflé’!

She picked up her mobile to phone Lizzie, a plan on the tip of her tongue, before realising yet again that it wasn’t an option any more. In all likelihood, she would only suffer the
straight-to-voicemail, two-rings fate and end up feeling worse than ever.

She paused for a moment, vaguely weighing up the professional advisability of what suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea. ‘Elsie? It’s Holly Graham. I know this sounds a bit mad, but
I need your advice. I’m in need of distraction.’

Elsie’s throaty laugh could be heard echoing down the phone as Holly launched recklessly into her new theory, knowing that Elsie would almost certainly understand. ‘You see, all the
things I used to do when I wanted to let off steam, well, I can’t do them any more. I need a new sin! The spontaneous weekend away, the shopping spree, the
stay-up-all-night-drinking-Martinis, the fling, the flung, the fags, the dancing . . . All vetoed by two small people in stripy pyjamas and a bank balance that’s lurching into the red as we
speak. So I was wondering . . . help me out? I need to find a new vice to help me let off steam and I can’t help thinking you might have all the answers . . .’

Half an hour later, two said small people in stripy pyjamas were tucked up on Elsie’s sofa watching Bob the Builder and Holly was in Elsie’s kitchen. ‘You are
sweet to invite us over, but it wasn’t until I was knocking on your front door that it occurred to me, you might just have been being polite.’

Elsie raised her perfectly arched eyebrows. ‘Holly, my darling, you should know by now, I’m too old to be polite. If I don’t want to do something, I’m perfectly capable
of saying so. In fact, it occurs to me that you girls these days all have the same problem. You spend half your lives doing stuff you don’t want to do, simply because you feel that you
should. So, there’s your first notion – ban the word “should” from your vocabulary. Erase it. Ex-punge it,’ she said with relish, dragging out the syllables.
‘Obliterate it.’ She took a long swig of her habitual Campari and soda.

She deftly mixed up a fresh round, passing Holly a drink that closely resembled something AB negative. Taking a tentative sip, Holly blinked hard. ‘Jesus, Elsie! That’s quite strong,
you know.’

‘I know,’ said Elsie wickedly. ‘Isn’t it divine? Get a few of those inside you and you’ll feel so much better.’

Elsie pushed a bowl of salted almonds across the table, which had clearly been repeatedly trotted out since the late 1990s. Obviously, in Elsie’s world, nibbles were just for show.

Holly struggled to get past the bitter taste in her mouth and the burn in her throat. This concoction may be perfect for loosening inhibitions, but it tasted more like something from a chemistry
lab. She swallowed gamely and blinked the tears from her eyes.

‘Hmm,’ said Elsie critically, watching her. ‘Just how much of that are you going to drink out of politeness, before telling me you don’t like it?’

‘No, not at all. It’s fine. A little unusual perhaps . . .’

‘Dear God, Holly Graham, it’s worse than I thought: have an opinion! Make a decision that doesn’t involve tiptoeing around other people’s feelings.’ Elsie stood
upright, her trim little feet planted in second position and her hands on her hips – even at shoulder height, she was formidable. There was a pause as Holly tried and failed to articulate a
response.

Elsie’s eyes sparkled with renewed energy at the prospect of a challenge. ‘I dare you,’ she said wickedly.

Holly slowly put down her glass, coolly placing it on the coaster. ‘Okay then . . . well then . . . to be honest . . . that’s to say . . .’

Elsie hooted with laughter. ‘I’m not getting any younger over here, you know. Spill it, say it, be offensive, be brutal! Tell me what you
really
think.’

‘It’s vile,’ said Holly quickly, as if she couldn’t get the words out fast enough. ‘Awful, hideous – the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth for a very
long time. I don’t know how you can bear to drink it. It tastes like de-icer.’ She stopped as suddenly as she’d started, cheeks pink and a little out of breath. She looked, and
felt, a little shocked at herself.

Elsie’s face slowly crumpled sadly until a lone tear wove its way through the perfect mask of make-up. ‘That cocktail was my father’s recipe,’ she gulped, shoulders
heaving. ‘I can’t believe you just said that!’

Holly felt the bile of remorse surging into her throat and she rushed forward to take Elsie’s hands. ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking and
you’ve been so kind to me and . . .’

Holly’s thoughts were waging war in her head, confused about what had just taken place. Hadn’t Elsie dared her to be brutal and offensive only moments before? Hang on a minute.
‘Elsie?’ she said sternly, as if talking to a recalcitrant toddler. ‘This hideous cocktail wasn’t your father recipe at all, was it?’

Elsie looked up, her eyes still glistening but a broad smile on her face. ‘Nope,’ said Elsie. ‘You can’t trust me, I’m an actress, remember? The look on your face
was absolutely priceless though. No courage in your convictions at all. But back to the lesson in hand: admit it – didn’t it feel good to just let it all out? To say something for once
that wasn’t edited in your head?’

Holly nodded slowly, the adrenalin still pumping through her veins.

‘So then, let’s play a little game. Just say the first word that pops into your head, okay? No thinking. Or over-thinking. Toast?’

‘Butter.’

‘Elsie?’

‘Trouble,’ said Holly with a sideways glance and a smile.

‘Larkford?’

‘Home.’

‘Ooh interesting. What about . . . Dan Carter?’

‘Struggling.’

‘No secret there,’ said Elsie blithely. ‘Milo?’

‘Controlling.’

‘Well, this is more illuminating than I had even hoped.’

‘For me too,’ murmured Holly under her breath.

‘Lizzie?’

‘Opinionated. No, that’s not fair, I’m going to say . . . strong. No, selfish. Or driven, maybe?’

Elsie didn’t comment, just raised an eyebrow, which somehow flustered Holly even more. She wasn’t used to allowing uncensored thoughts out of her mouth.

‘Taffy Jones?’

There was a long pause as words fought with each other for their freedom. Kind? Sweet? Funny? Gorgeous? ‘Thoughtful,’ she said eventually. Even though Holly could feel Elsie’s
eyes on her, she gave her head a little shake like an Etch a Sketch, willing the images to disappear just as easily.

‘Well, that’s all been very jolly. I think it’s time we found out what you
really
like though, don’t you, Holly?’

Elsie lined up a selection of drinks on the kitchen counter, each reflected in the polished granite to look somewhat Daliesque. Holly found herself wanting to take a
photograph, as the Martini glasses, wine glasses and shot tumblers all looked down at their own inverted doppelganger.

‘So,’ began Elsie, ‘when you go to the pub, what do you drink?’

‘Erm, wine?’ ventured Holly. ‘G&T, if I’m with Lizzie.’

Elsie gave her a hard look. ‘Let me rephrase that, if you went to the pub, what would you
like
to drink?’

Holly looked at all the beautiful elegant drinks lined up in front of her. ‘I used to like Martinis, but then it all got so complicated. With onions and olives and vodka and gin . . . I
gave up, to be honest.’

Elsie nodded sagely. ‘Good instincts there. Martinis used to be something special, didn’t they? I blame James Bond. And Essex. Once they’re ordering something in All Bar One in
Chigwell, you know it’s time to move on.’ Elsie sighed. ‘We seem to lose many a good cocktail to the hoi-polloi. The Cosmopolitan – now there was a drink to fall in love
with. Ruined. And I do so miss a Caipirinha. There’s nothing on earth like a proper Caipirinha on Ipanema beach at sunset . . .’ She sighed wistfully and seemed a thousand miles away
for a moment, possibly walking on Ipanema beach.

As Elsie disappeared off down memory lane, Holly looked at all the drinks before her. She sincerely hoped that Elsie wasn’t expecting her to drink all of them, not with the boys on the
sofa next door. She started taking tiny sips and arranging them into groups. Love. Like. Hate.

It was much, much easier than she had imagined. Her taste buds weren’t clued in on Holly’s quest to be acceptable. They really didn’t give a stuff what anyone else thought. As
she sipped at some ruby fruit concoction, Holly got an attack of the giggles.

Elsie tuned back in, delighted to see Holly making progress. ‘What’s so funny?’

Holly squared her shoulders and looked Elsie in the eye. ‘I’ve just remembered. My name’s Holly Graham . . . and I like Vimto!’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Elsie quietly, with a twinkle, ‘what have I done?’

There was no stopping Holly now. ‘I like cider ’n’ black or ginger ale when it’s hot. I like whisky macs when it’s cold. And I don’t actually like gin and
tonic or wine.’ Holly clapped a hand over her mouth, as if she’d said something sacrilegious.

‘They give me a headache,’ She qualified apologetically.

Elsie pulled her into a surprisingly strong hug for one so delicate and petite, letting out a filthy laugh that wouldn’t have been out of place in a working men’s club.

‘You see!’ Elsie cried. ‘I know it’s baby steps, but you
do
have an opinion. You’ve just been, I don’t know, trying to slide by in the shadows. What
else?’ she asked eagerly.

‘I hate roast lamb,’ said Holly without missing a beat. ‘We have it every Sunday and I hate the way it tastes all fatty. I like getting up early and going to bed before the ten
o’clock news and everybody else seems to like it the other way around. I loathe the fact that I can’t parallel park – it makes me feel stupid and clumsy – but asking for
lessons makes me feel worse. I can’t bear documentaries – I don’t care how fabulous the animal photography. I want to watch smart, clever, sophisticated drama – where I
can’t work out the plot before my cup of tea has gone cold. And I quite like my hair when it’s curly, even though it’s a bit frizzy and not very fashionable.’ Holly’s
voice petered out as her consciousness caught up with her thoughts. ‘In fact, I can’t bear to waste another moment of my life holding hair straighteners and pretending that it
doesn’t smell like a blacksmith’s yard.’