‘It’s too hard. Too embarrassing, I’m not ready. And,’ I search for some straws to grasp, ‘he’s too thin!’
‘Too thin?’ I’m getting her ‘you are strange’ look.
‘Well not exactly thin, he’s,’ I make a totally strange figure kind of body with my hands in the air, ‘quite broad in places,’ she raises an eyebrow, which I ignore, ‘but hard, kind of wiry and firm, and—’
‘Boy, you are being weird about this one. Firm is good, girl!’
I try not to scowl. ‘I like bigger men, beefier.’
‘You mean fat, like Robbie was?’
‘He wasn’t fat! He was well padded.’
‘You can’t diss a man for being fit!’
‘I can. If he’s big then it makes me look thinner!’ It does, I swear, I dwindle down to diminutive next to a well-built guy. Svelte.
Bea rolls her eyes. ‘You are making excuses.’ She stands up. ‘I’m going to get us another coffee. And then we’ll do some online stalking. If this guy of yours is as hot as I think he is, then I might take him up on his offer if you won’t!’
Chapter 5
How can one nice thing be followed by two shit things in the one day? That’s not fair, is it? I’ve never been quite sure whether to sneer at the ‘bad things come in threes’ saying, or to be worried. Today I am afraid. Very afraid.
Brunch with Bea was fun, even internet stalking Noah gave us a laugh. We found loads of funny things about Noah – biblical and otherwise – and the fact that he is actually, honestly, a real live architect made Bea giggle so much she had to rush off to the ladies’ lavatories. Who knew that repeating ‘good with his hands’ combined with ‘build me an ark’ and ‘animals went in two by two’ could make somebody wet their knickers? Anyway, I came home with half a mind to ring Noah and go for it, and half a mind to wash the towels and check if I had any sink un-blocker.
Until my mother rang.
‘You haven’t forgotten that it’s our big wedding anniversary soon, have you, darling?’
I think Mum counts every anniversary as a big one because it’s such a bloody achievement to evade the divorce lawyers and reach each milestone. I am not being mean when I say that their marriage is a nightmare. Well, more to the point, my dad is a frigging nightmare. If he was a woman, he’d be labelled a slag, a slapper, a nympho or a whore, but he’s a man. So that makes him a real Casanova, a bit of a Romeo, or Don Juan, and that’s all right then, isn’t it? Romantic, funny, a bit of a one.
Funny my arse.
Somehow it makes it worse, and sadder, that they celebrate their anniversaries as though each one means something special.
‘Big anniversary?’ I replied.
‘Our thirtieth! Pearl, isn’t that amazing?’
‘Totally.’
‘You are coming, aren’t you?’ She sounds a bit anxious, as well she might. Each time they have a party like this I am sure there’s a niggling doubt in the back of her mind that Dad won’t turn up. He doesn’t turn up to lots of things – but so far he’s not missed an anniversary party. He has missed birthdays, holidays and even Christmas on one memorable occasion – memorable because I have never heard my mum scream so loud or threaten to cut off his goolies and hang them from the highest branches of the tree. Quite honestly, at eight years old this held a morbid fascination and I did wonder what colour string she’d use and if she’d drape tinsel round them.
It didn’t happen. He came home and we shared a late Christmas dinner. All bodily parts intact. And he was funny, charming and brought wonderful presents back. Then went off to ‘attend to urgent business’ two days later.
‘Of course, I’ll be there! I’ll put it in my diary.’
‘That’s wonderful, darling. Now what else was it I wanted to tell you?’ There’s a long pause, but I wait. ‘Oh yes, Robbie! You know young Robbie?’
‘My Robbie?’ Of course, I bloody know Robbie!
‘I think you had a lucky escape there, Rosalie.’ I don’t know why she calls me Rosalie, nobody else does. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened.’ I’m sure I won’t, so I wait again. ‘He’s moved to Wales.’
Surely that can’t be the news?
‘He’s got sheep, isn’t that funny? He never seemed to be keen on animals at all. I remember him going quite pale when your aunt Sal arrived with that terrier of hers.’
‘Maybe he’s changed.’ Changed more than I thought. ‘Oh well, must get off, Mum.’ I start to do that leaning-forward-as-though-I’m-going-to-put-the-phone-down thing.
‘And he’s got married!’
What?! I sit bolt upright. Phone glued hard to my ear. How can she add in the married bit as though it’s an afterthought? That is why she called me by my full name. I should have known she was working up to really bad news.
Now I know why Robbie’s mum crossed the road when she spotted me the other day. I’d thought she hadn’t seen me, or she’d been in a hurry.
My hand clutching the phone is suddenly clammy, my forehead too. I’m having a hot flush, but inside I feel cold. Icy cold and empty.
Robbie in Wales is fine, Robbie with sheep is a bit weird, and quite funny.
Robbie married is not what should have happened at all.
How can Robbie be married? Robbie who less than a year ago had declared he didn’t know what he wanted; he didn’t even bloody know who he was.
How can Robbie have moved out and completely moved on? I’ve only just hit the ‘ready to try and date’ stage – and he is bloody married!
I wipe the palm of my hand over my face. When my palm rests over my mouth, it’s trembling.
How could he just move on so quickly? How could he be married? We’d laughed about weddings years ago, but it just hadn’t featured lately.
Maybe he’d gone off me a long time ago; maybe he did know who he was and what he wanted and what he told me was all a load of bollocks. He wanted to be a husband – just not mine.
‘Okay dear, you get off, I know you’re busy.’
‘Fine,’ I say numbly, still thinking about the life I’d thought I had. I can’t quite get it to make sense in my head.
We’d been together forever. We’d never dated anybody else. We realised that we weren’t as madly in love and as totally compatible as we always thought we were.
We parted by mutual agreement, and there was nobody else involved.
And he has a wife.
I feel queasy.
‘I’m not sure where your father is, but when he comes home, I’ll let him know you’re coming to the party,’ Mum carries on, totally oblivious to my current meltdown. ‘He’ll be pleased about that. He doesn’t see much of you.’
That snaps me out of my daze. ‘That’s not my fault, Mum! If he was there more—’ Most of my brain is still grappling with the Robbie-is-married scenario, but the remaining bit still makes me indignant when I’m blamed for not being there for Dad! For God’s sake!
‘Oh, I know it isn’t your fault, Rosie,’ Mum says in her ‘shh-ing’ tone. ‘But you know how busy he is, and the orchestra are so busy these days, and he has to practise and—’
I sigh. I can’t help it. ‘Please don’t make excuses for him, Mum.’ It comes out wooden. I feel awful, it’s Mum who has to put up with him never being there. Not me.
Our family life has always been on his terms. Brilliant when he’s decided to be there, crap when he’s decided to go and ‘practise’ out of hours with the latest violin player, or some groupie who’s been swept off her feet by his easy charm and glamorous lifestyle. Ignoring the fact he has a family. Grrr.
‘I can’t believe Robbie has got married – are you sure, Mum?’ It can’t actually be true. I must have misheard. I’ve got myself in a tizz about nothing.
‘Positive! I saw his mother in the Co-op, she showed me the photos on her phone. All hippy yurts and fields and flowers, and sheep.’
His mum used to chat to me in the Co-op, but now she pretends she doesn’t know who I am. ‘Of course. Mu
stn’t forget the sheep!’ I laugh weakly. Maybe the thing to do here is concentrate on the sheep. Sheep are nice, sheep are daft, sheep don’t walk out of a long-term relationship and declare to love, honour and obey a woman they’ve known for barely two minutes.
Would he have stayed if I’d had sheep? Or a yurt?
Oh gawd, I’m going bonkers. What have sheep got to do with anything? I didn’t want him to stay. We’d reached our sell-by date. But I didn’t want him to find somebody else that quickly! Somebody he loved enough to marry. Which means she is the right one for him, and I never have been. And he knew it. Long before he told me.
‘I’m glad you’re not still with him, darling. I would never have seen you if you’d gone to Wales sheep farming.’
‘I’m glad too, Mum.’
‘She’s pregnant I bet. She had a smockie dress, billowing it was! And lots of flowers, you know, distractions! I bet she was hiding a bump.’
‘Not necessarily.’ It comes out a bit grumpily. I’m trying to work out how pregnant she’d have to be to be showing. ‘She might just like that kind of dress.’ How big is this bump? How long has she been bloody pregnant? He’s not only found himself, and a wife, he’s found fatherhood. But in which order did all this discovery happen?
I think I need gin. A bottle of it.
‘Hmm.’ That’s my mother’s version of saying she’s not convinced. ‘Are you okay, darling? It must be a shock.’
‘Of course, I’m okay! Why wouldn’t I be okay? I’m fine, fine! Absolutely fine.’ I think I’m beginning to sound fine in a slightly hysterical way. ‘Why would I be bothered? I am over him, totally over him, we split ages ago!’
‘It wasn’t that long, Rosie. And you had been going out for a long time. I mean, I know he wasn’t the one for you, but it’s not easy to go out there and date when—’
‘It’s perfectly easy! No problem. It was so easy I’ve found a new man, a much better man than Robbie!’ Fuck! What have I said? I haven’t got a boyfriend. All I have is … I bite my bottom lip, all I have is Noah. A man who told me he’d show me how to get a boyfriend. Just how quickly is it possible to learn? Does he run a fast-track course?
Shit. She’ll tell Dad.
‘Oh Rosie, why didn’t you say?’
I try and concentrate on what she is saying and try not to think about Noah. And his totally whacky idea. Talk about clutching at straws, I can’t seriously be even considering …
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. It will be so nice to meet him, and you can bring him to the party!’
I am considering it. The whacky idea. Because how am I going to get out of this one? Mum, despite her own crap-fest of a marriage, is convinced I’ll only be happy if I’m part of a couple. And now I’ve told her I am. And when she tells Dad, I will never hear the end of it if I don’t actually turn up arm in arm with somebody.
Great.
‘Oh, I am so, so pleased. I didn’t like to say, but I was worried, Rosie. You do spend all your time with your nose buried in a book.’
‘I work in a bookshop, Mum!’
‘I know, darling. But you do need to get out if you want to meet people. I’m so excited, you’ve got to tell me how you met him! Where was it? What did he say?’
There must be a way out of this. I only said I had a boyfriend so that she’d stop thinking I hadn’t got over Robbie. And now this.
Like Dad says, I really should think before I open my mouth. He’ll think it’s hilarious if he realises that I’ve sunk to this, inventing a boyfriend. I’ll never hear the last of it. It will become his new party piece, as yet again I prove I am not the perfect daughter. Our Rosie still has invisible friends, even though she’s over thirty, invisible boyfriends, haha, wink wink …
‘It’s not serious yet, Mum, not about to get married, haha! I’ve only just started seeing him, not sure he’s ready for the whole meet my family thing!’ Dad doesn’t even need to hear about it. I’ll tell her not to tell him.
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter he’s still welcome, even if he is just a casual fling! And who knows, by the time we get to the party day you might be ready to do a Robbie!’
Great. We have now coined a new phrase. To do a Robbie. Which I presume means to get married in haste and procreate as quickly as possible, preferably with sheep in attendance.
‘Maybe not! I’m not sure he wants to move to Wales!’ Now she’s expecting me to be part of a proper lovey-dovey couple and she’ll be disappointed if I’m not. I need to temper her expectations. I don’t like disappointing her, she has enough of that in her life. I think she’s invested all her hopes for happy-ever-afters in me. Her only daughter. So far it isn’t going well.
In fact, it’s going considerably worse than even she expects.
How the fuck do I get a boyfriend before the party? I can’t even manage a first bloody date. And yes, I do know I’m swearing a lot. It’s a reaction to finding myself in a hole that I seem hell-bent on digging even deeper.
So, my fun morning with Bea has been kicked into touch by the news that 1. There is another sham of an anniversary party looming (at which I am expected to have an escort so that Mum can kid herself she still believes in love and romance) and 2. Robbie has a wife. And I can’t even get one bloody proper date!
I’m not upset that Robbie has fallen in love. I’m just upset that he’s moved on so successfully and I haven’t moved an inch. I am still the same girl he left behind. Minus the soft furnishings and other belongings that he took with him.
And minus his lovely family. Robbie’s parents are very lovely, especially his mum. She always said I was the daughter she’d never had, and she also said (though I’m not sure if this is good or bad, given the circumstances) that it was wonderful that me and Robbie were together because she was sure I’d want to stay local, which meant he’d never move away. She’d gain a daughter, not lose a son.
So, I’ve let her down on that front as well. And I tried very hard not to. Maybe that’s partly why Robbie and I stuck together for so long. Maybe that’s why I didn’t take the leap and walk away from him earlier.
It’s no wonder that she’s avoiding me now.
I miss her. I miss all of them. When I was in my teens, they were the security that I didn’t always have. They were always all at home on Christmas Day. They weren’t touring Europe in the school holidays – they went away for two weeks and that was it.
I saw more of Robbie’s family than I saw of my own. And his dad always teased me nicely and made me blush.
Bugger. I’ve let them down, and now Dad is going to give me his full-on disappointed look as well. If he even turns up for the party, and if he doesn’t it will be my fault. Because the neighbours will be gossiping about Robbie, and I’ll be standing on the sidelines wallflower style, an embarrassment.
He will point out that I should listen to him, try and act with a bit more decorum and stop being so bloody opinionated. And he’ll say, ‘look at your mother’. Which will make it all one hundred times worse because I know she doesn’t want me to be like her.
She wants me to be happy all the time, not just now and again.
I have no choice. I have to grab the one lifeline that has been thrown my way.
Noah.
‘Are you still there, Rosie? You’ve gone very quiet.’
‘Yes, Mum. Just thinking.’ He’s going to have to be a miracle worker. In fact, when I tell him I’m on a deadline he’ll probably do what Dad would. Laugh and walk away.
I am doomed.
‘Well, darling, mustn’t keep you. Don’t forget to save the date for the party, and you have got to bring your new man! I insist: there you go, I’ve written him on the list. Will you be coming over next weekend? You can bring him with you then if you want?’
She has to be kidding. ‘Sorry, Mum. I’m working.’ All weekend, and the next one. ‘But I’ll ring.’
Okay, so, I need to get my act together. I am going to have sex again, at least once, before I turn int
o somebody who doesn’t care.
I am also going to show Dad that he has a daughter to be proud of, one he can show off, who is worth coming home for. And maybe this time he’ll hang around a bit longer – at least for the entire party.
The sigh escapes before I can stop it. Last year he left at the same time as the final guests, well ten seconds later for appearance’s sake.
I’d got a bit over-excited and loud apparently. Now before you jump to conclusions, I was not rat-arsed. I was just having a lively debate with one of his friends about how a certain massive retailer isn’t helping small bookshops, like the one I work in, survive.
His friend was a bit like Dad, and ‘always right’, and I am a bit like Dad in that I won’t back down if I know I’m right. And I was.
Dad’s parting words before he left the house were that I needed to calm down, that I was too opinionated, too unladylike, embarrassing.
Robbie tried, in a very polite way, to stand up for me. Which didn’t help.
Dad never really liked Robbie that much. They didn’t have much in common. If I find a new, better boyfriend then they might even have things they can talk about. Things they agree on.
Hopefully not that I need to be quiet though. I can’t be. I’ve tried.
‘I have got to do it!’
I have to do it. I have no choice. And quickly.
My palms are all sweaty, and slightly itchy as I eye up my mobile phone.
Noah bloody Adams is not my type, but he could be the answer. In fact, he’s my first and last resort.
He’s like an earworm, a catchy song that I cannot get out of my mind even though I’m not that keen on it. An itch I can’t quite reach to scratch. But in his case, he’s a funny person with a ludicrous idea. And an infectious laugh. And I can’t seem to shake him out of my head.
I’m sure it’s not actually his infectious laugh that’s the issue here, more the fact that I am now in the ‘desperate’ arena when it comes to my man-drought. And his off-the-wall idea, though bonkers, is all I’ve got. I mean, who knows? This dating lark is completely beyond me, so maybe something as whacky as this could work.
The First Date Page 6
