Million Love Songs

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Go easy how you drink it,’ she says with a wink.

  I take a sip and realise that my ‘water’ is neat vodka that has survived the bag search. Well that’s certainly going to go some way towards easing the pain.

  ‘You’re driving,’ I remind Charlie.

  She shakes her bottle at me. ‘Mine is water.’

  The show starts and it’s fabulous. The fans are in a frenzy before anything happens so when Gary, Mark and Howard are joined on stage for the opening number by Robbie Williams the place goes wild. I look over at Charlie and she’s in complete rapture, her face shining with joy. I feel my own face may be a little flushed with pleasure too. Nice Paul, I have to say, is watching Charlie as much as he is the band. They’re right in front of us and I can now see why we’ve been here since the crack of dawn. The boys play their new songs and some of their most loved favourites and, by the end of the evening, I’m a Take That convert.

  The rest of the evening is dedicated to a range of boy bands competing to take centre stage in a new musical about Take That. They go through two or three numbers each, all accompanied by slick dance routines. I have no idea which of the wannabe boy bands wins and I don’t really care as they all seemed great to me. To this crowd, they’re very definitely the secondary attraction. Then Take That do a final number and a mass of peri-menopausal women go into meltdown. I include myself and Charlie in that. We might be in our thirties, but it won’t be long before our oestrogen leaves the building. We throw ourselves into singing and screaming and dancing with abandon.

  Then it’s over. The lights come up, the stage crew start to take away the equipment and break down the set. It’s been a long and happy day. The vodka has kicked in and seems to double in potency as the fresh air hits us. We stagger back to the Tube – me, Charlie and Nice Paul – arms slung round each other singing ‘Could It Be Magic’ at the top of our voices. I’ve had far too much to drink and I’ve only just remembered that I’ve got to be up early tomorrow morning to go on this flipping dive outing. How much am I regretting that I signed up for that now? I’d be much happier staying in my PJs all day watching Take That DVDs with Charlie.

  Still, this is what it is to be single and having fun. I’m out there giving it large. I’m not only embracing it, but I’m bloody well enjoying it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The alarm goes off and I want to die. Not just die a little bit, but seriously, properly die. I try to lift my head off the pillow. Actually, I think I might have died already. I open one eye and tilt the iPhone towards me so I can check what time it is. I’m sure it’s more blurry than it used to be. Another early start in succession. I’m so not built for this.

  I haul myself out of bed and force myself to perform my ablutions so that people don’t think I’m a total skank. The water in the shower hurts. I am meeting lots of new diving buddies today and I wish I was doing it with less vodka in my tanks. It was all happyhappypartyparty last night, but good grief am I paying for it this morning. I think once you reach your thirties your ability to process strong alcohol severely diminishes – yet every time you have strong alcohol you somehow forget that.

  I pull on jeans and a T-shirt, then drag a comb through my hair. I can’t do make-up. My face is too hurty. The sheer weight of mascara would just make my eyes close again. Besides, the natural look is fashionable. I think. Maybe that was last year.

  While I’m still trying to make myself swallow Weetabix in an attempt to put a layer in my stomach and quell my faint vodka-based nausea, a car pulls up outside and a quick glance out of the window tells me that my ride is here. Maybe I shouldn’t call Joe that, it could be misconstrued. Though I do like punctuality in a man.

  Giving him a quick wave from my balcony window – which sounds considerably more grand than it is – I grab my bag and a bottle of water, then run downstairs. To be honest, the running is more akin to a painful tiptoe. But in my head, it’s running. Every movement of my skull makes it throb. I hope I’ve got some paracetamol lurking in the bottom of my bag.

  I slide into the car next to Joe and am not so hungover that I fail to notice, once again, that he’s a very handsome man. I also clock that there’s a whole heap of scuba-diving gear on the back seat.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Rough night?’ he asks.

  So I clearly look as bad as I feel. It’s a good job that I’m not trying to impress this man. ‘Vodka was taken.’

  ‘Ah. I remember late nights and getting hammered,’ he says fondly. ‘Just about.’

  ‘I was in London with a couple of friends watching Take That at the Maida Vale studios yesterday.’

  ‘Big fan?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I nod and instantly regret it. ‘Well, I am now.’ It was great fun – apart from the queuing part – and I can see why Charlie and her friends are so dedicated. Up close and personal they’ve got great energy and charisma. Would that someone might say that about me.

  ‘I’ll drive slowly,’ Joe says. ‘Not too many fast bends. It’s mainly motorway. We’ve got plenty of time to get up there.’

  ‘I don’t even know where we’re going,’ I admit. Not only did I not read the small print, I didn’t take much notice of the big print either.

  ‘Quarry Hill Cove,’ he tells me. ‘A nice dive centre in the Midlands. It’s a flooded gravel pit and there’s a sunken boat in the water and the cockpit of a plane.’

  I raise an eyebrow at that. ‘Why?’

  ‘It makes the dive more interesting,’ he explains. ‘There are things to look at and explore. Otherwise, it’s just an exercise in getting wet.’

  If you’re like me, you’d have imagined that, once qualified, I’d be diving in aquamarine seas with dolphins and pretty angelfish and shit. Metaphorical shit, not actual shit, obvs. Destinations like the Maldives, the Seychelles and the Caribbean were my dreamed-of go-to places. A gravel pit in this country wasn’t necessarily that high on my list.

  Joe laughs, clearly able to read my mind. ‘It’s a great place,’ he insists. ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘If nothing else, it’ll give you a good chance to meet some of the other members of the club. They’re nice people. We always have a laugh.’

  ‘I’m regretting the vodka frenzy now,’ I admit. ‘I wish I was at my sparkling best.’ I start to rummage in my handbag. ‘Painkillers,’ I mutter. ‘I’m sure I’ve got some buried in here.’

  ‘There’s a packet in the glove box,’ he says. ‘I’m a dad. I can always supply aspirin, tissues and plasters. Though now the kids are getting older, it’s usually only money that they need. Unfortunately, that’s in shorter supply.’

  ‘Where are they today?’

  ‘I’ve dropped them off at Gina’s yesterday. She’s got them for the whole weekend. She remembered this time, which is never a given.’ He gives an unhappy snort. ‘Sometimes they come on the dive days with me. Very reluctantly, it must be said. They get bored quickly and I can’t concentrate properly while I’ve got one eye on them. Daisy’s at the age where she just wants to be at the shops with her mates and trying to drag Tom away from his computer is a life’s work.’

  ‘They sound like most children.’ As if I know.

  ‘They’re good kids,’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘Though it is nice to have a day to myself for a change.’

  I find the painkillers in the glove box, knock back a couple and wonder how long they’ll take to kick in. Not long, I hope.

  We turn on to the M1, but swinging left and heading north today rather than right and into London.

  ‘Close your eyes if you want to,’ Joe says. ‘Have a nap. We can listen to some music.’ He grins at me. ‘I haven’t got any Take That.’

  ‘I’ve got pretty eclectic taste.’

  ‘Ed Sheeran?’ he suggests. ‘My kids hate it. They call it Old Fart music. I have to listen to One Direction when Daisy’s in the car and some hideous, headache-inducing rapper grime stuff when Tom has control o
f the iPod.’

  ‘Ed Sheeran’s fine.’ He flicks on the music and ‘Shape of You’ fills the car. He turns it down to a civilised level.

  I text Charlie to thank her for a great day. In return she sends two kisses and a selfie of us both with Nice Paul in which two of us look all pink and drinky. Then I let my head rest back and that’s all I can tell you.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I jerk awake as we come to a halt in the car park.

  ‘We’re here, sleepyhead,’ Joe says.

  I try to blink myself to full consciousness.

  ‘Feel better?’

  I’m struggling to marshall my thoughts into cohesive speech, but eventually croak out, ‘I think I will do when I’ve had a cuppa. Or two.’ Suddenly, my stomach springs into life and rumbles noisily. ‘And maybe a bacon sarnie.’

  ‘Now you’re talking my language,’ Joe says. ‘I’ll just check in with the kids to see if they’re behaving.’ He punches a couple of text messages into his phone while I go about the business of waking up – stretching, yawning, all of that. When Joe’s done, he shows his phone screensaver to me. ‘My babies.’

  They both have dark, glossy hair matched with olive skin and possibly favour their mother, though they look like Joe around their eyes. ‘They’re good-looking kids.’ And they are. I’m not just making pleasant noises.

  ‘They take after their mum. Gina’s Italian. They’ve got my brains though,’ he quips.

  ‘Poor devils,’ I tease.

  He rolls his eyes. ‘That’s about right.’

  ‘Are they both OK?’

  ‘They’ve not killed each other yet,’ he tells me. ‘Always a good sign.’

  ‘Do they get on well?’

  ‘Not that you’d notice,’ he admits. ‘Tom’s fifteen and finds everything annoying, especially his little sister. She, in turn, does her very best to wind him up.’

  ‘Happy families, eh?’

  He shoves his phone in his pocket. ‘There’s not been much of that recently.’

  ‘Time’s a marvellous thing,’ I offer. ‘They’ll get over it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He doesn’t sound convinced. ‘Anyway, that’s enough of me. We’ve got some diving to do.’

  Now that I’ve finally got my eyes to do focusing, I note that Quarry Hill Cove is, indeed, a lot prettier than I’d imagined. The former quarry is secluded, surrounded by trees, and tranquil. It’s still not the Caribbean though. It’s just after nine now and the sun is already doing its best to warm the day. The rays dance on the water, which is trying very hard to sparkle. Though it’s not exactly turquoise – more of a murky brown. But it’s a nice spot and the perfect place to spend a lazy Sunday. And it’s not raining or cold. Bonus.

  ‘Let’s go and see the others,’ Joe says and gets out of the car.

  There are a number of vehicles parked close by and, already, their occupants are unloading diving gear. I follow Joe and we walk over towards them.

  ‘Hi, guys.’ He claps a few of them on the back. ‘This is Ruby. She’s come along today to see what goes on at a dive outing. She had her first session in the pool last week and did really well.’

  I get that little glow of pride again. ‘Hi,’ I say, shyly.

  ‘Hi, Ruby.’ A few of them wave and say hello, then someone arrives with a tray of takeaway drinks and says, ‘Tea?’

  When I nod, he hands one to me and I take a grateful gulp of the tea; it tastes every bit as good as champagne. Joe and I stand and chat to the members of the group while we drink and there’s much joshing and laughter. They discuss the condition and temperature of the water which goes over my head. It sounds cold, is all I know. Very cold.

  ‘We should get the gear out of the car, Ruby. Want to give me a hand?’

  So I go to the car with Joe and heave out all manner of stuff. Wetsuit, tanks, fins, demand valve, a dive knife, so many hoses that I’ve no idea what he’ll do with them all and a face mask. This looks like a flipping expensive sport. Even if I do qualify as an open water diver, how would I afford all this kit? I suppose you can rent some of it, but still. Maybe I’ll have to take up running instead. All I’ll need then is a pair of trainers and some nipple cream.

  While I fuss about, not really knowing what I’m doing, picking up stuff and putting it down again, Joe heads off to the changing rooms with his wetsuit. While I’m still fussing, he comes back. He’s clad in tight neoprene from the waist down and is bare-chested. I tell you, I have no idea where to look first. He has a very fine physique and I feel myself getting all flushed. I think my hormones are still a bit awry after that oestrogen overload at the Take That gig.

  Joe sits on the lip of the car boot while he eases himself into the rest of his suit and I assist him, as best I can, with putting on his belt and tanks. ‘Pass me that please, Ruby.’ I hand him the massive torch he nods at. ‘You can’t see a hand in front of you without this.’

  ‘So what’s the joy of diving in water like this?’

  ‘You’ll see when you try it,’ he assures me.

  This is not sounding thrilling. ‘Any fish?’

  ‘Some,’ he says. ‘Pike – a few big ones. Perch, roach, freshwater crayfish. No sharks.’

  I guess he’s teasing about the last bit.

  We go to the water’s edge and I help the divers to launch the boat they call the RIB – which must mean something, but I’m too tired to ask what. The divers climb in and I squeeze in beside them, then we head out into the middle of the water. It feels good to be scudding across the lake, breeze in my hair. I could definitely get used to this, even if I never make it to the bottom of the quarry.

  When we stop, there’s more faffing as Joe pulls on his fins and his face mask. ‘See you shortly,’ he says. ‘Enjoy the sunshine.’

  One by one, the divers drop over the edge of the boat and disappear beneath the waters of the lake until I’m left with just one of the guys. ‘Now all we have to do is wait,’ he says.

  So I sit back in the boat and close my eyes, enjoying the peace and quiet. Loving this diving lark, so far.

  It’s probably half an hour or more before Joe and his diving buddies come back and we help them to climb on board. We head back to shore where they have their tanks refilled and dive again, this time from a platform.

  I find a suitably sunny spot where I’m not in the way and lie back on the grass, dozing. This is the most relaxed I’ve felt in a long time. In my half-dreaming state, I pick over the wreckage of my marriage as I do when I’ve got nothing else crowding my mind. To my surprise, I start to feel small strands of contentment weaving their way in. I’ve been hurting for so long that I began to worry that it would never stop.

  Sometimes, I find myself dwelling on what Simon might be doing now. Are he and the Crystal Queen still loved-up? Good luck to them if they are. I truly believe that I could have done nothing more to save our relationship. I was a good wife. I kept the house clean and tried to make it a home. We ate nice meals. Not so much in the week as we were both busy, but I cooked something special every Saturday night and Friday night we’d get a takeaway and open a bottle. I knew exactly how he liked his steak cooked. Not the high-life, I grant you, but isn’t this what makes couples tick? I watched one of the Sex and the City films again recently – which I love – and Carrie Bradshaw was ticked off and in fear of her marriage because Big didn’t want to go out to dinner every night. That’s not real life, is it? Well, perhaps it is in Manhattan, but it’s certainly not in Costa del Keynes. Marriage is rubbing along very nicely together, isn’t it? Snuggling up on the sofa, sharing a bar of Cadbury’s, having sex twice a week if there’s nothing better on the telly and being each other’s best friend. Or am I missing the point?

  What did Joe’s wife want from her marriage, I wonder? What has she found with her new man that’s made her want to walk out on her husband – who looks pretty good on paper – and her lovely kids? Had they just got into a rut together or was it something more? Perhaps marriage is always more of a
struggle than floating on a cloud of romance. I wonder what she found that she didn’t have with Joe? He looks pretty perfect to me. Then I chide myself. I must not think that way.

  I’m footloose and fancy-free and he very much isn’t.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Joe eventually comes back, he looks happy and that makes me smile.

  ‘That was great,’ he says as he shrugs off his tanks. ‘Nothing like coming nose-to-nose with a monster pike to sharpen the senses.’

  ‘I have watched Jaws, Jaws 2, Jaws 3-D and Jaws: The Revenge,’ I tell him. ‘I am suitably impressed.’

  ‘I’m impressed that you could sit through all of that nonsense.’

  ‘Jaws was a classic,’ I protest. Though, in fairness, it was all a bit downhill from there.

  ‘I’m a man who’s sat through more Disney films than you can shake a stick at,’ he says. ‘So I’m not really in a position to throw stones.’

  ‘Did you see anything else down there?’

  ‘The tug was fun to go through even though I’ve done it a dozen times before.’

  And this is the thing with diving – do I really want to be crawling through what is essentially wreckage? And mixing it up with pike? I’m pretty sure they have sharp, bitey teeth and evil eyes. My vision of diving was more akin towards Finding Nemo or The Little Mermaid. I decide against mentioning that.

  Joe goes off to get changed so I help some of the guys with their gear again and generally hang around until he appears, freshly showered and changed. He smells of citrus aftershave and not of murky pond water.

  ‘Ready for something to eat?’

  I’ve hardly worked up an appetite, but I never knowingly turn down food. We head across to the pub with the rest of the group and enjoy a convivial meal with much banter and fun. I watch Joe, surreptitiously, as I eat my fish and chips. I like the way he acts in a group. He looks after everyone and he’s clearly popular as a result of it.