Million Love Songs

by Carole Matthews

  ‘No need,’ I say. ‘You take the birthday girl home. I’ll speak to you later.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  I nod. ‘I can manage.’ I want them both to leave thinking that I’m an utter saint. Besides, Daisy still seems to be floating on a happy cloud and I don’t want to spoil that for her by making her fill bin bags with rubbish.

  So Joe takes Daisy’s hand and I watch as they walk away through the trees. Then, after a moment, she turns back and runs down the path towards me.

  To my surprise, she grabs me and holds me in a tight hug. ‘Thank you, Ruby,’ Daisy says and kisses my cheek without prompting. Then she races to catch up with her dad once more.

  I resist doing the air punch that’s inside me in case she sees. But it’s there, nevertheless.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Mason turns up halfway through my shift. He catches my wrist as I pass the bar and gives me a puzzled look. ‘Why are you looking so pleased with yourself, Brown? I’ve never seen a more smug smile. What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m happy,’ I tell him.

  ‘Excellent. Let’s celebrate at my club afterwards.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  He pouts. ‘Then we can go back to my place and have sensationally sordid sex.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Don’t you even want to think about it?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You ran out on me the other week after the launch party with no explanation.’

  ‘I know. Sorry about that.’

  He puffs out an exasperated breath. ‘Playing hard to get is pointless when you get to a certain age.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  Mason stomps off.

  So I serve polenta and couscous and other posh grub to my customers and am ridiculously busy until closing time and, by then, Mason has gone.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Flushed with success from Daisy’s hit party, Joe and I try a family film night at his house. One of their favourites, Despicable Me. It’s one that I haven’t seen as I normally go for chick-flicks or anything with Ryan Gosling in it. Or, preferably, a chick-flick with Ryan Gosling in it.

  We sit on the sofa in a cosy line, snuggled under blankets, hugging huge bowls of popcorn and unfeasibly large bottles of fizzy drink.

  The house is a small, three-bed semi in Emerson Valley, one of the nicer areas of Milton Keynes. It’s a modern estate, but built before the squeeze on land so the streets are tree-lined, the gardens more than handkerchief-sized and Joe’s house backs onto some lovely parkland. Inside, it’s very much a family home, a bit unkempt and much-loved. The hall is filled with discarded shoes and smells slightly of teenage boy’s trainers. Joe says he’s going to try to keep it on until they’re at least eighteen, if he can afford it by himself, as this has been the kids’ only home and moving them would be a trauma too far.

  My relationship with Daisy has improved a lot. She’s more relaxed with me and nestles nonchalantly against my side as we sit together. We have found some common ground in fairy wings and unicorns, it appears. Who’d have thought? The momentary appearance of Goth Daisy has been forgotten and she’s back in head-to-toe pink. Earlier she let me paint her fingernails for her and I passed muster in that department too. At her suggestion, she put my mobile number into her phone so that she can text me. Progress indeed. I feel as if it’s a series of tests that I have to complete to win her affections. Yet it seems to be working, in a small way.

  Can’t say the same about Tom, though. I’ve no idea how to reach out to him. You can’t exactly throw a few unicorns at a fifteen-year-old boy and hope they’ll stick. Although we’re next to each other on the sofa, he sits as far away from me as humanly possible, making sure there is clear air, and sends regular death-stares in my direction. I do nothing but respond politely and kindly. He’s a kid and he’s hurting. I get that. But he’s so sullen and hostile that it’s bloody hard.

  We like to think that children aren’t affected by divorce, that they bounce back and cope with everything we adults throw at them. And they do. To a point. Yet who wouldn’t be damaged by their mum walking out on them, no matter how many times that they’re reassured that they’re still loved? He sees me as a threat, obviously. Perhaps he thinks that I’m the one who is preventing Gina from coming home again, but that’s far from the truth. They don’t talk about their mum’s new partner and I wonder if they’re putting him through agonies too or are they more accepting of him.

  It seems as if Gina is taking her responsibilities lightly in the face of finding new love. The kids are supposed to see her every other weekend and one night in the week, but Joe tells me that she often cancels at the last minute – leaving Daisy heartbroken and Tom angry.

  I’m trying not to take sides or get too involved in their family dynamics. I take my hat off to anyone who can be a stepmum though and I do wonder if I’ll ever manage to be fully part of their lives. However, I don’t just want to see Joe away from his home as that’s not real, is it? If I’m going to be part of his life, then we can’t keep it all separate. Despite the comedy antics on the screen and the lovely, buttery bowl of popcorn to comfort me, my mood is quite low. If I’m perfectly honest with you, I like the feeling I get when I’m with them all. I’ve never done snuggling up with a family before – not since I was a kid myself, anyway – and I’m surprised how much I’ve enjoyed it. I want to do more of this. If only both of the kids would like me.

  When the film finishes, Joe goes to make a cup of tea and Daisy troops after him to help. I’m left alone with Tom on the sofa. As he’s finished his popcorn, I push my bowl between us. Miraculously, there’s quite a bit left in there. ‘Help yourself.’

  He dips in, making absolutely sure that our hands aren’t reaching in at the same time. Even that, it seems, would be a traitorous act against his mum.

  I smile at him. ‘That was a great film. I can see why you all like it.’

  ‘It was mum’s favourite,’ he says pointedly.

  ‘She has great taste.’

  Then he looks at me squarely. ‘You’ll never replace her.’

  ‘I’m not trying to, Tom. But I like your dad and he likes me. He’s been through a difficult time too. Doesn’t he deserve to have a little happiness?’

  He doesn’t answer me. Then Joe and Daisy come back and the moment is lost.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Two weeks later, Charlie and I are standing against the barriers outside a theatre in London. We are very squashed as the weight of a couple of hundred hysterical middle-aged ladies is pressing at our backs. It’s the opening night of The Barlowmeister’s latest musical and we are hoping to catch a glimpse of him and the boys arriving. Charlie is wearing her favourite T-shirt with ‘Call me Mrs Barlow’ emblazoned across her chest.

  We have been here for hours. And hours. And hours. My feet are numb and I need a wee. I can’t, however, go for a wee as the nearest loos are miles away and I’ll lose the place I’ve been guarding with my life. I try to content myself with jiggling instead. It’s not really working.

  ‘Stop fidgeting,’ Charlie says, ‘or I’ll have to kill you.’

  ‘We’ve been here for ever,’ I point out. ‘How much longer?’

  She checks her watch. ‘The show starts in about half an hour, so he’ll be arriving very soon.’

  ‘Good. I can’t last much longer.’

  ‘Can I point out that some ladies have been camping out here on the pavement under the stars – or streetlamps – for three days to get the best spot on this barrier?’

  ‘Three days! That’s madness.’ As much as I am coming to love Gary Barlow, I don’t think I’ll ever love him that much. Three hours, I think, is probably the limit of my adoration. I like the comfort of my own bed too much. Even now, I’m wishing I’d brought sandwiches.

  Nice Paul is right here on the barrier next to her. He’s been here for a long time too. We’re going to have a meal together after we’ve seen Gary
and Co. head inside. Then we’re going to wait outside again afterwards until they come out at the end of the show. I think I might give the last bit a miss, if Charlie doesn’t mind going home with the other fans rather than me. I don’t think my dedication quite matches theirs yet.

  ‘How’s it going with Joe?’

  ‘OK,’ I tell her. ‘One of his kids likes me now. Daisy’s on side. She messages me regularly.’ Silly little things from Snapchat mainly, but that’s enough. ‘I’ve still yet to win Tom over, but I’m prepared to keep trying.’ I’ve done my best. Joe took me to watch him rehearsing for a music concert as he’s a talented guitarist, but he studiously ignored me from the stage and when we met him afterwards. I wasn’t allowed to go to the real concert as his mum would be there – though she did actually turn up for this one. Last Saturday morning, I also stood at the side of the road in the rain and cheered him along as he ran the Costa del Keynes half-marathon. He high-fived his dad and ran straight past me. I clearly have a lot of work to do yet.

  ‘Shagger was asking about you.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for ages,’ I tell her. ‘Last time we spoke, he wanted me to go to his club with him and I told him I wasn’t interested. I’m not sure if he can cope with that. He’s probably used to women falling at his Ted Baker-shod feet.’

  ‘He seems pretty keen,’ she says. ‘He’d normally have moved on by now.’

  ‘I suspect it’s only because we haven’t had any new waitresses for a while.’

  ‘Ah,’ she agrees. ‘Probably.’

  The stupid thing is that part of me likes the lack of complication offered by Mason – as long as you don’t mind threesomes, obvs. Building a relationship with Joe is flipping difficult. It’s hard to make yourself part of a tight-knit unit and I know that I’ll always be second best. Joe’s kids will always come first no matter what the demands. Maybe if Mason was older or looking to settle down then it might be a different matter. It’s possible that we could have a future together. However, I’m at an age where I don’t want to be someone’s fuck buddy. Even the term makes me shudder. I need to be more than that.

  ‘You’ve never been married, Paul?’ I ask across Charlie – mainly because I want to stop thinking about my own tortured love life.

  He shakes his head. ‘I came close once, but I think I dodged a bullet there. It wouldn’t have been right for either of us.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I’m waiting for someone special,’ he says and we exchange a glance over Charlie’s head and then smile at each other. I knew it! To coin one of my nana’s phrases, he is sweet on her and Charlie is oblivious. Or pretends to be.

  Then, before I can dwell on my friends’ relationship potential, my suffering ends as a limo sweeps in and Gary, lovely wife on his arm, gets out. He waves to the crowd, poses for photographs and then works the barrier. Mrs Barlow is escorted inside while the man himself signs autographs, stops for selfies and chats to his fans. Charlie goes into meltdown as he gets closer towards us.

  When he’s right in front of us, Charlie lets out an ear-splitting shout. ‘GARY!’ Obligingly, he walks our way.

  ‘All right?’ he says to Charlie.

  ‘Yes,’ she breathes. ‘I can’t wait to see the show.’

  ‘You know what, it should be a good one.’

  He’s so handsome close up and looks very debonair in his tuxedo. Even my heart goes all a-flutter and usually I’m quite content with cardboard cut-out Gary. For Charlie this is probably like achieving nirvana and I can understand why no ordinary man would live up to the standard he’s set. She twists herself round for a selfie and he duly poses with her. Then he’s off to the next set of fans to work his Barlow magic.

  My friend tears her gaze away from his retreating back. ‘That was good.’ Understatement. Charlie sighs with happiness. She studies the resultant selfie and coos at it before she shows it to me and Nice Paul. It’s a very good selfie. ‘It’s moments like that which make it all worthwhile,’ she declares and hugs her phone to her chest.

  And I get that now. It’s such an adrenaline rush to touch the unattainable. Yet, despite the excitement, Nice Paul’s expression is a little sad as he watches Charlie drool over her idol. I wonder if he’s thinking will he ever have a chance with Charlie or whether she’ll only ever have room for Gary Barlow in her life.

  ‘We can go to dinner now,’ Charlie announces. ‘I can also die happy.’

  ‘I’m going to skip off, if you don’t mind,’ I say to her. ‘I’m tired and could do with an early night.’

  ‘Wimp.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Of course I don’t mind. You’ll miss Gary coming out though.’

  ‘Take lots of pics,’ I instruct. ‘I’ll live it vicariously through you. We’ll catch up tomorrow.’

  I kiss Nice Paul and he hugs me to him. I give him an extra squeeze. I want to tell him that it will all work out for him and Charlie, but I can’t honestly see that happening. I hope I’m wrong.

  Chapter Seventy

  I buy a Cornish pasty at Euston station and a paper cup of lukewarm tea. Then I chug home on a train that stops at every damn station known to man. I think about calling Joe on the way home to tell him that our mission to see Mr Barlow was successful, but I remember that he’s at work tonight and I don’t want to bother him. They’re still short-staffed and he’s having to work extra shifts at the moment. I text him a little message instead to say that I’m on my way back but, as I expected, there’s no reply.

  I doze through some of the stations and I’m glad that I skipped out early on Charlie and Nice Paul as I’m completely knackered when I get to my granny annexe and it’s not yet nine o’clock. I could do with a hot bath and a nice cup of tea. Actually, make that a large glass of red.

  Not a moment too soon, I kick off my Converse. My feet are killing me and they need to be fully operational again before tomorrow’s shift. A nice long soak should help to do the job. I start to run my bath, slopping in a good dollop of the posh bath foam that the ex bought me last Christmas. It doesn’t have great associated memories, obvs, but it’s a shame to let it go to waste.

  In my bedroom, I kiss cardboard cut-out Gary. ‘You’re pretty hot in real life,’ I tell him, but he doesn’t seem impressed by my attention. So I strip off my grubby London clothes and slip into my dressing gown, pour myself a big glass of some cheap red that’s already open and dig in the fridge until I find some chocolate. That’s what’s left of my night sorted.

  I’m just about climb into the bath when my phone rings but, when I look at the display, I don’t recognise the number. My first thought is to let it go to voicemail. So often these anonymous calls are trying to sell me something – and I neither require double glazing nor have the money for a new kitchen or funeral plan. But, call it instinct or something, this time I pick up.

  Tom is on the other end of the line and he’s sobbing. I can’t even understand what he’s saying, but my blood turns to ice and my stomach twists into a tight knot. For him to even consider ringing me, I know that this isn’t good.

  ‘What is it?’ I say. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ he cries. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Are you hurt, Tom?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ More sobbing. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Are you at home?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Have you phoned your dad?’ I realise that I sound as if I’m interrogating him, but I’ve no starting point to judge the gravity or otherwise of this.

  ‘Yeah, but he’s not answering his phone. Neither’s Mum.’ There’s panic in his voice.

  His tears are ripping my heart apart. It seems pointless trying to get any more information out of him over the phone as he’s too distraught. I should just go and get him wherever he is. ‘Where are you? Do you want me to come and get you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he manages. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Take a few deep breaths.’ I hear him trying to calm himself down.
‘Nice and easy.’ When he’s got his crying a bit more under control, I say, ‘Now. Tell me where you are.’

  ‘I’m not really sure.’

  ‘OK. Describe to me what’s around you.’ Which he does. ‘I think I know where you are. I’ll be ten minutes. Hang on there. Try to stay calm. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Thank you, Ruby.’ Tom’s crying again, but his sobs aren’t quite as heartbreaking. ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’

  With one last look longingly at my lovely foam bath and my big glass of wine, I head out into the night to find him.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  It turns out that Tom’s description of his location is pretty good. As I speed down the main grid road towards the city centre, I spot him sitting on the broad grass verge at the roadside. There’s not much traffic about, so I pull up in the nearest layby, then jump out of the car to dash back to him. He’s in one of the less salubrious areas and I wonder what he’s doing up here.

  ‘Tom!’

  He stands up when he sees me and I feel relief flood through me even though I can see from here that he’s got a black eye, a split lip and there’s blood all over his T-shirt. I feel myself turn white. When I reach him, I hold him by his thin shoulders, looking him up and down, trying to assess the damage.

  ‘What on earth’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve been mugged.’ Tears run down his face. ‘They took my bike, my money.’ The floodgates open and he cries again.

  Taking Tom in my arms, I rock him, making shushing noises. He feels so slight, insubstantial and it makes me realise that for all his attitude and posturing, he’s still just a boy. ‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘We’ll sort it out.’