by Imogen Clark
‘Oh, come on,’ she says. ‘Just one drink. What else have you got to do?’ She looks at my bag-for-life. ‘Oh my God! You’re not going to the supermarket? How excruciatingly dull. Come and tell me things. I heard your friend Beth got hitched. I assume you made the dress?’
She comes out of the bar now and links her arm through mine, pulling me gently towards the door. I protest a little at first but then I give in. Dad is being looked after. I have nowhere I need to be. I go in.
Inside, the bar looks like it should be in a village in rural France rather than Yorkshire. The floor, bar and tables, all fashioned from reclaimed wood, shine as if they have been rubbed smooth by generations of farmers. Open shelving scampers up the walls, making the place feel as if you have accidentally stepped into someone’s pantry.
‘There’s wine,’ says Laura as she clambers over several laps to get back into her seat, but when she takes the bottle from the cooler it’s empty. She tips it upside down just to make sure. ‘Soz,’ she says with a shrug.
I order myself a gin and tonic, which arrives in a glass that could comfortably house a goldfish, then head over to join Laura and her friends.
‘This is Cara,’ Laura tells the group as I approach. ‘Designer of exquisite wedding dresses, including mine, which I still have, despite the early demise of my marriage. So, if any of you are thinking of getting married, which I really cannot recommend, and want the most beautiful dress available, then look no further. Cara is a genius.’
They look up at me briefly and I smile, trying not to look as awkward as I feel. I don’t know any of them, although I recognise one of the girls as Laura’s chief bridesmaid. I pull a spare chair over from another table but there’s not a space big enough for me to squeeze into, and none of the others move up, so I am forced to sit slightly away from the table. I wonder how long I will have to stick it out before I can politely leave. I take a slug of gin.
The conversation is fast and furious, but with the murmur of other voices behind me it’s hard to catch everything. I sit a little forward in my seat and smile, trying to make sense of the snatches that I can hear. In the end, I give up and sit back again, sipping at my drink quickly and smiling inanely as I count the minutes. The gin has a sprig of rosemary floating in it, which keeps going up my nose.
‘Did you really make her wedding dress?’ asks a voice to my left.
I turn and see a man in a chunky-knit navy sweater sitting in the next chair, which is also positioned just out of the larger group. He has tufty dark hair, slightly longer than it should be to be tidy, and a thick beard. He reminds me of Captain Haddock from the Tintin books that Michael loved when we were children. His eyes are a startling blue.
I finish my gin in one surprising gulp and nod.
‘It was beautiful,’ he says. ‘Best bit of that terrible wedding. Did you know that Laura’s mum and Nick’s grandma had the most spectacular row just after the speeches? The auspices for a long and successful marriage were not good. The dress was pretty special, though. Even I remember the dress.’
I notice how he says ‘even I’, like he is totally insignificant.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
I’m aware that if I’m going to carry on a conversation with the only person who’s bothered to speak to me since I arrived, then I’ll have to come up with something to say, but my mind is blank. I resort to the old faithfuls.
‘So how do you know Laura?’ I ask, cringing inwardly at my lack of originality.
‘I don’t,’ he says. ‘I came in for a quiet pint but she’s chained my ankles to this chair and she won’t let me go until . . .’ He shakes his head and blows his lips out in defeat. ‘I like to pretend that I’m one of those men who’s always ready with a slightly surreal joke at the drop of the hat,’ he says. ‘But actually, I’m just not sharp enough. I get so far in and then my mind goes blank and I end up looking like an idiot. The truth is, Laura works with my ex-girlfriend. The girlfriend came and went but somehow Laura and I stayed friends. Just friends,’ he adds quickly as my eyebrows stray upwards.
‘And do you have a name, oh quiet-pint-drinking-captive friend of Laura’s?’
I try to adopt the same flirty style as him but I’m afraid I sound a bit pompous.
‘Simeon,’ he says. ‘I know. Don’t laugh,’ he adds before I even have chance to smirk. ‘My mother was a huge fan of French detective novels.’
I struggle to make the connections but eventually a name appears out of the fog.
‘Oh! Maigret!’ I say. ‘But wasn’t that . . . ?’
‘Simenon? Yes. I am named after the misspelling of a French detective-story writer. Could it be any more humiliating? Mum just liked the name. By the time she’d worked out that she’d spelled it wrong, it was too late. I was Simeon and there was nothing anyone could do about it. My granddad nearly had a fit, apparently.’
‘Simeon’s a nice name,’ I say, rolling it round in my mouth. ‘I think I like Simenon even better but there’s not much you can do about that.’
‘You’re not helping,’ he says and I notice again how very blue his eyes are.
He picks up a wine bottle from the floor by his chair and then, plucking the rosemary sprig from my empty glass, he tips some wine into it without asking me if I want any. I might have objected but I’m so surprised that I let him pour.
‘Cara,’ he says. ‘Now that’s a beautiful name. It’s Italian, right?’
‘I think so,’ I reply. ‘How do you know?’
‘Italian ex-girlfriend.’
‘You’ve left quite a trail,’ I say, and he shrugs.
‘What can I say? I’m hard to love. It means “beloved” doesn’t it?’
‘Apparently. Ironic, really.’ He looks at me, waiting for me to fill him in, but I’m not about to tell my life story to a stranger in a bar, no matter how blue his eyes. ‘I really should be going,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘I was on my way to the supermarket when Laura accosted me.’
I leave the unrequested wine untouched.
‘Want some company?’ he asks. ‘I’m sure there must be something that I need.’
‘I thought you were chained to the seat.’
He stands up with a flourish.
‘Houdini is my middle name,’ he says.
‘Suit yourself.’ I say my goodbyes to Laura. She makes a bit of a show of asking me to stay. ‘But we haven’t had a chance to catch up yet . . .’ Then she sees the man, Simeon, leaving with me and gives me an enormous and very unsubtle wink. I don’t look to see if he has noticed as my stomach squirms with mortification.
We walk along the dark streets side by side, his shoes clicking on the stone pavement. A dog barks loudly not far away and then is rudely reprimanded by its owner.
‘So, what is ironic about your name?’ he asks, as if no time at all has passed since I made the comment.
I toy with ignoring the question, batting it away with a light-hearted joke. I surprise myself when I say, ‘I think my mother abandoned me when I was two. I’m not sure I can have been all that beloved.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asks. ‘Surely you know whether she left or not.’
‘You’d think.’ I know that this isn’t an answer to his question. I can feel him turning to look at me as we walk along but he doesn’t press me when I don’t explain. I keep my focus on the pavement in front of me. ‘I thought she was dead,’ I say without raising my gaze. ‘That’s what my dad told me. Now it turns out that she might not be. Hence the abandoning theory.’
‘That’s tough,’ he says. ‘What will you do?’ His voice is a mixture of curiosity and something that sounds like genuine concern. It throws me a little. This is the last thing I was expecting when I went out to buy some fruit.
‘I’m going to find her sister,’ I say. ‘And ask.’
‘Seems fair enough,’ he says and doesn’t delve any deeper.
I like that he’s let it drop. I’m not sure why I even told him but I appreciate that he is allow
ing me to control the pace at which information flows. I don’t mention it again.
The supermarket is quiet. I pick up some unripe bananas and a bag of shiny satsumas, and then lose interest. Simeon has disappeared and I catch myself feeling disappointed. I assume that he’s bored of trying to prise information out of me or bumped into someone else and decided to just slip away. When he reappears with a bottle in either hand I’m remarkably pleased to see him. Warning bells start to ring in my head but I throw a metaphorical blanket over them so I can’t hear.
‘Red or white?’ he says, brandishing the bottles at me in turn. ‘Call me presumptuous,’ he continues. ‘But I think this conversation needs continuing over a glass of wine. My flat isn’t far away. Or we could sit outside if you’d rather. Or you could just pay for your . . .’ He looks at my basket. ‘Your frankly pathetic selection of groceries and go home on your own.’
I don’t even think about it. ‘Either,’ I say. ‘And your flat sounds nice.’
‘You haven’t seen it yet,’ he warns and he smiles, a broad open smile that makes me respond in kind. ‘I’ll get both just in case,’ he says.
As we walk up the hill to his place, I get my phone out to ring home.
‘Hi,’ I say when the rota nurse answers. ‘It’s me, Cara. I’m going to be a little bit later than I said. Just thought I should let you know.’
He doesn’t ask but I feel the need to explain.
‘My dad,’ I say when I finish the call to home. ‘He’s not well.’
He just nods.
His flat is at the top of the road where the town ends and the moor begins and the dark hills loom up behind us like a shadow. The building looks square and tall with lots of windows, although it’s difficult to make out any details in the dark. There is a blue tourist plaque on the wall.
‘It used to be a maternity hospital,’ says Simeon, seeing me trying to read the sign in the gloom. ‘And Charles Darwin stayed here when it was a hotel. He was here waiting for On the Origin of Species to be published, apparently. He won’t have slept in my bit, though. I’m up in the eaves, where the servants hung out.’ He winks at me. He’s quite handsome, I suppose, in a scruffy kind of way.
He turns the key in the front door, which swings open on to a wide entrance hall, and leads the way to the lift. It crosses my mind that I’m playing fast and loose with my personal safety but my instincts tell me I have nothing to worry about here.
As we get out of the lift he stops in his tracks. ‘Damn,’ he says, hitting himself on his forehead with the heel of his hand.
‘What?’
‘I just remembered what state I left the place in when I went to meet the others in the pub. If you don’t want to see the single man in his natural environment then I suggest you leave now.’
‘I’m sure I’ll cope,’ I say. Now that I’m here, I find that I really do want to spend some time with him, no matter what state his flat is in.
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he says and opens the door.
The flat is cut into the eaves of the house. The ceiling slants on every side and there is only true standing headroom in the centre of the room. There is a kitchen and a small dining table at one end and a battered-looking leather sofa and a TV at the other. It looks tidy too. There are no dirty dishes in the sink and the sofa is clear of clothing. I’m just thinking that maybe he’s a neat freak when I notice the floor. Laid out on various pieces of newspaper across the carpet is a bike, completely dismantled with all its component parts spread neatly around the frame. The room smells subtly of WD-40.
He looks at the bike and then back at me, his nose crinkled.
‘Sorry. I was just cleaning it when Laura rang. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
A pair of Lycra cycling tights hang on a radiator together with a lurid, fluorescent-green jersey and some ankle socks. He follows my gaze.
‘They’re clean,’ he assures me. ‘But I can’t tumble dry them in case they shrink. Just pretend they’re not there. Now, make yourself at home. Red or white?’
I pick my way over the bike bits and sit right at the very end of the sofa.
‘White please,’ I say. ‘Nice flat.’
And it is a nice flat. Though it’s small, it’s clutter-free and everything looks to have been carefully chosen rather than just thrown together. I quickly scan the space for signs of a girlfriend. He said he was single but don’t men always say that when it suits them? Not that I know much about the subject of male behaviour, but I watch a lot of television. However, there are no photographs or anything else that might be a clue. I assume that he was telling the truth and find, somewhat surprisingly, that I’m pleased.
‘Thanks,’ he says as he pours the wine into stemless glasses. ‘I can be a bit clumsy,’ he adds when he sees me looking curiously. ‘These are harder to knock over.’
He brings the glasses over and sits down next to me but not so close that I might feel uncomfortable. I actually catch myself feeling a little disappointed that he’s sat so far away. If only Beth could see me now.
‘So,’ I say, after I’ve taken a courage-enhancing swig of the wine. ‘What else do you do, apart from pull bikes to pieces?’
He tells me that he’s a primary-school teacher, that he’s lived here for two years, that he’s from Grantham originally and came to Yorkshire for a job. He moves his hands a lot when he talks, gesticulating enthusiastically and running his fingers through his hair when he’s trying to think of something. Every part of him buzzes with energy, as if he’s got nowhere to store it and the excess is about to crackle out of his fingertips. He talks quickly and confidently about films and bikes and his work and I’m happy to listen to him. Every so often he’ll ask me a question, which I answer succinctly. He doesn’t ask me anything else about my mother and I’m grateful. When I look up at the clock on the wall it’s almost midnight.
‘I should go,’ I say. ‘They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’ But I know this isn’t true.
‘That’s a shame,’ he says. ‘I’m enjoying myself. Shall I walk you home?’
I nod and stand but I’ve been sitting on my foot, which is now refusing to cooperate. I stumble and before I realise he has caught me. He holds me by my shoulders and it feels a bit like something out of a film. It’s one of those moments, when you think you might kiss – but then he lets his arms drop to his sides and I right myself. Whatever might be happening here, it isn’t happening tonight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It is New Year’s Eve and I have no plans. Again. In years gone by, the lack of a social engagement on what might be considered the biggest night of the year would have sent me into a spiral of fretting about my lack of friends. I’d have convinced myself that everyone was having a much better life than me. Now, though, I know that most of it is hype. So many fabulous-looking lives are fake. People only share the good parts and skip over the bad. Perfect, eye-sparkling, snow-dusted, heart-stoppingly romantic New Year’s Eves only happen in the movies.
Unbidden, my mind skips to my evening with Simeon and I wonder idly how he might be spending his New Year’s Eve. No doubt he’s got a string of parties already lined up, jam-packed with interesting and beautiful people. I’m pretty certain that he won’t have given me a second’s thought since we said goodbye on my doorstep. Surprisingly, I find that this thought makes me feel a bit disappointed. Most of the time, my single status doesn’t worry me. I don’t really have time for a relationship, what with work and looking after Dad, and I almost never meet anyone that might fit the bill. But Simeon is a bit different. I really enjoyed the time we spent together and I think he did too, although my rusty radar might be a bit off-kilter. So, having parted company with him with no plans to meet again and not even a goodnight kiss, I can’t help but feel a bit let down. I torture myself by playing through various ‘what if’ scenarios in my head, but conclude that he obviously isn’t that interested.
Mrs P arrives bright and early. Dad and I are tr
ying to build a jigsaw of the Eiffel Tower. Dad’s contribution is minimal. His deteriorating fine motor skills prevent him from being able to reliably pick up a piece and the lattice pattern of ironwork making up the legs of the tower is challenging enough for me, let alone him. Instead, I offer him a running commentary of my progress and he seems happy enough just to watch, locked in his own near-silent world.
‘Would it be all right with you,’ I say as Mrs P comes into the room, ‘if I go away for a few days next week? I’ll tell the agency and get the cover sorted but I wondered if you might move in here while I’m gone, for a bit of continuity for Dad.’
Her reply comes quickly. ‘Yes. No problem. Going anywhere nice?’
‘San Francisco,’ I say lightly, like I’ve said Blackpool or somewhere else that’s not halfway across the planet.
Her expression changes slightly. I cannot tell whether she is working out the feasibility of this or is concerned, but then she nods her head slowly.
‘Fine. How long will you be away?’
‘I’ll be gone four days,’ I say, trying not to make it sound like a question.
‘That’s a long way to go for such a short break.’
As she says this, I am trying to work out whether she is reluctant to be left or just pointing out the obvious; I can’t tell which.
‘Yes, but that’s all the time I need. I’m trying to track someone down. An aunt,’ I add. ‘My mother’s sister.’
‘You never mentioned any relatives before – apart from your brother, that is,’ she says. Her tone is almost accusatory but she corrects herself before I have chance to take offence. ‘Not that it’s any of my business, of course.’
For a moment, I think I’m going to tell her everything, about Mum and Ursula and Dad’s affair. I’m still longing to find someone to talk to about it all and I know, after our conversation on Christmas Day, that she’ll be understanding. But then I see Dad sitting there. I’m almost certain that he can no longer follow what is happening around him but what if some part of his mind is still working? How would he feel to hear that discussion and yet not be able to tell his side of things? If I am going to tell her, then I need to pick a better moment.
