Cloudy with a Chance of Love

by Fiona Collins

  Then I sat on my floor and started laughing. I was a tragic case, wasn’t I? Kissing and then hiding from my next door neighbour. Getting booty calls from men I hardly knew. Fending off men in car parks. What a bloody week. And I had one more day to go. Just the graduation to get through and then I was done.

  I had a hundred percent chance of waking up on my own on Friday morning and zero of falling in love, which I hadn’t wanted anyway, but it was okay. It had to be. With a bit of luck and a tailwind, I could survive the week.

  Yes, I thought, as I sat on my kitchen floor and stared at my woolly, cake-mix splattered feet, just one more day to go.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Friday

  I woke up to ‘Friday I’m in Love’, by The Cure, coming from my radio alarm. Gosh, what a coincidence, it must be a sign… the stars were aligning… my online prediction was going to come true, after all… Madame L’Oracle was right all along! No, I didn’t really. It was actually ‘Karma Chameleon’, by Culture Club, which gave no meaning to my situation whatsoever – unless I was planning to wear red, gold and green today…

  As I clambered out of bed, the first thought that rushed into my head was that kiss with Will. As I showered, I had two conflicting emotions jostling for precedence. The first was a rush of pleasure as I remembered how amazing it was, the second was a deep, guttural cringe that he’d stopped kissing me and told me he couldn’t through with it. That it was wrong. Oh, the horror! Thank goodness I’d agreed with him though – that was my only saving grace – thank goodness I hadn’t begged him to kiss me again!

  I set a new record this morning for front door to car sprint. It was pouring with rain, again, but it was the thought of accidentally seeing Will that really put a rocket up my backside – Usain Bolt probably couldn’t have run it quicker – and once in my car I slammed the key in the ignition and drove away at the speed of light. I really couldn’t handle seeing my neighbour this morning and I had a feeling I might feel like that every day until the end of time. What on earth would we say to each other? What on earth were we thinking, kissing like that? It had to be a moment of complete insanity.

  As I drove to work, the rain, familiar this week as a bald patch on a monk, pelted on the windscreen. The wipers could barely keep up with it; it was absolute cats and dogs. I might say that today, in one of my bulletins, I thought. And then another weather cliché popped into my head. Raining in my heart. I realised, despite my late-night hysterical giggles on the kitchen floor, I was still pretty gutted about what had happened last night. I would survive, of course I would, but I really liked Will. I’d really liked him last night. He’d looked so utterly gorgeous, in that stupid Batman costume. So handsome, so muscly, so right. And we’d had such a fun, perfect evening until it all went horribly wrong, hadn’t we? We’d got on really well, we’d had a laugh, the time had flown…

  And then we’d gone and spoiled it all by doing something stupid like kissing each other. What a couple of absolute idiots!

  ‘How was your night?’

  Sam was waiting for me at my desk with a banana and goji-berry protein bar, and a rolled-up magazine.

  ‘I thought you might like these,’ she said. ‘There was a two-for-one.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, giving her a smile.

  ‘I’ve got us the new OK magazine. Shall I read your horoscopes for you?’

  I sighed as I sat down. I usually indulged her, but I couldn’t face it today. Instead I grimaced at her as I threw my bag under my desk.

  ‘Oh, god, no, Sam, please. I’ve had a belly-full of fortunes and forecasts. I don’t want to hear one ever again.’ I’d hardly fully embraced it, but seriously, there was going to be no more mumbo jumbo, or even a sniff of it, for me, ever. I wouldn’t even humour Sam with it any more. I wouldn’t even bother cracking open a fortune cookie from Fish on the River Kwai, the local combined chippy and Chinese (sometimes the chips had a tang of sweet and sour. Sometimes the wontons tasted a bit haddock-y) for a laugh any more. The last one, incidentally, had said, ‘You shall prosper in prosperity.’ Yes, I’d go for that. It was no more nonsensical than ‘You have a ninety-nine percent chance of falling in love by Friday’.

  ‘Why not? What’s the matter, you look a bit down? What happened last night?’

  ‘I don’t want to hear another fortune ever again because they are a load of rubbish, which I told you they were – I’d have more chance of snaring Ricky Martin than I would of falling in love this week – and I look a bit down because I went over to Will’s house last night and it was amazing and then he kissed me which was even more amazing and then he stopped kissing me and told me it was wrong as we are neighbours and he doesn’t fancy me… and I agreed with him, because it was wrong, but oh, Sam, it didn’t feel that way – it was such an incredible kiss.’ I slumped down on my chair and put my head in my hands. Now I was telling the story I felt gutted all over again. ‘… The whole thing was pretty awful.’

  ‘Emergency hot chocolate,’ she said, and she dashed into the kitchen while I sat numb at my desk. When she came back she had a large mug in her hand with a huge dollop of whipped cream on the top, and a Snickers. ‘I raided Elaine’s stash. Don’t tell her – I’ll replace it all.’

  I gratefully took the mug, tore open the Snickers and started chomping. Sam sat silently and waited for me to draw breath.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Better. Thanks, Sam, you have an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what I need.’

  ‘It’s my sixth sense,’ she shrugged. ‘Kicks in every time.’ I managed a weak smile.

  ‘So, Will kissed you?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t want to.’

  ‘What do you mean? He wouldn’t have kissed you if he didn’t fancy you.’

  ‘It was a mad, insane moment for him, that’s all. It won’t be happening again. Not ever. We’re neighbours and we shouldn’t be anything more. His wife died five years ago. He’s not ready to move on, it’s obvious.’

  ‘Oh, Daryl.’ Sam unrolled the OK magazine and placed it in front of me. She knew I loved it and that – I glanced at the cover – seeing the world exclusive photos of the cast of Coronation Street at a ‘star-studded wedding’ (again) would provide a great distraction.

  ‘And now I have to avoid the man until the end of days.’

  ‘It won’t be that bad, surely. It’ll blow over, won’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I wailed. ‘I don’t think I can face him ever again. It’s the end of the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

  I had lowered my voice; Bob was wandering past clutching a bottle of Covonia Cough Linctus.

  ‘All right, ladies?’ Cough.

  ‘Yes, thank you Bob,’ replied Sam.

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’ she said, after he had disappeared.

  ‘Now? I’m going to do nothing now. I’m going to get through Freya’s graduation tonight –’

  ‘Oh god, I’d forgotten about that!’

  ‘– and then I’m going to do precisely nothing. No men, no dates, no fun and frivolity. Nada. I’m going to unpack my boxes and decorate my house and throw an all-female housewarming and then I’m going to get on with my life. Work, friends and family only. No men.’

  ‘No men ever?’

  ‘No men ever.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll respect that.’

  ‘Good. Anyway, let’s change the subject. What did you do last night?’

  ‘Pilates and calisthenics. The instructor was dressed as a Ghostly Tinkerbell.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Yeah, it was a bit. At one point her cobweb-encrusted tutu got caught in her big toe and it took two people to release her.’

  ‘Funny. You’ve got that date with Simon tonight, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sam’s face lit up and she looked all happy and excited.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out for dinner I think. Not sure yet.’

  ‘I hope you ha
ve an amazing time.’

  ‘Thank you, me too.’ Then Sam looked all sad. ‘You’re really giving up on love?’

  ‘Yes, I am. I had anyway. Now bugger off, I’ve got weather to report on.’

  Sam got up from my desk. ‘Oh, before I go, what are you wearing to the graduation tonight?’

  ‘God knows,’ I said, rummaging in one of my drawers for a notepad and pen.

  ‘Why don’t you slip out after your lunchtime bulletin? Go out and buy something new? You always eat your lunch at your desk, these days. Why don’t you go into Wimbledon Village, to one of those nice boutiques, and treat yourself?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

  ‘Okay.’ She nodded, then turned to go.

  ‘Thanks Sam,’ I called out. ‘For listening. As always.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  I did think about Sam’s suggestion, and the more I thought about it the more a decent idea it appeared. Yes, a shopping trip for a new outfit might do me good. It would take my mind off things. I certainly couldn’t be trusted to be alone with my thoughts right now – they kept going in a direction that led me to No Good… to feeling like I did in the early days of Jeff leaving me… to feeling morose and loveless… to solo Saga holidays; lasagne for one; the acquisition of a tartan shopping trolley and a mangy cat or six hundred; and the gradual lowering of heels until I just shuffled about in slippers… I’d said to Sam no men, ever, but the thought was actually quite depressing. I’d liked the Daryl I’d been at the fountain in Trafalgar Square, declaring I was up for fun and flirting and adventure. The Daryl who had thrown her wedding ring in the water and been proud and strong and free.

  The Daryl who was sitting at this desk, right now, was down, dejected and highly peed off, but retail therapy could be just the ticket. A mooch round the shops and another delicious hot chocolate in a little cosy café might see me right. And wouldn’t it be fabulous to face Gabby again looking absolutely, drop dead gorgeous, or as good as I could damn well muster?

  I left the office at quarter past twelve, after my bulletin (storm clouds will gather this evening… Well, there was certainly going to be a giant storm cloud over my head tonight and her name was Gabriella…) and drove to Wimbledon Village. It was always so difficult to park here – it was almost all residents’ parking only, and meters with ridiculous restrictions – but I managed to find a tiny space on one of the quaint side streets and after a twenty-five point manoeuvre, then squeezing out of the passenger side and nearly getting my bottom stuck between my car and an Audi TT, I was parked and walking along the pavement. It was freezing. Too cold for a storm, currently. But, as I’d detailed in my bulletin, the pressure was dropping from high to low in just a few hours and it was going to be stormy – and raining heavily – just in time for the graduation ceremony tonight. Not a fabulous forecast, but hopefully I’d already be in the warm cathedral by then, in my fabulous new outfit.

  I had a lot of competition. Gabby was always amazingly dressed. She was skinny, with no bum and glossy, tossy sort of hair. She was the sort of tall – almost six foot – that turned heads. When we were at school, she’d adored Elle MacPherson, and tried to get the kids at sixth form to call her Elle for a term. No one went along with it. But she had that look: skinny jeans, knee-high boots, fur gilets, golden highlights and fitted white t-shirts. She was long and lean and the yummiest and funniest of all yummy mummies. I really had to pull something out of the bag tonight. Just the thought of seeing her again was making me feel incredibly nervous. Jeff, I could cope with – I kind of viewed him now as a weak-willed moron, not someone remotely worthy of me. But Gabby. Gabby and I went further back. Way way back. We had a whole lot of history. I thought we’d shared a whole lot of solidarity, too. Whoever the men were in our lives, we would stay strong and united, a force to be reckoned with. Then she just broke off, on the slightest gust of wind, and left me. Thank god for Sam and Peony, once again. Thank god for my friends.

  I wrapped my scarf twice round my neck and pulled it up over my chin. I wouldn’t need to do a lot of walking; all the shops were really close to each other. It was quite busy this lunchtime, though. I felt a little dowdy for this area; there were lots of very trendy women – young women in scarves and skinny jeans and boots; well-preserved women in scarves and skinny jeans and boots. Thank goodness I’d worn skinny jeans, knee-length boots and a big scarf… I looked okay – I could pass muster. I passed a lady with a chi-chi white doggy wearing a pale pink fleece jacket (the dog, that was, not the woman) and smiled at them.

  ‘Chilly today,’ noted the woman.

  ‘Yes. Rain later though,’ I said. Once a weather presenter, always a weather presenter.

  I went into my first shop: Le Spirit Au Fond. As I said, trendy shops. It was gorgeous in there; colour co-ordinated clothes on ornate rails; shoes on gorgeous glass shelves; pretty, shabby chic everything. Two shop assistants stopped chatting at the cash desk and said, ‘Good afternoon’ to me, in unison, then carried on chatting. Good, it wasn’t too posh. It wasn’t somewhere that thought tills vulgar, and that it wasn’t fulfilling its mission statement unless one woman followed you round for twenty minutes breathing down your neck and asking if you needed any help with anything, until you screamed, ‘Go away!’ in her face.

  I started browsing along the rails. I was thinking dress. Not a little black dress. I was thinking cream, jersey, slinky… yet classy. If there was ever a night to accentuate my best bits, this was it. I was thinking mid-calf (I haven’t got the best knees – who has, after about age twenty-five?) and I was thinking scoop neck (I’ve got quite nice shoulders). And I might even treat myself to a new pair of boots. Ooh, here were some: cream suede, knee-length, mid height, verging-on-chunky heel. Gorgeous. I loved them. Should I get them?

  I asked one of the chatting shop assistants if they had my size.

  ‘Size four, madam? I’ll go and check for you.’ Madam. It made me sound ancient. When had I gone from Miss to Madam? A long time ago. Still, I’d recently gone from Mrs. to Ms. And that made me happy.

  She brought out the boots, in a long white box layered with navy tissue paper, and they fitted like a dream. These boots were made for perking me up; in these boots I could take on Gabby and the world. The only slight worry was if I didn’t find a dress to match – should I pay for them now, or try and get the dress first, then come back? I decided to sod it and throw caution to the wind. They were neutral; I would find something to match. I felt really rather wonderful as I carried them out of the shop in their gorgeous yellow, stiff cardboard bag. Who needed men, when there were new boots?

  The next shop I decided to go in was called Joy! which I decided was the perfect fit for me. Yes, this shop was all yellow and orange and warm and autumn-y and so were the clothes. I had a quick scout round but there were no cream dresses and nothing to match my new boots. Next!

  I was enjoying myself. There really was nothing like shopping to make me forget Will and Ben and Derek. I should come shopping more often; I should spend money on myself more often. I’d talked about freedom and this could be a good part of it – doing things just for me.

  Next stop was Bibi & Belle, which looked promising. It was a tiny boutique, all stripped floors and minimalist décor and as soon as I pushed through the clanging door and found myself in its dazzling white, miniature chamber of light, I gasped. Everything in this shop was white, or cream, or creamy white. I had found my people.

  There were a lot of gorgeous clothes in this shop. Not cheap, but gorgeous. And I found exactly what I was looking for. A slinky cream, mid length dress with a scoop neck and capped sleeves. There was only one slight problem though: it was four hundred and fifty pounds. I’d never paid that much for a dress before. Ever. Never mind. I’d keep looking – there were others here. There was actually a small rail of clothes other than white, or cream, or creamy white, at the back of the shop. I came across a not quite so show-stopping red number, at a not quite so heart-stopping nin
ety-nine pounds, which had most of my criteria, though the neck was a bit higher than scoop and it looked a bit long. Could I pull off a red dress? Would it be suitable? I decided I’d try it on, and see. If I looked like a chubby and ridiculous Jessica Rabbit, who should be anywhere but a graduation wearing it, then I wouldn’t buy it.

  I took it into the white, wooden changing room and locked the door. It had mirrors on all three sides (ugh! I hated that. I really didn’t need to see a panoramic view of my bottom, in all its M&S white briefed glory – did anyone?) and the lighting was awful, as it invariably is. I looked like a jaundice victim who had been struck by some sort of meteorite. I looked flabby, dimply and terrible, with a huge arse. This changing room was not good for shattered self-esteem.

  The sooner I got this dress tried on and I got out of here, the better. I pulled it off its padded hanger and tried to step into it. Hmm, no good - I couldn’t get it over my hips. I had to pull it on over my head, instead, which was fine until it got to my boobs. Uh-oh. It was stuck. The whole thing ruched to a band of polyester stretched tight over my boobs, and was stuck fast. Zip. There was probably a zip that I’d failed to notice. Where the hell was it? I caught, at the corner of my vision, a black jagged line crossing diagonally from ribcage to armpit, but realised it would be of no use to me. I’d never even find the end, let alone get it undone.

  I needed help. I needed help or I’d be in this changing room, stuck in this dress, for ever. I was just going to stick my head out and ask for assistance, when I heard a familiar, throaty, smoker’s laugh. I froze, my chest rising and falling like a ship’s bow under its bright red synthetic constraint. Someone horribly familiar-sounding was standing outside my cubicle. I bent down – as best I could, with this straitjacket of a dress bunched round me and straining alarmingly – and had a look under the door. Oh no. It was Gabby. I’d recognise those faux-scuffed suede bootees anywhere. She loved those boots. She called them her kickabouts, but she knew she looked fantastic in them. I would have borrowed them, were my feet not about three times smaller than hers and about twenty centimetres wider.