by Adele Parks
‘Well, they’d be wrong.’
‘And you collect 1950s crockery.’
‘OK, OK, conversation closed. I see your point, I need new hobbies.’Susanne lets another huge laugh explode into the world. I grin back at her; it’s quite impossible to take offence because it’s clear none is intended. ‘I am doing rather well in terms of numbers and the variety itself is quite exciting. I haven’t done much dating in my time and never expected to. It’s interesting meeting new people but I’m afraid there hasn’t been a single one that I want to see again.’
‘What about the guy you had lunch with on Sunday?’
‘Jonathan. He was very charming and…’I search for the word, ‘… practised. He worked in one of those companies that run corporate training courses. He talked to me as though he was conducting a seminar – full of high fives and spectacular clichés. The world’s waiting for you, Rosie and You only have one life.’
‘I’d rather like that,’says Susanne. ‘There’s a whole lot of truth in a cliché.’
‘I’ll give you his number if you want.’I couldn’t help but wonder how many dozens of first dates he must have been on, to be quite so drilled.
‘Well, you never know, Rose. This David Clark might be The One.’
‘Yes,’I agree, although I don’t believe it for a moment.
Sometimes I wonder how long I’ll have to keep up this pretence of searching for the perfect man before Connie and Daisy accept that there simply isn’t such a thing for me.
‘At the very least you’ll have lovely hair when you pick up the boys from music practice,’says Susanne. ‘Is that your phone?’
‘Hello, this is Craig.’For a moment I am confused. I can’t remember a Craig dropping a response into my e-mail or post office box. The man at the end of the phone coughs and then adds, ‘Mr Walker.’
‘Oh, gosh, yes. Craig as in Mr Walker Craig,’I gabble. ‘Are the boys OK?’I demand anxiously.
‘Absolutely, yes. Sorry to alarm you, Rose. It’s nothing like that. I’m calling on PA business.’
‘Oh.’I sit back comfortably in Susanne’s chair.
‘I realize it’s short notice and quite an imposition, but I cast an eye around the hall this morning and I’m afraid I have to admit that while the harvest festival displays the children made do have a certain authentic charm, I feel we could do a little more in terms of decoration for the service tomorrow. I wouldn’t normally care but the local paper is coming to our assembly to see the children hand over their donations to the Salvation Army,’he says.
I wonder if Mr Walker has been running, he sounds breathless. It’s unusual for a man to be in a hurry, they are rarely busy enough. I’m impressed.
‘I’m happy to help in any way. What were you thinking of?’
‘I remembered that wonderful floral display you made for the top of the piano for the orchestra’s concert last summer and I wondered if you could do something festive with cobs of corn and apples.’
‘What?’
‘Like in a department store.’
Craig isn’t being especially clear but I understand. I’ve also seen arty displays of straw, greenery and fruit and veg, rather than flowers. I think I could have a go at that. My hand reaches up to my throat and I realize I am blushing. Fancy Mr Walker – Craig – the headmaster, noticing my flower arranging. I’m thrilled.
‘I’ll happily do whatever I can but we’ll have to buy some supplies and ribbon and such.’
Craig has caught his breath. Authority is creeping back into his voice, it suits him.
‘No fear on that point. We can raid Ms Kelly’s art box for ribbons and the parents have been very generous, we have more than enough fresh produce.’
I can imagine. Despite the newsletter requesting each child bring in one item to donate to the Salvation Army by way of marking harvest festival, I’ve seen offerings fit for a king brought to the school gate all week – ours included.
‘When do you want me?’
‘Would it be too inconvenient to say after school? I know the twins have music practice then. The hall is used for PE, lunch and drama during the daytime.’
I’m aware of the demands made upon space in Holland House but I’m also aware that at 3 p.m. David Clark (Might Be The One) is expecting to meet me at Nora’s Café, the place that sells the yummiest chocolate and orange cake in West London and possibly Western Europe. I do not like cancelling arrangements at the last minute, it’s rude. Yet suddenly I feel a rush of excitement when I contemplate seeing Mr Walker, Craig. He’s such easy company; very interesting and kind. He’s one of those people whose smile physically eases the stresses and worries of the recipient. I want to help him. Besides, it’s for the boys. Indirectly but certainly. I alight on the solution.
‘I could come later this evening, if you could arrange to get a set of keys to me. I’ll get my sister to sit for the boys.’
‘I was thinking of helping you. I’m not busy this evening and I’d never expect you to work alone. I’m not artistic but I can hold the ladder.’
‘Fine.’I beam to myself. I wonder if my legs need a shave? It’s just that if Craig is going to be holding the ladder I don’t want to leave the impression that I’m the abominable snowman’s rather more hairy sister. Although I doubt Craig would look at my legs as he holds the ladder, he’s far too proper for anything like that.
‘Would seven thirty suit?’I ask.
‘It’s a date,’he says.
‘A date,’I repeat automatically.
‘Well, more of an appointment,’he adds formally.
‘An appointment,’I clarify.
When I hang up I notice that Susanne is staring at me with a fat grin on her face.
‘Who was that?’she demands.
‘The boys’headmaster.’
‘You’re kidding me. You never mentioned that he’s cute.’
‘He isn’t – well, he is. But what makes you say that?’
‘Well, you were all blushy and giggly and hair-touchy. It’s clear you have the hots for him.’
‘For Mr Walker? Don’t be ridiculous.’
Daisy agrees to babysit, although she is notably less enthusiastic about babysitting so that I can deck the school halls with corn dollies and onions than when I date.
When I arrive at the hall Craig has made a start. He’s separated the huge piles of food into type. He’s cut several lengths of brown and green ribbon. His efforts are a little random but well-intentioned. We make a solid team. I quickly arrange the food, threading straw and ribbons to great effect. Craig has no artistic flair, he wasn’t being modest. But he is a whiz with the hammer and efficiently hangs my garlands to advantage.
Initially our conversation is stilted. Craig focuses on the children.
‘Who is looking after the boys tonight?’
‘My sister. She’s a great help.’
Craig looks pleased to hear this but his face clouds as he adds, ‘Even so, it can’t be easy, managing everything on your own.’
I’m more honest about this since my ‘therapy date’with Chris, but that said, I’m not sure how comfortable I am discussing my single mum status with the headmaster. Of course he’s aware of the situation but I don’t want to be indiscreet; Lucy and Peter are parents at the school too. I answer as briefly as possible.
‘Not always. Can you pass me the gingham?’
‘But it must be getting easier, now the children are getting older,’he prompts.
I wonder whether I ought to agree and leave it at that. After all, that’s the simplest and most polite option. But maybe, just maybe, Craig is genuinely interested in what it’s like to be a single mum. What it’s like for me, at least. The thought cheers me. I plump for that.
‘Do you know, in some ways I think things are getting harder.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When Peter first left I was thirty-three and things appeared possible. Thirty-three is quite young still.’
Inwardly I c
ringe. What on earth made me reveal my age to Craig? Oh well, it hardly matters. He’s unlikely to have thought I was younger than thirty-nine. Indeed, it’s unlikely that he’s given my age any thought at all. I’m embarrassed, so I do what I always do when I’m embarrassed, I babble on and make things worse. ‘That’s your age, isn’t it?’
‘I’m thirty-five.’
‘Really, well, that’s young. Anyway, I told myself if I dressed in enough bright clothes that I’d muddle through the humiliation and the loneliness and I’d survive. In fact I’d thrive. But over time my certainty slipped.’
I fall silent and wait to see if Craig is really listening. He proves he is. ‘What do you think made the confidence dissolve?’
‘I’m not sure, a combination of things. Miserable dates, failed job applications. I wasn’t after a world-dominating career, just something to get me out of the house. Mostly I applied to do part-time accounting work that I could’ve done blindfolded, but every time I had an interview, disaster would strike.’
‘In what form?’
‘My babysitter would fail to show up. Or the car would break down. Or I’d miss my bus. If I did make it to an interview I was invariably late and I found it difficult to concentrate if the interview overran. I’d start to wonder if my mum would defrost the casseroles in the freezer. Besides, I did the maths and realized that the cost of childcare outweighed the income I could generate. So I gave up.’
‘Have you thought of getting a job now that the boys are in full-time school?’
‘I always thought I’d re-enter the workforce around about now, but they finish at half three and have a third of the year off on holiday – what sort of job accommodates those hours? Very few. I considered pyramid selling. But I discovered that I am the literal opposite of the guy who can sell snowballs to Eskimos. I could not give away reindeer skins fashioned into neat little jackets to Eskimos. They’d already have another supplier.’
Craig is laughing, which is a relief; I don’t want to come across as maudlin or self-pitying.
‘Besides, I like being around the children. I’d miss them too much if I went back to work. Being around your kids is a privilege and I think I’m doing a good job. Sebastian needed a lot of extra help with his reading in reception year; would a nanny have been bothered enough to sit for hours repeating the “magic e” rule? Maybe but maybe not.’
‘Well, you’ve done a fine job. The boys are great kids.’
I’m so thrilled with Craig’s compliment that I nearly cut my finger off with round-ended scissors, quite a feat. I am a praise junkie and my class A drug is being praised about my children; it’s an unprecedented hit.
It takes two hours to transform the hall. Turns out that I have quite a flair for this sort of decorating; the years of putting together an autumnal table have not been wasted. The end result is marvellous. Craig and I repeatedly congratulate ourselves.
‘You’ve made the place look sensational, Rose. Can I take you for a drink to say thank you, properly?’asks Craig.
I’m so taken aback that I literally step away from Craig. He notices and blushes profusely.
‘Do you mean a coffee?’
‘Well, yes, if you like. Or a glass of wine, if you can bear it,’he says with a shy smile.
‘Don’t you have to be somewhere?’
‘No,’he says firmly.
I don’t know what to do. Craig is undoubtedly the nicest man I’ve met in a long while. He’s far better company than any of the men I’ve endured dates with over the last month. I really would like to spend some more time chatting to him. And a glass of wine in a grown-up place like a wine bar sounds appealing, far better than a date at M & S.
But.
Lots of objections rush into my head. Craig is not asking me on a date. He’s simply being polite. The drink is to say thank you for the work I’ve done. He feels he owes me. I mustn’t get carried away. Craig is young and handsome; I’m getting to the age when well-mannered boys will toy with the idea of offering up their seat on crowded tubes.
Mr Walker is the headmaster at my children’s school. I can’t risk getting drunk and silly in front of him. Not that I’m known for getting drunk and silly but wouldn’t it be a terrible first? Besides, while we’ve chatted pleasantly enough within the confines of the school hall, will we be able to keep up the cordial atmosphere away from our known environment? I wouldn’t want to bore the man. And won’t his girlfriend be expecting him back? He’s probably itching to get back to her and I bet she’s counting the seconds until he returns. I can’t allow him to get into trouble just because he feels he owes me the courtesy of a drink.
Although there was a moment back there, or maybe two, when Craig and I were chatting about this and that, and I allowed myself to forget who I was and who he was, and I allowed myself the indulgence of imagining he was a date.
Silly, I know.
Totally pathetic.
I’m probably seeing too much of Connie, the Queen of Romantic Notions. She’s slowly managing to brainwash me and I have started to think maybe, just maybe, there’s someone out there for me. It’s not David Clark, that’s for certain. What a nightmare the tea date was today. The man was so pompous. He approached the date as though he was interviewing me. My romantic CV was dissected over a period of an hour and a half, and it appears I was found sadly lacking. Finally, he insisted that we split the bill but he paid 40 pence less as he drank tea and I’d had coffee. This cannot be the route to true love.
If only someone like Craig had answered my personal ad. Someone kind and considerate. Someone thoughtful and thought-provoking. I push this nonsense out of my head.
‘No thank you. I’d better not. My sister mentioned she had somewhere to go later tonight. I have to get home so she can be on her way.’
His smile collapses. It must be the poor lighting in here but for a fraction of a second I thought he looked genuinely disappointed. Ridiculous of course. He must be relieved, not disappointed. He’s made the polite offer but he’s off the hook.
We gather together our coats and all the other paraphernalia necessary to protect against autumn elements and head towards the door.
As Craig locks the door behind us, he says, ‘I meant to ask you, how’s the internet dating getting along? Met anyone special yet?’
‘The vast majority of them are special needs but that’s not what you mean, is it?’I joke.
He turns to look at me and stays absolutely still. The night’s blackness falls around us and London seems unusually peaceful. Is he waiting for me to elaborate? The shame.
‘I’m becoming a pro. Or at least I’m getting used to feeling like a total witch when I pass over someone’s carefully drafted profile,’I confess.
‘What makes you reject a guy?’
‘I dismiss some brave souls because they tell me that in another life they’d have been a cat or a tree. Obviously, I dismiss a fair number that look like serial killers. I dismissed one guy because he claimed to have read Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Haruki Murakami, Jose Saramago, Don DeLillo, Orhan Pamuk and Marquez.’
‘Don’t you like any of those authors?’
‘Yes, the ones I’ve read, but the guy is either a hermit or a pathological liar. I skipped over a guy’s profile because he claimed to be Mr Average looking for someone special to spoil.’
‘Why?’Craig looks surprised.
‘It didn’t ring true. No one truly believes they’re average, do they? And I didn’t like the feeling that he was dangling a carrot. Women can’t be wooed with the temptation of being bought things. Least, not all of us.’Craig nods and does not call me picky or judgemental the way Daisy and Connie do. Still, I want to explain why I’m being so fastidious. ‘The thing is, I’ve done my time with the one who turned out not to be the one and I don’t want to waste more time than necessary.’
‘Quite right,’confirms Craig. I’m grateful for his support.
‘It’s a minefield. The other day I read an article that said one
in three of online daters lie about their marital status.’
Craig gasps. Like me, he finds dishonesty shocking and disheartening. Connie had simply commented, ‘So few? I’d have guessed fifty per cent,’and Daisy suggested I pay special attention to tan marks on the ring finger.
I grin at him. ‘Despite all of this, I have been on some dates but nothing has come of any of them.’
‘So why do you keep trying, Rose?’
‘I don’t know. I must be a glutton for punishment.’
‘I think you’re hopeful, a true romantic,’he says.
I bask in the glow of being thought of so optimistically.
‘I’ve upped the ante. I’ve tried placing a personal ad in Time Out. It’s unlikely to bear fruit but it keeps my friends’spirits up.’
My God, what is wrong with me? Why do I keep slipping out these terrible admissions to my sons’headmaster? Craig is very easy to talk to and I’d never think of lying to him but do I have to be this confessional? I’ve seen more discreet people on Jerry Springer. Poor Craig looks confused by my outpouring. If he could wave a sign declaring ‘Too much information’, I’m sure he would.
‘Keep me informed about how you get along,’he mumbles.
‘I think that might be inappropriate, Craig.’
‘Only if you insist on detailing your progress at school assembly. But maybe we could meet for that drink some other time. I owe you.’
‘You’re too busy,’I say dismissively. There’s a frost on the ground. I stomp my feet, hoping to stay warm.
‘I’d like it. You’d be doing me the favour. I’m trying to meet someone special too. You could point me in the right direction. Give me tips on which sites are best, etiquette for blind dates, etc.’
He’s single. Craig is single. The news makes me want to smile. And laugh. And grab his arm and accept the glass of wine.
Whoa, hang on cowgirl, why do I care? Even if he hasn’t got a girlfriend, what difference does it make? He’s my boys’headmaster, not a man. Well, obviously he is a man but he’s not a man in the way the internet-date men are men. For a start he listens. And he doesn’t have BO. But, and it’s a big but, he is still my boys’headmaster and as such not at all appropriate or available. I can’t believe I’m even thinking of him in that way; not even for a nano-second.
