Searching for Steven (Whitsborough Bay Trilogy Book 1)

by Jessica Redland

  ‘I might have.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Clearly dismissing that as a possibility, Clare continued, ‘Make me something full of calories for tea.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘I should let you cook for me more often.’ Clare spooned another huge dollop of lasagne onto her plate on Friday night. She’d already devoured an enormous plateful, a jacket potato, a side salad, and most of a garlic ciabatta. ‘You’re not too shabby at it.’

  ‘Thanks. I think. Have you not been fed this week?’

  ‘I get sick of living off hotel food and M&S sarnies. This is real food. Lots of cheese. Lots of garlic. Yum!’ Clare broke off another piece of garlic bread and used it to mop up her bolognese sauce. How the hell she stayed a perfect ten was beyond me. She could shift more food than most men I knew.

  ‘So one of your online favourites turned out to be a sex offender?’ she said.

  ‘The bloke from Mario’s? I didn’t say that. I just said he was creepy.’

  ‘Have you had any more emails?’

  ‘I had a bad dream about creepy bloke and it put me off. I haven’t checked my emails all week.’

  ‘Sarah!’

  I grimaced. ‘I was a bit too busy the week before too.’

  ‘SARAH!’

  ‘It was opening week this week so it’s not like I haven’t been busy. I’ve set up a separate work email address so I’ve just been checking that.’

  ‘And the week before?’

  ‘Getting ready for opening week.’

  Clare shook her head and tutted. ‘When did you last check them?’

  ‘A week gone Tuesday.’

  She narrowed her eyes at me and sighed. ‘I suppose you do have a legitimate excuse, but the shop is open now which means excuse time is over. It’s time for a serious action plan, but before we log-on, have you got any pudding in?’

  ‘Syrup sponge and homemade custard; your favourite.’

  ‘Oh my God, Sarah. Not only do you cook the most amazing lasagne in the world, you get old school puddings in, make your own custard, and have a permanent fridge full of drink. I think I may change my name to Steven and marry you myself.’

  ‘Sixty-eight unread items.’ Clare whistled when I logged on shortly after. ‘That’s a lot of admirers, young lady. We may have to forfeit a night out as it looks like we have a full evening’s work ahead of us, so we have.’

  ‘I doubt they’ll all be from the the-one.com. Look, there’s one from you.’

  ‘Ah, that’s a right craic that one; you should read it.’

  ‘That’s from the Next catalogue and there’s one there from Elise,’ I pointed out. ‘And that’s Nectar points.’

  ‘Okay. There’s maybe forty or so that aren’t, but the rest are from the site. Are you sitting comfortably?’

  ‘Why are you in the driving seat again?’

  ‘Why do you bother asking? Ready?’

  It was a bit more promising this time. ‘This one’s from a Steven.’ Clare scrolled down the page. ‘And, at first glance, he seems fairly normal.’

  We both stared at the screen, reading the email:

  Dear Sarah, I’ve never joined a dating website before and was a bit dubious until I read your profile. There are some strange women out there but I’m sure you’ve come across some strange men too!

  Why did I join? I’m 32 and was happy with my single life until my friend Ade’s wedding a couple of weeks ago when it dawned on me that I was the only single one in our gang of 8 from school. By the end of next year, they’ll all be married. Because we’ve regularly met up without partners over the years, it’s been easy to think nothing’s changed and we’re still 8 single guys. I guess that’s not the case anymore!

  I’m an engineer so work is very male-dominated. My days of going out ‘on the pull’ are over; I don’t have the confidence or interest and, when your mates are all attached, it doesn’t work anyway.

  I like your profile. We sound very similar. I’m intrigued as to what your business is. You say it’s something ‘creative’ but also a hobby. Are you an artist? Actor? Fashion designer? I’d love to find out.

  A week on Friday, I’ll be on a stag do in Whitsborough Bay. One of the lads is getting married on Christmas Eve. He’s a massive Dr Who fan so we’re doing a pub crawl in Dr Who outfits. Don’t panic that we’re a bunch of geeks because I’m not into sci-fi myself. The stag is a Dalek and I’m Tom Baker’s version of Dr Who (if you’ve never watched it, he played the 4th Doctor in 1974–81 — I Googled it! He’s the one with the long striped scarf and curly hair). If you’re in town and think I look ok, please introduce yourself. We’re meeting at 7.30 and working our way down town visiting all the chain pubs. If you can’t make it or don’t fancy it, it would still be great to hear from you. In fact, even if you can make it, it would be great to hear from you first; break the ice and all that!

  If you do come, remember the hair is a wig — I don’t have a huge curly bouffant normally! I’m waffling so I’ll say goodbye. Yours hopefully, Steve.

  ‘Ooh. He is so you,’ Clare said. ‘What do you think? Not that I need to ask given that huge cheesy grin.’

  ‘Lovely. A week today, eh? Could be tempted.’

  ‘Er… no. It’s tonight your man’s talking about.’

  ‘It can’t be. He said a week on Friday.’

  ‘Look at the date.’ Clare jabbed the screen. ‘He sent it last week. That’ll teach you not to check your emails for a week-and-a-half, won’t it now?’

  ‘Pants.’

  ‘How would you like to meet your doctor tonight?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Steve. Your man here.’ Clare wacked me on the arm. ‘Oh, ha, ha. I get it.’

  ‘You’re a bit slow this evening. Must be too much pudding. Do I want to meet him? Sod it, why not? Is there a photo?’

  Clare clicked on the link back to his profile. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Oh well, I guess I won’t be able to miss the scarf and bouffant. Who else have we got?’

  ‘Don’t you want to get ready to meet him?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Yes, but it may look a bit desperate if we’re there right at the start. There’s a standard pub-crawl down town so we’ll easily find him a few pubs in. And I’m dying to read my other responses. There may be someone even better.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ she said. ‘But you still don’t get to control the mouse.’

  An hour or so later, we had a shortlist and an action plan. My search for Steven was starting to feel more positive although I did feel my resolve crumbling slightly when I spotted an email from someone called Nick, which instantly got me thinking about Nick Derbyshire.

  There were some tempting emails from non-Stevens, but Clare put her foot down and refused to let me consider contact with them. I didn’t argue. As I’d already discussed with Elise, I knew exactly who my first port of call would be if I deviated.

  I didn’t tell Clare about Nick. I knew it would provide her with the perfect excuse to call off the search for Steven. Despite the strong draw to Nick, I still wasn’t ready to make that step. I wasn’t ready to dismiss the tape and I wasn’t prepared to risk hurting him and losing him as a friend.

  The shortlist read:

  Check out Steve (Dr Who) Dennison on pub-crawl tonight

  Go to The Coffee Corner for take-out on way to shop tomorrow to check out the manager, Stéphan Marcell (I was very excited by this new derivation)

  Enter into an email relationship with Stevie Barnes, Steve Berry, Ste Parker, Steve Masterson and Stephen Fitzpatrick (who all sounded normal and nice)

  Arrange dates with one or more of the above

  Get very drunk tonight. And probably tomorrow night too

  Buy bacon for sarnies on Sunday morning. Buy ketchup for Clare

  Clare grabbed the list a
nd marched into the kitchen. I followed her and watched as she stuck it to the middle of the fridge with some magnets. ‘This is your rulebook,’ she said. ‘You do not, under any circumstances, deviate from the list. You’re allowed to add new Stevens but you do not correspond with or meet anyone who is not called Steven or some variation of. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘It’s now eight forty-five. I already look gorgeous but you seriously need to whack some make-up on as we’re off out to meet your man Dr Who.’

  My pulse quickened. Was I ready for this? ‘You don’t think it’s too late to go out?’

  ‘You were the one who wanted to wait. Don’t you dare think of bottling it now.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. Look, you, there’s no need to be nervous. Auntie Clare’s with you every step of the way. If he’s grim, we’ll leave. If he’s gorgeous, we’ll stay and I’ll help you clinch the deal. I promise not to pull or abandon you.’

  I smiled gratefully. ‘Okay. Steve Dennison, here we come.’

  ‘You have an absolute maximum of fifteen minutes to get ready. We need to be in our first pub by quarter past.’

  ‘I love it when you’re masterful.’ I winked at her as I headed for the stairs.

  Chapter 20

  ‘That must be them.’ Clare nodded towards the group of men crowded near the bar of The Old Theatre. It was the third pub we’d tried. Steve and his curly bouffant were pretty easy to spot. ‘What’s the plan?’ Clare asked.

  ‘We’ll get a drink then do a spot of person watching. See what he’s like and, if he seems okay, follow him to the next pub and introduce ourselves.’

  Like any stag do, the group attracted lots of female attention.

  ‘Any observations so far?’ Clare asked after about fifteen minutes of spying from a discrete distance.

  ‘He never approaches women. If anyone approaches the group, he tends to listen rather than lead the conversation. He seems more comfortable when it’s just the lads.’

  ‘Worth stalking?’

  ‘I think so. He said in his email that he didn’t have the confidence to pull so that would explain the quietness. It’s quite sweet, actually.’

  Clare and I followed Steve and the stag party to the next pub.

  ‘So, what’s the plan here?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Another drink? I need a bit of Dutch courage before I speak to him.’

  ‘You’d better not be bottling it.’

  ‘I’m here aren’t I?’

  ‘I can’t believe it’s the third pub,’ Clare said half an hour later, ‘and you haven’t made the slightest move. I’d forgotten how crap you are at all of this.’

  ‘How rude! I’m just out of practice.’

  Clare giggled. ‘No. You’re just crap at it.’

  She was right. I could probably fill a billboard poster with a list of all my failed flirting attempts over the years. ‘I’m going to screw this up aren’t I? Help!’

  ‘I think you need the charm of the Irish. Let the professionals do the work.’

  I stood awkwardly on my own against a mirrored pillar, clutching my empty glass and wishing I didn’t look so conspicuous. I watched Clare approach Steve Dennison and say something in his ear. He looked surprised and turned in my direction. He shook his head and said something to Clare. Oh God, he didn’t like the look of me. How humiliating! I wanted to leave. Immediately. There was another exchange of words, Steve looked across again, shook his head once more and shrugged. Clare said something else, they both laughed, then she returned to me.

  ‘It can’t be good or you’d have shouted me over,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I pointed you out—’

  ‘And he thought I was ugly? Or fat? Or both?’

  ‘Don’t interrupt and of course he didn’t think you were ugly or fat. You’re gorgeous and you’re definitely not fat. In fact, you’ve lost weight since you moved here. I’ve kept meaning to mention it.’ She looked at me sternly. ‘You have to stop putting yourself down.’

  I shrugged. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He thought you looked lovely.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But someone else saw his profile and made contact with him a few days after he emailed you. He waited a couple more days but you didn’t make contact and, as this other girl sounded really nice, he started emailing her. They met up on Tuesday and got on well. He’s meeting her in the next pub. He says he’s really sorry.’

  ‘Did you explain that I’d only just picked up his email?’

  ‘Yes, but it didn’t make any difference. He seems keen on this other girl.’

  ‘You’re the PR expert. Couldn’t you have come up with something?’

  ‘Like what? I wasn’t going to beg him to date you.’

  Fair point. ‘What were you laughing at?’

  ‘I made some daft comment about his costume which tickled him.’

  ‘You were flirting with him?’

  Clare grabbed her drink and took a swig. ‘I know you’re upset so I’ll ignore the implication.’

  I stood quietly for a few moments, fidgeting with my watchstrap. ‘Sorry, Clare. I didn’t mean that. Would you mind if we called it a night?’

  She shook her head. ‘We can leave this pub but we’re not going home while you’re upset.’

  ‘I’m not upset. I’m just… I’m just… Oh, I don’t know what I am right now.’

  ‘Maybe you’re not upset but you’re disappointed, so you are. And I know you’ll be taking it personally, even though he thought you looked lovely and the only reason he’s not interested is bad timing.’ She moved my head so she could look me in the eye. ‘It’s not about you, Sarah. It’s just about circumstances. You are taking it personally aren’t you?’

  ‘I can’t help it.’

  ‘Which is why we’re not going home where I know you’ll brood and convince yourself you’re fat, ugly, will never get married and have children, and will end up a mad spinster with cats.’

  ‘Am I really that predictable?’

  ‘You’ll meet the right person; I’m sure of it. Just don’t expect it to be instant and do expect there to be knocks along the way. What’s that bollocks they say about the path to true love never running smoothly or something like that?’

  I smiled and wiped at the tears that were about to run down my cheeks. Clare reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Let this be a lesson to you, though,’ she said.

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Checking your emails more often. If you’re serious about finding Steven, you need to be on the ball. If you’re going to do it half-heartedly, you may as well go back to hoping he’ll walk into the shop one day.’

  I nodded. It was true. You snooze, you lose.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Where to next? Where do all the hotties hang out in Whitsborough Bay?’

  ‘God knows. I haven’t been on the pull here since I was eighteen.’

  ‘We still have a list to get through, haven’t we?’ Clare said as I steered her towards Minty’s. ‘Starting with the lovely Stéphan Marcell in the morning. And once we’ve exhausted the list, there are stacks more profiles we haven’t looked at and more Stevens in your favourites who haven’t contacted you. Plenty more options.’

  I stopped walking. ‘Do you really think I’ll meet someone special?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. He may not be on your current list and he may not even be on the Internet, but I’m absolutely convinced that, one day soon, you’ll meet someone who sweeps you off your feet — just like in the soppy movies you love so much — and you’ll get your happily ever after. I’m just not convinced he’ll be called Steven. In the meantime, why don’t you try and relax and enjoy the moment?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve just relocated back to somewhere you love
, but haven’t lived for twelve years and you’ve become the owner of what promises to be a grand business. Why not just take a while to enjoy being the new you?’

  ‘The new me?’

  ‘Sarah, the entrepreneurial florist instead of Sarah, the other half of a couple. What you’ve achieved in the last five weeks is amazing. Stop kicking yourself for being single and congratulate yourself for being successful.’

  She had a point. A very good one. When did my two best friends become so wise? And when did I become so tunnel-visioned and obsessed with meeting The One at the expense of appreciating all the great stuff I had going for me? Things needed to change. I needed to change. I was nothing like Uncle Alan so I needed to stop obsessing about ending up like him.

  Chapter 21

  ‘One cappuccino and a skinny latte, please,’ I said in my most friendly, cheerful voice as I leaned on the counter of The Coffee Corner the next morning. Stéphan Marcell was serving and he was lush. His online photo really didn’t do him justice. Deftly handling the espresso machine, he was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. His online profile said he was half-­Portuguese/half-French. Stunning. Absolutely stunning. Even more gorgeous than Stephen Lewis the plasterer. And this time there were no fluorescent green prams in sight! I had to fight hard against the temptation to lick my lips.

  ‘Coffees.’ He slammed the paper cups on the counter. ‘Anything else?’

  I flinched. ‘Er, yes, two croissants please.’ Hmm. Not so friendly. Nice accent, though.

  ‘Heated?’

  ‘Yes, please, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  Without acknowledging me, he opened a little oven behind him. ‘Christ,’ he muttered before shouting, ‘Debbie. Here. Now.’ Clare and I exchanged concerned looks.

  A young girl in her late teens burst through a door marked ‘staff only’, head down, shoulders hunched.

  ‘What did I ask you to do last night?’

  ‘Clean the oven?’ She cast a sideways glance at us.

  ‘Does this fucking look clean to you?’ He shoved her towards the oven.

  ‘I cleaned it last night. I promise.’

  ‘Someone broke in last night and covered it in crap did they?’