Err, no, I want to tell her, I’d be quite happy for him to do jobs for me…all manner of jobs in fact…
I don’t, of course.
“Oh right. I’ll just go and have a look for it.”
“It’s the one with the purple flower in the hat,” she calls after me.
When I come back into the café, Katie is leaning against the counter, tea in hand, chatting away with this woman. Or should I say, she is fraternising with the enemy.
“Is this the one?” I ask, holding up a square moneybox with a picture of a clown on the side. I remember the night Caroline stayed up really late drawing the outlines so the children could colour them in at the birthday party. I’m sure she hadn’t even been home when I got in the next morning.
“Yes, that looks like it.”
When I have wrapped it up she takes it from me and walks to the door.
“By the way,” she says, turning round.
“Yes?”
Oh no. Can she tell? Does she know? Did I make eyes at him over the counter? Do I have a neon sign above my head that says ‘I fancy the pants off your husband?’
“That wasn’t my husband who came in on Saturday.”
“Oh?” So, they’re living in sin? What’s that got to do with me?
“That was my brother.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
I look at Katie and – I try to stay cool – but I allow myself just a little excited grin and I nudge her with my elbow as if to say ‘he’s not her husband, what about that!’ And she grins too, and nudges me back. And then when it’s clear I don’t appear to be doing anything else she kicks me under the counter.
“Ow!” I say.
“Ask her for his number,” she mutters under her breath.
“No!” I mutter back.
“Why not?”
Yes, why not?
It’s obvious really. Just because he isn’t this woman’s husband, doesn’t mean he isn’t somebody’s husband. Or boyfriend. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s gorgeous. And funny. And he’s obviously a great uncle.
And Katie can obviously read my mind, because just as the woman (who is not his wife) opens the door Katie, in her usual subtle style, calls out: “So is he anybody’s husband?”
“No,” she smiles. “He’s not. And he doesn’t have a girlfriend at the moment either. At least, not one that he’s told any of us about!”
I am mortified, clearly. It is a fair few years since I had my best friend co-ordinate my love life for me (you know the drill – “my friend likes your friend – will you ask him if he’ll go to the school disco with her?”) But I am also quietly quite excited. The first guy I have felt anything remotely resembling a real attraction for is available.
“Just one more thing…” Katie calls out as the woman is pulling the door behind her.
“What’s your brother’s name?”
“James,” she says. “James Newman.”
“This is Becky,” Katie helpfully says. “Becky Harper.”
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
I’m thinking I must have made it pretty obvious that a) I was pleased when I found out he wasn’t her husband and b) I was even more pleased when I found out he was single, because the next day James phones the café.
“Good morning. Potty Wotty Doodah,” I say.
“Hi, is that Becky?” he says. “Becky Harper?”
“Yes?”
“This is James… Ella’s uncle. The guy from the Vod Kerr Baa. And the exercise bike…”
“Oh, yes!” I say, suddenly realising who I’m speaking to, keen to minimise the embarrassment.
“I understand you met my sister yesterday,” he adds.
“Yes, I did,” I say feeling ever so slightly stupid. But then, it was an easy mistake to make.
“So, I was wondering if you fancy going out for a drink sometime?” Erm…Yes I do!
“I’d love to,” I say.
“Are you free tonight?” he asks. “I could meet you after work.”
“Erm…”
Tonight could work. Fiona is covering late opening. But what about getting ready? I do a quick mental calculation to work out how long it would take me to get myself looking vaguely presentable. Hair. Makeup. Outfit deliberation. Not to mention the scrubbing that will inevitably be required to remove the paint I am currently wearing. We’re talking a good three hours at least. No, tonight won’t work.
And I’m just about to say as much, when it occurs to me that James has already seen me looking like this – worse even, in my scruffiest jeans, dishevelled and covered in paint – and he is still here, on the phone, asking me out on a date.
“Tonight sounds great,” I say. “What time?”
“I could pick you up at six. Are you hungry? I know a great Italian restaurant not far from the café where we could get something to eat.”
“Yeah, that would be lovely.”
“Okay. I’ll see you at six then.”
“See you then.”
Oh my god. I have a date. A first date. It’s over six years since I’ve had a first date (my Internet dates don’t count – they were not dates, they were disasters.) The last time I had a first date was with Alex. We caught the No. 6 bus and went to the cinema. We saw Serendipity with John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale. It was all about fate and destiny and at the time we both left the cinema thinking it was fate that put Alex next to me at the bar, unable to get served by the bartender, who served me only because I tickled him with my felt antlers. Now I think we were just young. And excited. We bought popcorn – sweet, not salty – and we sat in the back row, as you do on a first date. And then we went to Pizza Hut. It was all very romantic.
I have a date. With someone I really like. Oh my god. I have to tell someone.
“Katie, I have a date. With James. He just phoned! I’m so excited. What shall I wear? I have an hour after Fiona comes in before I have to get back here, looking like I have just finished work and yet stunningly beautiful at the same time. Help!”
“Slow down, Becks, you’ll give yourself a heart attack.”
“I know, but I’m just so excited. I really like him Katie!”
“Okay. Right. Here’s what we’ll do.”
I love how she says ‘we’ – like it’s a team effort. That’s exactly what it is with best friends. First dates, heartbreak, hangovers, life changing moves from one end of the country to the other. You share them all.
“Matt’s working from home this afternoon so I’ll get him to drop some stuff over to you. What do you want to wear?”
“I don’t know. What do you think? Give me some suggestions. Something that looks casual enough for me to have been wearing it to work at the cafe, but going-outy enough that he doesn’t think I’m a right slob.”
“What are you wearing now? Jeans?”
“Yes.”
“Smart jeans or scruffy jeans?”
“Smart.”
“Clean or paint-spattered?”
I scratch at a bit of pink paint on my knee.
“Clean – ish.”
“Okay. Something to go with jeans then. What about your red short-sleeved shirt?”
“Too scruffy.”
“Okay. What about the green sleeveless top with the sparkly bits in the neckline?”
“No. I wouldn’t wear that to work.”
“The black and white top?”
“Which one? I have two.”
“The stripy one with the three-quarter length sleeves?”
“No, I’ve gone off it.”
I have to say, I’d have given up – and hung up – by now. Which just goes to show how desperate Katie is to get me a new boyfriend.
“What about the yellow cardy that you wear with that white vest top underneath with the lacy bit at the top?”
“Ooh yeah, that’ll do. And get him to bring that yellow bangle I bought from Accessorize last week. Ooh – and my pendant necklace. They’re both in the top drawer in my bedside table.”
&nb
sp; “Do you need your make-up bag?”
“No. I think I have enough in my handbag.”
“Okay. I’ll get him to phone you if there’s anything he can’t find.”
“Thanks Katie, you’re a star,” I say, before hanging up.
I phone her straight back again.
“Yes?”
“Can you get him to bring my black boots. The ones in the hall cupboard. I’ve got my trainers on at the moment!”
“No problem. Good luck hun. Phone me if you need me.”
Two hours later the transformation is complete – and nothing short of a miracle.
There is not a hint of paint on my hands, in my nails, in my hair, or on my face; I have brushed my hair so much it looks like something from a shampoo advert and I am looking smart-yet-casual in my jeans (minus the pink paint,) white vest top and yellow cardigan. With the black boots, pendant necklace and yellow bangle to complete the outfit, I think I might just have pulled off the I-look-like-this-every-day-and-it’s-no-effort-whatsoever look, without giving away the fact that I virtually knocked poor Fiona out as she was coming in, ran to the gym across the road and begged them to let me use the shower and had my best friend’s fiancé courier me over a complete change of clothes – and accessories – to my place of work. And all with fifteen minutes to spare. Excellent.
“I’m guessing you’ve got a date?” Fiona grins when I finally stand still long enough to say hello.
“Yes,” I confirm, my inane grin back for a visit.
God, I hope he’s worth it. What if he’s not as fabulous as I remember? What if I just imagined the gorgeous guy with the big brown eyes and the smile that made me go all unnecessary, and the dimple. What if he’s actually nothing special at all?
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
From the beginning of my life
I have been looking for your face
But today I have seen it
‘Looking for Your Face’, Jabal ad-Din ar-Rumi (1207 – 1273)
Translated from the Persian by Fereydoun Kia
He is as nice as I remember. Nicer, in fact. And on time, which definitely merits a couple of extra brownie points (which I will distribute as and when I see fit.)
“Hi,” he says, when I open the door to let him into the café.
“Hi,” I say back, feeling like a love-sick teenager again for the first time in I don’t know how long (well, ten years nearly, but who’s counting?)
“Are you ready?”
“Yep.” I turn and wave at Fiona. She waves back and mouths ‘good luck’ – when James isn’t looking, thankfully.
I am acutely aware of my hand shaking as I pull the door shut. I don’t think he notices.
“Are you okay to walk? The restaurant is just a few minutes away?” he asks me.
What a gentleman.
“Of course.”
“So, how long have you worked at Potty Wotty Doodah?” he asks as we walk to the restaurant.
“Only a few months. It’s a temporary thing while I pursue a new career,” I tell him. “Long story.”
“It’s a great place.”
“Isn’t it!”
“I hadn’t seen it before but my niece loves it. She’s there virtually every other week for one birthday party or another. I have a whole cupboard full of her mugs at home.”
“She’s lovely. How old is she?”
“Four. And she has a brother, Charlie, who’s three.”
“Yes. I’ve met him. Your sister brought them both in one day. That’s when she painted the plate. Actually, I have a confession to make,” I say.
“Oh yeah?”
“I thought she was your wife.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I carry on – leaving out the bit where I wanted to scratch her eyes out, obviously.
“When you came in to the café to collect Ella’s plate, I just assumed you were her dad because that’s who your sister – sorry I don’t even know her name…”
“Leonie.”
“Right – because that’s who Leonie said would be picking it up. And so when she came back in on Monday I thought she was your wife!”
“Leonie did tell me actually, and I have to admit – we did have a bit of a laugh.”
“Why?” I ask, slightly offended. So I might have been wrong, but it wasn’t that funny.
“Because we’re twins, Leonie and I. Not identical, obviously, but we look so similar. You can definitely tell we’re related.”
I look up at him as we’re walking.
“God, yeah, I can see it now – you do look alike,” I laugh, relieved. “Anyway – that’s not the end of my confession.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the rest then?”
He opens the door to Ristorante Fiore and holds it as I walk in.
“Table for two sir?” a smartly dressed man with an Italian accent asks James.
“Yes please.”
I wait until we are sat across from each other at a candle-lit table at the back of the restaurant before I answer James’ question, thinking back to everything Bev said – ‘there’ll be none of this, shall I say this, should I not say that…’
I look at him across the table, this man I think I could very easily fall in love with, and I tell him…
“I was a bit jealous.”
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
I’m in love.
Okay, so I’m not in love. Not really. Not yet, anyway. But there is potential. Definite potential.
Of course, in hindsight, maybe telling him I was jealous of his sister – who I thought was his wife – might have been a bit too much information for a first date, but as it happens he didn’t seem to mind at all.
In fact, ‘I’m glad,’ were, I believe, his exact words.
Oh my god, we had such a lovely evening. One of those perfect evenings you witness when two people get together in films – the sort you don’t think actually exist in real life.
But they do. They really do.
We talked and talked. In fact we talked so much that the waiter had to come back three times to take our order. And even then we ended up just taking a cursory glance and choosing the first thing on the menu. Which was a bit unfortunate really, given that I don’t actually like ravioli all that much. Good job I had lost my appetite anyway.
Okay, so – you want details. Well, he’s thirty three, which I think is the perfect age for a twenty seven-year-old girl/woman (I still have trouble thinking of myself as a grown up) – old enough to have left his male immaturity behind, young enough to still want to get up on the dance floor at your best mate’s wedding and make a tit of himself (not that I’m thinking that far ahead, obviously.)
He’s a management accountant, whatever one of those is (an accountant that manages?) and he’s just been made a partner in his family’s sign-writing business.
He has never been married, has had two serious relationships and three not-so-serious.
He owns his own home – a flat, in Wimbledon, his own car – a silver Golf GTI, and yes, his own teeth and his own hair.
He has a twin sister, as we already know – Leonie – and an older brother Dan.
His mum died of cancer when he was in his late twenties and his dad, Jack, is re-married – to Grace, who had given up all hope of ever meeting her prince charming before she met Jack.
And as well as Ella and Charlie, he has another nephew – Dan’s son Evan, but no children of his own – though he does want them in the future.
There. How did I do?
Good effort, hey?
Oh, and he loves red wine, which of course means we are bound to get along famously.
We got kicked out of the restaurant at closing time – we were oblivious to the last member of staff drumming his fingers on the table next to us, desperate to get home for a beer and a hot bath – and shared a taxi home. He asked the taxi to wait for him while he walked me to the door, where he kissed me softly on the lips (no tongues yet) and thanked me for a lovely evening.
An
d there lies the story behind the grin that has been plastered to my face ever since.
I’m seeing him again, of course.
When he asked if I was free, I did think about playing hard to get. For about a second. And then I remembered what Bev said, and I thought, what would be the point? I like the guy. He knows I like him. So why not just say yes.
So I did.
I’m seeing him on Friday night.
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
Can someone please explain to me why it is that when you really want a moment to last forever – Monday night, for instance – it’s over in the blink of an eye, and yet, when you want the day to bugger off and be over – today, for instance – the hours just seem to drag on for an eternity.
The last three days have been bad enough.
I spent the whole of Tuesday with my head in the clouds. I think Fiona would have preferred it if I’d not bothered even getting out of bed, to be honest. I glazed three plates and a bowl with nothing on them. I filled the kiln and forgot to turn it on. I ordered thirty one boxes of blank tiles instead of thirteen.
Oh, and I also discovered that I needn’t have suffered a temporary broken heart, after all.
“You didn’t tell me it was James Newman you liked,” Fiona said on Tuesday morning.
Turns out she knows him. Sort of. His brother Dan is making the sign for her shop.
“If I’d have known it was James you liked, I could have told you he was single,” she said.
Now she tells me.
I didn’t take a single thing in on Tuesday night when Sheila taught us all about How to Avoid Writer’s Block. I spent ninety minutes doodling in my notepad instead, drawing little love hearts and writing “JN 4 RH”. Seriously, I did. I am a lost cause, clearly.
Wednesday and Thursday were equally unbearable, each hour feeling like ten. Can you believe I was actually going to bed early to make the next day come quicker? Actually, don’t answer that…
I’m not sure I remember the last time I went to bed at 8 o’clock.
And now Friday has arrived. But it’s dragging its bloody heels.
I have scrubbed the tables, wiped the floor, re-filled the paints, washed all the water pots, put all the books in alphabetical order from Noah’s Ark (fantastic for bizarre animal requests) to Rainbow (we have had a recent flood of requests for pictures of Zippy and George following a series re-run on UK Gold), polished the counter, replenished the tracing paper, emptied the kiln, re-filled the kiln…
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 146
