“Is that your way of telling us that you love James?” Fiona says, taking the Pringles from Katie and looking at me, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Of course not. It’s far too early… But say I did? Do I tell him? Or do I wait for him to say it first?”
“I told Matt on our third date,” Katie says.
“Oh god, yeah, you did didn’t you!”
“Really?” Fiona says.
“Yeah. I was drunk. But I meant it.”
“What did he say?” Fiona asks.
“He said he loved me too, of course,” Katie says, popping a Pringle into her mouth with a self-satisfied grin.
I told Alex after he told me – which happened after we’d been together for about six months.
We were camping in France in the summer holidays. It had been a really hot day so we lit a barbecue on the beach and cooked ourselves sausages and burgers (we were students remember – we didn’t have money for anything more exotic). Alex fed me a hot dog in the moonlight and wiped tomato ketchup from my chin. And then he told me that he loved me. So I said I loved him too. I meant it. I did love him. But it all felt a bit staged, somehow. The beach. The fire. The reflection of the moon glistening on the sea. It didn’t feel real. Maybe I knew even back then that it would never be enough?
For the next three hours we watch back-to-back episodes of Sex & The City and drink our way through three bottles of wine and the dregs of a bottle of Baileys.
When we have finally taken about as much of Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda as we can for one night, Fiona gets a taxi home and the rest of us all stagger to bed – Emma and Katie on the sofa bed and me in my bed. Alone. Without James.
It feels empty without him.
I put my hand on his empty pillow. And then I mentally slap myself for being so sad.
But I do grab my phone from the bedside table and send him a quick text: Night J x.
I turn off the light and seconds later my phone beeps and lights up the room.
Hey! I was just thinking about you. Did you have fun with the girls?
I text him back in the darkness.
Yes. We watched S&TC and drank lots of wine! Think my head will hurt tomorrow.
I put my phone on silent so the girls won’t be kept awake, or, more to the point, won’t take the piss in the morning.
A minute later the room lights up again.
Oh dear! I’ll have to look after you…
I am in the middle of replying when another message flashes up.
By the way…I miss you x
I delete what I’d written. It wasn’t important.
I miss you too x I write instead.
I had arranged to meet James at Victoria station this morning so he could meet Emma before she gets the train home to see her mum.
But we get to the station earlier than we’d thought and there is a train about to leave.
“I might as well get it, B. I’ll meet him next time,” she says, hugging me and jumping on the train.
“And don’t forget to suss out his friends for me will you? I’m not fussy. Just someone tall, dark and handsome, with lots and lots of money!”
“Okay,” I laugh, and push the button to close the door.
CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR
It’s official. Dinosaurs are not, as we originally suspected, extinct. They are, in fact, still in abundance. They are in Potty Wotty Doodah anyway.
Fiona and I are getting ready for a four-year-old’s birthday party. A four-year-old dinosaur fanatic’s birthday party. We have dinosaur tablecloths, dinosaur napkins, dinosaur paper cups and plates and dinosaur party hats. We even have a dinosaur cake. And between us we have drawn dinosaur outlines on fourteen plates and fourteen bowls. If I ever see another dinosaur again it will be far too soon.
I haven’t seen much of Fiona lately. She has been busy with the shop. I’ve been busy with James. And between Fiona and I, we have been covering Caroline’s shifts at the café. She has finally had the baby. A boy. Benjamin. He was two weeks late in the end. Caroline had practically scrubbed the surface off her entire house before he finally decided to put in an appearance. But he was definitely worth the wait. He’s a cutie, and Fiona and I have both fallen in love with him.
“How’s the shop coming along, Fi?” I ask, putting two trays of paints out on the table.
“Great, actually. I’m hoping to move the opening forward.”
“Really? Wow, you must have been busy.”
I go out to the back room and fetch the boxes of plates and bowls to put out on the tables. As I’m coming back through the bell on the door rings, marking the arrival of the birthday boy.
He spots his table straightaway and dives into the first seat he comes to, shrugging his jacket off and flinging it at his poor mum.
“You must be Zack,” I say.
He nods, an excited look on his face.
“Well, a little bird told me that you like dinosaurs, Zack. Is that true?” Another nod.
“How would you like to paint a dinosaur plate to take home today?”
Another nod. This’ll be easy.
Over the next few minutes Zack is joined by another eight boys and three girls – dropped off by their mums or dads. I recognise one of the girls – it’s James’ niece Ella.
What a pity these little girls are too young to appreciate the minority they are now in. Ten or twelve years from now they would kill for a boy: girl ratio such as this one.
There’s a brief scuffle amongst the last three boys to arrive over who has to sit next to a girl and then we get the party started.
“We thought they could do the painting first and then we’ll bring the party food out. Is that okay?” I ask Zack’s mum. She has brought three other mums with her to help supervise the children, which makes mine and Fiona’s jobs considerably easier. Last week we somehow both became moving targets, replacing the dinner plates as the items to be decorated. Fiona went home with a cat’s face on the back of her hand, while I spent the next day scrubbing a pig off my arm.
“Yes. That sounds fine.”
“Can I get you all a coffee?” Fiona asks them.
While Fiona makes the drinks, I hand out the dinosaur plates to the party animals.
Before the last plate is even on the table there is paint on body parts and the contents of a pot of water all over the table.
When the kids have finished painting their plates and bowls – each one beautifully defaced with big splodges of colour – we collect them up and replace them with dinosaur table cloths and plates of sandwiches, crisps and sausage rolls.
The food is quickly gobbled down – sandwiches rejected, jammy dodgers and chocolate fingers fought over – the latter not only being eaten but also inserted into nostrils and used as miniature swords.
I do hope my own children, whenever I have them, never insert chocolate fingers into their nostrils, I think to myself, as I resist the urge to nibble at my own childhood favourites and sip my cup of tea instead.
Once the table is cleared the games begin. Musical chairs would be far too costly in a pottery café, so we skip straight to pass the parcel. As usual, there’s a layer for each child to tear off, with a dinosaur sticker hidden inside. Ella wins the final prize – a dinosaur yoyo.
I used to love yoyos. I show her how to use it.
The boys do not look happy that a girl has won the game.
At five o’clock the rest of the mums and dads arrive to pick up their little darlings. Much to mine and Fiona’s relief.
“Mummy, look what I won,” Ella tells Leonie when she walks through the door with Charlie in her arms.
“Hi Becky,” she says.
“Hi, how are you?” I ask. I haven’t seen her since the day she told me James was her brother, not her husband.
“Good, thanks. And you? I hear things are going well with James.”
“They are,” I smile.
“I hope this one hasn’t been too much trouble,” she says, ruffling El
la’s hair.
“Good as gold. A little artist too. Look what a great job she’s made of her plate.”
“That’s wonderful darling,” she tells her.
“I’ll just go and say hello to Zack’s mummy and then we’d better get you home for a bath,” she laughs, surveying her paint-covered daughter.
A few minutes later she opens the door to leave but turns back towards us.
“Have you got a second, Becky,” she asks. Oh no. She’s going to tell me that she is his wife after all, that she just has a very strange sense of humour.
“Sure.”
“I probably shouldn’t say anything, but you know me…”
I want to say yes, but that would be rude, so I wait for her to carry on. I remember I’m still wearing my dinosaur party hat and I suddenly feel a little silly. But I leave it on.
“It’s just that, well…”
I want to tell her to just spit it out. But that would also be rude. So I don’t.
“You know men, they have these grand ideas, but they forget the finer details – the bits that are important to us women,” she says.
Now I’m really nervous. She’s going to tell me I’m not his only girlfriend. She’s going to tell me that he’s got another three on the go. He just forgot to tell me. It just slipped his mind.
“Listen – I didn’t tell you this okay, but if James offers to take you shopping, make sure you pack your best knickers.”
Erm?
I want to ask why I’d need to pack my best knickers for a trip to the shops, but I suspect she’s already told me more than she should, so I don’t.
Any ideas?
It sounds like he’s planning on taking me away for the night, doesn’t it? But where? Somewhere where there are shops?
London? Unlikely. We both live in London. Unless the shopping is just an excuse for a night in a swanky hotel.
The south coast? Bournemouth? Brighton? Bognor Regis? I do hope he didn’t take me too literally when I told him how much I loved the summers there as a child.
“Right. Okay,” I tell Leonie.
“Remember – mum’s the word,” she says, putting her finger to her lips. “I didn’t say a word!”
“Absolutely. Mum’s the word. And thanks. I think!”
CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE
…love is the creator of our favourite memories and the foundation of our fondest dreams…
‘Love’s Hidden Treasure’, Anonymous
You will never guess where I am.
Well you might, I suppose. But you probably won’t.
Go on, guess. Guess where I am.
New York! Ha! Seriously!
Actually, right now I am on seat C, row 14 of a Boeing 747 somewhere over the Atlantic. But in less an hour I will be in New York.
I am soooooo excited.
It turns out that what I needed to pack my best knickers for was a weekend in New York. Not Brighton. Or Bournemouth. Or Bognor Regis.
James came over last night and asked if I wanted to go shopping at the weekend.
“Silly question,” I told him, pulling the cork out of a bottle of wine, whilst mentally rifling through my underwear drawer for my ‘best knickers.’
I don’t do sexy underwear, if I’m honest. I’m more a comfy Marks and Sparks pants girl really. Not the big granny ones – I’m not that bad – just the sort that are big enough to cover your bum at the very least.
I do own a couple of thongs, though personally I don’t see the attraction in cutting yourself in half with a piece of cheese wire. But then it would be a very boring world if we all felt the same about cheese wire up our bums, now wouldn’t it?
I have some very pretty pink silky knickers as well, but they tend only to come out on special occasions. Like Valentine’s Day and…well actually just Valentine’s Day.
I haven’t bought any ‘nice’ underwear since I was with Alex. In fact, I think the set I own is one he bought me for Christmas last year. I think he was trying to tell me something. It was a good choice, to be fair. Some black lacy knickers from La Senza with a matching bra (padded – I’m not proud, I know where I need help – and so do my boyfriends).
Is it wrong to take underwear bought for me by one boyfriend on a weekend away with another, do you think? On second thoughts, don’t answer that. I’ll buy some new stuff in New York.
So, anyway…
“Yeah, shopping would be good,” I told James. “I don’t really know what I want to get Katie and Matt for a wedding present, so it would probably be a good idea to start looking.”
“I thought we could go somewhere a bit different,” he said.
“Where?” I asked. I was plumping for Brighton. More shops. Better night life – I was assuming the need for underwear indicated an overnight stay. And I love checking out the cakes in Choccywoccydoodah.
“It’s a surprise,” he said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “But we’ll be leaving here at six thirty in the morning. Oh, and you’ll need an overnight bag.”
Six thirty?
It’s wasn’t Brighton then. With the slowest car in the world we’d still be sitting drinking McDonalds’ tea for a good hour before the shops open.
It’s ever so difficult packing an overnight bag when you don’t know where you’re going.
I pulled virtually every item of clothing I own from my wardrobe and flung it on my bed, hoping to be struck by inspiration.
I wasn’t.
Jeans? Sparkly black trousers? Denim skirt? Jodhpurs?
Jodhpurs? God, I’d forgotten I even had them. I put them on my Christmas list four years ago after one horse-riding lesson. My parents predicted it would be a five-minute wonder, but I was adamant. I’ve never worn the bloody things.
I poked my head through my bedroom door at James. He was watching Deal or No Deal.
“Is it a jeans and t-shirt sort of place that we’re going to or do I need to take something dressier?”
He just shrugged. As if he didn’t know.
“Will we be indoors or outdoors?”
Maybe we were going to the Trafford shopping centre. Indoors, and far enough away to require an overnight stay.
“This guy’s going to lose the lot if he opens any more boxes,” he muttered at the television screen.
“Are we driving there or getting the train?”
“Do you fancy ordering pizza tonight?” he shouted through to me. “I haven’t had pizza in ages.”
An hour later I figured he only had himself to blame when I appeared from the bedroom with a suitcase big enough for a two-week skiing holiday in the French Alps.
“I had no choice,” I told him, when his eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Without knowing where we are going I had to pack for every eventuality.”
“What on earth have you got in there?”
“Oh, you know – just stuff,” I said, trying to sound all mysterious. Two could play at that game.
“Well it looks heavy,” he laughed. “I hope you’re feeling strong.”
He still wouldn’t tell me when we got up in the morning. At five thirty.
Five thirty!
I’m not a morning person. I can’t function until I have consumed at least three cups of tea. Preferably at nine o’clock, say, or ten.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?” I asked him, splashing cold water on my face.
It’s already hard enough convincing myself I’m not dreaming when I wake to see James lying next to me every morning. It’s considerably harder at five thirty.
“Of course not, silly,” he said, kissing me on the cheek and ruffling my hair.
What I want to know is how the hell he looks and sounds so wide-awake at five thirty. Make that five forty-five. Another forty five minutes of being kept in the dark.
At twenty-five past six his phone rang.
“Okay, we’ll be down in thirty seconds,” he told whoever it was on the other end.
“Ready?” he said – to me this time.
“Who was that?” I asked him.
“Dan,” he said, as though it was the most normal thing in the world to be talking to his brother at twenty-five past six on a Saturday morning.
“Did I not tell you he was giving us a lift to the airport?”
“The airport?” I said, or rather shrieked, as he bundled me and my giant wheelie suitcase into the back of Dan’s car.
“But I don’t have my passport,” I told him. And then I felt really silly. We were probably flying up to Manchester. Or Scotland. Or Leeds.
“No, but I do,” he said. Smug so-and-so.
James’ bag was small enough to carry on the plane with us (it is, after all, one of the inherent differences between men and women – men can travel light, women cannot – no matter where it is they are travelling to), so he checked my bag in as his own. That way I wouldn’t be able to see where we were going. I had given up trying to break him down.
We sat in the departure lounge at Heathrow and as each and every flight was announced I watched him, waiting for him to stand up.
Edinburgh? Nothing.
Amsterdam? Nothing.
Prague? Nothing.
Madrid? Nothing. Ooh… no… he was just getting his wallet out of his bag. “Do you want a drink, B?”
And then, just after ten o’clock there was an announcement for passengers on flight BA0117 to New York to make their way to Gate 26.
James stood up.
He must be winding me up, I figured, so I stayed in my seat, looked at my magazine and said nothing.
He looked at me.
“Well you can stay here if you want to, but I’m off to New York!” he said with a big grin.
The captain has just turned on the seatbelt sign. We are on our way down.
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe James is taking me to New York.
I squeeze his arm in excitement and he leans over and kisses me.
“By the way, we’re staying until Monday night,” he tells me. “Don’t worry about the café. Fiona is covering for you. And Caroline knows all about it. She said to tell you to have a great time.”
“What did I do to deserve you?” I ask him, genuinely baffled.
“What did I do to deserve you?” he says.
“I asked first.”
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 150
