by Alam, Donna
‘I know what they are, I’m just wondering what drug you’re on right now.’ I stare up at her, perplexed and sort of shaking my head. ‘You’ve got to be on something.’ I begin to stand from the bed when she holds out a forestalling hand.
‘Just hear me out. Getting back to dating sites—’
‘We were talking about dating sites?’
‘Look, men sign up to dating sites for a reason, right?’
‘Sure. Hoping for a string of regular but casual blow jobs, maybe?’
‘I’m not talking about Sinder.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s like a hook-up app. On your phone? A sort of digital meat market. Fast food for sex?’
‘Nope.’
‘Forget it. Look—if you sign up to a proper dating agency, the men there, they’re like, committed to looking for a partner, right?’
‘Sure . . .’ I say unconvinced and not at all certain where she’s going with this.
‘So, it’ll be a safe slide in,’ she says, again with the obvious tone.
‘Slide.’
‘Yeah. A slide into the dating pool. Via the shallow end.’
‘I really don’t know what to say.’ Because I barely understand what she’s said.
‘It’s just, you’re the kind of woman who needs a man—now hang on—don’t take that arseways,’ she says as I begin to stutter my rebuttal. ‘Maybe need is too strong a term, but I’m not with Ivy on this one. Some people just need other people, don’t they? I know I don’t know you as well as she does, but I think you’re one of those people. One half of a pair. And well, you’re gorgeous, right?’ My lips are still moving, but not a great deal of sound comes out beyond little puffs of air. ‘You are. And men are going to be all over you. You’ve got that vulnerable sort of air.’
‘You really must be high.’ I scoff. ‘I’m sarcastic and cold—’
‘And you’ve got a right to be, but I don’t think you see yourself clearly.’
‘How many of those have you had?’ I gesture to the empty shot glass behind her.
‘Not as many as you’ll have had by the time you crawl into bed tonight. Look, you need a man because you’re that kind of woman—a good woman. You deserve to be loved and cherished and all that sort of stuff.’ She begins to speak faster, determined to get out everything she feels ought to be said as I begin to stand. ‘This isn’t about one night stands. I just worry that you’ll be taken advantage of. Join a dating site for fuck’s sakes. Go on a dozen dates—go on a tonne of them.’
‘Yes, well, thanks for your input and the appraisal on the dating world, but nothing’s changed.’ I need a Mr. Right like I need a hole in the right side of my head.
‘So you’re going to continue to give yourself to the man who deserves nothing from you—not your mourning, not your regard and certainly not your love.’
I begin to gather the contents of my make-up bag when her words strike me like a knife to the chest. But I don’t have the chance to answer as I discover the reason for hurried words.
‘Why, Fin, don’t you look like a Bobby dazzler!’ June’s exclamation pulls my gaze to the doorway where she and a sheepish looking Ivy stand. ‘You look lovely, hen. Like a film star.’
‘She’d’ve looked like Morticia Adams left to her own make-up devices,’ mumbles Nat.
‘Thank you, June. Are you coming out for a glass of sherry with us?’ I wouldn’t mind. It might help these two keep their thoughts to themselves. June is good people; sometimes she’s the voice of reason and other times she’s just a bit mad.
‘Ocht, no . Ivy just asked me to pop in. She had her knickers in a knot about you cutting your hair. To be honest, I thought you must’ve gone off like that singer, Britney what’s her face, and cut your hair wi’ a carving knife. What’s her name again? My memory these days . . . Ah—Brittany Spikes!’ I don’t bother correcting her; just raise an eyebrow in Ivy’s direction as June grips her elbow. ‘From what you said, I was expecting the girl to be an unholy mess. You did a beautiful job, Ivy. I might get you to do mine like that next time,’ she says, patting her white curls. ‘Do away with the perm. What do you think?’
‘I think you were supposed to tell Fin she should be resting after her shock.’
‘What? Not a bit of it. She’s beginning to see the man she married wasn’t who she thought he was. She’ll be fine. And you’re only young once, I say. A hair-do like that deserves to be out there painting the town red, but not you,’ she adds, immediately pointing a finger at her granddaughter. ‘Natasha, if I find you’ve rubbed lipstick all over my front windows, I’m getting you out of bed in time for mass in the morning, you hear?’
‘It was only the once. And it was a year ago. And, I only wrote to say why I wasn’t home.’
‘And left your knickers on the front step, foreby!’
‘Aye, there was that,’ she agrees.
‘Just you keep them on tonight, missy, for I’ll be keeping in my hearing aid.’ The smile slides off Natasha’s face just like melted ice-cream. ‘That means no bringing home any strange men, hmm?’
‘But I like them strange.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Seriously, June.’ Natasha huffs. ‘You spoil all my bloody fun.’
Nine
Fin
‘Stop grumbling and move your bony arse.’ The three of us—Nat, Ivy and me—are walking along Park Road. Well, two of us are; I think Ivy must be crawling, lagging behind at a snail’s pace. ‘I thought you said you weren’t coming, anyway.’ Nat’s tone is taunting.
‘Someone has to keep an eye on you.’
‘We’re only going local. How much trouble can we get into?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the kind of trouble that has you taking off your knickers on the garden path,’ she retorts
During the pair’s snarky exchange, I keep quiet, huddled into the collar of my suede jacket. The pointed heels of my boots click against the damp sidewalks of streets that are familiar, and yet not. My insides bubble with a mixture of excitement and trepidation; it’s an age since I’ve been out socially. Being out in the cold evening feels strange. The air is damp and the streets are shadowy as the night sets in. Streetlamps intermittently spring to life as we walk, the hum of TV’s and domesticity sounding from beyond front doors of terraced homes.
‘Besides, I’m not worried about you,’ Ivy adds quietly, the implication hanging in the cold air. Of course it’s me she’s trailing. I don’t exactly blame her. The way she sees it, in the space of a few hours, I’ve gone from grieving hermit to hair hacker to someone who wants to party. My explanation that I need a break from four walls hasn’t cut it with her. Maybe I should’ve just told her I need a break from myself.
‘Which pub are we heading for?’ There are three to choose from in the village and in the direction we’re heading, two pubs out of that not so grand choice. I’m not exactly thrilled to be spending the evening in any of the local haunts; haunts being the operative term, given that some of the regulars are only a few years away from being ghosts themselves. I might also be a little overdressed, but it beats sitting around watching Ivy watching me . . . waiting for fall-out.
Time passes. Time heals. Time sucks. I’m weary of being told all I need is time, when in actual fact what I need is time out. Time out from being the grieving widow. Time out from being the cheated wife.
‘Are we going to The County?’ It’d be my choice of the two, but Nat answers not, repeating the name of the pub, while dropping the 0 and twisting the name into something far less pleasant.
‘That place is full of old twats,’ she adds, stopping at a door. ‘We’re in here.’
My heart sinks; the old pool hall. A place I’d happily avoid for the rest of eternity. I spent enough time here as a teenager, all clumpy mascara, hairspray and raging hormones.
‘Ah, don’t pull that face. It’ll be a laugh.’
‘I know the village has slim pickings,
but at least in a pub we’ll be able to get something to eat as well as a drink,’ I protest.
The door opens before Natasha can answer, warm lighting, soft music, and a young couple spilling out of the space. I step aside to let the pair pass as Nat begins to laugh.
‘You didn’t think this was still the pool hall, did you? Haven’t I been saying the village has gone upscale while you’ve been away? We’ve even got a couple of half decent restaurants—and the chipper is now posh.’
I turn to Ivy behind me. ‘They got rid of the pool hall?’
Ivy shrugs noncommittally. ‘It’s nice inside.’
‘This is exactly what I mean about it being like living in a state of constant Movember.’
Ivy’s face could turn milk sour as we step inside, a waitress quickly asking us our booking status, which strikes me as odd—we’re hardly in New York—but as I take in my surroundings, I better understand.
What was once a dingy pool hall, is now a stylish and busy restaurant. Like the pool hall before it, the space is divided into two levels, the lower level now housing a thriving bar that runs the length of one wall; standing room only, by the look of things. There’s also a pool table, maybe in homage to the building’s previous use, only this one looks like it belongs in another era, maybe in a gentleman’s club.
The mezzanine beyond is filled with stripped wooden tables and metal chairs; a sort of industrial chic, contradicted by the massive glass chandeliers and bronzed mirrors scattered through the space. Beyond the seating area, a large window into a busy kitchen is the central focus, black clad culinary staff flitting about inside like goldfish. And the customers? They’re a well pulled together bunch—not a lick of waxed canvas or a muddied welly in sight.
The lower space seems heavily biased towards men, probably because of the number of micro brewed beers on tap I notice, as we follow the waitress to our table. And this is where Ivy’s complaint lies; these men seem drawn to the hipster life. Skinny jeans that don’t quite touch the tops of their shoes, retro specs, beards and ironic grandad cardigans.
‘Knock it off. You’ve used that line once already this week,’ complains Nat. ‘Facial fascist.’
‘I just don’t get the fascination with all this . . .’ Ivy makes a circling motion in front of her chin, plonking herself into a seat at the table we’ve been taken to. ‘Facial fuzz.’
‘You haven’t lived until you’ve had a man with bristles all up in your lady business,’ Nat replies.
‘Shush!’ I glance worriedly at the server’s retreating back. ‘Not everyone needs to hear you like it hairy.’
‘I do not!’ returns an indignant Nat. ‘I like them to have taken care of the downstairs.’ My eyes flick automatically to the restaurant’s lower floor. ‘Not there, numpty. I mean, I like their general dick area to be low on fuzz. The face is something else.’
Nat carries on her indignant response, the words sounding distant and indistinct as I zone out, zoning in on something on the lower floor. I say something, but I mean someone , because it’s hard not to notice him, wet or dry, when he literally stands out from the crowd. And not just a head and shoulders kind of stand out, though he is tall. It’s my wet Tuesday morning caller. My secret blast from the past.
Rory.
Almost as though my gaze nudges him, he tips his head, his eyes catching mine. I wish I could remember their exact colour. Back in the salon I’d remembered them as dark. One of the features from the past I can’t exactly recall. Damn his perfect jawline. If there was any justice in this world, he’d now be fat. Or bald. Or better still, both.
Sadly, he isn’t. And I know those thoughts are unfair but as he smirks up at me, my thoughts go from uncharitable to downright dirty. Holy shit. If that isn’t a sexiest thing I’ve seen since . . . well, since he walked into the salon, clothes stuck to his skin.
And that one look is like a simultaneous blast of cold and heat; cold as I realise I’ve been caught staring, and heat because the sexy smirk he sends my way feels hotter than sin. And I revel in that look this time—I don’t shy away. Not only that, I allow my mind to wander, to reminisce, because why the hell not? I’ve got nothing else that I need to be thinking of right now. I’m carrying guilt for no one this evening. I’ve no one’s memory to uphold.
He’s so big and bronzed. A crest flash of light from a chandelier highlights the copper strands of his chestnut hair. My cheeks heat; I’m definitely having a moment as I log his cocky quirked brow. Dressed less hipster than those around him, he also looks a lot different from Tuesday. Boots, wet jeans flannel shirt glued to his skin. Not that the memory is indelible or anything. Tonight, he’s dressed stylishly enough for a night out in London. Or Milan . Grey slim fitting pants, a matching vest, white button-down, and a matching jacket thrown over his forearm. Stylish, crisp and confident, but despite his refined appearance there’s definitely something a little bit brute about the man. And he wears it so well .
The years have been good to him. He’s still leading man material, but these days he’d be auditioning for a kick-ass role rather than a high school love interest. And he’d definitely be at home playing Nat’s fantasy lumberjack. Or maybe a Viking—no, a marauding Viking.
And suddenly I feel ready to have my barn burned down.
‘Are you listening?’
Nat’s not-so-dulcet tones pull me from my musing, the hum of the restaurant filling my ears as a sharp finger of guilt pokes me in the chest. It’s a small yet painful reminder of my widowed state, but in light of this morning, I push it the hell away.
‘Yeah. Yes,’ I reply, without turning my head. ‘Downstairs deforested, upstairs let the grass grow.’ As I lose sight of Rory on the stairs, I turn my gaze back to the pair.
‘We’ve moved on since then.’ Ivy’s brow is furrowed. On second examination, her face is set like stone. The stink-eye gargoyle kind of stone . ‘If every time you go to open the fridge, a jar of marmalade hits you on the head, at some point you’re going to stop opening the fridge, aren’t you?’
‘Eh?’ Natasha beats me to it, articulating her confusion about as eloquently as my current expression. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ But Ivy doesn’t acknowledge her words, her gaze intent on mine. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, oblivious to our silent standoff, ‘what kind of arse keeps the marmalade in the fridge? That’s a sure fire way of making your toast go cold a’fore it’s anywhere near your mouth.’
‘Finola?’ Ivy mutters caustically, the atrocity expelled from a cat’s bum mouth.
‘Ivy?’ I answer, mimicking her tone.
‘Ah, shit. I’m not havin’ it. If the pair of you are fixin’ to fight, you can do it somewhere else. I haven’t even eaten yet!’
‘We’re not fighting,’ Ivy replies in a superior tone. Her gaze avoids mine as she concentrates on the important task of rearranging the cutlery. ‘I’m just pointing out that the definition of lunacy is repeating the same mistake, while expecting different results.’
I feel the muscles in my face contort. ‘Same mistakes as what? I was looking, not feeling him up. What the hell is your issue?’
‘First you say you’re going to go travelling, and now you’re giving guys the glad eye.’
‘You sound like June,’ I fire back, almost admitting I know him. Only this wouldn’t be a defence, rather cause for a whole lot of other questions. ‘And since when has looking been a crime? I’m allowed to look! It’s not like I’m cheapening his memory,’—I can’t bring myself to say Marcus’ name—‘because at this stage in the widow games his memory is worth about as much as I have in my chequing account.’
‘You weren’t just looking. You were giving him the serious come fuck me look.’
I burst into laughter, the sudden eruption of noise surprising us all. ‘How does that even work? I wouldn’t even know where to begin. How about a demonstration? Come on, you show me that look.’
Ivy struggles against a smile, eventually giving in, and as an encore, she makes hersel
f cross-eyed while poking out her tongue.
‘Oh, man. That milkshake’s bringing no boys to the yard!’
And just like that, our spat is over, though I make a mental note to find out what’s really going on inside that head of hers.
‘You two must be bio-polar or something,’ Nat grumbles, folding her arms. ‘Can we not have a peaceful night?’
An hour later we’ve been suitably fed—the food is a sort of fusion smokehouse. Definitely not the kind of place for vegetarians to hang out, as Ivy points out. We’ve also been appropriately watered by virtue of mason jars filled with iced and muddied cocktails. I’m currently on number three, though Ivy and Nat are already two ahead and are at the point of the evening where things could go very good or very bad. But at least Ivy has loosened up, probably something to do with ingesting copious amounts of fruity liquor and a dinner consisting of mostly grass.
‘What about him?’
‘Nah, too skinny,’ replies Nat, unapologetically examining the bearded guy Ivy pointed out as hottie number two . ‘I’d probably suffocate him. And not in the fun, kinky way.’
‘Is there a good way to asphyxiate?’ I’d meant it as a rhetorical question, though Natasha answers anyway.
‘I’ve been told a time or two they’d like to be suffocated by these.’
She palms the sides of her boobs, pushing them together like they need the attention, which they don’t. They—or she?—gets plenty anyway from a group of guys standing nearby, clearly enjoying the free show.
‘Don’t look now, there’s one breaking free from the herd,’ Ivy mutters, unimpressed.
Nat sniggers as a guy—skinny jeans and fuzzy of face—makes a beeline for our table. We’re down in the bar area now; leather sofas with a low table in front, masculine and rustic bookcases full of faux books. Or maybe not as I pull an aged copy of Canterbury Tales from a shelf.
