Would Like to Meet

by Polly James

  “I don’t even know whether I want kids yet,” says Jude, when I bring that up again. “So I can’t see why it’s relevant.”

  It is to me, in case I fall in love with him (despite Call of Duty, Radiohead and his tendency to check himself out in mirrors when he thinks that I’m not looking), and then he decides that of course he does.

  Better stop now, before that can happen.

  * * *

  Jude insists on walking me to the station to catch the last train, even though he’s still upset about my decision that we should stop seeing each other. I think he finally understands what I’ve been saying, though. Not only do we not have enough things in common, but we can’t possibly have a long-term relationship (which I still want again one day), because that would cost him the chance to have kids of his own.

  “Part of me knows you’re right,” he says reluctantly, as he opens the train door to allow me to board, “but as for the other part –”

  He shakes his head and I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, before I kiss him one last time. Then I board the train and don’t look back. I can’t, because there’s something in my eye.

  Whatever that something is, it vanishes as the engine starts and the train begins to pull out of the station, leaving my mascara a total mess. I scrub at my eyes with my knuckles, then glance out of the window and wish I hadn’t. Jude’s walking alongside the train, looking in at me, and he keeps that up until my carriage finally clears the platform and he disappears from view.

  I get another something in my eye, which doesn’t go away for at least the next ten minutes, and then I spend the rest of the journey wondering if I’ve made the right decision. As we pull into the station and I get up from my seat and reach for my bag, I notice a couple of the other passengers giving me sympathetic looks. They must think I’ve just been dumped!

  I smile, even more brightly than I smiled at Kate when she was trying to work out how old I am, and I’m still grinning madly when I get off the train and join the queue at the taxi rank.

  My fake smile lasts until I arrive back home and open the door to an empty house. It’s then that it starts to waver a bit.

  Chapter 50

  It’s Monday morning, though it still feels like the middle of the night when I get up for work. That’s probably because it was the middle of the night when Joel got back from Amsterdam and woke me up by shouting goodbye to Dan in what I assume was pidgin Dutch. I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep once he’d gone to bed, but without success – unlike Joel, who’s still out cold.

  Danny’s wide awake, despite his lack of sleep. At 7am he messages me for the first time since he left the UK on Friday.

  I missed you more than I thought I would.

  I bet he did, spending his days wandering around the Sex Museum, though I doubt he’s going to mention that. Not when he’s the one who claimed watching porn is different from having sex with real women. Real women just like Pammy – I mean, me – the sort of women who ask people who’ve just been to Amsterdam if they visited any museums while they were there, as a test.

  Danny tells Pammy that he did.

  The Rijksmuseum. It was great.

  Pah. Neither Pammy nor I can think of anything polite to say to that obvious load of bull, but it doesn’t matter, because Danny’s still adding to it.

  I had a hell of a job persuading my son to come with me, though. He only agreed when I traded it for a trip to the Sex Museum. Afterwards, he said he preferred the Rijksmuseum.

  “Like hell,” types Pammy, but then she recalls that she and Joel have never met. She changes the sentence to, “Oh, good,” before hitting send.

  * * *

  Joel backs Danny’s wild claim up when I get home from work. In fact, he says he loved the Rijksmuseum, and he doesn’t mention the giant penis once.

  “You going rowing with Albert tonight, Mum?” he asks. “I’ll come with you if you are. I haven’t seen him or Pearl since she gave me my jumper.”

  Normally I have to bribe Joel to visit “the wrinklies”, so this is unusually enthusiastic for him – and he becomes even more so when I tell him that Jude and I have split up, while we’re on the way to Abandon Hope.

  That’s probably not the best place to be going now that I’m newly single, come to think of it, though I don’t say so to Joel. My expression must do all the talking though, because he immediately asks if I’m okay.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  I’m not sure I believe that’s true but Joel does, which is the main thing, I suppose. I don’t want to lower his mood when he’s looking so much happier than before he went to Amsterdam.

  “I’ll just pick myself up and move on again,” I continue, as I indicate left, then park directly in front of the living room window of Pearl’s flat.

  She waves to us as Joel says, “Glad to hear it, Mum. There are plenty of fish in the sea, as I’ve been proving ever since I split up with Izzy.”

  “Ah,” I say, reduced to a monosyllabic response by my amazement that Joel didn’t take the opportunity to suggest that Dan and I get back together, I’m still in shock about that by the time I start my rowing lesson with Albert at the lake.

  There probably aren’t plenty of fish in there, not by the time I’ve finished thrashing my oars about, and we can’t even have a coffee instead, as the cafe’s now closed for renovations. (That’s a pretty good metaphor for how I feel.)

  Chapter 51

  It’s still a bit weird not chatting to Jude on the phone in the evenings when he finishes work, even though it’s been over a month since we split up now. Tonight, Eva and Frankie are going to a fashion show (where Frankie’s cutting the models’ hair), and Esther’s visiting a psychic to try to discover whether she’ll ever get a promotion – or a boyfriend. Joel’s planning to go round to Marlon’s, so I’m out of options if it’s company I need.

  It is, which is why I accept the Fembot’s unexpected invitation to go with her to the cinema after work. We have a surprisingly enjoyable time, mainly discussing what a great actor DiCaprio is, but I probably should remember to call her Kristin from now on, if we’re going to repeat the exercise as regularly as she suggests.

  She drops me off at about 10pm, which feels far too early to go to bed and far too middle-aged, as well. Maybe I should reactivate my online dating profiles, otherwise how will I find someone new to keep me company when my friends are busy? I can’t see Eva taking me back to France on a man-hunt, not when she still thinks I’m an idiot for finishing with Jude.

  When I first told her that’s what I’d done, she said failing to share each other’s cultural references wasn’t a big deal, especially when set against the benefits of younger men being “emotional baggage-free zones”. Then she ordered me to change the subject when I mentioned the children thing.

  Anyway, now I’m home alone, and so bored that I could scream.

  I wander around the house, shivering. It’s cold, even for mid-October, so I change into a nightie and a dressing gown, which Eva would have a major objection to if she saw them. When I say nightie, I don’t mean negligée, and when I say dressing gown, I don’t mean silk. What I do mean is thick fleece for both items, which is lovely and warm but bulks you out. When I glance at my reflection in the mirror, I’m not sure whether I’m looking at the Michelin Man or a middle-aged woman. If it’s the latter, she doesn’t look much like the improved, made-over Hannah, and she doesn’t look anything like a woman who was shagging a famous photographer only a matter of weeks ago.

  I decide made-over, photographer-shagging Hannah would drink gin, not cocoa, so I make myself a G&T, and then I take it to bed with me, along with my laptop and my reading glasses. Once there, I log on to No-kay Cupid.

  Up comes a message from Danny asking how Pammy got on with cooking the recipe he sent her the other day.

  Great, thanks. My son loved it.

  I don’t mention that he also noticed that it was exactly the same meal he’d eaten at Dan’s house th
e previous night. I got away with blaming that on coincidence, but Pammy needs to work a lot harder at keeping her real life separate from her virtual one, and so do I.

  For safety’s sake, I change the subject away from Joel and onto the film I saw with the Fembot, which Danny and Pammy both rate exactly the same. They also agree on music, especially their hatred of Radiohead, and on their love for Scandinavian crime thrillers, as well. Both things come as far less of a surprise to Pammy than they do to Danny, somewhat unsurprisingly. He’s amazed by how much they have in common.

  I thought I’d never find anyone like-minded again, after I separated from my wife.

  Pammy’s on her second large gin by now, and losing her already-too-few inhibitions.

  Why did you? Separate from your wife, I mean.

  There’s a pause, and then Danny says he’s still not comfortable with discussing his wife, but it wasn’t his choice to split up with her. Pammy’s so gobsmacked by that ludicrous statement that she’s only capable of a one-word answer.

  Really?

  I’m pretty sure that conveys the full spectrum of outraged sarcasm that it was intended to, but Danny manages to miss it, anyway. Instead, he seems to think further explanation is all that’s required.

  Yes, really, though I still don’t know why my wife wanted to. It’s not that we weren’t getting on, because we still were, most of the time, but I think we’d just stagnated. We hadn’t thought about splitting up, though, or not as far as I was aware. It just happened.

  There’s a pause, during which neither Pammy nor I can think of a single word to say, so we both wait until Danny starts up again.

  You stop noticing, I suppose. It’s the same with things you’ve always wanted to do with your life: you stop thinking about them as you get older and just coast along instead, but sometimes that can be the easiest way to miss out on doing them – and to lose the people you love.

  People you love, or loved? Now I’m even more lost for words.

  * * *

  I promised Eva that I’d give internet dating another try, but Esther tells me not to bother, because of the nightmare bloke she met last night.

  “So much for that bloody psychic I saw,” she says, as she tries to squeeze an imaginary spot in the mirror, while we’re both in the loo at work this morning. “She promised me this guy would be The One.”

  “I’m not sure there is only one The One,” I say, though I lack the evidence to prove it, so far.

  To be fair, Jude did come close, even if he was a bit too young for me, or “much too young”, according to Esther. I wash my hands while she abandons the non-spot squeezing and dabs Hide the Blemish on the giant red lump she’s just created. As a result, she now has an equally-large beige lump on her chin, so I spend the next five minutes reassuring her that it’s not as noticeable as she thinks.

  “I give up on this stupid spot,” she says, eventually. “Anyway, as I was saying, this guy definitely wasn’t The One, or even one of The Ones, though I thought he might be until the end.”

  The hand dryer isn’t working, and there are no paper towels, so I start waving my hands about and blowing on them, while Esther wipes hers on her skirt, leaving several streaks of beige.

  “What happened at the end?” I ask, in the gap between breathing in and blowing on my hands again.

  Esther starts to tell me, but then stops and shrugs, as if she can’t bear to go on. I’m getting really curious now, as well as dizzy from blowing out far more air than I’m breathing in.

  “Just tell me!” I say. “Before the Fembot fires us for spending too much time in the loo.”

  That threat seems to do the trick.

  “When we got outside the restaurant,” Esther says, “he hugged me and said he was relieved everything had gone so well with me, because his last date had accused him of rape.”

  I’m so stunned I don’t say anything for at least the next ten seconds, and not just because I’m all blown out. Poor Esther!

  When I get my breath back, I try to persuade her that not everyone you meet online is destined to be an idiot, or a prospective rapist, but she refuses to be convinced, even when I add that normal men like Dan do internet dating, too.

  “I’m surprised to hear that,” she says, “though he’s probably the exception that proves the rule. You didn’t exactly meet many normal men when you last tried it, did you, Hannah?”

  That’s true, but if Esther keeps this up, my mood’s going to end up as negative as hers before too long, so I’d better do something to cheer her up. Asap.

  I suggest we have a girly night in at her house tonight, if that will help, and she says she thinks it might. In fact, she’s thrilled.

  “I’ve always wanted to have a girly night in,” she says. “Because I was never invited to any when I was at school. I haven’t got much food in the house, though, and I’m also not the world’s most confident cook. So are you sure?”

  “You won’t need to cook,” I say. “We’ll stop off at a supermarket after work, on the way to yours, and buy ready-meals we can bung in the oven. And we’ll get some snacks, as well, for when we get the munchies watching films.”

  That idiotic snack idea is why I almost run into Dan when I’m least expecting to, and when I look like shit, thanks to a genuine spot that’s just come up on the end of my nose – one much, much bigger than Esther’s non-spot lump.

  She and I are wandering around the deli section, debating the respective virtues of sour cream and chive dip versus guacamole, when I spot something familiar out of the corner of my eye. I don’t register who or what it is at first, but something makes me raise my head and look over towards the “special selection” shelves. Maybe it’s the way Dan moves (or even his silhouette) that’s still so familiar it triggers recognition even when I’m not actually looking directly at him, but whatever it is, it’s the only thing that’s familiar about him now.

  As I stare across the aisles to where he’s standing looking down at the display, it’s as if he’s a stranger who just looks a bit like Dan. A very attractive stranger, wearing such stylish clothes and shoes that even Eva would approve of them. Dan’s never been interested in clothes or shoes before, or in how he looks, and this is exactly the wrong moment for him to start.

  “Duck!” I say to Esther, as Dan turns slightly, and then I bend down and lean as far into the chilled cabinet in front of me as I can get.

  “Why?” says Esther, not ducking at all.

  Instead, she’s staring around in all directions.

  “It’s Dan,” I hiss, yanking at her arm in another futile attempt to persuade her to stop drawing attention to us. “Over there, wearing that navy jacket and the really nice jumper.”

  Esther looks at me as if I’m mad. I’m certainly freezing cold.

  “What, your husband, Dan?” she says. “Bloody hell, I thought he was quite nice-looking when I saw the photo of him on your desk, but he looks a lot better in real life.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “And I look crap, so the last thing I want is for him to notice me.”

  It’s not the last thing I want, actually. The last thing I want is to notice how great Dan looks in the flesh, at exactly the same time as realising that I’m never going to be able to touch that flesh again.

  I head for the exit nearest the alcohol section, when we make a run for it.

  Chapter 52

  I narrowly miss running into Dan again when he comes to pick Joel up from the house this morning.

  “Should I invite him in?” asks Joel, who’s clearly still on a mission to make me and Dan behave like friends.

  I was so unnerved by our last encounter that I refuse, on the basis that I’m in a hurry. I’ve got a busy Sunday planned, so it’s not much of a lie.

  “Next time, maybe,” I add, which is.

  I have no intention of hanging out with Dan drinking coffee and making polite conversation, ever. That would just be weird.

  He’s taking Joel to another exhibition, this time a
t the Design Museum, so Eva’s invited me over to her house for Sunday lunch once I’ve finished my rowing lesson.

  “What have Dan and Joel gone to see?” she asks, after I show her the drawing I made of Albert when he was attempting to punt us back to the shallows using the sole remaining oar. “Not Jude’s exhibition, I hope?”

  I raise my eyebrows at the thought.

  “No,” I say. “Thank God. It’s Shoe Design Through the Centuries.”

  Eva says we should go and see it ourselves sometime, then carries on preparing lunch while I fill her in on what Danny said to Pammy about his wife being the one who wanted to split up. After that, I tell her about when Esther and I almost bumped into Dan in Tesco the other night.

  I end up going on so much about how great he looked, and how horrible it felt not to be able to touch him, that I almost bore Eva to greater tearfulness than the smoke emanating from her oven is already causing.

  “For God’s sake,” she says, giving up on the burnt chicken and chucking it out of the back door into the garden before it can set off the smoke alarm.

  I suggest that we go out for lunch.

  * * *

  We spend most of the meal planning what we should wear to Eva’s forthcoming birthday party, which is to be in fancy- dress because she was born at Halloween. Esther described that birthdate as “oddly appropriate” when Eva mentioned it to her once, which is probably why Esther hasn’t been invited.

  “She wouldn’t want to come anyway,” says Eva, when I ask her to reconsider. “She’s your friend, not mine, and she doesn’t like me, either. Look at the latest sarky comment she left on my Facebook page, if you don’t believe me.”