by Polly James
He’s right, which is why we spend the rest of the afternoon in perfect harmony. Not because we go for a walk, as per his suggestion, but because we end up in bed, as per mine. You can’t let a man win every round.
* * *
“So, did you have as much fun as this when you were single?” I ask, hours later, as I watch Dan walk across the bedroom naked, on his way to make us both a cup of coffee.
All the exercise he’s been taking has certainly paid off, as has mine, to my surprise. I didn’t even wait until I was under the covers before I took my clothes off this time. I’d thank Albert for his contribution to my improved fitness – and thus my sex life – if I didn’t think he’d be appalled by the excess of information.
“So how did you spend most of your free time?” I add, because I haven’t forgotten I’m still waiting for Dan’s answer to my original question, the one about whether he had more fun when he was single.
“Swimming, cycling, getting pissed,” he says, answering both at once. “Oh, and shagging everything that moved, of course.”
He ducks, but not quickly enough to avoid being hit in the face with a well-aimed pillow. I may take up throwing the discus as my next hobby. I could become the shortest discus thrower in the West.
“I’m only joking,” he says, mopping up the coffee he’s just spilled with the pair of boxer shorts he discarded earlier. “Though, in the beginning, I used to try to make it sound to other people as if I was having fun, mainly to prove to myself that I was fine, instead of falling to pieces.”
“That’s what I kept trying to do, as well,” I say. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me how you were feeling, though?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dan replies. “I kept hoping you’d say something that would allow me to say what I was feeling, too.”
I get out of bed, wrap myself in my dressing gown and walk into the living room of the apartment, thinking about what would have happened if one of us had cracked and admitted to the other how miserable we were all those months ago. The sun is setting over the sea, and the gorse and bracken on the cliffs are glowing a fiery orange in the reflected light. The scene would make such a great painting that I grab my camera to record it.
“Maybe the time we’ve spent apart wasn’t entirely wasted,” I say, as I take the first of a series of photographs. “If we hadn’t, I wouldn’t have started drawing again, or getting fit, and I wouldn’t have met Albert, or Eva –”
“Or Esther,” says Dan, sailing dangerously close to the wind again, given there are plenty more cushions within reach.
“You’re right, though,” he adds. “I’d still be stuck in my tedious job, and so would you. And we’d probably still be spending our free time arguing over nothing and watching our lives diminish, little by little. Instead of which –”
He makes a broad, sweeping gesture towards the view, but I know what he intends it to represent.
Chapter 60
It’s mid-afternoon on New Year’s Eve and everyone’s at Viva Vintage, getting excited about Pearl’s party tonight. That’s being held here at the office, once we’ve cleared up after the photo shoot that’s about to begin. The location for the party was all Eva’s idea, but the photo shoot was hers and Joel’s. Mainly Joel’s, actually.
After Amsterdam, he decided to get a portfolio together and apply to art school, and when he mentioned his plan to Eva, she offered him some work experience as an intern. Now she says he’s “a natural”, and yesterday he heard he’d been offered a place at Cordwainers on their shoe design course next year. Dan and I are very proud of him, as well as relieved he’ll be moving out. (We’ve done our best to keep the relief part secret.)
Anyway, Joel first had the idea for today’s photo shoot weeks ago, during a family Sunday lunch, when someone mentioned it’s almost the end of Pearl’s first year at Abandon Hope, and Eva suggested celebrating with a party at Viva Vintage. (I know Eva’s not technically family, but she qualifies in other ways, like being loyal, and getting almost as angry with people who stab you in the back as you do yourself.)
“That’s a great idea,” I said, assuming I was speaking for everyone else around the table.
I was, except for Pearl.
She objected, because she assumed the location would mean the other residents of Abandon Hope couldn’t attend, but Eva told her not to be daft: of course they could.
“All right, then – it’s a deal,” Pearl said, “as long as you young ones don’t make us oldies feel out of place.”
That’s when Joel had his eureka moment.
“Actually, the residents are what vintage really means,” he said. “So couldn’t we use them in a feature for the magazine?”
Eva thought that was a brilliant idea, which is why we’re all standing around outside the offices now, watching a crowd of elderly people being helped out of the purple bus that belongs to Abandon Hope.
They’re all dressed up, and they’ve brought bags of old clothing with them, as per Joel’s instructions. They’re also very excited about having an excuse to “get their glad rags on”, and to have their hair – or what remains of it – restyled by Frankie. Once that’s been done, Joel wants “the wrinklies” to be included in the photographs, standing next to professional models wearing the vintage clothes.
I can’t take any credit for the effort that’s gone into any of this, as I’ve only just been declared fully fit. Today’s the first day of my new job and I’ll be working this evening, too. Eva wants line drawings of scenes from the party, “to capture the spirit of the event”.
“You know, like the sketches you did at that fashion exhibition we went to,” she explains, “or the ones court artists do.”
With Pearl in charge of the aged contingent, war artists seem more appropriate. She’s already threatened a mass walk-out if my sketches make any of the residents look too old.
* * *
I’ve never been able to handle champagne, and I think I may be a bit pissed already, even though midnight’s still a fair way off. It’s the first time I’ve drunk alcohol since the vodka I swigged on the night that Dan and I got back together. The same night that Esther almost succeeded in preventing that from ever happening.
“Have you heard anything from her at all?” asks Eva, as we stand and survey the room together.
It’s full of candles in tiny glass lanterns, and the flickering light is reflected in all the mirrors that Eva’s had temporarily fitted to the walls. The Abandon Hope women are loving the effect as it’s so flattering to their complexions, which is exactly why Eva chose it.
“Have I heard from who?” I say, turning to look at her.
“Your friend Esther,” she says. “Though I always thought she was more of a frenemy, myself.”
I don’t even know what a frenemy is until Eva explains, and then I grimace in recognition. Sometimes my naivety amazes me, though never as much as it amazes Eva. We clink our glasses to real friends and lifelong friendships, and then Eva tries again.
“So, have you seen Esther?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “And I hope I never do.”
Eva looks at me as if that wasn’t the answer she was expecting, though I’d have thought my response was entirely predictable.
“You’re so uncharitable, Hannah,” she says. “I, on the other hand, am filled with goodwill to all men, thanks to this one in particular.”
She waves her glass in the direction of Marlon, who’s standing close by, locked in conversation with Dan.
Being in love is totally changing Eva’s personality, which is not a good thing as far as I’m concerned. I liked her just the way she was, as hostile to duplicitous so-called friends as I still am.
“I even sent Esther a Christmas present,” she continues. “Stefan’s business card. The one for his ‘sex therapy’ service.”
I laugh, though I’m not sure if that was cruel or kind. It could be either, but maybe goodwill’s contagious, as now Dan’s moved closer and put his
arm around me, I’m starting to feel a bit sorry for Esther myself. If Stefan can give her her confidence back, the way this year’s given me mine, then maybe she won’t feel she needs to shaft any new friends she makes in future. Or become their frenemy.
I raise my glass to that imaginary scenario, then turn my attention to Dan, who’s whispering something into my ear.
“Don’t get too drunk,” he says, which I take to mean that he has designs on my person for when we get back home tonight, though apparently that’s not the reason he’s calling for restraint. It’s because he wants me to be in a fit state to meet him at the lake at noon tomorrow.
“Why have I got to meet you there?” I say. “Surely we can go together?”
Now he’s finally moved back home, there’s no point taking two cars when one will do. I’d have thought Dan would be the first to object to that wasteful idea, given he’s still got a membership card for Greenpeace in his wallet, but he says travelling together “won’t be feasible”.
“Just bring Joel and make sure you’re there on time,” he adds. “I’ve got something important to show you both when you arrive.”
If we’re going to the lake, then maybe I’ll have something to surprise Dan with, too, if I can borrow Albert’s boat. It doesn’t do to be too predictable if you want your relationship to last, or so Stefan said in his most recent article for Viva Vintage. For once, I’m taking his advice.
“Talking of Joel, why is he so late?” I ask Dan, as someone starts banging a knife on a glass and calling for everyone “to shut up a minute”.
“God knows,” says Dan, as the room falls silent, and then someone turns a spotlight onto Pearl, who’s looking extremely beautiful tonight, though all she said was, “Pfft,” when I told her so.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, her clear, beautifully modulated voice perfectly audible to those of us at the back of the room, even without a microphone. “I have a brief announcement to make.”
For once, I can imagine Pearl as the diplomat’s wife she used to be. Everyone’s paying attention to her, waiting to hear what she says next. There’s no shuffling about, no muttered conversations, just a captive audience.
She’s wearing the beaded vintage dress that Eva gave me, which only goes to show that Eva’s rule about not wearing “vintage” when you could have owned the clothes from new is shit advice, if you look as good in it as Pearl.
“Come here, please, Albert,” she says, then waits for him to join her in the spotlight.
“Oh, my God,” I say, to Dan. “Are they getting married or something? I thought they might be more than friends, but they always told me it was none of my business whenever I asked.”
Dan says he has no idea, but then Pearl confirms it, to a degree.
“I bet you all think we’re going to announce we’re getting engaged or something,” she says, “but I’m afraid we can’t be bothered. Been there, done that, as my nephew Joel would say. We’re just going to live in sin at Abandon Hope, which we’re renaming “Hope Regained”, so let’s all raise our glasses to that.”
There’s an enormous round of applause, and quite a bit of cheering, too.
“We could get divorced and live in sin,” I say to Dan, as we watch the oldies clustering around Pearl and Albert to offer their congratulations. “It sounds more fun to me.”
“No, you bloody well don’t,” says Joel’s voice, coming from somewhere on my left-hand side. “You’ve only just got back together, and I couldn’t handle it if you split up again.”
“I’m only joking, darling boy,” I say, turning to give him a hug.
I don’t notice the girl that Joel’s brought with him until Dan says, “Hi, son. Who’s this?”
“Ah,” says Joel. “Dad, meet my girlfriend. Mum, I think you two have already met?”
I nod, at exactly the same time Ruby does.
Epilogue
I’ve got the hangover from hell and I’m in the middle of a lake. All I need now is for my Titanic dream to come to pass, and today will end almost as badly as New Year’s Day last year.
“Keep going, Mum,” says Joel. “I’m freezing my arse off, sitting here.”
“At least you’re not having to use your hat to bail,” I say. “Though you will be in a minute, if you don’t shut up and let me concentrate.”
All I’ve got to do is dig deep, stay calm and keep on keeping on. If I’ve managed to get halfway already, then surely I can get all the way across?
“Make every stroke count,” says Joel, who’s obviously watched the Boat Race once too often. “Now hammer those legs, and don’t forget to breathe.”
“I wish you would,” I say.
How am I supposed to concentrate on keeping my shoulders perpendicular to a square, or whatever Albert always tells me to do, when I’ve got an over-excitable passenger who keeps standing up and waving towards the people on the shore? I can’t, so I’m going to have to get a grip some other way.
I know, I’ll motivate myself by visualising the moment in my dream when Joel and I were about to drown, and Dan started rowing away from us. I’m not ever going to let myself be put in that helpless position ever again, so this is where I prove I won’t.
Pull, I tell myself, then pull again. Over and over, while the distance from the bank we launched from gets further and further away and – hopefully – the bank I’m aiming for gets nearer and nearer. I really don’t like this business of rowing with your back to where you’re heading. It gives you a hell of a crick in your neck, if your navigator’s as hopeless as Joel is. Now he’s claiming to be seasick, which I don’t think is possible on a freshwater lake, but at least the nausea’s rendered him incapable of further speech.
Pull – and – pull – and – pull.
I’m tiring now, and I feel quite like giving up, but then I remember what Albert said when he agreed to lend me his boat last night:
“If you want to prove something to yourself, Hannah – when you get close to exhaustion – rise to the challenge and go beyond yourself.”
It all sounded a bit self-help-bookish at the time, but it seems to do the trick now that I’m attempting it, especially when I envisage the Titanic scene again. Then I start ploughing through the water like a madwoman, and soon I can hear shouts of encouragement, which seem to be getting closer and closer.
With a few more deep pulls that make my wrists and shoulders burn, I finally reach the shore to loud cheering from all around. Take that, you horrible recurring dream. This time Hannah Pinkman didn’t drown. She didn’t even drop an oar.
Dan steps forward to catch the rope that Joel throws towards him, then ties the boat – very firmly – to its mooring. After that, he waits while Joel and I clamber out and stand wobbly-legged on the shore.
“Well done, Han,” he says, pulling me to him. “I’m proud of you, and relieved you didn’t tip yourself into the lake like you did when I proposed. Talking of which, I hope you think this is more romantic than that.”
He turns and gestures to where a crowd of customers are sitting at tables outside the lakeside cafe. Their faces are familiar as they’re all our friends and family, but the cafe itself looks totally different from how it used to when Albert first began teaching me to row.
“It’s been revamped since I was last here,” I say, in astonishment. “It looks wonderful.”
“And it’s ours,” says Dan. “Do you like the sign?”
He’s watching me closely for my reaction, but it’s a confused one, when it comes. Tears and laughter at the same time. The cafe’s new name is Danny and Pammy’s.
The End
Acknowledgements
No thanks are due to one of my next-door neighbours, whose obsession with knocking down walls and hammering the shit out of things has provided the world’s most distracting soundtrack to the writing of Would Like to Meet.
Very fond thanks are however due to my fantastic agent, Becky Thomas, for taking calls and answering emails and texts at all times of
the day and night; travelling to the wilds of Norfolk to help me restructure the manuscript, and for generally keeping me sane. (No mean feat.)
I also owe my husband and children a lot, both for putting up with my moaning about the constant hammering and for talking me out of going through with my frequent threats to “do a John Stonehouse”, rather than carry on writing the book. (Mr Stonehouse abandoned his clothes on a beach and faked his own death, in case you’re wondering. Probably allegedly.)
Finally, many other people have helped in a variety of ways: some by sharing their dating experiences; others by reading the manuscript and making editorial suggestions, and some by offering practical help such as meals, hugs or hospitality. Alex Marsh even lent me one of his best lines, and he and others continued to believe in me whenever I ceased to believe in myself, which was probably a tediously frequent occurrence.
In no particular order, my sincere thanks are therefore due to the following people: Eloise Wood, Natasha Harding, Kate Ellis and the rest of the team at Avon; Katy Loftus; Anna Morrison; Jennifer and David Yuile; Sue Welfare; Suzanne Moore; Diana Clark; Jayne Lavelle; Phil Durrant; Simon Davis; Donna Picton; Andrew Mackey; Heather Price; Carol Okazaki; Phil and Jo Crocker; Harriet Cobbold Hielte; Marika Cobbold; Ian and Susan Dafter; Andy Hicks and Peter Black AM, as well as the men I “met” during the time I spent on dating sites. (For research purposes only, in case my husband’s reading this.)
What happens to love when life gets in the way?
A laugh-out-loud read about real relationships – the perfect book for fans of Dawn French, Helen Fielding and Sue Townsend.
Click here to buy now.
About the Author
Polly James was born in Swansea, but now lives in Norwich, though she hasn’t given up hope of moving home to Wales one day.
She had a wide variety of different jobs before she began writing a blog called Mid-Wife Crisis under the pseudonym of Molly Bennett. The blog was later shortlisted for the Orwell Prize, and then became the basis for the novel Diary of an Unsmug Married.
