The rest of the day passes off uneventfully. We do pop into Tesco on the way back to my mum’s to buy food for supper. Despite my job, Duncan’s a far better cook than me and he’s intrigued by my mum’s high-tech cooker, bought because it was pretty. It’s certainly impressive with all its chrome buttons and dials. I’ve never used it either so I’m no help other than knowing where all the dishes and implements are, and getting the table ready.
Buddy, in the meantime, is happy with a new Kong that Duncan brought with him – the black less-destructible version – and hasn’t worked out that his chances of getting the treats would be greatly improved if he tried to get them out of the bigger end. Beagles, unlike border collies, aren’t known for their intelligence. It keeps me amused while Duncan’s busy. We talk while he cooks, before, during and after actually, and never seem to run out of things to say.
“So you’re all for them getting that dog,” he says as he offers me a spoonful of homemade carbonara sauce to taste.
“Gorgeous. My favourite.”
“I know.” He smiles.
Forget the pasta and garlic bread, I could eat him right here and now. I blush.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just silly thoughts.”
“Donna Dawn Diana Evans. Queen of the silly thoughts.”
Yes, that’s me.
“And I wouldn’t change a thing.”
No, nor would I… apart from living with him, marrying him, having his two-point-four children.
Chapter 66 – Detail Schmeetail
It’s Sunday evening and Duncan’s been gone less than ten minutes when the front door opens and Mum appears, grinning so widely that it probably hurts. It certainly hurts to see, despite her having fabulous teeth.
“Oh… kay. What’s up?” I ask as she takes off her jacket.
The grin lessens, but only to allow her to speak. “What do you mean?”
“You’re unusually… weird.”
“Me?” she asks, fluttering her eyelashes. Yes, something’s definitely up.
It’s then I get a flash of something on her left hand as she hangs her jacket on the first of five hooks in the hall.
“Oh my god! Mum!”
The grin’s back. “I know!” She thrusts her hand out towards me and waggles her ring finger. It’s an impressive rock. Diamond solitaire, very traditional, on a plain silver band. Not that it’ll be silver, more platinum or white gold at least if Charles has anything to do with it – and I’m hoping he had everything, or almost everything, to do with it. I hardly know him but he seems nice. Not sure yet if he’s ‘dad’ material but as long as Mum’s happy and judging by her grin… It wouldn’t have been a decision she’d taken lightly and it’s not like they’re getting married tomorrow, given that there’s still a wife in the picture.
“But isn’t he still married?”
“Pfff…” She swipes her unringed hand as if it’s a mere detail. “Detail schmeetail.”
“Uh huh. That would explain why you’ve been away the whole weekend.”
Everyone’s getting married, moving in, having babies. Not my mum for the latter obviously. I’m not normally a person for self-pity but for some reason I have been lately. I seem to have lost my ‘bounce’, as Izzy would put it.
“We thought you’d like the space.”
“Thank you.” I’m grateful yet jealous at the same time. Duncan and I have talked about having a life together and it’s only been a year, but here’s my mum, having met Charles relatively recently, way way ahead of us. Too soon? Is she more fearless because she’s older? I must admit I’ve worried about when she gets to the point that she needs help. Not for me, of course I’d do more, but for the day-to-day things that I can’t do an hour, forty-five minutes on a good day, away.
Listen to me, she’s only sixty-six, not eighty-six. It’s something to worry about twenty years away.
Even though I don’t feel like it, I put on a broad smile. “I’m thrilled for you. Really I am.” I feel like Judi Dench in Jack and Sarah, another of my top-twenty films except that it’s daughter disapproving of mother rather than mother disapproving of son. It all comes good in the end so I needn’t worry. So why am I? Because I’m Donna and it’s what I do. “As long as he makes you happy.” As soon as I’ve said it I realise it’s a stupid thing to say because she’s been the Tigger of the family for the past few weeks. That’s my job.
“So… you’ve eaten?” she asks, being the eternal nurturer.
“Yes, thanks. Duncan did spaghetti carbonara.”
“Ooh, your favourite.”
“It is.”
“He’s a good ’un.”
“He is.”
Mum puts her hand out and touches my arm. “A keeper.”
“I plan to.”
“Good. Great. Isn’t it wonderful that we’ve both found someone to be happy with?”
It is. It really is so what’s stopping me being happy?
You, Donna, you.
It’s late so we don’t stay up long but I get the full rundown of the proposal at the truly romantic setting of Tring Park’s summerhouse, which I’d forgotten existed and would certainly have picked for my leap year proposal had I not forgotten and Charles not beaten me to it so couldn’t copycat.
“Charles dropped his handkerchief and while going to pick it up, went down on one knee, his right, as is tradition. I thought he was having a stroke or heart attack or something so I knelt too to see if he was all right. He then got up so I’d get up but had to drop the handkerchief again to get down on one knee… again. Then I knew something was up but never thought for a second that he’d be doing what he was trying to do.” Mum takes a mouthful of tea but winces as it’s still too hot. She spits most of it back. Very ladylike.
“I thought maybe he wears contact lenses, even though he’d told me he has forty-forty vision, even better than twenty-twenty, he said but I think he was joking. So he’s on his knee because I thought one of his contact lenses had fallen out and I offer to find it for him when he puts his hand in his right pocket and pulls out a little red velvet box.” She points to her handbag as if to indicate that that’s where it is now. “And of course I go nuts. Good nuts but he doesn’t know it’s good nuts and looks gutted but I’m squealing a ‘Yes! Yes!’ before he’s even asked the question. Then I realise he’s not asked the question so I go quiet and he asks the question and I say yes again and he gets up and we hug and I hold out my hand to look at the ring. I’d only just taken off your dad’s wedding ring – I’m sorry but I didn’t think you’d mind seeing as I’m dating again.”
I shake my head. It’s hard to hear but it’s been so long.
She continues. “So I guess that told Charles that I was free again.”
“Except he’s not.”
She bats her hand. “It’s a formality. We’re in no hurry. Next year, the year after, it doesn’t matter when. These things take time to organise anyway. Tring Mansion’s probably booked up for months.”
“Tring Park Mansion?”
“Yes, you know, on the hill.”
“The ballet school.”
“Yes, but Charles knows the principal. Stephan something.”
Of course he does. “They do weddings there?”
“Not officially, I don’t think, but Charles reckons they could get a licence, just for the day. It’ll have to be outside term time, in the summer holiday probably.”
“It is a lovely setting, not that I’ve been to the school, but it’s in the grounds of the park, isn’t it?”
Mum nods.
“So when did he propose?”
“Yesterday morning. Today would have been better, weather wise, but it wasn’t that cold at least.”
“Yesterday? You should have messaged me.”
“It’s not something you message. I had to tell you face to face.”
“Or let me find out when you’re hanging up your coat.”
Mum blushes. “Yes, sorry about that but I couldn�
�t just come in, flashing the ring, and say ‘Hey, darling. Look what I’ve got.’”
I wouldn’t have put it past her.
“He won’t let me take it off so you would have seen it sooner or later.” Later would have been fine.
Now I feel guilty. At least they’re taking their time. They have to; he’s not divorced yet. “But he’s applied for a divorce, hasn’t he?”
When she doesn’t reply, I continue. “Isn’t it a bit weird, to even give you a ring when someone else is wearing one too?”
“Oh I don’t think she’d be wearing a ring. They’re separated.”
Of course she wouldn’t. Of course they are. Still living under the same roof.
“Have they sold the house yet?”
“Erm… I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“And will Charles move in here?”
“Erm… I don’t know. I presume so in the meantime. Or we’ll buy somewhere together.”
That does hurt. My dad lived here. My dad was happy here. Now someone else is going to be happy here. I have to let go, make space for a new… not dad, Charles can never be ‘dad’ but he can be Charles, my mum’s husband.
“I’m tired.” And defeated. “I’m off to bed.” To think. No, I need to stop thinking. Everything’s going to be wonderful. It is. It really is.
Chapter 67 – PMA
Monday 14th May
I feel so much better when I wake the next morning. I slept surprisingly well, even though I’m sure my brain would have been doing overtime. My doubts and self-pity seem to have vanished and I’m all together feeling much more positive. I have someone who loves, no, adores me, as does my mum because I don’t think Charles would have jumped from one ship to another without giving it, me, a lot of thought because he’d be taking me on too. Now I have the image of someone walking the plank in a Pirates of the Caribbean movie.
I already miss having Duncan and even Buddy to wake up to but we’re almost halfway through the month and the first two weeks have gone incredibly quickly so there’s no reason why the next three wouldn’t.
I throw myself into my work especially with my mother being even more busy squeezing Charles into her already-packed schedule, which I hope she keeps up as she loves the clubs she belongs to. Have him join her, probably. I can imagine them side by side, learning to play the guitar together with Bernard and Greta bemused by their ‘talent’.
It’s funny seeing my articles surrounded by Hemel news. Even though I have two reports in hand, I’m going to take my third week more seriously; have healthier, less carb-heavy, lunches. I’m back home this weekend so it’ll be lovely not having to think about what I’m going to eat. But then remind myself that I’m still supposed to have a low-calorie meal each day so would use those two reports in one go, one weekend.
After last Wednesday, I don’t mind at all being on my own during the day. Here, I love wandering around the town, along by the river, being in the fresh air so it doesn’t matter if someone (James) isn’t free – Leah has said she’d always be happy to escape. It’s too wet to go out today though – it’s like a whole week’s worth has fallen in a few hours.
It’s my evening with Nathan and we head to The Paper Mill at Apsley. The website said it is a ‘great modern pub’ and while it’s an old:new conversion, it does have a contemporary feel to it. We pass outside tables, typical brown wood slatted square tables and chairs, but it’s not quite warm enough so we head inside.
We’re right by the canal. I love anything watery but then that reminds me of Duncan’s bath and I get nostalgic. Four days’ time and I’ll, we’ll be right there.
Inside is deceptively massive with high seating in the main open-plan area and lower tables and standard chairs at the sides with a rustic black and wood staircase leading upstairs, presumably to the function room mentioned on their website. It’s busy but there are plenty of seats so we go to the bar to order drinks before deciding what we want to eat.
Being a Fuller’s pub, Nathan’s in his element with the choice of ales, and wiggles his whole body, Elliott-like, as he flits his pointed finger between London Pride, Frontier and Cornish Orchards. Although he’s not from London, I have a sneaking suspicion I know which one he’ll plump for.
“This goes perfectly with steak,” the barman, Matt with two ‘t’s, says, tapping the London Pride. That seals the deal, I feel. I used to be a poet… No, never written any poetry. It scares me.
One of Matt’s colleagues, and as it turns out, our waitress, Dawn – great name – is lovely and couldn’t do enough for us. With her guidance, and a dietary version of their main menu, I choose the pan-fried chicken breast, parsley potatoes, and spinach, sadly minus the chorizo butter, all of which, the menu explains, contains lupin, milk and mustard, none of which I’m allergic to. Not that I’m actually allergic to anything. Lucky me.
Nathan does indeed opt for the steak and all the trimmings. Dawn asks where we’ll be sitting and we point at a free table. She nods as if she knows what table number it is and Nathan gets out the company credit card from his wallet to pay what we’ve ordered so far. It’s under £30 so he waves his card, the card, over the swivel handset and it beeps.
“That’s all done for you,” Dawn says, smiling, and we thank her and head for the table we’d chosen which, fortunately, is still available so we avoid an awkward ‘we saw this first’ situation or asking Dawn to change the number because we were too slow.
“She’s nice,” Nathan says as we sit.
I look at Dawn then at our surroundings. It’s ironic, given where we work, that the mill is (was) the oldest mill in the UK, something I have to get into my report… article. Ooh, I must also mention, not that I don’t always say where the restaurants are so my (Veronica’s) readers can look them up, that it’s on Stationers Place (no apostrophe I note so stationers, the people, plural).
“Earth calling Donna…”
I look back at Nathan. “Sorry. Just curious.”
“Mental notes for your article?” He taps his head. “I get it.” He does. “So tell me about the past week,” he says, his eyes wide, and he’s wiggling again.
So I do, and as I’ve got to the weekend (some details more salacious than others, which he L… O… V… E… S-es! – his enunciation) when our food arrives. It looks dee-licious – my enunciation this time. Some places you go, although not this month, have these staged shots of the dishes on their brochures but when it arrives it looks smaller, flatter, something else ‘er’, but these look even nice… er.
We’re part way through when the manager, Rob, comes over. I know his name, and what he does, from his badge but he introduces himself anyway. He asks if everything’s okay. We’re both eating but I swallow and say a hearty, “Yes, thank you. This…” I point to my plate, “is gorgeous.” Rob laughs so we laugh, Nathan’s even more raucous than Rob’s or mine but then Nathan’s the more wildly spirited of the two of us. I don’t know how spirited Rob is, of course.
“Can I get you any more drinks?” Rob asks, pointing at Nathan’s almost-empty glass.
“Go on then,” he says, swallowing, “I’ll have another half of London Pride.”
Rob looks at me and I still have most of my pineapple juice and lemonade so wave a hand at the offer of a replacement. “Thanks anyway.”
Rob nods, leaves and returns a few minutes later with Nathan’s drink.
After a couple of coffees, Nathan pays for the extra drinks with the company credit card and I leave a five-pound tip, more the ‘norm’ with two of us eating and Dawn’s worth every penny. The whole place is worth every penny.
We go to stand when Nathan suggests a stroll along the river. I squeal. He laughs and suggests we pop to the loos first. “Great idea,” I say and we go arm in arm, like a scene from The Wizard of Oz, although we’re a couple of people missing. And I wonder if Rob and Dawn would like to join us but that makes me laugh so Nathan laughs, even though he doesn’t really know why, just that we’re acting like childre
n, which is wonderful.
As I do what needs to be done, I wonder our roles. Dorothy (Gale, I remember for some reason) wasn’t overly tall but then she was only sixteen, or rather Judy Garland was only sixteen, at the time, half my age so had some growing to do.
Anyway, so I’m Dorothy, Nathan has to be… My first thought is the lion but there’s nothing cowardly about Nathan. Plus he already has the biggest of hearts. I recall the tin man crying and while Nathan may be soft, he doesn’t strike me as an easy cryer. The scarecrow wants a brain so I’m really torn as Nathan’s clever.
We emerge at the same time and link arms again as we leave the premises, saying a rather loud “bye!” to Matt who’s oblivious as he’s serving a rather irate-looking female customer. Poor him.
It’s cooler than when we arrived, but our stroll by the river is calming, although in Nathan’s company, I’m pretty much there already. We talk about life within the commuter belt, how house prices in our two areas are staggeringly different yet food (and other essentials from major supermarkets isn’t) isn’t, something that mystifies us both.
Nathan and I hug by our cars – we’d driven in convoy as it’s an eight-minute drive from work. He’s already told me he lives in Nash Mills, the next town (it might even be a village) on in Watford’s direction and the M25 side of where we are. My mum and I used to go to car boot sales in a field at Nash Mills and I paid for my first car from the proceeds of selling some of my stuff. It wasn’t much more than three hundred pounds (three twenty-five, I think) which I made in two sales, back in the days where people would pay way more than they do now. The likes of Poundland and 99p stores haven’t helped. Not that I sell at car boot sales anymore. Haven’t done for years. It’s much easier to give things to charity shops. Take a bag of things in, come out with two. The ultimate recycling.
“It’s been fun,” Nathan says.
“It has.” It feels like we won’t be seeing each other again, like Rhett and Scarlett, not that we know whether they did ever see each other again. Unless Nathan knows something I don’t though, it’ll be business as usual tomorrow.
The Serial Dieter Page 30
