by Sue Watson
That evening, Sophie called me to tell me she and Carl were extending their visas.
‘I’m happy that you’re so happy you want to stay,’ I said, surprised at my own reaction. This news would have sent me into paroxysms of grief and worry six months before. But now I had my own, much bigger life, and I was able to let Sophie go, encourage her to chase her dreams and not see death and danger round every corner.
‘Oh Mum I was worried about telling you. Thanks for being so understanding.’
‘It’s great that you’re having such a good time... you needed this opportunity to move on, love,’ I said.
I could see her nodding on the screen.
‘And what about you, Mum? Anything happened with that old boyfriend?’
‘No,’ I said, feeling a little foolish... I’m sure she thought I should be sleeping with him by now.
‘Oh Mum, why don’t you just go for it? What are you doing messing about on Facebook when you could be with him for real? Why not arrange a meeting, nothing too heavy, just a few drinks or... whatever?’
‘It’s okay as it is,’ I said, though I wasn’t convinced.
‘Well... what exactly is it?’
‘Old friends... just chatting.’
‘Well that sext you sent to Carl was more than just friends chatting... you can’t fool me, I know it was meant for your old boyfriend. I can’t believe you haven’t gone any further and tried to get together. Mum, you need to be a bit more... random.’
I went slightly pink at the mention of my sext mistakenly sent to Carl, but she had a point. I was all about courage and confidence these days, so why wasn’t I applying it to my non-existent love life? Yes I had the dancing, but wouldn’t it be even more exciting now to add a bit of romance, sex even? After all Tony had been telling me for ages that all I needed was a hot night with a passionate man...or a passionate night with a hot man. I’d take either.
I came off the phone with mixed feelings, but after a couple of glasses of wine and a need to impress my daughter with my ‘randomness’ (whatever that was), I called Cameron on his mobile. We’d never gone beyond texting, so this felt like a big move, escalating our online intimacy into something real. My mouth was dry as I held the phone to my face – which was hot.
I heard the phone click and jumped in straightaway before I chickened out: ‘Hi... it’s me...’ I started, then his answer phone kicked in. I was so nervous but the wine had given me more courage than perhaps was wise.
‘What about we stop this texting thing and actually get together?’ I said. ‘We could meet up and have a few drinks and a laugh? I understand if you’d rather not, but it might be nice to meet up after all this time?’
I waited and waited but he didn’t call back, so I went to bed with the phone under my pillow just in case.
The next day I told Carole what I’d done and she raised her eyebrows over the large, cold pork chop she was eating.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I just think it’s time to say “yes”, to stop making excuses... and like Sophie said, it can’t go on forever just texting and talking on Facebook.’
‘I suppose you’re right...’
‘Along with the Paso Doble, I think about him all the time.’
‘I think about food all the time,’ she said, tossing the pork chop bone back onto her empty plate like Henry VIII.
‘Atkins?’ I asked.
‘Yeah... I had high hopes for this, Mary in Home Electricals lost 3 stone, but there’s only so much red meat a woman can take. I found myself in the kitchen at three o’clock this morning with my mouth around a huge piece of rare steak, blood dripping everywhere – it’s all getting a bit “Rosemary’s Baby”. Imagine if one of the kids had walked in on me alone in the dark ripping at flesh like a deranged caveman? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Nothing else for it, I’ll have to come off the Atkins – I mean, the human body can’t live without carbs... it’s... it’s inhuman.’
‘Cake?’ I said, knowing where this was going and getting up to go to the counter.
‘Yeah... okay, I’ll keep you company with a slice of cake. Chocolate fudge,’ she said calling after me, ‘with thick cream... God knows I need the calcium.’
Later that day I received a text from Cameron. ‘Meeting up sounds good, but I work in the evening (he was an accountant, he probably took work home) so it’s difficult to go out at night.’
I was disappointed, but I understood. ‘It’s ok,’ I texted. ‘I work nights too – perhaps you could come to my house after work one evening? It doesn’t matter if it’s late. It’s not like I don’t know you – unless you’re a serial killer accountant now?’
‘Ha ha, yes, that sounds good.’
‘Tomorrow night?’ I texted, feeling very daring and... random. Wait until I tell Sophie about this.
‘Yes. Tomorrow is good.’
I was delighted, his immediate response was a good sign so I texted my address and he said he would be over about ten after he’d finished work. Then I sat back and thought about the possibility of actually meeting him, what we’d say, what he’d think of me now – and I wanted to text back and say ‘forget it.’ I was so nervous, but at the same time glad Lola had kicked in somewhere and I’d found the courage to ask him to meet – and that he’d said yes. He’d obviously just been waiting for me to make the first move. Now I had to start planning tomorrow evening, my outfit, the setting and Oh god the lighting – after almost thirty years I would need very dim lighting.
12
CAMERON, CAVA AND CANDLELIGHT
The following evening I planned to leave dance training slightly earlier than usual so I could get ready for Cameron. He’d only seen photos of me, and they were only the ones where I looked good and not like me at all – so I had to make an effort so he wasn’t disappointed when he saw me in the flesh.
As always I’d been lost in the dance, stayed longer than I meant to and came straight out of a vigorous Paso Doble and screamed when I realised the time. Not one to be outdone by drama, Tony screamed too and ushered me out of the door saying, ‘Go... go like the wind to your rampant lover,’ in a very loud voice which caused a few ripples in the waiting ‘Advanced Zumba Class’.
Arriving home at 9.30 I’d left myself only half an hour to get ready and to set the scene. I wanted Cameron to find me attractive, but I also wanted to impress him, to show him I’d grown up and had a successful life since he last saw me. He knew I danced but he also knew I worked at Bilton’s so I wanted to present him with an artsy interior. I didn’t want him to see the home of a supermarket checkout girl, I wanted him to see a woman at one with art, nature and herself. So I tidied the house and put a large piece of driftwood in front of the fire to hide the fact it was ugly and electric - and at the same time to impress on him my oneness with nature. I’d also prepared a small tray of smoked salmon canapés and dipped strawberries in chocolate, which I hoped wouldn’t be too over the top. I would make out like this was my usual snack of choice and nothing special. I’d even bought some scented candles from Homeware and dotted them around the living room. I closed the curtains, lit the candles and took the food and drink out of the fridge, placing it carefully on the coffee table.
I then ran upstairs, two at a time, to slap on make-up and slip into something gorgeous. I wanted his first sight of me after all these years to be one he wouldn’t forget – in a good way. So that day, between finishing work and going to dance training, I’d popped into town and I’d spotted what my mother would call ‘loungewear’, in chocolate silk. They were like posh pyjamas really and I could see myself greeting Cameron in these, thinking they would give just the right message, available, but not in your face.
So there I was in chocolate silk by candlelight, the dipped strawberries and my body, ripe and ready to hand to him on a plate. I put some music on, forgetting that Tony had been round the night before and downloaded Wham, ‘I’m your Man’, which sent me into a panic because that wouldn’t play well with the
cava and candlelight. I was going for mature and sophisticated and the lyrics ’If you’re gonna do it do it right - right? Do it with me’ were not going to be my opening number. So I frantically searched through Tony’s gay anthems, ‘YMCA,’ no, It’s Raining Men,’ no, ‘Relax,’ absolutely not - then I found some Dido and was calm again.
I stood for a while, not wanting to crease the silk. It was almost ten and he’d be here any minute so there was no point sitting down. After a few minutes I leaned on the sofa like a mannequin, keeping all my limbs straight, but despite a newly strengthened core I couldn’t last for long in that position. At 10.13 I shifted the ice bucket a little to the left and stood back... at 10.21 I moved the glasses slightly to the right and spread the napkins out like a fan. I took a strawberry and stood back eating it, the bitter sweet fruit meeting the gooey chocolate was a deeply moving experience and I had to stop a moment and take it in. Then I saw it was 10.39 and my heart started to feel heavy and anxious. At 10.53 I arranged everything as it had been before I had moved things. I just wanted everything to be perfect, but it was now 11.01, and he was over an hour late and the cava would be warm and the strawberries would be gone because I was peckish and slightly anxious, not a good combo.
At 11.07 I checked my phone again. Perhaps he’d texted me to say he was running late? But there was nothing. I checked Facebook quickly, hoping he didn’t turn up now to see me through the window, my bespectacled face lit by harsh phone light, screwed up and scrolling his timeline like a crazed stalker. But there were no clues on Facebook so I took another strawberry and rearranged the smoked salmon. It was only nineteen minutes past, he would be here in a minute... or two. At 11.32 as I finished off the last strawberry, I couldn’t shake off the thought that he might not turn up. No, I’d give him a bit longer, he might have been held up at work – and I had all night.
By two a.m. I was tired, fed up and I’d run out of excuses for him. I didn’t text him, what was the point? Perhaps he never intended to come over? Perhaps he just got a cheap thrill out of contacting old girlfriends and making lewd suggestions?
And as I emptied the last of the cava and scoffed the final smoked salmon canapé I faced the fact that he wasn’t coming and that all men ever do is let you down.
13
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JOEL?
‘On the bitch mode scale, I'm calm – only like a two right now, but ask me again in an hour when he hasn’t texted me back.’ Tony was blowing my hair in between huge gasps of furiousness. ‘I texted him at ten past four,’ he continued, tugging a little too hard on my roots as he pulled the brush vigorously through my hair. I wanted to say ‘ow’ but he wouldn’t have listened, he was completely off on one about his latest dating disaster; ‘I said don’t worry about me, sugar tits, not that he was. I said I watched “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” on Netflix in case you were wondering what a fucking white-knuckle thrill ride my evening was when you were a no-show. I think he got the message.’
‘Good for you,’ I nodded. Tony’s complicated and free-flowing sex life often involved his ex-partner Joel who’d once broken his heart but turned up every now and then for sex. Tony was handsome, he could have his pick of men and enjoyed various ’gentlemen callers’ with different talents and varied abilities in the bedroom – but he would drop them all for Joel. Deep down, Tony knew Joel was using him but was in complete denial. Whilst I’d been waiting for Cameron, Tony had been waiting for Joel, who didn’t turn up either. Tony knew exactly what I was going through and it made me feel better to know I wasn’t alone in all this relationship madness.
‘I hope you gave that Cameron short shrift too,’ he hissed. ‘There’s me on my pink velour sofa looking chic as hell, and there’s you, dressed in cheap loungewear, house done up all candlelight and driftwood like something from “Blair Witch,” And he doesn’t even bother to text. They are all the same, bloody men, letting us down.’
I wasn’t sure what I resented most, the Blair Witch comment (I was going for Kelly Hoppen), or the reference to cheap loungewear.
‘Short shrift? I can’t even find him. I refuse to text him and come over all desperate. But I went on Facebook this morning and he’s gone, completely disappeared into thin air, it’s like he never existed. His account’s not even on there’ I said.
‘Facebook’s like the wardrobe in bloody Narnia sometimes. You’re convinced you’ve had the most amazing adventure then someone deletes everything taking the fucking wardrobe with them so there’s nowhere to get in. What a tosser,’ he spat, taking his frustration out on my poor hair – wasn’t I suffering enough.
‘Oh... ow!’ I was gritting my teeth as he untangled a tricky knot – with vigour. ‘I’m used to it Tony. I don’t know why I bothered. How stupid I was to be taken in by him. I told you, I don’t want or need a man in my life, I’m fine as I am. I’d just like someone to hold me every now and then, tell me I look nice... someone who’s there for me.’
‘I’ll be there, Lola,’ he smiled, kissing the top of my head. He meant it too and it made me realise that the Cameron’s of this world will just disappoint you and let you down. While waiting all night for him I’d recalled a few times when we were younger when he hadn’t turned up as promised and I sometimes wondered if he’d cheated. Perhaps those lovely salad days of loving Cameron weren’t quite as lovely as I’d remembered? As a young woman I’d probably put up with far more than I would now and for me Cameron hadn’t only left Facebook, he’d left my life and my head too.
I thought about this as Tony continued to rant and pull at my hair. We were in my kitchen and he’d turned up to walk with me to the dance centre for our usual session, but wanted to talk me through flamenco while he made me look ten years younger with a bit of hair mousse and a lot of pain and heat, because he said I looked ‘rough as old boots’, which was nice. I think he just wanted to try out his new hair mousse on my hair rather than his – I was the guinea pig.
‘It’s only a couple of weeks before I go on my flamenco odyssey and I’ve been reading up about it online. It looks like a fortnight in heaven and hell, my love – long arduous days of training, difficult steps and the compás ... oh my god don’t talk to me about the compás. I will be exhausted... but fabulous.’
‘You will. What’s compás?’
‘It’s the rhythm of flamenco, it’s not like anything we do. The dance is originally Moorish and so the music’s alien to our ears – and our toes.’
‘Oh it sounds so exciting, and intriguing too. Why don’t we practise together before you go?’ I said, excitedly. How I longed to go with him and bask in the sunshine and the dancing.
‘You read my mind. Already thought of that – you and I are going to do a little flamenco this evening, my love... I’ve been online and checked out the steps. I’ve downloaded some music and I think between us, you and I will be able to make it sizzle.’
He finished my hair, which looked good, and before leaving for the dance centre I ran upstairs and, grabbing my handbag and putting Dad’s letter in., I wanted Dad with me tonight, the Flamenco was a dance he’d longed to do and I just wished I could dance for him, with him. I adored the difficult Argentine Tango and the smooth and wonderful waltz – we were planning to enter both dances for Blackpool the following year – but this was the flamenco and it was different. It was also something close to my heart.
Waiting for the studio to clear, I thought about how far I’d come since that first class a few months before. I could barely walk the next morning, I’d ached everywhere. I still ached after every dance session, but it was a good ache, a reminder of something I could do rather than something I couldn’t.
Eventually everyone had left, but some of the Zumba girls asked if they could hang around and watch, which meant we suddenly had an audience of about thirty people watching us attempt a dance we’d never done before. Tony could tell I was nervous and kissed my cheek, then with the most gentle and loving look on his face, he said, very quietly, ‘Remember what
I told you – dance like nobody’s watching.’ I looked up at him, smiling, then he burst the bubble, ‘Now no whingeing and move your tight little arse onto that dance floor – or I will kick it!’
I smiled sweetly at him through gritted teeth. I would ‘perform’ with confidence, and no one would know I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. Tony took my hand and led me forward into our arena.
‘Now, I’ve been reading up on it – flamenco isn’t like anything we’ve ever done before,’ he explained. ‘It’s not just a dance, darling, it’s a culture, an art form, a lifestyle – people take a lifetime to learn flamenco so don’t expect to get it on the first try.’
I nodded, even with the spectators it was all so exciting, and though I knew it would be a huge challenge, I was keen to learn some of the basics.
‘In true flamenco there’s a dancer, singer and a guitarist, but we’re going to make do with my iPod, my hips and my passion. Okay, Lola?’ he turned on the music and started to clap out the rhythm, then after a little while we did a little stomping and I imagined I was wearing a long, frilly dress like my doll, Senorita. I attempted to flurry my wrapover skirt into a frenzy, which didn’t have the desired effect, but it made Tony laugh. As the music continued, we just kept going, our own improvised flamenco, twirling and stomping and clicking our fingers in the air and laughing like two little kids. Eventually, we slumped against the wall, sweating but still smiling. I grabbed my water bottle. ‘It’s thirsty work, flamenco,’ I said.
Tony laughed. ‘I’m not sure what you just did there was flamenco, love. Let’s give it another go shall we?’
So we got up and started again, this time a little calmer. The strains of the guitar soothed and inspired me and I felt like I knew the dance. Of course I didn’t, but as we both stamped on the floor and raised our arms, straightened our posture it began to feel like something Spanish. Then Tony started with the ‘Olés’ and the Zumba girls started clapping and shouting ‘Olé’ too.
