Confessions of a Serial Dater

by Michelle Cunnah

  “It was just a bug. A nasty, virulent one,” I say, just a bit bleakly, as I think about Luke.

  “It’s not like you to stay over at your mother’s. Was it seeing Jonathan on Saturday night? I thought it might have brought back sad memories, and then you realized that you’d loved him all along and were suffering from grief or something.”

  Carmen’s a bit too astute for comfort, sometimes, but thank God she doesn’t know about Luke.

  “No, nothing to do with Jonathan at all,” I tell her quickly. “Nothing to do with any man, in fact, hahahaha,” I say, digging the hole deeper. “Just a simple bug, hahahaha.”

  “Well, if you’re sure,” she says, not sounding sure.

  “Absolutely,” I tell her cheerfully. “How’s Paul?” I ask, thereby cunningly changing the subject before she can dig any deeper.

  “The picture of domesticity,” she says rather sarcastically. “He’s taken up some vigorous housework to relieve his stress levels. And because I’m working longer hours at the store, it’s not fair expecting me to do ninety percent of the cleaning.”

  “You’ve extended your store opening hours?” Carmen, it has to be said, is not the most domestic of goddesses when it comes to housework. She must have an ulterior motive. “What’s the ulterior motive?”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. I’m hurt,” she says, but I can tell by her laugh that she doesn’t mean it. “It’s part of my campaign to earn more money and add more to the savings account. See—I took your advice. I’m compromising with Paul.”

  God, I wish I could remember all of this good advice I’ve been handing out. I should also remember to take it myself!

  “A-ha—if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em?” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  “Sneaky.” I’m impressed.

  “Isn’t it?” she laughs. “In fact, he’s doing the cooking on Sunday evening because I’m keeping the store open until seven. You are still coming, aren’t you? Because we’re planning on turning it into a surprise birthday dinner party in your honor, which is why we’re doing Sunday instead of Saturday, but I know you hate surprises, which is why I’m telling you now. So just remember to act shocked when you come in through the door and we all yell Surprise.”

  I don’t mention that I’ve had enough surprises for one year.

  Oh, to be eleven again, when my little heart was full of Barbie, My Little Pony, and ponies, and didn’t include faithless, cheating men…

  14

  Be Careful What You Wish For…

  Rosie’s Confession:

  …Because I have absolute proof that it can backfire.

  When the phone rings at six on Saturday morning, I know, immediately, that it is my mother, because no one else calls me at six in the morning. So it’s a bit of a surprise when it is Granny Elsie.

  “Happy birthday, Rosie. You’d better come on over and talk some sense into yer mother,” is her opening line. “There’s a horse in the back garden.”

  “Um, it’s not my actual birthday until tomorrow, Gran,” is my automatic response in my still half-asleep state.

  “I know, but I thought if I said happy birthday first it would soften the shock of the horse. The one that’s in the back garden.”

  So, of course, instead of braving the Underground I take a cab to Hampstead, and by six forty-five, I am in my mother’s back garden with Mum, Granny Elsie and Candy, the chestnut mare.

  Candy is perfect. She is beautiful.

  I yearn, with all my soul, for her.

  But I cannot keep her because I am no longer eleven years old and now know that (a) horses cost a fortune to stable and feed, and (b) I haven’t got the time or the money to adequately look after her. Neither, so I thought, does Mum.

  “Happy birthday, darling,” my mother tells me, clapping her hands with delight. “Surprise.”

  You can say that again.

  “Yes, yes, but she can’t stay here, Sandra,” Granny Elsie states the obvious. “What were you thinking?”

  “Mum, this is sweet of you,” I say, flummoxed.

  “I’ve been planning it for weeks.”

  “And I truly appreciate the sentiment, she’s gorgeous. But Gran’s right. Candy will have to go back.”

  “But I’ve got it all arranged,” Mum says. “I thought this was your heart’s desire,” she tells me, building up for a panic.

  “Yes—when I was ten, or eleven,” I say gently. “She needs to be stabled, she can’t live in the back garden.” I try for reason. Let’s face it; if the neighbors aren’t too keen on Gran’s gnomes in the front garden, then they’re hardly going to appreciate a horse in the back garden, are they? “And stabling her would cost a fortune.”

  “I’ve got it all worked out,” Mum sniffs and heads for the French doors that lead to the basement apartment. With a flourish, she opens them into the small living-room area.

  It is covered with straw. There is a bale of hay, plus a feed bin and a water trough.

  “Mum—” I’m totally flabbergasted. I’m completely floored.

  “Good God,” Gran says, her eyes as wide as mine. “This is a surprise.”

  She can say that again. I mean, I’m sure there are council regulations about who can, you know, live in an actual house. I don’t think horses are on the list.

  “I, um, know you’ve been sad since Dad passed away,” I begin. “And that’s understandable. Um, he was a big part of your life—” Before I can suggest, for the millionth time, that Mum should have a chat with Dr. Morris about her grief, she jumps straight in.

  “Are you suggesting that I’m going mad?” she asks me for the millionth time, building up to a crescendo, and I mentally curse myself for not handling this well.

  “No, it’s just—”

  “Because I’m not. I’ve got all my marbles.” She leaps right back into her diatribe, tapping a finger against her temple. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me, I just wanted to give you a special birthday present, and with me having the space in the basement, and the Heath being so handy for riding, you wouldn’t have to pay to ride someone else’s horse around Hyde Park twice a week, because you could ride on the Heath instead,” she finishes with a flourish.

  What she doesn’t add is that it would also mean that I’d have to practically move home in order to take care of Candy, even if keeping a horse in the basement were a viable, rational thing to do, which it obviously isn’t.

  “And I thought I was the impetuous, live-by-the-seat-of-her-pants one in this family,” Gran says, shaking her head. “I’ll just go and pop the kettle on. A nice cup of sweet tea always helps. A nice drop of brandy in it will help us all see reason, too.”

  “I love Candy. But I’m very worried about how much she cost you,” I say quietly to Mum once Gran has gone. “And if we keep her, I’d keep being worried sick about the money you’ve forked out for her. I’d not be able to sleep at night for it. And I’d help you all I could, but Mum, it would mean I’d have to sell my sweet little house, and I love my sweet little house more than I want a horse. I’d be heartbroken if I had to sell it,” I add. I don’t mean to be horrible to her, but she has to understand that moving back home is not what I want.

  “But I wanted to give you something lovely,” Mum protests, her face crumpling. “I just wanted to make you happy. You’re all I’ve got left in the world,” she says, and I put my arm around her and lead her into the warmth of the kitchen, where I gently push her into one of the chairs.

  “Here.” Gran places a cup of brandy with a drop of tea in it in front of her. “Drink this, love.”

  For a few seconds we all drink our tea-infused brandy, as I grope for the right way to get her to see reason.

  “You’re right, it was a stupid thing to do. What was I thinking?” Mum says suddenly, bursting into a fresh bout of tears. “I just wanted to, wanted to—”

  “No, not stupid, it was a really nice thing to do. But Mum, where did you get the money for her?”

&
nbsp; “I took out a loan against the house,” Mum says, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  “Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” Gran says, which is not helpful. “That’s my motto in life.”

  “This is what we’re going to do,” I say, placing down my cup. The brandy has helped, but seven in the morning is not a good time to get sloshed. “I’ll arrange for Candy to go back to the dealer. We’ll probably have to take a reduction in money, but that’s alright, I can help with that.”

  Thinking quickly, if I drop my riding sessions, I could take over what will be left of the loan. I should be able to manage it.

  “Oh, I’m such a drain on you in my old age,” Mum says, rather dramatically, so I head off the new diatribe at the pass.

  “And then first thing Monday, we’ll go and have a chat with your bank manager—get this business sorted. And then, if you like, while you’re not feeling quite yourself, I could, you know, spend more time with you. Come home for a few weekends. We could do more together. Go out a bit. How would that be?”

  “Oh, that would be lovely,” she says, her eyes brightening. “But only if you really want to. I don’t want to be one of those mothers who never let their children go.”

  “Of course I want to,” I tell her. She is my mother, it’s the least I can do. Maybe I could get her interested in some hobbies, help her meet some more people. “And maybe we could, you know, pay a visit to Dr. Morris togeth—”

  “Whatever for, dear?” she asks, smiling at me. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  Gran shakes her head and sips more brandy.

  And so it goes.

  So after several hours of complete chaos organizing Candy’s temporary stabling, and her return to her original owner, who was more than pissed at me—plus I had to take a sizeable reduction in the refund amount—it was a relief to return to my own little house.

  Until I arrive home and discover that the mailman has left me a parcel.

  It is from Luke.

  It contains my pinchy Jonathan shoes, the ones I left on the sidewalk at Christmas. It also contains this note:

  I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see these shoes again, but I thought I’d leave that up to you.

  I had hoped to deliver them in person, but then I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me again, either.

  Take care,

  Luke

  And I do take care. I very carefully throw the shoes and the note in the trash. And then I very uncarefully burst into tears.

  So, all in all it’s been a memorable week for one reason or another. And one that I will happily put behind me as I move on to the future, I think as we all sit around Carmen and Paul’s dining table for my Sunday-night birthday dinner.

  “Are you sure you’re alright?” Carmen asks me for the umpteenth time. “Your eyes are red.”

  “Must be an aftereffect of the flu,” I lie, because as we know, I did, in fact, have a very good cry yesterday. I should never cry, because my eyes always swell to the size of saucers.

  “This is delicious.” I change the subject by taking another bite of the tuna casserole Paul has made. It’s actually awful, but it’s better than I could cook up, so I’m not complaining.

  “Yes, well done, Paul,” Philip joins in. “I’d love a bit more, if you don’t mind?”

  “Me, too.” Lewis, Charlie’s new squeeze, is adorable. I mean, he could have been all difficult and loud-mouthed and offensive like Charlie’s One True Love, but he’s totally slotted into our group. I mean, it must be love if he’s willing to endure more tuna casserole agony.

  “Thank you both for the lie,” Paul laughs. “But please don’t torture yourselves on my behalf, old chaps. It’s atrocious, and I appreciate you all chomping your way through it.”

  “You haven’t tasted my cooking.” Philip shakes his head. “Now that really is beyond words.”

  “You’ll be happy to know that the dessert and cheese courses came from the supermarket.”

  That’s a relief.

  “Um, and thank you for the book on DIY around the home,” I say to Carmen and Paul. “It will be very useful.” For when I call the plumber or electrician, I don’t add, because I have no intention of learning about plumbing or wiring—I know my limitations, but at least I’ll be able to try and understand what the plumber or electrician is talking about, thanks to the glossary in the back.

  “That’s what I thought,” Paul says. “See, Carmen, I told you she’d love it.”

  “Yes, I can see it was a much better choice than the frivolous voucher for a chemical peel that I had in mind.” Carmen tops up our wineglasses. “Come on, drink up. This is a party.”

  “And this is gorgeous,” I tell Jess, pressing the soft, blue angora cardigan that she has made for me to my cheek.

  “It’s periwinkle blue. I thought it would go beautifully with your eyes and your French look,” she tells me earnestly. “It’s a birthday and thank you gift, all in one. I love working at the supermarket.” She has, however, only worked there for two days. “Love it,” she adds, just a bit unhappily.

  Aster hates it. He stormed out yesterday after she told him about it. And about the lack of trust fund. Not for good, but he and Asteroid Attack are playing some gigs in Sheffield as part of their northern tour. None of us wants to see Jess hurt, but we all secretly hope that this is the end of him.

  “Here’s to Rosie, and many more birthdays,” Charlie says, raising his champagne. He’s totally in love. And totally relieved that Lewis has fitted in so well.

  “To the beautiful birthday girl.” Lewis raises his champagne and smiles his sweet smile. “And thank you all for making me so welcome.”

  Flora and Ned couldn’t make it, because Ned had some charity function to attend. It was organized ages ago, so he couldn’t back out, but I told Flora that I truly didn’t mind if she went with him. To be honest, I’m a bit relieved, because the thing with Luke is still so fresh, and seeing his best friend might have made me crack. Especially after yesterday…

  “Thank you, darling,” I tell Philip when I open the thoughtful gift voucher he’s bought me. I will not think about yesterday’s thoughtful gift. It is behind me…

  “Well, I never know what to buy, so it seems the safest option,” he says. “That way, you can get something you really want.” He always says this, because he always buys me a gift voucher. He buys them for everyone.

  “Perfect,” I say. And then, just for his ears only, “How did it go with Grace?”

  “She’s, er, really nice. Thanks for putting her in touch with me. I think she’ll really work out well.”

  Philip, you see, wants to make a good impression with the powers that be within the church. He needs a female companion to take to a big church function, and being girlfriendless, he decided to hire the perfect girlfriend. What a stroke of genius.

  Grace, with her desire for a job not involving sex, was the perfect match. I mean, porn movies count as acting experience, don’t they? I did mention this to Philip, but he didn’t have a problem with it, and how would the church bigwigs find out unless someone made a point of telling them?

  You know what? It makes perfect sense to hire the perfect partner. This reminds me that I will be attending Flora’s wedding by myself, which is not attractive. I have eleven weeks to find someone—someone temporary, so that I am not some sad spinster, and yes, I know this is cowardly, but I just don’t want to face Luke on my own.

  And as my friends all sing “Happy Birthday to You” to me, and as I blow out my candles, I make a wish.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Carmen warns me, rather dryly. “You might get it.” I don’t tell her that I already have the Candy T-shirt on that particular issue.

  As I blow out the last birthday candle, and as my friends cheer and clap, I wish for Mum to feel better, and for a return to my nice, ordered life. And then another thought occurs to me.

  “Jess, tell me more about that foot doctor.”

  “Oh. Oh, are you inte
rested? That’s fabulous. Fabulous. Let’s see—he has a practice in Harley Street, and he does the feet of famous or rich people, and he has a lovely apartment in Grosvenor Square,” Jess tells me. And I get a nasty feeling that I am about to make a huge mistake.

  “So what’s wrong with him, then?” Because there must be something wrong with him, mustn’t there, if he has such a great resumé and no girlfriend. Or maybe he’s just not handsome. But handsome is superficial, as I have discovered, and it’s not like I want to bear his firstborn or anything. I just want someone nice and kind I can invite to Flora’s wedding.

  “His wife left him for another man,” Jess says, shaking her head. “For the builder, actually, which was a bit of a blow.”

  Oh, the poor, heartbroken man…

  “So shall I set something up?”

  But think of the dangers. I don’t want him to transfer his affection to me on the rebound, and then I have to break his heart all over again, because that would be totally callous of me, wouldn’t it?

  “Um, let me think about it a bit.”

  15

  Table for Eight

  Rosie’s Confession:

  You know, mosquito repellants don’t actually repel mosquitoes. They hide the human.

  I wish I could get a spray that would forever hide me from the attentions of the male sex, because I am giving up men forever…

  Let’s just say that this was a mistake…

  Yes, in my ignorance, I decided, with only three weeks to go until Flora’s wedding, that I’d give Dr. Foot Fetish a chance. Obviously his name isn’t really Dr. Foot Fetish, it’s actually Giles Lockwood, but I shall forever remember him as Dr. Foot Fetish. And he sounded perfectly charming (if a little overwhelming) on the telephone, too.

  This is what happened…

  I’m so excited to be having afternoon tea at the Ritz. His suggestion. And I’m completely impressed, because they have a waiting list of around six weeks at the Ritz.