This is not how this date should be starting. I am here twenty minutes early waiting on this anaesthetist and I should be having a drink, looking cool and trying to think of the best ways to project the best version of myself to someone new. Instead my hand shakes. Who are you, Susie? Reveal yourself to us.
‘Found her.’
‘Where?’
‘Instagram. Susie Hunter but she’s got a private account.’
‘What does her profile picture look like?’
‘Blonde, late twenties maybe. She likes a filter.’
‘Could she just be a nanny?’
‘Well, even then he’s no doubt slept with her,’ adds Lucy with substantial amount of spike in her tone. She’s right. I veer between relief and worry. Would you take a nanny to Pizza Express? He’d tell me if he had a nanny. We used to take our au pairs out with us, not because we were lazy parents but we wanted to feed them and make them feel part of our family.
‘Oh, balls. I’m looking at some tagged photos on Facebook. Definitely a nurse.’
‘Oh. Is she pretty?’
Lucy is silent for a moment. ‘She has a weak chin.’
If this is all there is to say about her then I’m a little worried. ‘Does she have kids? Where does she live? What department does she work in?’
‘I’m not the fricking FBI, hun. Give me a moment.’
‘Look harder. Why hasn’t he told me about her?’
‘Because he’s a prick. We’ve known this for years.’
‘But the kids have met her? I don’t get him. Why would he do that?’
Lucy is silent again. It’s like we will always be completely dumbfounded by this man’s level of selfishness. He should have said something. I down the rest of my pitifully small glass of Prosecco and feel it stick in my throat, burping quietly.
‘Emma?’ the voice comes from behind me. Oh, shit. He’s early. Did he hear me burp? I hang up my phone and turn around. Try and blank it out of mind. Smile and breathe.
‘Yes. You must be Jag?’ For some reason, I have an empty glass in one hand and a phone in the other, so because I have no hands available to shake, I offer him a cheek. Confused, he rubs his own cheek next to mine and doesn’t know where to put his hands so keeps them rigid, at right angles like a robot. It’s the worst initial greeting ever. But he laughs as we part.
‘I think it would have been better if I’d just tripped into you and landed in your lap,’ he says.
I chuckle. ‘Spilling this drink and making this dress completely see-through.’
This is the wrong thing to say as he scans the hospital/milkmaid dress. Maddie was right. His skin has a glowing quality that doesn’t seem quite fair and when we are further into this, I may ask if he moisturises or uses masks or scrubs. He is trendy. I believe those are Vans trainers which I haven’t seen since my teens but they pair nicely with his rucksack. He puts the bag down and opens it up.
‘These are for you.’
I register complete surprise. It’s a small bunch of flowers, wrapped in brown paper and twine, a sunflower in the centre. I smile, quite unexpectedly. People do flowers, still? And for a moment, I am grateful as the shock mellows my apprehension and lets me forget any people called Susie for a few seconds.
‘Wow.’
‘Too much?’
‘Perfect, thank you. I got you nothing.’
‘I wasn’t expecting anything. I see you’ve started before me though.’ He points to my empty glass.
‘If you can call it that. It was like drinking out of a thimble.’ I am conscious this makes me look like a cheap drunk but he laughs it off.
I like the way his face looks very joyous. There’s a wide grin; I can’t tell if it’s natural or nerves. Is he one of those people who’s always happy? I don’t think I could do perma-happy. I am doubly conscious now that I look confused and critical in response, trying to figure him out.
‘Can I at least buy you a drink to say thank you?’
He seems taken aback. I can’t tell if he thinks it’s because it’s some feminist gesture but I hope it’s showing that I’m just polite.
‘I’m actually pacing myself tonight. It’s just I have my car parked at the hospital so I’m driving home.’
‘Safety first.’ That didn’t make me sound like some sort of sad case. ‘So something soft? A juice? A…?’ Force of habit makes me realise I almost asked this man if he wanted a Fruit Shoot.
‘Well, we could stay here or there’s a pub I quite like. We could just have a walk?’
This does not help my confused look. I came here on the presumption that things had been booked and plans had been made. I was ready to sit down somewhere. This is half the joy of having a secretary. I don’t want to walk around London in circles with him. Or do I? Is that how people date now? What if you need the loo? Do you just pop in a public convenience in a park? Isn’t that where doggers meet these days? He can sense I have many questions running through me, the most important of which is who the hell is Susie Hunter? It fuels some sense of panic that widens my eyes so I look like I haven’t been able to handle that thimble of alcohol either. I go to stand up and stumble a little.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks me, chuckling.
‘I am. I just… food. I think I’d quite like to get some food.’
‘What do you feel like eating?’
I pause for a moment. What would I like to eat? I think about date nights after work when Simon would force me into some mid-priced European restaurant that would always have steak of some description on the menu. We’d eat in cold white open plan restaurants, dipping our bread into pools of olive oil, balsamic vinegar and sea salt, commercial jazz in our ears, glossing over everything that was inherently wrong with our marriage by chatting about surgeries and children. Being given a chance to choose a restaurant is a little different.
‘Hummus,’ I say.
He laughs, a little too hard.
‘Is that funny?’ I reply.
‘No. It isn’t. It’s just Maddie told me that to get you onside I should get you hummus, avoid meringue and that you don’t like sandwiches.’
‘This is… true.’ I think about how he could have replaced these flowers with a pot of hummus and it probably would have had the same effect.
‘What else has Maddie told you?’
‘She bigged you up. She said you were the most caring and honest person she knew, you’re super low maintenance, that kindness and good manners impress you more than money. You also don’t care about a person’s height,’ he says standing on his toes.
I laugh. ‘Also, true. I know it’s an issue for most women but I’m not preoccupied with size.’
He chuckles. I blush. Intensely.
‘Then come with me and we shall find you hummus.’
‘Really?’
He nods. We can’t really fill up on hummus and I’m not sure it will soak up the many drinks I will probably consume but let’s search it out. He adjusts his rucksack on his shoulders and starts walking. I follow with a little skip. Oh. I hope he isn’t leading me to a Tesco Metro and we’ll have to eat it on a street corner with some Cool Original Doritos. I don’t think that’s a date.
‘So why no sandwiches?’ he asks.
‘I just have a problem with overfilling. Sandwiches fall apart. Parts of it end up on me. They’re hard to eat attractively.’
‘Even toasted sandwiches?’ he asks.
‘Yes. They’re the worst because you bite into them and then squirt hot cheese over yourself.’ I realise this sounds a bit wrong. ‘I also don’t eat blueberries, for future information,’ I carry on.
‘But blueberries are delicious?’
‘My sister once told me they are Smurf testicles so I can’t bring myself to eat them now.’
He roars with laughter. At me or with me, I’m not quite sure.
‘Well, I’ll remember this for future picnic situations.’
I grin. He really meant what he said. This is a walking date and I�
��m glad I didn’t go for a heel but I wish I’d worn a scarf. Our first stop is a food festival where we find a stall specialising in all things Greek. He literally finds me vats of hummus sprinkled in herbs and spices and are beautiful variations of hummusy beige. He’s not fazed by the hum of stalls as we stroll past. He seems to have a personal relationship with a man who sells Vietnamese rice bowls and smiles at a lady selling Portuguese custard tarts, instead of ignoring her as most would. He’s very relaxed whereas I am tad more cautious, mainly because I usually don’t do street food, not for a lack of adventure but due to a fear over food safety regulations. There are far too many pigeons flying around. However, his enthusiasm quells my uncertainty especially when he doesn’t just buy me hummus, he goes all out with a slab of spanakopita, olives, dolmades and a variety of flatbreads. He tries some sample baklava and asks the vendor about which nuts they use. Walnuts make the difference apparently.
And then we walk. It’s a wonder to me, all these bars, old storage container restaurants and skateboarders nestled in amongst the British Film Institute and Southbank Centre. Did I have a social life when I was married? I don’t think I did. I worked and played mother and jumped on the trains and tubes between the two. I occasionally had drinks in the pub at Waterloo making myself cross-eyed by studying multiple train timetables. I would meet a sister occasionally or go out for a work thing but it was measured and uneventful. Glasses of wine while I clock-watched and wondered what the au pairs had given the girls for dinner. So, everything now feels bright and alien. There are lights, cameras and action and frozen yoghurt sold out of an old double-decker bus.
By the time we get to the Tate Modern, we find a bench and Jag opens up his rucksack to reveal two gin and tonics in tins. So maybe there was some forward planning here. It’s sweet. And now I’m stuffing my face with really tasty hummus. It contains actual chickpeas unlike the wallpaper paste supermarket stuff I usually get. And so we sit here and we eat and drink and chat. And I will put this out there, I don’t mind this at all.
Hello, Jag Kohli. You are thirty, five foot eight and you are an anaesthetist who trained in Manchester. You like Manchester but not enough to move there because London is in your bones and you now live in Brockley which still provides humour for you as you don’t really like broccoli the vegetable that much as it gives you wind which wasn’t something you thought you’d ever say on a first date. You have a sister who lives in Wolverhampton. You tap your feet a lot to a song that I can’t hear and every so often in the conversation you dip into accents.
We both look out onto the river to take in the view of St Paul’s.
‘It really is quite a rubbish river, eh?’ remarks Jag.
I smile. ‘Most city rivers are really not hugely nice to look into. They’re pretty filthy.’ Case in point, as I squint and see some detritus in the moonlight that could be a floating rat or a large turd.
‘The Seine is lovely.’
‘But spoiled by all the tourist boats reversing up and down it.’
‘True.’
‘Amsterdam, nice waterway vibe there.’
‘But spoiled by all the boobs and sex shops?’
‘Again, true.’
He’s so easy to talk to but I’ve kept it quite light. I’m not going to talk about Simon or my divorce. Let’s just talk rivers and stuff our faces with extremely plump olives and not know where to throw the pips. What is most telling are the silences in between that feel neither awkward nor strange. And you’re not crying which is a bonus.
‘Is there anything else Maddie told you about me then?’ I ask.
‘Ah, lovely Maddie. She’s your biggest fan, you know? She may as well sell T-shirts with your face on.’
‘You don’t have one of those yet?’
‘Well, if they’re there, I’ll take a medium.’ He laughs.
I glance over at him. It’s a strange date as I seem to be seeing him a lot in profile: he has very long eyelashes for a man but I like the scattering of facial hair and the symmetry of his teeth. There’s also such a relaxed vibe to him. It’s like he wants to hang out as opposed to court me. Is this what being with him would entail? Park benches and convenient alcohol? Part of me is relieved. I don’t think formality would have sat well with me today and this feels like a good way to get used to each other at least. I look at my phone. It’s already ten thirty and a stroll back is needed so I can get on the right train home at a sensible time. That said, I stay where I am, for now. Then my phone rings. I glance at it. Balls, it’s my mother. I put it on silent and ignore it.
‘I do the same when I get a call from my mother,’ he says.
‘I bet your mother is not as bad as mine.’
‘My mother is Indian and obsessed to an unnatural degree about my singledom.’
‘Mine still buys me multipacks of full briefs.’
‘So does mine. Perhaps they know each other?’
‘Your mother buys you full briefs? I’d expect you don’t need that much coverage.’
He laughs from the belly. I think I made a decent joke that I wish I’d recorded so I could send it to Lucy. Though I am conscious that I’ve referenced his undercarriage. Must change the subject.
‘Your mother, why obsessed?’ I ask.
‘Well, she got the doctor son but now she needs to cap it off with making sure I marry a nice girl and give her some grandbabies. It’s an Asian thing but mostly a generational mother thing too whereby she assumes ultimate happiness is being settled and having 2.4 children.’
I put my hand up in the air. ‘Well, I am evidence that that is not always the case.’
He smiles but hesitates. No doubt, Maddie has briefed him over not going down that route of conversation. He’s quick to swerve. ‘There was a point where it was going that way. I had a fiancée. I liked her mostly because she made really good cake. In fact, she probably fooled everyone with the baking.’
‘Was cake not enough then?’ I ask.
‘She dumped me. She hated my hours and she said there was an inevitability about us.’
‘Wow. A little bit cruel, no?’
He glances over at me. I can’t quite tell if he means it’s because she wasn’t or because he knows what I went through was far worse.
‘How so?’ he asks.
‘It’s just very negative. It sounds like she had something mapped out in which you didn’t feature. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh.’
There is a look of recognition there. Is that sadness? I can’t quite tell. Oops, I don’t want to sour the mood. It looks like he’s thinking the same so again moves the conversation on.
‘It’s quite late for a mother to call though. Is she with your girls?’
‘No, they’re with my sister.’ I screw my face up as I realise he does have a point. This is late, even for my mother, on a school night. My first instinct is Dad. Is he OK? I grab my phone out of my bag. Two missed calls from her. I phone her back immediately and stand up from the bench. It takes her two rings to answer.
‘Emma, I’m sorry. Were you in the middle of a surgery?’
I always like the way my mother assumes I keep myself wired to my phone when I’m operating on hearts.
‘No. I’m out. What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve had a frantic call from Gill Morton.’
‘Meg’s mother-in-law?’
‘Yes. Meg’s hurt. She fell. We think she fell down the stairs. Blood everywhere, she’s in the hospital. I am beside myself. Your father and I were thinking of driving up now.’
‘Meg fell down the stairs?’
‘She did, the idiot.’
Panic darts through me as I think about that phone call earlier on where a distraught Meg thought her husband was cheating on her. Is this related? Did he hurt her? I feel guilty that I’d ignored a plea for help. I also think about my elderly parents driving up in the middle of the night to the middle of nowhere. They have trouble getting out of multi-storey car parks. Plus, adding my mother to any drama that may be happe
ning up north would add to Meg’s worries as opposed to helping her.
‘Look, don’t get in the car. I’m in London and I can jump on a train. Is she in surgery? Is she conscious?’
‘We don’t know, Emma. Gill was very vague. Danny is with her.’ I can hear her and my dad conferring in the background. ‘Are you working? Can you go up there?’
‘Well, if Meg is hurt then yeah, but the girls… can you go round and help Lucy out maybe?’
‘You are the doctor.’
‘I am. But when I say go and help Lucy out then don’t go and wind her up.’
‘I won’t do anything of the sort. Please just make sure Meg is OK.’
‘I’ll ring you from the train, Mum.’
As I hang up, I turn round to see Jag packing up our little picnic. His face reads concern. ‘If you weren’t into me that’s totally fine. You didn’t need to get your sister to fall down the stairs.’
He can tell I don’t quite get the joke. Meg? Meg was the one whom no one really worried about. Being the eldest means she is independent and fierce and we let her free into the wilds of the North knowing she’d be fine. You can die from falling down stairs. The thought of that makes the breath stick in my mouth. I start scrolling down my phone for train times.
‘I am so sorry. I… seriously, this was lovely.’
‘It was. Are you OK?’
‘I just have people to ring and I don’t know about trains. Maybe I should go home and change first and then drive up and then…’
‘Where does your sister live?’
‘The Lake District.’
‘Oh. That’s like six hours away.’
‘It is.’
He looks at me for a moment, olives in one hand, feta in the other. This is weird. It really was lovely. Sitting with him by a river and taking in the air and the hummus. Being with someone of the opposite sex and not feeling it was about anything else but just being myself. He smiles.
‘Then phone all those people from the car. I’m going to buy us some coffees and I’ll drive you up. My car is literally down the road.’
I pause for a moment. ‘Really? But we’ve been drinking?’
Can I Give My Husband Back?: A totally laugh out loud and uplifting page turner Page 9
