‘Hello. I think we’re overdue for a chat,’ said Mandy.
SHYNESS
There was a hiss of air brakes and the bus’s automatic doors slapped open. Commuters spilled out on the London pavement before scattering. Russ found himself momentarily caught up in a swirling mass of human soup before heading towards Starbucks. A bacon breakfast bagel was a must on this cold February morning. Temperatures were sub-zero. Snow was forecast for the weekend. Russ was unperturbed by the cold. His heart had been pretty much frozen since last summer. Ever since Katie had dumped him one week prior to their wedding. Something about not being compatible. And absolutely nothing to do with meeting somebody else. Neal, his best mate – and defunct best man – had ribbed him recently.
‘Must be something about the name combination,’ he’d joked over a beer. ‘Russell Brand and Katy Perry went tits up too.’
Russ had been dismayed. And tremendously sad for Katy Perry. She looked cute. Vulnerable. Like the lady he was hoping to see in – he jogged over a pelican crossing – another ten seconds or so. He pushed through Starbucks’ doors. Warm air rushed into his lungs and lapped at his cold face. His heart rate was up. Russ suspected a gentle thaw was going on somewhere inside his chest. Either that or jogging over pelican crossings indicated fitness was lacking. Joining queuing customers, Russ glanced surreptitiously about. Two pin-striped suits to the left and a gaggle of secretaries to the right. Disappointment crashed over him. She wasn’t here. A blast of cold air hit the back of his neck as the doors opened. He turned round. And there she was.
‘Morning,’ she nodded.
‘Hi!’ he smiled.
They’d been doing this for a week now. Ever since their paths had first crossed in this queue. But Russ had failed to progress things. He’d lost the art of chatting up. It had disappeared somewhere between moving in with Katie and getting stuck into mowing the lawn, washing the car, and getting to grips with a load of DIY.
‘Are you early or am I late?’ Two blue headlamps met Russ’s gaze.
Oh my God. She’d just made conversation with him!
‘Who knows?’ he chuckled. ‘The mysteries of public transport!’
Hell. Surely he could muster up riposte with more sophistication than the vagaries of his morning bus ride? But suddenly the queue had shuffled forward and it was his turn to order. Simultaneously she was being served by a second assistant. Now he was fishing for his wallet. She was digging for coins. Russ picked up his bacon bagel. He always sat down in a window seat. She always turned and walked out, taking her skinny latte to...well, wherever she went. Russ wanted to invite her to sit with him. And now she was moving off. Towards the door. The blue headlamps looked his way. He decided to be brave.
‘Same time tomorrow then,’ he joked.
‘Not for me. But maybe Monday.’
‘Ah ha ha ha,’ Russ laughed. ‘Just checking you knew the weekend starts tonight.’ Oh you moron Russ. How could you have forgotten today is Friday?
There was a hiss of air brakes and the bus’s automatic doors slapped open. Monday morning. Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. Russ felt as though he was in some sort of race against Cupid. He desperately wanted to ask the lady out. What could be more romantic than a first date on Valentine’s Day? He’d have to pull his finger out.
The weekend had been endless. Russ had spent part of Saturday evening with the boys. As the hands of the clock had crept towards eight, Neal had drained his pint.
‘Come on lads,’ this to everybody apart from Russ, ‘or our women will be after us.’ Their wives were being taken out for the Saturday night ritual. Curry. Chinese. Or a chick-flick. Anything to earn Brownie points and achieve a Saturday night leg-over. Russ had said his farewells, picked up a Dominoes pizza and watched crap telly on his own.
He’d spent most of Sunday dreaming about today. Seeing the lady in Starbucks. Russ hastened along the pavement. It hadn’t snowed but it was still bitterly cold. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Even if he did dredge up courage to ask her out, she might reject him. She could be married. Or co-habiting. Gay even. He knew nothing about her. Other than that she was the first woman to rattle his cage since Katie. Starbucks loomed. He swung through the doors. She was there! He joined the queue.
‘Good weekend?’ she asked.
‘Yeah!’ he nodded, tongue-tied. ‘You?’
‘Had better.’
And suddenly he was being jostled forward. Edible goods were exchanging hands. Money too. Russ was moving over to the window seat. She was heading to the door. Mutual smiles. And she was gone. Russ collapsed into his window seat with a sigh.
There was a hiss of air brakes and the bus’s automatic doors slapped open. Today it was Tuesday the fourteenth of February. Russ had only minutes left to make that date on what was meant to be the most romantic day of the year. As he approached Starbucks the door opened. Russ almost crashed into the lady. She was leaving!
‘Oh!’ the blue headlamps widened. ‘I thought I’d missed you.’
‘Well I’m here now. So you can stop missing me,’ Russ attempted humour. He cringed. Stupid stupid stupid. Russ was reminded of that song. What was it called? Ah yes. Stupid Cupid.
‘Bacon bagel again?’ she grinned.
‘Oh absolutely,’ Russ nodded. ‘Skinny latte?’
She glanced at the paper cup in her hands. ‘Yes. Would you–?’
‘I wondered–?’
‘Sorry! After you,’ she smiled.
‘Ladies first,’ Russ insisted.
‘Um, I hope you won’t think me forward but – well it’s a leap year. Ladies are allowed to propose!’ she blushed pinkly. ‘I wanted to propose joining you in your window seat. With my latte,’ she nodded at the paper cup, ‘while you eat your bacon bagel. If you’d like me to that is.’ Her cheeks were now the colour of boiled beetroot.
Russ felt as though his brain had exploded into a million heart shaped cells. He pushed open Starbucks’ door.
‘After you,’ he grinned.
IRONY
Connie pushed her baby girl’s pram through the park. It was a reasonably mild day, but the pile of dried-out fallen leaves lining the pathway indicated autumn was well and truly underway. As she walked and pushed, Connie cogitated. It had been a bit of a year so far. Her sister had described it as challenging.
‘Gawd Connie, it could only happen to you eh!’
Those words came six months ago following the breech birth and emergency caesarean surrounding baby Charlotte’s dramatic entrance into the world.
‘Gawd Connie, it could only happen to you eh!’
Those words came four and a half months ago following Connie exiting her car with a squalling baby and shopping bags, only to watch in horror as the car rolled backwards down the slope of her driveway, sailed silently across the road and trundled down the equally sloping driveway of the new neighbour opposite. The surreal silence had only been broken when Connie’s car had smashed into the lady’s porch. It was a miracle nobody had been hurt.
Connie’s husband Martin had immediately hot-footed across the road to apologise profusely for his hormonal wife’s inability to engage the car’s handbrake.
‘Gawd Connie, it could only happen to you eh!’
Those words came four months and three weeks ago when Martin announced he’d fallen madly in love with the new neighbour.
Connie turned left along the towpath. She hadn’t seen her husband properly for a little over two months. Not since he’d dropped the bombshell that he was moving in – moving in! – with the new neighbour.
‘Gawd Connie, it could only happen to you eh!’
It was at this point that Connie had succinctly told her sister to shut her cakehole.
Every morning Connie tried not to twitch her net curtains too obviously as she watched Martin come out of Jessica’s house. Jessica. What an appropriate name. Connie could remember that old film, Who Framed Roger Rabbit. She’d been ten years old when it had shown at the local cinema. She�
��d watched the movie with her parents. Her dad had whistled long and loud when the red-haired voluptuous siren had undulated across the big screen.
‘Sex-ica!’ he’d cried. ‘Gor-Jess!’
Connie’s mum had tsked tsked and smiled. ‘Men!’
Yes, men. The two-timing, cheating, double-crossing–
‘Hey, watch out!’
A voice snapped Connie out of her reverie, and in the same instant she found herself and the buggy being shoved sideways.
‘What...oh my God!’
Connie stared in horror at her surroundings. She’d strayed from the towpath and been a nanosecond from walking straight into the River Cray. Fortunately the water was fairly shallow at this point, but a few yards further on and it potentially could have been a very different scenario.
‘Are you all right?’
Connie stared up at the unlikely hero who’d stopped her wading in water up to her knees with a buggy. ‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘no I don’t think I am. This is the second time I’ve done something dangerous.’ Her body began to involuntarily shake as her mind went into overdrive, playing out all the possible horrific alternatives if she’d gone into deeper waters with Charlotte. ‘You see, I’ve done this before.’
The man frowned. ‘Waded into the river with your buggy?’
‘No. It was the car.’
‘You drove your car into the river?’
‘A house actually.’
‘A house?’
‘Yes. But I wasn’t in it.’
‘What – the car or the house?’
‘Neither. Although on reflection I wouldn’t have minded Jessica Rabbit being in it.’
‘Jessica Rabbit?’
‘My husband’s new love interest.’
The man gaped at Connie, his jaw slack, possibly unsure how to make sense of this shivering woman’s words. And then he closed his mouth, whipped off his jacket and flung it around her shoulders, even though she was already wrapped up well enough. ‘Lady, I think you’re in shock.’
Which was something of an understatement. Connie’s teeth were now chattering as if she was at the North Pole wearing nothing but pyjamas. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologised, ‘what must you think of me?’
‘Are you,’ the man hesitated, ‘are you suicidal?’
Now it was Connie’s turn to gape at the stranger. ‘Are you serious?’ And then she began to laugh. For a moment or two, the man looked disconcerted. But then he realised Connie’s mirth wasn’t hysteria. It was genuinely giggly. ‘Sorry,’ she snorted between shivers, ‘I know it’s not remotely funny really,’ she began to clutch her sides, ‘oh dear–’
The man began to laugh too. Not because he found Connie’s watery near miss funny, but simply because she had the most deliciously infectious laugh.
And then Charlotte broke up the hilarity by opening her tiny mouth wide and bellowing. Connie bent down to the buggy’s shopping tray and extracted a bottle from a bag of baby paraphernalia. As soon as Charlotte was glugging happily, Connie shrugged off the gentleman’s jacket, thanked him for rescuing an absentminded damsel in distress and then retraced her steps back along the towpath and, finally, home. By which point she’d somehow managed to exchange telephone numbers with the man. Or Jed, to be more precise.
One year later...
Connie pushed her toddler’s pram through the park. It was a reasonably mild day, but the pile of dried out fallen leaves lining the pathway indicated autumn was well and truly underway. As she walked and pushed, Connie cogitated. It had been a bit of a year so far. Her sister had described it as challenging.
‘Gawd Connie, it could only happen to you eh!’
On the fourth finger of Connie’s left hand was a sparkly engagement ring. She loved her fiancé more than words could say. And Jed was a brilliant dad to Charlotte. Indeed he adored the little girl as if she was his own. Which was more than Connie could say about Martin. Ah yes, Martin. Her ex-husband who’d gone on to marry Jessica. Connie was convinced that if there was a God in heaven, he must surely have been playing a joke on her. What other explanation was there for Jed turning out to be Jessica’s brother? Which meant when Connie tied the knot with Jed, her ex-husband would become her brother-in-law. Upon hearing the news, Connie’s sister had promptly convulsed.
‘Gawd Connie, it could only happen to you eh!’
LOVE
As weddings went, this one had been perfect. Stunning bride. Handsome groom. Both now a little worse for wear of course. The speeches were over. Copious amounts of champagne had been quaffed. Ties and silk cravats were at this very moment being loosened. I peered around my table’s floral centrepiece which was partially blocking the view from my seat. There was the bride’s father. Now he was on the dance floor, hips grinding as he imitated John Travolta. Shame about the beer belly.
‘I say,’ brayed a voice. ‘Fancy a dance?’
Standing before me was God’s gift to The Tweenies. Dressed in primary colours, face sweating profusely, he held out a hand.
‘That’s very kind.’
Moments later his fingers had curled around mine. Ah. Not just his face that was sweaty. Standing up, I instantly towered over my dance partner. And it had nothing to do with my four inch heels. He led me to the dance floor and we began to gyrate.
‘I’m Derek,’ he said to my chest.
He looked like a Derek sort of person. No offence to other Dereks of the world. But I had yet to meet a Derek who was distinguished, dashing or debonair.
‘Cathy,’ I replied to the top of his head. I wondered if Derek was aware he had the start of a balding pate.
‘Oh,’ he said sounding disappointed. ‘I had you down for being called something wildly exciting.’
Touché.
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ I inclined my head.
‘Thought you might be a Sexy Serendipity. Or a Naughty Natasha.’ He winked, nearly dislocating his left eyeball.
‘No. I’m a Classy Cathy.’
‘Could be worse,’ he sympathised. ‘At least you’re not a Frigid Fiona. My last girlfriend was. I told her she was no match for me. I might be a bit on the short side, but good things come in small packages. Except for this of course,’ he did a few Michael Jackson thrusts with his crotch. ‘The girls love it. I’m known as Dynamite Derek.’
‘Yes quite. I can hardly keep my hands off you. You must please excuse me,’ I smiled sweetly, ‘before I publicly embarrass myself grappling you to the floor.’
I meandered through the tables back to my patch. Sitting down on the velvety upholstered seat, I tuned out the disco music and studied my empty wine glass. The other table guests were strangers. Together we’d laboured through the wedding breakfast, small talk dutifully made. Nobody had voiced it, but it was obvious. This was the singles table. People without partners. The paunchy chap on the other side of the floral centrepiece had turned his back on everybody, pretending to be fascinated by the dance floor antics. He was divorced. I had been privately incredulous that anybody had wanted to marry him once, never mind four times. Next to him was the woman in the mustard cardigan. She’d made goo-goo eyes at Check Shirt sitting opposite.
‘No I’m not married,’ she’d replied to Check Shirt’s question, all the while masticating a bread roll with her mouth open. ‘I’ve been saving myself for the right one.’ She’d smiled toothily at him, unaware of the bread lodged between her front teeth.
‘More wine?’ asked the chap next to me.
Warm vinegar wasn’t really my tipple. ‘Why not,’ I smiled.
‘I’m a bit of a wine boff actually Saffy.’
‘Cathy,’ I corrected. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier.’
‘Harold.’
You see! Another bland name. But maybe his mates called him something more...trendy?
‘Are you Harry to friends?’ I asked.
‘Good heavens no,’ he looked shocked. As if I’d asked him if he wore a toupee. My eyes darted to his overly thatched head. Hmm
. Hairpiece Harold. A snort of laughter threatened. Suddenly it was very important to concentrate on the wine bottle.
‘So, this wine?’ I exhaled carefully.
‘Not cheap.’
I was in no doubt that the bride and groom had paid an arm and several legs for Chateau Crystal, but was nonetheless pretty sure it had been sourced from the local Cash and Carry at £1.99 per bottle. I held out my glass for a refill.
‘Oops!’ said Harold as wine sloshed over the tablecloth.
‘Never mind,’ I laughed politely.
Dear God. Was this my lot then? Going to other people’s weddings? Watching those who were already paired off celebrating their love and happiness? Their togetherness? A lump lodged in my throat.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to Harold who was now busily dabbing at the tablecloth. ‘Just need to powder my nose.’
I fled. Had a nasty feeling tears were starting to threaten. The last thing I needed was to break down. Not in public. A few guests looked my way, eyebrows arched. As I hastened through the tables and took a short-cut directly across the dance floor, couples parted like the Red Sea. I could almost hear their voices. The soft murmurings.
‘Poor girl.’
‘She looks quite distraught.’
‘Hardly surprising.’
‘Can’t be much fun for her.’
I shot through a door and found myself in a carpeted corridor. Ahead was the Ladies. I hastened towards this sanctuary, away from the knowing faces. You see, this wedding should have been mine. The bridegroom had once been my fiancé. Yes really. We’d dated ever since Year 7 at school. And the bride? My best friend. I’d known her forever too. When Sam and I had announced our engagement, Jules had been thrilled for us. Sam had bought me an enormous engagement ring. I’d worn it proudly. Flashed it off to everybody, particularly Jules.
‘You lucky cow!’ she’d exclaimed. 'Not only do you have a fab fiancé, you have a socking great sparkler too.’ Well now the fab fiancé was all hers. Except he wasn’t a fiancé anymore. He was a husband. Her husband. She hadn’t got my socking great sparkler though. Jules now had her own hideously expensive ring. A platinum jobbie with umpteen sapphires.
Mixed Emotions Page 3
