by Jane Moore
Stopping in front of the “Romantic” titles, she was pondering whether to watch Sleepless in Seattle for the sixth time when a loud voice boomed out behind her, “Don’t bother with that crap. Lots of shagging, Chuck Norris and a car chase, that’s what makes a good movie.”
“Hi Tim.” Jo swiveled round to find her brother beaming broadly. He was wearing a scruffy T-shirt with the words “Best before 1989” on the front, and a pair of baggy combat trousers with oil marks from his dilapidated racing bike down the legs.
“Hmm. Romantic video, huh? Could mean she’s met someone and is planning to seduce him, or it could mean she’s having yet another night alone and making herself feel miserable?” Tim raised one eyebrow quizzically.
Jo smiled indulgently. “The latter. Except I’m going to watch it this afternoon on my own, rather than this evening.”
Tim had been a godsend since Jeff walked out. Shortly after Jo had slammed the phone down on her mother, Tim had appeared on the doorstep making cavalry-style trumpeting noises through her mailbox. When she opened the door, she was horrified to see his friend Conor standing behind him, a rather sheepish expression on his face.
“So what’s going on then? I’ve just had Mum on the phone in a right state saying Jeff has left you for another woman. She says you weren’t answering your phone and might be trying to harm yourself,” boomed Tim, settling himself into a wicker chair with his feet on the kitchen table.
“The only person I want to harm right now is Mum,” said Jo through gritted teeth. She was less than thrilled that Conor was hearing the raw facts about her private life. She was also painfully aware that her eyes were red and puffy from crying.
“So who’s the bimbo, then?” said Tim, kicking off his well-worn deck shoes.
“Sorry?”
“The one Jeff’s taken off with. Who is she?”
“Oh. She’s one of the secretaries at work. And she’s twenty-three, believe it or not.”
“Twenty-three!”
“I know, ridiculous isn’t it?”
“Ridiculous? It’s bloody amazing, the crafty bastard. How’s he managed to pull a twenty-three-year-old at his age?”
“Tim, that’s hardly the point.” She was irritated by her brother’s unsympathetic attitude, but it didn’t surprise her.
“Oh, come on Jo, he’ll be back. After all, there aren’t many men, married or otherwise, who would say no to a bit of twenty-three-year-old if they thought they could get away with it. Isn’t that right, Conor?”
Tim looked questioningly at his friend, who was leaning against a worktop studying his CAT boots as if they were the most fascinating thing in the room.
“I wouldn’t.” As he spoke, Conor lifted his head and ran a hand through his floppy fringe. He looked extremely awkward.
Tim looked momentarily stunned then laughed nervously, unsure of whether he was joking. “Yeah, right. And Dolly Parton sleeps on her front.”
“I’m serious,” said Conor, picking a fluffball from his rather shapeless sweater. “If I loved someone enough to marry them, I wouldn’t cheat on them. And if they cheated on me, I would leave.”
The finality of his remark rather put an end to the conversation and all three stood in silence for a moment.
“I’ll make some tea.” Jo walked over to where Conor was standing and switched on the kettle. She noticed he was wearing Fahrenheit too.
“Honestly Jo, once the novelty of shagging some babe has worn off, he’ll come crawling back,” said Tim, digging himself into an even deeper hole.
“I’m not sure I want him back.” Jo was shocked to hear herself say this, but it was true.
“But he’s the father of your children—”
“Precisely. But it didn’t stop him leaving though, did it?” she snapped before Tim could finish his sentence. “Sugar?” she asked Conor, firmly indicating the other subject was closed.
“Two, thanks,” he said, then paused and turned to face her. He looked nervous. “Um look, if you need any help with the children over the coming weeks, just shout. I mean, I’m sure there are lots of things you need to sort out and they know me, so I’m more than happy to take them off your hands for a while.”
Jo resisted the urge to look surprised because she didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable about his offer. “That would be great, thanks.”
As it happened, both Conor and Tim had proved to be invaluable where the children were concerned. Every time he saw his sister’s lower lip start to quiver, Tim would playfully pick up a child under each arm and boom, “Come on, we’re off to the park.” He’d also done a fair amount of babysitting when Rosie dragged Jo out to various wine bars, trying to snap her out of her depression.
“I’m just not ready for this, Rosie,” Jo had whined into her wine-glass, during a night out, about a month after Jeff had left. “I don’t know if I will ever be ready for it again. I’d forgotten what a hideous cattle market it was.”
“Don’t knock it. It’s a way of life for some of us,” said Rosie. But, as usual, she acquiesced and, half an hour later, found herself sitting in a curry house while Jo, once again, went over and over what had gone wrong with her marriage.
Jo wasn’t quite so absorbed in it now. She was on the road to recovery. Instead of thinking about her problems thousands of times a day, she had reduced it to hundreds. Work helped. Her job as an interior designer had really taken off once spring arrived, and she had three major projects on the go. The routine of taking the children to school, coming home, putting on a suit and going off to various appointments—this had been the glue that had held her together. Now she was recovered enough to begin to relish rather than dread the thought of a day to herself with nothing to do. Like today.
“Conor and I were planning to have a spot of lunch in that little Italian down the road. Why don’t you come? You can sit in and watch a video any time,” said Tim, reading the back of the film she’d chosen and wrinkling his nose in disapproval.
Conor and Tim had been at junior school together and were inseparable for many years. When Jo was about sixteen, her twelve-year-old brother and his friend had driven her mad with their juvenile behavior, putting a dead mouse in her bed, hanging her knickers on the garden gate, and generally making a complete pest of themselves. But as her relationship with Tim had mellowed over the years, so had her attitude to Conor. A year ahead at school, he had left home when he was seventeen to study architecture at London University. Jo hadn’t seen him again until her and Jeff’s wedding almost two years later.
Conor’s late arrival to the reception had caused quite a stir among her friends. Then nineteen, he was six foot two and extremely handsome in an artistic way. He had shoulder-length hair swept back from his face, a permanent five-o’clock shadow, and the strong jawline usually associated with Mills & Boon heroes. But the effect had been rather lost on Jo because she was so besotted by Jeff.
“Yes, why not?” she smiled, heading off to pay for the video. “I fancy a bit of pasta. I might even live a little and have a glass of wine.”
“Great. I’ll just take the bike home and collect Conor, and we’ll come to the house at twelve-thirty and walk to the restaurant. OK? See you then.”
They arrived at the house at 12:15 and decided to have a quick cuppa before leaving. As Conor sipped his tea and chatted to Tim in her kitchen, Jo took the chance to study him for the first time.
He was clean shaven now, and his hair was shorter, but still sexily unkempt. He was dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, and she remembered that Tim had mentioned something about him being made redundant from his job with a prestigious London architects’ firm. He owned a house around the corner from Jo, and had given Tim a “temporary” place to stay when he came to London two years ago. Her brother was still there.
It suited Jo because it meant Tim often took the children out to the local park, and Conor frequently went with them. Thomas doted on him because he was good at football, and Sophie was constantly
badgering him to play airplanes and swing her round by her arm and leg.
“Right, let’s get going then, Sis.” Tim’s voice cut into her thoughts.
“I’ll just go and change.”
She rushed upstairs and started rifling through her wardrobe. Jeans? Too tight. Long skirt? Too frumpy. Suit? It’s lunch, not a wedding. Pausing, she gave herself a mental shake. What on earth was she doing?
She was going out for lunch with her brother and his friend, who were taking pity on her because her husband had walked out. They wouldn’t give a damn what she wore. In fact, they were probably sitting downstairs right now waiting for her to appear in sackcloth and ashes.
Then she acknowledged it. She cared what she wore. Her life was in ruins and here she was worrying about what people thought of her. Good! she thought, grinning at herself in the mirror as she applied some concealer to the dark circles under her eyes. There’s life in the old girl yet.
Five minutes later, she was standing in front of them dressed in beige capri pants, loafers, and a denim shirt. She had freed her hair from its ponytail and her painstaking “natural look” makeup had worked wonders.
“You look great,” smiled Conor, holding eye contact just a little longer than usual.
“Thanks.”
The Italian restaurant was empty when they arrived, so they were seated in the prime table by the window. With its neatly pressed red gingham tablecloths and Mateus Rosé bottle candle-holders, it reminded Jo of restaurants from her childhood.
When she was young, a meal out was rare. Restaurants were places to celebrate an occasion, and she remembered vividly going to a Berni Inn for the first time on her eighth birthday, her eyes popping out on stalks at the piece of Black Forest gateau placed in front of her. Now people ate out simply because they couldn’t be bothered to cook.
The waiters at Número Uno greeted Jo like a long lost relative, presumably because she had popped in for supper there one night last week with Rosie.
“Do you come here often?” asked Conor.
“Ha! That’s what he says to all the girls,” laughed Tim. “Don’t you mate? The other night we went to this wine bar and within half an hour he had gorgeous women crawling all over him. I don’t know how he does it. I always manage to get some bird so ugly she’d make a mule back away from an oatbin.”
“That’s complete rubbish.” Conor scowled at Tim before picking up a menu and studying it intently. “It was you who came away with someone’s phone number.”
“True, but it wasn’t much use.”
“Was it a wrong number then?” asked Jo, amused by her brother’s desperation to find a girlfriend.
“Well yes, but there was a bit more to it than that.” Tim was tearing off a corner of his napkin and writing down a number. He passed it to Jo who frowned in puzzlement as she read it. 770-2219.
“So?”
“Turn it round and hold it up to the light,” Tim said, pouring himself a generous glass of wine.
Jo burst out laughing. “It says Piss off.”
“Precisely. But I suspect if Conor had asked for her number it would have been the genuine one. She was all over him.”
“Bit obvious though, wasn’t she?” Conor poured wine into Jo’s glass.
“That’s how I like them mate,” sighed Tim. “All this hard-to-get nonsense baffles me. I’m beginning to think that even women on death row would only want me to be their friend.”
“Ah, diddums,” smiled Jo, reaching over and patting his knee. “Miss Right will turn up one day, you’ll see.”
“I thought she had when Gemma came along,” he said wistfully. “But she turned out to be Miss Always Right, which isn’t quite the same. Anyway, I’m off to the loo. I’ll have the lasagne. If I’m not back in ten minutes I may have tried to drown myself in the sink.”
As he wandered off and Conor gave their food order to the waiter, Jo chastised herself for worrying about what she wore for lunch. Conor clearly had women falling at his feet, so why on earth would he be even remotely interested in a thirty-three-year-old mother of two with enough emotional baggage to sink a cruise liner? Why would any man for that matter, when there were countless uncomplicated twenty-somethings on the dating scene?
“Chin up, you’ve gone all glum.” Conor’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“Yes, sorry. I was just thinking about . . . things,” she said with an apologetic shrug.
“Well, if you ever want to talk ‘things’ through with an objective outsider, then feel free to call me. Alternatively, you can tell me to mind my own business.”
“That’s a kind offer, thanks, but I think I need to stay in my cave for a while longer and work things out in my own mind.”
“Good God, I leave the table for two minutes and a gloom descends,” boomed Tim, slapping Conor on the back as he squeezed past to his seat. “Who’s died?”
“My marriage,” muttered Jo, now wishing she’d stayed at home.
“A good night out will cheer you up,” said her brother, blowing smoke in her face. “I was just thinking it would be quite good for us to take you to a bar, because the women won’t be quite so suspicious if you’re there. It could work a treat.”
“And I thought you had my best interests at heart.”
“Oh, come on Sis. You never know, you might just enjoy it. How about Friday night? You could get Rosie to babysit, she’s got no life.”
“She’d be thrilled to hear you say that. And besides, Rosie may not be double-booked, but it’s not like she has a permanent date with the TV. I could ask her if she’s free, I suppose, but I don’t know if I’m up to it really. Let me think about it and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The rest of the meal passed in small talk. As they left the restaurant, Jo started to say her goodbyes to them both. She ached to be alone with her thoughts before the children had to be collected from school.
“Goodbye? Nonsense, we’re coming with you,” said Tim, grabbing her elbow.
“No, we’re not.” Conor’s voice was measured but firm. “Jo needs some time to herself now. Come on.”
As he dragged Tim away, Jo mouthed “thanks” at him and set off toward the house. As she waited to cross the road, she considered how sensitive Conor was compared to dear, bumbling Tim. His earlier remark about infidelity had made quite an impression on her, and she wondered why he wasn’t involved in a serious relationship. From what Tim had said, he obviously had plenty of offers.
Letting herself into the house, she kicked off her shoes and stood in the cool hallway for a moment, savoring the silence.
Her eyes focused on her old school photograph hanging by the light switch. She and 900 other girls at her old grammar school, young and bursting with enthusiasm for the future. None of them knew then of the pain of childbirth, the worry of responsibility and bills, or the highs and lows of adult relationships. It was all to come. If she knew then what she knew now, would she have married Jeff? Yes, because otherwise she wouldn’t have had Thomas and Sophie. But taking them out of the equation, maybe not.
Jo walked through to the kitchen and flopped into a chair. Casting her eye over the children’s plastic play table at one end of the room, she picked up an old copy of Hello magazine and began flicking through the torn pages where Sophie had been gathering pictures for her scrapbook.
Gloria Hunniford’s bouquet was missing from the main picture, but the interview about her wedding to hairdresser Stephen Way was still intact. Jo read every word avidly. Here was a woman who had been through one marriage and had three children, yet managed to fall in love again at an age when society imagines women to be past it. Yet here I am, thirty-three and attractive, thinking I’m on the scrap heap, she thought. Her mind was made up.
She would go out with Tim and Conor on Friday night.
5
the children off to school on Friday morning she had already changed her mind about going out that night.
It was a blustery, slightly chilly day, and the th
ought of getting dressed up to spend the evening with her brother and his friend seemed too much of an effort. She had already made up her mind she’d have a lousy time, and besides, there was a four-star film on the telly later that night. She picked up the phone and dialed Rosie’s work number.
“Hi, it’s me. Listen, I don’t fancy going out tonight after all. Have you still got to go to that dull leaving do, because otherwise you could just bring a bottle of wine round here. There’s a good film on. We could talk all the way through and then say, ‘Well, what the hell was all that about?’ ”
But Rosie didn’t laugh at her pathetic attempt at a joke. “Oh, I see. The thought of getting dressed up and mingling with the outside world is too exhausting is it?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Well bloody snap out of it, for Christ’s sake.”
“Sorry? I thought you were on my side.”
“I am. Which is why I’m forcing you to go out. Mr. Wonderful isn’t going to run out of petrol on your doorstep. You’ve got to get out there and find him.”
“Rosie, I have absolutely no intention of meeting anyone. My life is a big enough mess as it is, without complicating matters further.”
“Just go out and have a laugh then. Anything’s better than sitting around moping all the time. You’re becoming Miss bloody Havisham. I can see I’m going to have to come and open the curtains, blow away the cobwebs and kick you out of the front door myself.”
“No, don’t worry. I’ll go,” replied Jo wearily. “I’d rather be bored to death by them than nagged to death by you.”
At 8 P.M. she was sitting alone in her local Pitcher & Piano wine bar, her eyes glued to the door in anticipation of Tim and Conor’s arrival.
Ten years ago she wouldn’t have batted an eyelid to be sitting alone, but now she felt vulnerable and exposed. She busied herself by rifling through the contents of her handbag and rereading several old letters and school circulars. Tim had always teased her about her voluminous bag, stuffed to its straps with superfluous rubbish.
