It’s a freakish coincidence that Sophie’s new friend is Zack’s daughter – but they do happen, I know. A pal of mine once bumped into a long-lost cousin while he was climbing Machu Picchu, and once, while Simon and I were showing one of his work colleagues our holiday snaps, he spotted his ex-wife standing behind us on the Spanish Steps in Rome. But they were freakish coincidences that happened to other people, and this one is happening to me – therefore, as human nature dictates, it’s more important.
I sip my water, realising I have so many questions. The chat stayed light last night, the girls full of youthful energy and excitement, Zack and I both making an effort to maintain the same level. He didn’t push to talk about the old days, and I appreciated it – I think he could tell I was struggling and showed me the courtesy of discussing nothing I might find challenging.
I needed that last night, but now I am curious – about his life, his career, his daughters (the older one works in France), his wife. I’m curious, but not curious enough to ask him – I’d just quite like to do one of those remote snooping sessions, like you do on Facebook sometimes when a name from the past emerges. You don’t want to actually engage with them, but it’s fun doing a gentle cyber-stalk.
He is, I think, a bit older than me, but he is aging disgustingly well, in that way that some men do – Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney, Liam Neeson. His eyes are still that gorgeous shade of forest green, and the hair… well, the hair is begging to have fingers run through it. He’s clearly done well with his career; he has the golden skin of someone who takes regular skiing trips and winters in the Caribbean. Being around him made me feel two things – slightly fizzy, and even more frumpy. The frumpy outweighed the fizzy, even with Cally’s dress and the boobs andthe make-over. I rarely worry about the way I look – it seems irrelevant compared to the way I feel – but last night I was aware. Aware that when he last saw me, I was in a skin-tight pink mini-dress and could be described – in the over-egged words of an agent – as the supermodel of the food world. Now I’m just… me.
That’s always felt enough, but I now have a niggle of discontent chewing away at me. A little flurry of what-might-have-beens. I made the right choice, leaving that life behind – but at the same time, I suppose I can forgive myself a little self-indulgence.
Sophie starts to stir, flinging one hand across her eyes.
“Are you staring at me while I sleep?” she mutters, making me laugh out loud.
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s creepy. What time is it? And do you have any ibuprofen?”
“Just after eight, and of course I do.”
Even now, with all of them living away, my handbag is a cornucopia of delights – painkillers, blister plasters, safety pins, antiseptic cream. When you’ve raised three kids, it seems almost irresponsible to leave home without them. These days I’ve added my own – antacids, and a little battery-powered fan to help if I suddenly go nuclear.
I do my admittedly quite comedic clamber back to my feet, to the encouraging backdrop of my daughter’s giggles.
“Yeah, laugh it up,” I say, as I locate my bag. “Nobody ever believes this when they’re nineteen, but one day this will be you!”
I pass her the pills and go for a quick shower. The bathroom is obviously basic, a bit like a hostel, but it gets the job done and I feel a lot better when I’m clean and don’t have a clown face. I feel a sense of relief as I put my own clothes on, cropped jeans and abright pink T-shirt with an acid house smiley face on it. I give my hair a little upside-down shake – it’s naturally curly and will dry however it chooses that day – and add some hoopy earrings. Yes, I think, giving myself a wink in the mirror – looking a whole lot more like me, and that is a good thing.
When I come back into the room, Sophie is hopping around on one leg trying to get her leggings on, so I take the opportunity to laugh back at her. Fair’s fair.
Once she’s dressed, we finish off her bits of packing ready for the journey home. She doesn’t have to empty the room, so it’s just a matter of gathering what she’ll need for the next few weeks. Most of it was already done – she is an organised kind of girl – but she does a final check for last-minute toiletries, chargers and her coursework files.
I briefly wonder how Dan is getting on in Liverpool. Nowhere near as organised as his twin, but he gets where he needs to get in his own way. I was worried when he left – he had meningitis the summer before last, and it took a lot out of him. It took him ages to fully recover, and I wouldn’t have minded him having a year off – but he worked his arse off, got his grades, and disappeared up north.
Cally, Archie’s partner, is originally from Liverpool, and she came back up with us when we dropped him off. She showed him her favourite pubs and a nightclub called the Blue Angel, and his eyes were shining with excitement for the whole day. Small-town boy in the big city. I rarely hear from him these days, which is probably a very good sign.
Sophie stuffs her teddy bear into her bag, and I try not to smile. I love the fact that she still has her teddy bear, not going to lie. She sits on the edge of the bed and checks her phone.
“Mum,” she says, looking up from the screen, “would it be okay if we call off at Marcy’s house on the way? Her dad’s invitedus for breakfast, and she says she wouldn’t mind collecting a few bits and bobs.”
Ugggh. I can’t think of anything worse.
“I don’t know, Soph – it’s already a long drive and I could do without the detour.”
I could also do without seeing Zack again, especially wearing my acid house T-shirt and looking like Grandma Glastonbury.
“Please! It’s in Wimbledon, which is southwest London, and we live in southwest England, so it’s practically on the way… plus I’ve never been there and I’m nosy!”
“Why haven’t you been there? In fact, why doesn’t she live there and commute to college? It’d be a lot cheaper.”
Sophie pulls a face and replies: “She said both she and her dad thought it’d be good for her to live in halls, at least for the first year. And we’ve been busy, and it’s miles away, andplease? I’ll do some of the driving on the way back.”
I think about it, and find that there’s something about seeing Zack again that intrigues me, and I am also a bit nosy. Well, if you ask anyone who has ever met me, they’ll say I’m alotnosy – and I suppose I have the time. The café is in safe hands – or at least in hands – for the rest of the day.
“Okay,” I say. “But the deal is we swap at Basingstoke, after which I will get drunk on Prosecco in the back seat, then sing along to Katy Perry songs as loud as I like. Deal?”
“Deal!”
We rendezvous with Marcy in the lobby of the halls, and she looks fresh-faced and eager. She and Sophie are thrilled to be in each other’s company again, and another round of hugs is dispensed. The two of them chat away as I plug her home address into my phone for directions, and we stroll to the side street where I’d managed to park the car.
