“But teenage boys,” I say. “I hear they’re like puppies, aren’t they – all action, very messy, but beneath all of that, utterly adorable.”
Jill refuses to agree. I toy with the idea of telling her about my Phoebe. At least her boys are talking to her.
I linger, tinker with her evening purses. Even though it’s coffee time, Dirk fails to show up. A shame.
“That green gown,” I say. “The divine Georg K. Would you have some earrings to match?”
Jill warms up. She slides out a drawer beneath a display cabinet and there they are – row upon row of sparkling bangles and bracelets and necklaces and earrings. I dive on a pair of faux emerald earrings with large pearl droplets, Vermeer style. My eyes water at the price, but my relationship with Jill is important. She’s clearly on great terms with Dirk, and I’d love to see more of both of them. They’re part of my new life.
“I must have them,” I say.
They’re expensive, but a great additional investment given the gown. They’ll complement each other beautifully. Better still, Jill’s mouth softens.
Just then I notice the flyers on the counter, each with a lavish golden bow in the top corner. Something about a fundraiser for dementia research. Perfect! I pick one up and place it in the bag with the new earrings. I love a ball, and it’s an excellent cause. I’ll be able to wear my new green gown and matching earrings!Fortunately I still have some savings from my shabby chic sales. Spending is always a temptation, and I have to watch my outgoings.
I walk back down the street on Cloud Nine. Perhaps I’ll invite Dirk to join me at the ball. Surely he invests in good causes, too.
I smile at a young woman walking three dogs, but she’s wearing earphones and doesn’t notice me. How do the young ever expect to meet anyone if they block real conversations?
That reminds me, I must invite some of the neighbors for drinks. I’ve heard them, but not met them all. There’s someone with a noisy motorbike who revs and leaves before dawn – Davey, maybe – and there’s been the tinkling of a piano, occasional voices in the stairwell, phones ringing, snatches of radio or television and a few banging doors on windy days, but apart from Dirk and Mrs B, they’re complete strangers.
I’ll ask Jill to drinks, too, and maybe even the lovely people from the delicatessen and that Patrick fellow from the gallery. I’m so lucky to have such excellent shops nearby.
If only Phoebe could see my new arrangements. She still hasn’t visited. I’d invite her to the ball, too, though we haven’t spoken since that terrible call when I had to tell her I’d left her father. She seems to have blocked my number; cancelled me.
Sudden tears scald my eyes. They form and drop of their own accord, blinding me, but I keep walking. It’s not hard to put one foot in front of the other – it’s all one can ever do – so I continue, my bags heavy, the handles cutting into my fingers. It’s not far now, and then there’ll be all those steps, but exercise and a task are exactly what I need.
My shoulders slump, and not just from the weight of my shopping.
I allow myself a genuine sob or two, let those salty tears roll down like breakers at the beach, let them tumble down my face in runnels. I give a great sniff. My neighborhood’s a blur and my face is a mess, but it’s not as if there’s anyone around to notice them.
But I’m wrong. A tall figure looms close and I flinch. It’s broad daylight. I thought this neighborhood was safe. Is this the end?
“Allow me to carry those bags.” Thank goodness. It’s Dirk, the gentleman.
“Oh.”
“My daughter says it’s sexist to offer, but I just think it’s common sense. Helpful. Neighborly.”
“You’re very kind, Dirk, and I won’t say no,” I say, but keep my face averted. I can’t remember if this eyeliner runs. He takes both bags and I reach for a tissue and give a quick dab.
But with his long legs, Dirk’s a quick walker, and he’s already up the stairs and dropping my shopping at Forty One. He tries to dash up to his apartment and away, as if the last thing he wants is my gratitude or another friendly invitation. Well, he won’t get away with it. I’ve caught up with him. I’m planning a cocktail party, and Dirk is added to the mental invitation list.
“So, chivalry is not dead,” I say.
“I’d do it for anyone.”
“You’re lying, Dirk. I can see the street from my kitchen window. I’ve never once seen you carry up anyone else’s groceries. Thank you. You’re a treasure.”
He stares at all my shopping bags, hiding a blush. Sweetie.
“No, I’m not an alcoholic,” I say. “I’m planning a party. Just something small – pre-dinner drinks – to meet the neighbors, a few at a time. Can you join me?”
“When?”
“Are you free this Saturday evening? I’m all for seizing the day. I won’t be able to find a time that suits everyone. I’m about to go and slide a few little notes under the other doors.”
“I ...” He seems reluctant.
