‘What are you up to?’ I ask. She’s done with the salad, picked up her phone and is swiping busily. ‘Playing Space Invaders?’ I joke because she loves it when I pretend I’m a hundred and clueless.
‘Bumble,’ she says.
‘Come again?’
‘It’s a networking app. You don’t know it?’
‘Networking? As in… as indating?’ I’m not sure that’s a good idea. She needs to recover and to give herself some space after Craig. ‘Can you be bothered with dating right now?’
‘I’m just looking. Reminding myself there’s still nice people out there. See?’ She pauses on a picture of an outdoorsy-looking man up a mountain in a beanie hat. ‘He seems nice. Dad of two. Rock climbing, strength-training and running, travel.’
‘Are you going to… click on him?’
‘Nope. I want a drama-free Christmas.’
I breathe a sigh of relief. I know it’s selfish but part of me is hoping we can simply keep each other company this winter. Having her here has filled a big lonely gap in my days since Don scarpered.
I’m about to ask the question I’ve been meaning to for days – will she stay for Christmas – when Lucy looks sharply at me, her eyes narrowed.
‘You know?’ she begins, and I can already tell this spells trouble. ‘Youcould meet somebody nice on an app, I reckon.’
I snort. ‘Good one, Luce.’ The spaghetti’s ready, so I drain it and send up a big puff of steam that clouds the kitchen window. ‘Can you grab cutlery?’
‘I’m not kidding. Have you ever tried the dating apps?’
‘Darling, apps didn’t evenexistwhen I was first swimming in the dating pool.’ It’s true. When I started meeting men it all happened down The Salutation or at parties or gigs.
‘Analogue dating is like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ says Lucy, grabbing plates and helping me serve up. ‘You should give online a try. I don’t like to think of you all alone here,’ she says.
‘I don’t like the feeling of being pitied.’ Ugh! Not by Lucy, at any rate.
She’s supposed to think I’m fabulous. She’s supposed to tell stories about me at parties, about her cool, fun aunt. At least, Iusedto feel cool and fun. This sense of sudden ageing that’s been plaguing me lately has a lot to do with my decision to dive in with Don if I’m honest.
He rode in on his bike, same age as me, and wearing it really well, all leathers and bristly beard, and for a while we were living it up, hosting parties of our own, or always on our way out somewhere, zipping across the Cotswolds on his Harley, meeting his biker friends in country pubs. I loved it. I felt alive again. He took a lot of that spark away with him when he disappeared.
Lucy’s watching me, so I compose myself in case the wobbly feelings show on my face. Her eyes are still on me as I pull up a stool at the kitchen table and tear a hunk of garlic bread. She serves me some salad.
‘Think about it,’ she persists. ‘You can flick through profiles, bin the ones you don’t like the look of, and take your pick of the nicest guys… maybe go on a few romantic Christmas dates?’
‘With strangers?’ I say, weary, wishing we could just eat instead of this.
‘They won’t be a stranger by the time you go to meet them. You can chat and get to know each other first, see if you’re a match.’
I’ll have to nip this in the bud quickly. ‘Lucy, I’m not cut out for online anything. I like real life. Real people.’
‘You mean a realperson?’ Lucy cuts in, one eyebrow almost popping off her forehead she’s being so arch.
‘Hm?’ I fork a big bundle of spaghetti into my mouth.
‘You like Patrick, don’t you?’
I’m chewing, so I only have to pull adon’t be daftface, but I realise Lucy’s going to take advantage of the fact I’m incapacitated by pasta.
‘You were disappointed he wasn’t at the hall the other day. Plus, you wouldn’t be this bummed out that he’s taken a job outside of the village for Christmas if you didn’t want to spend more time with him.’ She spreads her hands out and does a sweet smile. ‘I’m just stating facts.’
I swallow and chase the pasta with wine. I think of the royal wedding picture. ‘He’s in his forties,’ I say.
‘Late forties. Almost fifty,’ she says. ‘Have you really ruled him out?’
