‘He was never even considered in.’
‘You want to date men your own age, is that what you’re saying?’
I shrug. That’s not really what I’m saying.
‘Don was the same age as you, wasn’t he?’
I don’t want the humiliated feelings spoiling this really nice food. ‘Eat your dinner,’ I tell her, and she rolls her eyes. I reckon it’s time to draw a line under this dating speculation, so I launch in.
‘Humans have evolved for thousands of years to get really good at social stuff, Lucy. We use our instincts to suss people out, judge character, detect if there’s any chemistry there. And now the internet’s arrived to sweep all that away in a few clicks and swipes? Algorithms can’t replace instinct.’ I nod to show that’s my last word, feeling pleased I’ve made my point. I take another mouthful.
Lucy lifts her head, hesitating. She’s weighing up her words.Don’t say it, whatever it is. I feel like a moth under a microscope already.
‘Have your instincts served you well up till now?’ she says, and it’s so blunt I splutter a bit.
I grab for my wine, and Lucy shoves a napkin towards me.
‘Sorry, Auntie Margi. Are you all right?’
‘Fine, I’m fine.’ But as we finish our meal and I steer our conversation to what’s on the Christmas telly, it’s still there at the back of my mind. How wellhavemy instincts served me?
They certainly didn’t help out with Don. And back when I met John and we got married fresh out of college – I studied food technology, then teaching; he was an agricultural engineer – it had nothing to do with instinct and more to do with just going along with what everyone else was doing: a simple wedding, a honeymoon, a house. Except the whole babies thing didn’t appeal to me one bit, and that’s where it turned rocky.
John and I styled it out, of course, all the questions and pressure. People seriously like to pry when you’re a newly-wed. I still feel queasy when I hear the phrase ‘the pitter-patter of tiny feet’. Yuck.
In the end, John wanted to be a father, and I wasn’t able to give him that. Wasn’t willing. It didn’t even hurt all that much in the end. He just left one day after years of living together like housemates. And that was it for me. I was suddenly approaching my forties, divorced, busy teaching in the comps, not much time for men, really, other than a few no-strings things here and there.
Maybe it’s true to say my instincts have served me well when it comes to protecting myself, to knowing when to say no – to babies and those expectations upon me – but in regards to love and attraction? They’ve been kind of rubbish.
After dinner, Lucy tells me she’ll clear up and I should go pick something for us to watch. As I get settled by the glow of the wood burner, my brain nags at me to pick up my phone.
Lucy catches me when she comes through with our wine glasses.
‘Tinder?’ she says, spotting me sussing out the dating apps, and I know she’s trying to hold back her surprise in case she startles me. ‘Can I?’ She gestures for my phone, and I surrender it. ‘Tinder’s waaay too aggressive for you, trust me. And you don’t want to be bombarded with messages, right?’ Lucy has the phone in her hands and a fevered look on her face. ‘Happn’s too young too, sorry, but it is. You want to meet nice men your age.’
‘O-kay? I guess.’ I’ll have to defer to her expertise. Watching her type and scroll, a pang blooms in my chest for her. She knows all about this stuff.
It makes me wonder about the phone chats we’ve had lately when she’s been bubbly and bright, telling me she was fine, busy at work, looking forward to the future. Was any of it true? She’s always had a solitary, quiet place inside her where she’d retreat. It used to worry my sister, and I’d always say that Lucy’s introspection would be the secret to her success eventually. All soul searchers and arty types have that shadowy side to them. But here she is, just turned thirty, alone and cooped up at her auntie’s house, refusing to talk about her life and meddling in mine as a distraction from whatever’s going on in her head.
‘Lucy?’ I begin. ‘Did you have any teaching lined up for this month?’ She’s absorbed with my phone, so I keep probing. ‘Only, I wondered if any schools had been in touch since you arrived? Looking for substitutes?Hmm?Lucy?’
‘How about Countryside Cupids?’ she replies with a quick lift of her eyes to mine, as though she really hasn’t heard me. I’m not fooled. She looks about fifteen years old sitting there, her hair falling over her face, hiding.
‘Oh, Luce, I’m not sure.’
‘There, you’re in!’ she says, turning the phone towards me. ‘All you have to do is fill in this questionnaire thingy.’ There’s desperation in the air. Her brows droop. I can feel her begging me to drop my interrogations.
I give in and take my phone, reading the first question on this fancy-looking app. It’s all in pastels with a beachy, palm-tree background, designed to make you think of all the romantic, exotic, sandy walks you’ll take with your new geezer, I suppose.
‘Where would I rather live?’ I read out loud, and Lucy settles back onto the sofa. ‘A cosy country cottage? A townhouse in reach of an allotment plot? A low-rise apartment community with a buzzing social scene? You do realise that means a retirement community, Lucy?’ She ignores this, so I read on. ‘Or a coastal retreat?’ I look around the room. ‘I mean, I already chose a cosy country cottage, so that, I suppose?’
‘Click it, then,’ Lucy urges.
The screen eats up my answer and throws another question at me. ‘What is your love language?’ I have to read that one twice. ‘My lovelanguage?’
‘You know? How you show love to people. I already know what yours is.’ Lucy looks proud of herself.
‘You do?’ I look down at the choices. ‘Acts of Service, doing little things to show you care; Gift Giving, spoiling someone with material things; Feeding, bringing comfort with your cooking; Touch, reassuring hands-on kindness; Words, you wear your heart on your sleeve; or Quality Time, showing you care by setting aside time for someone special.’ I look at Lucy, uncertain. ‘And you think one of these is me?’
