‘And if not, she’ll have you in detention.’ Serena grinned as Carole walked away. ‘Right, one for the road?’
* * *
‘OK, Jess, tell me more about George Sattar.’ Serena was straight in there as soon as I returned from the bar with more drinks.
‘George? Why?’ I frowned. ‘I’ve only met him twice and, on both occasions, I found him quite obnoxious. I mean, what was he doing watching us play hockey this evening? I could understand it more if he was in his sports gear, but to just stand there in his pinstriped suit and overcoat? He was like some character from a TV drama: you know, the brains behind an OCG. All the low-down criminal characters doing the dirty work, but there’s always a man with a manicure and a designer suit who runs the operation, but can’t be touched.’
‘Blimey, you always did have a fertile imagination.’ Serena laughed. ‘You were convinced Mr Mosby was a paedophile.’
‘Mr Mosby?’ I frowned. ‘Oh, the boys’ games’ teacher at Beddingfield Comp? Little man with a grey combover and always jiggling about with something in his tracksuit-bottom pockets?’
‘Probably his keys.’ Serena laughed again.
‘And the rest! He was always hanging around the girls’ changing room, eyeing up the girls’ chests in our too-tight cream Aertex.’
‘He never eyedmeup. Probably because I had nothing up top to catch his attention.’ Serena patted her still-flat chest dispiritedly. ‘Am actually thinking of getting a boob job…’
‘What on earth for?’ I shook my head at the very thought.
‘So George Sattar might notice me. And, to be honest, the men I meet do seem to want a woman with a decent chest.’
‘Well then, you’re meeting totally the wrong men.’ I felt suddenly cross on the behalf of all flat-chested women. For heaven’s sake! Did women want men with oversized tackle? I felt totally adrift with my lack of knowledge about men, dating and what appeared to be the going requirement. Having met Dean at sixteen, and married at twenty, he’d been the only man – as well as his tackle – I’d ever known. (And yes, before anyone asked, thatwasin the biblical sense.) No, take that back. There’d been Dr Matt Spencer just last year. He’d been in love with me, I knew that, but the sex side just hadn’t been good. Not good at all. He’d seemed to spend the time in bed either apologising or clearing his throat, or apologising for clearing his throat, all of which were a total turn off.
‘So, where doyoumeet anyone round here?’
‘Me?’ I shook my head once more, decided I’d had enough and wanted to be at home with Lola. Things were still not right between us, and I didn’t want to give Lola any excuse for accusations of neglect. ‘Serena, Idon’tmeet anyone. I’m happy on my own. Just me, Lola and Mum next door.’
‘Well, if your mum’s about to marry into the Frozen lot, I can’t see her living in that little cottage much longer. I remember having a sleepover there once with you. Lovely, but small as I recall.’
Did Serena have issues about the size of everything? I made to finish my drink before reaching for my jacket.
‘So, dating apps then?’ Serena wasn’t letting it go.
‘Sorry?’
‘Listen, Jess, if you’ve finally got round to putting Dean Butterworth out of your life – and, to be honest, you can always steer him inmydirection; we all fancied him at school, never quite understood howyouended up with him – then you need to get back out there.’
‘But I was neverout thereto begin with.’
‘Jess, please don’t tell me you’ve only ever slept with one man?’ Serena appeared as much upset on my behalf as she was shocked at my apparent lack of lovers.
I found myself blushing, never very good at conversations like this unless it was with Robyn. I could tell Robyn everything. I always had done and vice versa. Perhaps it really was about time I put myself out there a bit. I had a sudden vision of myself up to all sorts with a raft of different men…
‘Sorry?’ I shook myself slightly as Serena elbowed me.
‘You haven’t listened to a word I was saying.’
‘Sorry. What did you say?’
‘Dating apps. You need to get on to a couple of sites.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think you’re lonely, Jessica. And soon you’ll be forty…’
‘Hang on,’ I protested. ‘I’ve only just gone thirty and, I can assure you, I’m not lonely…’
‘…and then it’s all downhill from there. Perimenopause, menopause, dry down below bits…’
