I don’t want him to feel bad. It’s not his fault that I’d spent hours getting everything ready, only to have our lunch wrecked by some jerk with dyed brown hair who reckons he’s forty-five (and the rest!). And I’m reconciled to the fact that seeing a man who has a family of his ownis bound to throw up a few challenges. I want to be with James. I love him and that’s that. The last person I dated – three years ago now – was a man I’d got chatting to on the train. He was on his way to visit his mother and we’d fallen into conversation as our train had pulled out from St Pancras.
George was attractive and pleasant and around my age, and when he’d asked if I’d like to meet up for a drink I’d thought, why not? While it soon became clear that we didn’t have masses in common, I’d been feeling a bit lonely and tried to convince myself that we were having fun over the course of a handful of dates. He did ramble on rather a lot about his DIY projects, and wasn’t remotely curious about my job. But then, my work is pretty niche, I told myself. Why would he be interested in recipes?
Then one time in bed together, he’d literally just rolled off me – charming! – when he started to tell me that some idiot electrician had put the wrong kind of fuse in his oven. ‘I think that’s why it won’t work,’ he explained. ‘I’ve tried everything else I can think of.’ I realised he must have been thinking about his oven – ‘I wonder if it’s the fuse?’ – the whole time we were having sex.
While I can’t claim to be able to read James’s mind, I’m hazarding a guess that domestic appliances are never on his mind whenever we’re together – in bed or anywhere else.
So what does it matter that our little gathering didn’t work out as we’d hoped? Oven-fuse-George didn’t have children, an ex-wife or seemingly any baggage at all. I know where I’d rather be, and maybe it’s just going to take a little time for me and Esther to get to know each other.
Even if we don’t, it’s really all about James and me. So I fire off another message:Hey, I know you’re probablyfeeling a bit crap and I wanted to say please don’t. It wasn’t your fault. And it doesn’t matter. We can talk about it but everything’s okay as long as you are. I love you xx.
A minute later he messages back:I love you too. So glad you’re okay. Will call soon as I’ve finished work xx.
I smile, then reply:Okay, call me then. And remember we’re old. We are ancient people! We have families and lives and sometimes things aregoing to get a little bit complicated.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JAMES
Our messages and calls have reassured me that Lauren and I are fine after that car crash of a Sunday afternoon. Bloody Miles. Imuststop fixating on him. As Lauren suggested, I need to step back and let his thing with Esther burn itself out. ‘It’s bound to,’ she said. ‘She’s a smart young woman. She’ll see what an idiot he is and meet someone her own age eventually.’
I can only hope she’s right. Meanwhile, I’m feeling a whole lot better on this chilly Tuesday morning as I vaccinate a Dutch rabbit named Guinness, administer an injection of apomorphine to a spaniel who’d gnawed his way into a drum of cocoa powder and devoured its contents, and see Tony Lomax again with his ageing collie, Bob. The sensitive matter of what to do when Bob passes away still seems to be a major concern.
‘The thing is,’ Tony says, ‘those pet cremation places say it’s justyourdog they cremate on its own. And you get the ashes to keep. But how d’you know? I mean, who’s to say it’s just your dog in that little pot? It’s not like you can go there and make sure they do it properly, can you?’
‘Tony, we deal with these people quite a lot. They’re reputable and very respectful,’ I try to reassure him. ‘We can help and advise you when—’
‘And I live in a flat,’ he cuts in, ‘with a shared garden. I can’t go burying Bob out there. The neighbours wouldn’t like it.’
‘Bob’s as healthy as a dog of half his age,’ I tell him.
‘I’ve got to face facts and be prepared,’ Tony insists.
‘Yes, I know that. But I promise you won’t be left on your own to deal with this when it happens. You can ring me anytime or just pop in.’
In fact, today Tony showed up without an appointment (we always manage to squeeze him in) saying Bob was squinting, and could I check his eyes again? ‘There’s nothing wrong with his vision as far as I can tell,’ I explained, having examined him.
‘He’s just not quite himself.’
As is often the case, I suspect Tony just wanted a chat, some company and reassurance. I give him a worming tablet for Bob, just so he feels something’s been done. We have a few Tony Lomax types who are here far more often than necessary – buttheTony Lomax is our most regular, and however we try to help, it never feels like quite enough.
I try to push all that out of my mind as, after a quick chat with Lauren (we’re now able to laugh about mulletgate) I cycle the couple of miles, mainly through residential streets, to a basement cocktail bar named Foraged. It’s a cosy and intimate little place, all bare brickwork and arched roofs, with dim lighting and candles flickering in the booths. But I’m not here for cocktails. Foraged is co-owned by Rhona, my ex-wife, and her longtime boyfriend, Luc, and I’m here to talk about Esther.
Apparently – even though my daughter and I haven’tbeen in touch directly – I totally overstepped the mark on Sunday at Lauren’s. So Rhona suggested I drop by for a chat.
‘What are you drinking, James?’ booms Luc across the room.
‘Nothing for me thanks, Luc.’
‘Oh, come on. We’ve got a couple of new ones for you to try.’ He has biceps like grapefruits and can’t seem to be able to communicate without SHOUTING. I was hoping Rhona and I would be able to chat on our own, tucked away in a corner, but it looks like there’s no chance of that.
‘Honestly,’ I reply. ‘I’m only here for—’
‘How about a London Mule?’ he bellows. ‘Not too sweet, a hint of rhubarb I found growing over by Wormwood Scrubs. Or a Piston Slinger? That’s lime, bitters, foraged sloes …’
‘I’m on my bike, Luc,’ I remind him.
‘Just leave it here,’ Rhona commands. ‘Get a cab home. Live a little!’ Laughing, she catches Luc’s eye, and I get the subtext:He’s so uptight. Can you imagine what it was like being married to this guy?
