‘What are you waiting for, then? Go on! Stick in pole dancing: I’ll practise at bus stops. Far be it from me to get in the way of horny men looking forone-night stands.’
‘You’re not taking this seriously,’ Shazz mutters. ‘I’ll put in the saxophone. It’s very sexy.’
‘But I don’t play it –’ I begin to protest, then try another tack. ‘I only said I’d try the Internet once and I want it to be an honest profile.’
‘Nobodydoes an honest profile! Relax. This is like leaving bird seed out. You scatter seeds to see what comes along.’
‘I know exactly what’ll come along if you imply I’m aFrench-speaking sex kitten who plays the saxophone:sex-starved men. I’m too old, too worn out, Shazz. I want normal. I want romance,’ I add wistfully. My bedroom was romantic. From mysea-foam throw to my ruched, frilled cushions, it was a haven for romance. It just never saw any.
‘You’re never too old for love,’ Shazz says, while I hope that there must be one decent, kind, affectionate man out there who will hold me in his arms and make me feel better.
Falling in love with him would be different – in my experience, love hurts too much. Also, people like to believe in an endless supply of true loves. If one dies, you search till you find another one, yes?
No.
But since Shazz fell in love, she wants everyone to be in love.
I wish it was that easy.
Late at night, I wonder how being raised without a strong male influence in his life will affect Luke. He has Finn, Nate and Steve, but they have their own lives. We are on the outside, no matter what they think.
I console myself with the psychological tenet that one good parent is all a child needs: I was told that once and I still cling to the idea like a drowning person clinging to a rock in the sea.
When Luke was younger, I used to talk to him aboutJean-Luc, show him pictures of his dad, but I do it less now.
We’ve almost lost contact withJean-Luc’s family in France. His older brother is a lot older, has grown up kids, and has always been too busy to stay in touch, whileJean-Luc’s mother, Celine, could barely cope for a long time with seeing the growing little boy who looked so like her own little boy, so our Skype calls have dwindled to almost nothing in the past few years. Honestly, it suits me because I’m terrified Celine would want Luke to come to her for holidays and I can’t bear the thought of letting him go.
He’s not alone, either: another consolation point. Two kids in his class in school have never set eyes on their fathers, either, although they’re still alive. Just vamoosed.
In the case of Shazz, whose boyfriend walked out on her and Raffie when he was a newborn, said boyfriend is looking at certain and very painful death should he ever walk back in.
‘That Bastard,’ she calls him.
Obviously, That Bastard vanished so comprehensively that he doesn’t pay child support. So Shazz does gel nails and beauty treatments from her front room and manages brilliantly.
Since Zephaniah, who is as kind as he is handsome, arrived on the scene, Shazz never talks about That Bastard. She talks about how she never believed in love before but does now.
‘Jeez, Bea: you’ll be aborn-again virgin if you don’t get some action soon.’
‘Who says I don’t get action?’ I demand. ‘If you could see the way the electricity meter reader and I are together...’
‘Sparks fly?’
‘Exactly.’
Her phone rings and gives me a chance to go downstairs to make coffee for us both. The boys are building a Lego fort with great intent. They play very limited computer games in my house because I won’t let them. Since they’re both nearly ten later this month, this is still possible but who knows how long my power will last.
Now that she has Zep in her life, Shazz says it’s lovely to have a father figure around for Raffie. She doesn’t say it to upset me but to spur me to ‘get on with my life’.
‘What happens when Luke’s grown up? What then?’
‘I’ll get cats. Or play tennis.’
‘Or get the cats to play tennis,’ she replies sarcastically. ‘He’s dead ten years, Babes: nobody said you had to throw yourself on the funeral pyre. Poor Lukey will never be able to leave home: he’ll think you’ve dedicated your life to him and he can’t go. I’m joking,’ she adds. ‘Well, sorta.’
‘I don’t want to guilt him into never leaving,’ I say heatedly, ‘but what are the odds of aforty-three-year-old widow with a son falling in love with someone new?’
‘You could do with someone to hug who isn’t nine and three quarters,’ continues Shazz. ‘Besides, the dreadedfamily-tree school project is coming up soon and, apparently, even a hint of “My mum has a boyfriend” makes it easier.’
