I freeze. Turns out my alibi is a little short on detail and the first thing that pops into my head that’s showing locally isShrek the Musical.
‘Hedda Gabler,’ I say.
‘What’s that?’
‘Ibsen.’
‘Who?’
‘You know. Norwegian. Nineteenth century. It’s a tragedy,’ I add.
‘Sounds it,’ she says, scrunching her nose in bafflement.
‘It’s meant to be really good,’ I protest, then wonder why I’m defending an entirely fictitious production of a show I’m not actually going to and isn’t even on. I decide to leave it there.
I get into my car and click on the text.
Just checking you’re not allergic to seafood? Xxx
I reply,Not as far as I know xxx
I press send as another WhatsApp from the PTA arrives. I read about two dozen messages that start with a request by Denise for someone to host the last PTA meeting of the school year.
‘I’d do it myself but we’re having our hot tub replaced,’ she adds, though with what is unclear. A cauldron possibly?
A stream of excuses follow – including from Nora and Jeff, though at least I know theirs are real: Nora is coaching that night and can only make the second half, while Jeff’s dogs get stressed around any more than about three people in his house. The result is a stony silence.
‘Come on, everyone!’ Denise says. ‘We’re getting desperate now! Any volunteers? Please?’
Seriously. What’s wrong with these people?
‘Happy to host, Denise,’ I type.
Then I put away my phone in the full knowledge that all I’m likely to get in return is a clapping emoji and a profound sense of self-loathing.
Chapter 48
I turn into the car park at Zach’s apartment block and look for the bay he’d directed me to. There is a persistent flutter in my stomach, a long-lost type of feeling, like being fifteen years old and on your way to a party where you know you’ll see the boy you like.
I pull into the space and turn off the engine. In the twenty minutes it took to drive here, dozens more WhatsApp messages have landed. I’ve been invited to log my alcohol units, check the balance of my mortgage, undertake a restorative Vinyasa Flow and look at a video compilation of my photo memories from this day in 2014.
I click on the screen and swipe every one of them away.
Instead, I text Zach to tell him I’m here, as he asked me to. I check my lipstick in the rear-view mirror and release a long breath. Then I get out, open the back door to collect my bag and a bottle of Chablis. When I look up, he’s walking towards me, that showstopper of a smile on his face.
He is wearing jeans and a relaxed, white cotton shirt. The top couple of buttons are open, revealing the tanned, muscular notch at the top of his chest. He is cleanly shaven. His hair is still damp from the shower. His skin looks tanned, his lips full and flushed. He is the definition of sexy, oozing masculinity but with just enough softness around the edges.
He touches me on the elbow and bends down to kiss me on the cheek.
‘You look gorgeous. You smell gorgeous.’ Then he pulls back and looks me in the eyes. ‘Damn . . . youaregorgeous.’
‘That’s way too many compliments for one sentence.’
‘Have I peaked too early? I’ll rein ’em in.’
‘Oh, don’t do that.’ I smile and hand him the wine. He looks at the bottle. ‘Nice choice.’
‘It’s flinty with a long, tingly finish, apparently.’
