Up early, I notice the editor of theLondon Gazettehas announced my new appointment. He tweets me a link to the online version. I can’t back out now as it’s there in black and white.
Londoners have increasing amounts of problems and anxieties. Some are emotional, others financial, and of course we can throw a whole heap of global worries into the mix. At theLondon GazetteI am regularly bombarded with letters and tweets from concerned individuals which add up to a collective sense of hopelessness. Modern dilemmas require creative and contemporary solutions. So, I’ve come up with a dynamic partnership to chew them over. Daisy Blane, one of the internet’s most successful happiness coaches, will tackle one of your problems on a weekly basis along with her trusted canine, Doodle. Two of the most intelligent species on the planet– a woman and a dog– solving our most persistent and pressing issues together. Send them in to the usual address, [email protected] and let Daisy and Doodle make you happy.
The soother of London’s anxiety? Given the fact I can’t walk on a crack, this seems laughable. His words throw up further worries. Should I have asked permission from Doodle’s owner? What will she do if she sees his picture in a newspaper? And what if she turns up tomorrow to take him back? The dog was key to the appointment, the whole column based on our joint response to London’s dilemmas.
I check the email account with my new login and password. To my surprise the first problem is already in. Londoner Roger Dodgson says he’s drifted apart from his partner in their shared home in Surbiton. They are currently sleeping in separate beds and eating alone in different rooms. Can I suggest how they can reclaim their marriage and their sex life?
I am seriously out of my depth now. I can lob solutions and random tips at Vince and run, confident he won’t listen to half of it, will act on even less and may possibly be too drunk to remember it in the morning. But this advice will be permanent and shareable as a truncated version of the Q and As will also be posted on the paper’s social media. Jeez, I also promised Twitter teasers.
What do I know about marriage? I’ve never even been around a successful one.
‘OK, Daisy, you can do this,’ I tell myself, opening a blank page to reply. When I get nowhere, I continue to think about it all day.
By the evening I have a creative and– I hope– intelligent answer.
Dear Separate from Surbiton,
The time for action is now. Separate beds are all very well, but we can’t have you cooking two lots of beans on toast for tea! I think an intervention is called for. As talking might not be easy right now, I suggest you write your partner a letter of gratitude, telling her all the things you appreciate about her. If that feels inappropriate or arduous, then find an authentic way of expressing your thanks for her company and the ways she makes you feel good. If you are crafty, perhaps you could knit a double blanket for you to share while you watch Netflix? Or carve her a spoon for those beans? If music is more your thing, then write her a song or create a Spotify playlist choosing music that means something from each year or stage of your relationship.
Yours, Daisy and Doodle
PS: Doodle says buying her a bone from the butcher should do it.
‘Or you could simply tell her you’re missing her and want her back in your bed?’ I say out loud, feeling empty inside.
Next morning, I wake early and grab Doodle’s collar. We’re halfway along the road when I realise there’s no sign of Joe’s van. The embarrassment is mutual then? My plummeting heart sinks further when I see who’s busking outside the Tummy Mummies. Strains of Oasis’ ‘Half the World Away’ drift towards me, taking me back to a day shortly before my A levels. I was sitting alone at the kitchen table, eating cornflakes while trying to revise, listening to Dad noodling on his guitar upstairs. My exams had lured him back into the unfamiliar role of caring parent and he couldn’t work out how to do it. That night he asked me what I was going to do with my inheritance. I told him I’d decided to invest the money into property and my education, leaving him free to sell our home and move in with a girlfriend for good. I saw him even less after that. And then I moved out, cutting off all contact. It wasn’t a massive statement. I didn’t need him anymore. And he didn’t know how to keep the fragile contact alive; when he sold the house and moved on even Christmas cards became impossible.
Now, I hover just out of sight, listening as the tune changes to Billy Bragg’s ‘A New England’. One of my favourites– I used to sing the Kirsty MacColl part, picking out the verse on one of his lesser-loved acoustic guitars. Mine was a childhood of benign neglect, peppered by warnings about relying on others. ‘You need to string and tune your own guitar and be able to sing for your supper. There are no knights on white stallions in Shepherd’s Bush– you’ll need to know how to rescue yourself.’ I think he was talking metaphorically, but I did learn how to tune a guitar before dyeing my hair unicorn.
I put my hand in my pocket and find a pound in a heap of crumbs. I often tell my followers to give spare change away, assuring them it’ll come back to them through karma. Maybe I should take my own medicine. Keeping my head down, I chuck it into his case. I don’t wait for his customary nod of thanks, but instead watch forensically for cracks, single magpies, ladders and a certain man with a coffee van. None come my way and for that I feel grateful. I’m not equipped to deal with any of them today.
Chapter 15
Joe often says Fridays are unpredictable on the van. While everyone moans on a Monday, and cheers up once they’re over Wednesday’s hump, he can never predict how the end of the week might go. ‘Sometimes it’s party central with everyone pitching up in mufti and chatting about the weekend. But then it can also be so quiet you could order a cup of tumbleweed.’
Today must be a tumbleweed day as Joe sits on his stool with a coffee of his own. But as Doodle and I approach, Flirty Oat Latte turns up. We named her last July when she hit on Camp Cappuccino, who is inexplicably engaged to Uptight Peppermint Mocha. ‘I think they’ll have three babychinos and live unhappily ever after in North Acton,’ Joe joked after we coined their names.
I stand, holding Doodle on a short lead, waiting for Flirty to collect her coffee. As Joe finishes off her drink, the dog decides to hump the stool, which tips over and falls into the road. ‘If you don’t get to heel and stay there I swear I’m going to strangle you with your own sausages,’ I hiss, yanking him out of the way with one hand while rushing to pick up the stool with the other. Joe gives me a quick nod of thanks. I strain my neck to see if he’s giving her a heart before I remember oat milk doesn’t make for creative pictures.
When Flirty departs, Joe’s straight on with scooping out my favourite blend, doubling down on the shot of coffee and the excuses. ‘Sorry I had to dash off the other night. I had to help out a friend.’ He slots the coffee press into the machine and tightens it. Hypnotised by his hands, I remember his touch when he drew me into him. Or did I draw him to me? Either way it was magnetic– until he was repelled.
He loudly clears his throat. ‘Earth to Daisy?’
‘Oh sorry, I was miles away.’ I glance at his teeth, so white he might have cleaned them with bleach. Did my tongue skim their surface? I was busy focusing on the softness of his lips compared with his solid arms as I melted into his kiss. Giving my head a wobble, I bend down and pet Doodle. ‘I hope your friend was OK.’
‘She was fine once they whipped her appendix out. I think you’d call that a trick rather than a treat for Halloween.’
A woman. Sister? Mother? Wife? Despite all the time we spend together, he’s told me very little about his personal life. I notice the drops of rain on the window of the Tummy Mummies shop and am tempted to join the dots with my finger. Instead, I tap out a tweet to my followers about celebrating the patterns that exist in the world and pop it on my Friday #LoveTheLittleStuff hashtag.
As he creates my drink, he turns to me. ‘Fancy going for a coffee one afternoon? Or maybe a walk? Thought we might regroup after the blockbuster flop we starred in? “Cereal Killer Meets Carrie in Hammersmith Shocker!”’ He holds up a finger and a thumb like he’s framing the words on a poster.
Although surprised by his offer, I’m freshly mortified by my shoddy kiss. ‘It wasn’t the best movie, was it? I’d have stayed at home if I’d seen the trailer in advance.’
As he places a lid on my drink and hands it over, I wonder if our time together going forward will always be tinged with embarrassment or expectation. Will that kiss linger in our memories and hamper every interaction from banter to business planning? Doodle yanks at his lead again to kick-start the walk, and coffee bubbles over. Joe deftly dabs at it with a serviette while I’m almost scalded by his closeness to me, spooling back again to the moment our lips touched. How long was it since I drank in a man like that?
‘I’d love to go out with you,’ I say, instantly regretting jumping in like Princess Desperate. I’ve made it sound like a date, and we both know it wasn’t that kind of invite– especially as he just delivered yet another poor review of the snogging episode and indicated there would never be a sequel. I tone it down with a casual shrug. ‘Next week sometime? Text me when you’re free.’
‘Or we could grab a coffee after I’m finished here? How about next Thursday?’
