Crappily Ever After (11 page)

‘Come down James,’ I urge. ’We can carry on having a nice evening. But I’m sorry, I’m not going to say yes just because it’s in front of all these people.’

I gesture to the crowd behind me. Some open-mouthed with shocked amusement, others looking away in embarrassment. The compere gently prises the mic from James’s clenched fist.

‘Take your partners for the
Eightsome reel
,’ he bellows jovially.

James runs from the stage and doesn’t stop until he’s outside.         

‘Craig, go and see if he’s all right,’ orders Auntie Betty, giving him a shove and making him spill some of his pint down his shirt.

‘You’re shitting me, right?’ exclaims Craig in disbelief. ‘He’s bats! He’ll murder me.’ ‘Do it!’ demands Betty and cuffs his ear. Craig wipes his shirt with his mother’s cardigan, which is hanging on the back of his chair, and saunters reluctantly outside. Uncle Robert throws his arm around my shoulder.

‘You have made my birthday!’ he laughs. ‘I think that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.’ He wipes a hand across his eyes. A small crowd has gathered at each window overlooking the gardens. Three valiant couples are attempting an
Eightsome reel
with a meagre six. James is hunched over on a bench whilst Craig rubs his back and looks around uncomfortably. He spots us looking out, smirks and flicks the V-sign at us. They speak for a few minutes and then I see Craig talking on his phone. Five minutes later we hear the screech of tyres and James is gone. Craig walks back in and announces that James is going to get the sleeper back to London. The room exhales as one.

Back at mum’s for an after-party party. We dissect the evening with great mirth.

 ‘What’s the deal with all these failed relationships?’ Mum asks through a mouthful of crisps.

 ‘Obviously an invisible tattoo on my head that says “all nutters stop here,”’ I suggest. ‘Ah well. Like the Foo Fighters say
: “Done! Done! On to the next one
,”’ Mary laughs. ‘Hey, lyrics you actually got right for once,’ says Robert. He picks up the pickled onion Mary has thrown at his head from the floor, examines it for fluff – and eats it.

‘Yep, get back on the horse,’ says Jo. ‘Preferably a rather large muscley one to scare off James. You’ve not seen the last of him I’m guessing.’ And I hadn’t.
       

I arrive back to London to find six missed calls, twelve pleading text messages and a massive bunch of roses in the front room. All flatmates are instructed to, under no circumstances, let James in or pass on any information about me. One week on, I buy a new sim card. Poor Jill, with no way of contacting me, he starts on her. Well, until Mark, her boyfriend of the week, phones and tells him to piss off or he’ll phone the police. One evening our landline rings. We look at each other nervously. With a tut, I announce that this is getting ridiculous. We shouldn’t be worried to answer our own phone. But I click on the loudspeaker, just in case I need witnesses to this call.

‘Hello?’ I say tentatively.

‘May I speak with the man of the house, please?’

Open-mouthed with shock, we all stifle a giggle. We love these calls; never stop until the telesales person either hangs up or cries.

‘Ooh, hello. Are you calling from the 1950s?’ I ask.

‘Er… No, I…’

‘Well, I do apologise,’ I interrupt. The only people here are me, my lesbian lover and our two adopted daughters.’ The room erupts. ‘So, to whom would you like to talk to now?’ Click.

It’s been a while since we had a ‘man of the house’ call. It’s our favourite!

Amy announces the next day that she’s trying a ‘Millionaires Looking for Love’ website. ‘That is so mercenary,’ I announce.

‘They all seem to turn out to be arseholes,’ she explains defensively. ‘May as well have a rich arsehole than a poor one.’ She spends all evening tapping away on the computer, putting in comments and uploading photographs. She adds the message:

‘No photo, no chat. You are obviously either married or ugly. Either way, I don’t want to know you!’ She clicks ‘add profile‘and waits.

‘It’s going to take at least 24 hours for the site to check you’re not a bunny boiler,’ says Emily. ‘Why not do a search now and find all the gorgeous ones?’ We group around her and wait expectantly. A romance novel hero appears on the screen. Swept back, black hair and an enigmatic smile.

Miles: Owner/ Managing Director of I.T. chain. Thirty seven-years-old, likes classical music, fine wine and dining out. Twice divorced, four children from two marriages, wltm…

‘Christ, no!’ I exclaim. ‘Miles has more baggage than Heathrow.’

We search again. Anthony: sole inheritor of father’s satellite installation company. Hoping to meet kind, attractive woman for no-strings fun.

We observe his photo.

‘Eeuww! Fugly,’ exclaims Jill. We look at her confused. ‘Short for fucking ugly,’ she rolls her eyes at our ignorance. ‘I mean, look at the beak on him! Funny how he mentions no-strings – he looks just like Pinocchio,’ she giggles.

‘Here’s one,’ says Amy. We all read his profile.

Justin, a DJ in a London club, tours twice a year to Ayia Napa and Faliraki. Didn’t want to follow his brothers into the family business. Used his trust fund to buy decks and take a Sound Engineering degree. Gorgeous to boot!

‘Email him,’ I demand. Amy sends him a short, sassy message.

‘Hi Justin, like your profile. Living in London and would love to meet up. Email back if you like the sound of me. Not a gold digger, I have my own fortune. Sick of blokes only wanting me for
my
money, so thought I’d try a financially independent catch.’

We search for another hour and Amy sends out two more messages. For the most part, it’s fairly obvious why a lot of them are single. We switch off and send for a takeout. Watching a movie an hour later, Amy’s eyes keep wandering back to the computer. ‘Leave it ‘til tomorrow,’ says Jill. ‘You don’t want to seem too keen.’ At 9pm – and bored – we decide to make a round of hot chocolates and head up to our respective beds for an early night.                

                                       Chapter Eight
   

My alarm goes off at 6.40am. I hit the snooze button unnecessarily hard and roll over. My nap is short-lived, however. I hear a ‘Woo-hoo!’ from the living room. I pull on my dressing gown and make my way along the hall.

‘What’s so good about a Monday morning that could possibly warrant such celebration?’ I blink as the sunlight streams in through the blinds.

‘Two replies,’ says Amy dismissively, focusing on the screen. I hover behind her, reading over her shoulder.

‘Justin wants to meet, says he likes my pics, my profile is up now. Says I sound “cool.”’

She flicks to a new message from Alex.

‘Hi Amy,’ she speed reads aloud, ‘Thanks for your email, you do sound great. I am actually currently seeing a girl from the site and feel it would be unfair to meet up with you. However, my friend Alfie (and I am aware this sounds juvenile) does like the look of your friend in the pic entitled ‘Me and Luce’ and wonders if she’s single and would like to meet up? He’s a widower, his wife died three years ago in a yachting accident. Please don’t quote me on this though as he is very private about it. He has come to terms with it, but I’d prefer it if Luce didn’t mention this part of his life should she decide to meet up, but I do think it’s important to mention up front as he’s quite nervous about getting back “out there”. I’m sure it will all come out in due course from Alfie anyway.

Kind regards,

Alex.’

‘Shit!’  I say. ‘Poor guy, how could I say no? OK, email back and say I’ll go along and meet Alfie. Even if I don’t fancy him, I’m not going to refuse to go. That’s awful…’ I shake my head at the unfairness of the world at times.

It’s a fairly uneventful week of crash dieting, face packs in the bath and early nights. All in preparation for the weekend. Before I know it, Friday comes along and, thanks to a combination of Amy and Alex, I now have a date for this evening at 7pm with Alfie.

The girls and I trawl through my wardrobe for a suitable outfit.

No black. Too funereal.

No red. Reminiscent of blood.

We settle on a modest pastel blue top and jeans.

I have a quick glass of wine to settle my nerves as Amy and Em tease my hair straight and touch up my make-up. By ten minutes to seven, I am waiting in the bar of our local on Upper Street. I’m on my second glass of wine and my nerves are beginning to fuzz at the edges. I take out my phone and send a few random text messages to pass the time.

To Em: ‘Shitting a brick.’

To Amy: ‘If he’s ugly, you are so a dead woman!’

To Mary: ‘New date! Urgh! I hate this.’

Mary texts back immediately: ‘Is this one an alien, perchance? Nothing you brought home would surprise me any more. Good luck! PS don’t shag him!’            

‘Lucy…?’ a kindly, well-spoken voice enquires.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ I answer. Woah! Cute. Alfie smiles and asks if he can buy me a drink. I nod politely and say a white wine would be lovely. He heads off to the bar, giving me a great rear view. I may have struck lucky this time I think.

We have several drinks and the conversation flows easily. He tells me how he has worked for his father’s textiles company since he left school.

‘Nepotism – a game the whole family can play,’ I state.

He bursts out laughing.

‘That’s quality,’ says Alfie. ’Not quite true, though. The company was in serious trouble and I was cheap – no, make that free – labour for Dad. Well, for the first year anyway, but we managed to turn it around and it’s doing great now.’

What a nice guy, I think, feeling bad about my nepotism wisecrack.

‘So, are you lurking on that Millionaires website too then?’ I ask.

Argh! That makes me sound shallow and money-grabbing. I cringe.

‘No,’ Alfie smiles. ‘Not quite in that league. Maybe one day.’

This man can do no wrong.

 ‘It’s a bit shallow I mean, why not go on a regular website to meet men? Why millionaires?’ I try to cover my
faux pas
.

‘Why not?’ shrugs Alfie. ‘Financial security is important to a lot of people. I don’t see it as shallow, necessarily.’

‘So, do you date much?’ I ask.

Foot in mouth disease or what? There’s something wrong with me tonight. I have lost the ability to speak without dropping clangers in every sentence. Alfie looks sadly down at his lap.

‘ I’ve been out of the loop for a bit, actually. Just didn’t feel like dating for quite a while. Back on track now though,’ he smiles reassuringly.

 I text Mary after Alfie drops me home. We’re meeting again for Sunday lunch.

‘Date was excellent. Seeing him again. He is, dare I say it, normal! P.S: I‘m going to bed. Alone.’           

Things go from strength to strength with Alfie. On our fourth date he tells me about Polly, his wife. I cringe in anticipation. He has no idea that I know about it already. I have to look unfazed at this point, which is so difficult when I know what is coming.

Alfie and Polly had been at a party on a friend’s yacht. There were quite high winds that day and they had been warned the sea might be choppy. They headed out anyway, as it was for his friend’s wife’s birthday and nobody wanted to be a killjoy. They had all had quite a lot of champagne and canapés. The friend had hired a Captain for the day so he could enjoy a few drinks. A band played on board and everyone was in good spirits. The sky had darkened over with black clouds at around 7pm. The Captain decided they had best head back before dark, with what looked like an imminent storm heading their way. Stupidly, Polly and Alfie had been sitting chatting on the edge of the boat. Polly had asked for another glass of champagne and he had left her there for a few minutes. Alfie had been talking to his friend’s wife about their plans to extend their house, when they heard a scream. Running back along the deck, a panic had broken out. The yacht was quickly moving away from a now unconscious Polly, who was just visible in the water. Alfie knew it was bad, there was a pool of blood around her head. He dived in and swam towards her. For a while he managed to keep her head above water, but exhausted, it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to keep them both afloat in the waves. His friend, Chris, had pulled him from the water and insisted he stay on board.