Love @ First Site (15 page)

"So how did you get rid of her?"

"I wrote 'return to sender' on all the doughnut deliveries and refused to take her calls. She finally got the message," he says wearily. "But not before she turned up at reception and started sobbing loudly when I refused to go down and see her. She had to be gently removed by security."

I splutter with laughter, and a small amount of champagne tries to escape down my nose, causing my eyes to water. "Bloody hell," I choke. "You really
have
been unlucky."

Grinning, he passes me a fresh napkin. "I know. But enough of my dating disasters, I want to hear all about
you.
"

We pass the next hour very pleasantly indeed, sharing a hefty slice of black currant cheesecake whilst he asks me all about my background, my family and my job. He proves to be a great listener, interrupting with questions only when he wants to know more about something I have merely skipped over. I don't tell him about Olivia's health, preferring instead to talk of our happier days.

Over coffee, he senses my disillusionment with the world of daytime television and makes some suggestions for facilitating a change in a more serious direction. He even offers to link me up with an old friend of his who makes documentaries.

By the time we reach a post-coffee lull in the conversation, it's 4 p.m. and even the ladies who lunch have gone home, presumably to refresh their hairdos for some swanky dinner. As they are all stick thin, one presumes they spend a lot of time vomiting.

"So do you like being a marketing director?" Come on, give me a break. It's taken three hours for me to resort to such a question. Not bad going really.

His eyes light up. "I love it, because I have such freedom. Being
creative
. . .," he emphasizes the word, ". . . means you can be where you want, when you want, as long as you have your pocket phone." He points to his matchbox-size mobile--the only thing men boast about having the smallest of.

"What do you market?"

"All sorts of products. My company makes everything to do with the fast-food life, from sugar sticks and drink sweeteners to malt vinegar and ketchup packets. I travel all over the world researching new ways of doing things."

Three slightly more elderly women shuffle into the empty table next to us and settle themselves down.

"They've had their afternoon nap and come out for high tea," whispers Tom. "They'll all be married to old majors or high court judges." He stands up. "Excuse me, nature calls."

Watching him cross the room, I notice he moves well. He has the self-assured walk of a man who's comfortable with himself, borne out of a fulfilling career and finally knowing what he wants from life.

Glowing from a surfeit of champagne, excellent food, and his highly entertaining company, I know I have an important decision to make before he returns to the table.

Without wishing to sound boastful, I'm pretty sure he would like to see me again. But is the feeling reciprocal?

Pros: attractive in an elder statesman kind of way, successful, wealthy, warm, funny, generous, a good raconteur, and seemingly emotionally uncomplicated.

Cons: I don't fancy him.

The question is, are all those plus points canceled out by the one minus?
Could
I ever fancy him? And if not, does it matter?

Men often say we're sexually and emotionally fickle, and of course we always flatly deny it. But just think about it. We
say
we want men to be
x
,
y
, and
z
on the Mr. Perfect tick list, but when it comes down to it, sexual attraction overrides everything else.

Consequently, a man can be jobless, feckless, and reckless with our feelings, but if we fancy him, that's all right then. For a time, anyway.

No, we must rise above such shallowness and I'm going to start the trend now by agreeing to meet Tom for a second date. He's my most eligible date yet and, who knows, he might have me panting with lust before you can say "Viagra."

"Would you like anything else?" He has reappeared at the table, and I notice he has combed his hair, drawing attention to his meticulously neat, old-fashioned side parting.

"No thanks, I'd better be going." I smile. "But thanks again for a wonderful lunch. I'll send you some doughnuts on Monday as a thank-you."

He laughs uproariously. "You're funny. Would you like to do this again? I always say you can't beat a chilled glass of champers and the company of a delightful young lady."

Just as I'm about to run with the baton of mature womanhood and agree to a second date, his last remark sends me metaphorically crashing to the floor, baton flying haphazardly through the air.

Instantaneously, with his talk of "champers" and "delightful young lady," his face has now morphed into that of my dad. The age difference may only be fourteen years, but he's an old forty- eight, and I'm a young thirty-four, so it suddenly feels like a gaping generational chasm.

My heart sinks to irretrievable,
Titanic
depths. "Tom, I've had a really lovely time, and I mean
really
lovely. But . . ."

"But you don't want to see me again." He smiles ruefully.

"No, I
do,"
I bluster, feeling like the biggest heel since Vivienne Westwood's platforms era. "But only as a friend."

"Ah, I see," he says defeatedly, handing his credit card to a passing waiter. "Look, Jess, I've really enjoyed your company, but I already have enough friends in my life, ones I probably don't see enough of as it is. Frankly, I'm looking for something a little more than that."

We are both standing now, facing each other over the table, the previously warm and jolly atmosphere now as cold and unpalatable as our leftover coffee.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I can't be that woman."

He mirrors the gesture. "Can't be, won't be, whatever. I appreciate your honesty though." He extends his hand, just as he did at the start of our date, and lets out a small sigh. "Anyway, it was lovely to meet you. I have really enjoyed our couple of hours together, regardless."

"Me too." I smile. "And I really hope you meet someone soon." God, that sounds patronizing, though I didn't mean it that way.

"I'm sure we both will."

Somehow I doubt it. Walking away from the table and towards the exit, I mull over the expectations of two strangers united in their desire to meet a special someone.

A forty-eight-year-old man clearly seeking a much younger woman who's slim, attractive, and possibly able to provide him with a family. Not for him a woman of his own age, perhaps past her physical prime but with many other plus points. And a thirty-four-year-old woman, slim, some might say attractive, endlessly looking for someone she fancies; turned on by unsuitable types who, invariably, are disastrous long-term prospects.

Each stuck in their dating rut. And subsequently, each facing disappointment time and time again.

But, albeit separately, our search will go on. I mean, let's face it, what else can you do?

Seventeen

A
unty Jess!" Emily opens the door and flings her arms around my neck, squeezing tightly and lifting her feet off the floor so her body weight almost strangles me.

"What a welcome!" I splutter, tucking my hands under her bottom to take some of the strain. "I shall most definitely come here again."

As I step into the hallway and place her down, the most delicious smell of roasting meat assails my nostrils and, just for a moment, everything seems reassuringly normal.

Then Olivia walks into the hallway, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She's smiling, but looks pale and tired.

It's long been the routine that I would be invited over to join their family Sunday lunch about once a month, and I know she's keen to keep everything ticking along as usual. But underneath the cheery greetings and smiles exchanged in front of the children, I know we are both feeling weary and apprehensive.

The night of her lumpectomy, I called her at home, anxious to know the result. She told me it had been inconclusive, but that as soon as she knew she would call me. Since then, our only conversation had been to arrange this lunch.

"Hi, Jess, come on through."

I follow her into their welcoming kitchen, made larger by an extension onto the side of the house. Down one side is a long wooden table where Michael is sitting reading the papers.

He looks up. "Hi, little'un." He often calls me that, and Olivia is "big un," a rather ambiguous description she's not too fond of.

I am instantly struck by how drawn he looks. His eyes seem black with sadness and a small muscle in the side of his cheek twitches constantly. Admittedly, I haven't really studied his nails before, but now they are noticeably bitten to the quick, with visibly inflamed red patches.

Taking the glass of white wine Olivia offers me, I sit down at the table with Michael and start to flick through the stack of Sunday supplements, marveling that anyone finds the time to read them all.

Idly turning the pages, it strikes me how many stories there are relating to various types of cancer: how to spot it, how to beat it, miracle cures, and, horror of horrors, deaths. They have probably always been there, but of course now they leap out at me.

I become absorbed in an article by a television presenter who discovered she had colon cancer and now campaigns to raise awareness. As I take a sip of wine, I raise my eyes slightly and see Michael staring down at the page in front of me. We exchange a swift, knowing glance before he stands up and walks across to Olivia.

"Shall I lay the table?" he says briskly, opening the cutlery drawer.

She smiles and nods silently.

During this little exchange, there is no physical contact between them, and it strikes me as odd. Not that Michael and Olivia are ever pawing each other in public, just that they have always shared those discreet, tender little moments: like his fleeting hand on her waist, or her gentle touch on his forearm. Maybe I'm just imagining things.

"Aunty Jess, look!" Matthew careers into the kitchen, sliding across the wooden floor in his socked feet. "Mum bought me this." He waves a PlayStation game in my face which, judging by his excitement, is obviously the very latest release.

Olivia stands behind him, smiling benevolently, whilst Michael adopts a slightly mock expression of disapproval.

"I thought you loathed and detested computer games, that they are 'the scourge of modern childhood'?" I ask her, once Matthew has rushed out of the room again.

"I do," she replies. "But it's nice to treat them once in a while." She looks momentarily wistful. "Emily has the latest Barbie."

"Which, judging by my watch . . .," Michael lifts his wrist and stares at it, ". . . should be old hat in about five minutes' time."

Right on cue, Emily walks into the kitchen carrying her trusted old teddy Roger. Barbie is conspicuous by her absence.

"Told you." Michael goes back to reading the papers.

"Hi, darling." Olivia grabs hold of Emily and clasps her in a swift hug. "Go get Matthew for me, will you? It's time for lunch."

As ever, Olivia has rustled up the most amazing Sunday roast with all the trimmings. She's always been a fantastic cook, whilst I struggle to even heat a microwave meal to the correct temperature. It's one of the few major differences between us.

Half an hour later, stuffed to the gills with garlic lamb and perfectly roasted, crispy potatoes, I sit back in my chair and let out a long sigh of satisfaction. "Thanks, Liv, that was stupendous."

Matthew is wriggling in his chair with excitable agitation. "Mummy, can I get down now, please?" His new PlayStation game beckons.

Normally, insistent that Sunday lunch is the most important event in the family calendar, Olivia would force the children to sit with us a little longer. But today she is more lenient.

"Go on then. But don't get square eyes," she says, repeating one of the old phrases our mother was always fond of.

"Actually, the telly's rectangular," says Matthew. He's in that very literal stage at the moment, where you could say it's five past three, and he'll point out that actually, it's only four and a half minutes past.

"Me too?" says Emily hopefully.

"You too, darling." Olivia smiles warmly and ruffles her daughter's hair. "Off you pop."

They rush off towards the living room, a breathless whirl of tangled hair, odd socks, and excited shrieks, leaving a distinctly gloomier kitchen table behind them.

"So how is everything?" I venture, looking at Olivia but shooting a quick sideways glance at Michael to gauge his reaction. As I haven't seen or spoken to him since Olivia told me the news, I'm unsure how to broach the subject.

"So, so." Olivia flattens out her hand and tilts it from side to side. I notice she too casts an apprehensive, almost wary look in Michael's direction.

He doesn't notice it, but clears his throat nervously and scrapes back his chair. Gathering up the pile of newspapers at his side, he stands up. "I'm going upstairs to do some work," he says, giving me a quick smile and kissing the top of Olivia's head as he passes. "See you both later."

Twisting her body to watch him walk along the hallway and up the stairs, Olivia turns back to me. "Work, my arse," she mutters. "He'll sit on the loo for about half an hour reading the papers, then go into his study and fall asleep watching golf."

"Is everything all right between you?" I ask, worried by her uncharacteristic criticism of him, albeit mild.

"Vaguely." She turns down the corners of her mouth. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with our
marriage
as such, if that's what you mean. But this whole cancer business has thrown a bit of a hand grenade into our ordered existence. It's had a peculiar effect on him."

"In what way?" I keep my voice low, in the faint chance that Michael might be listening at the top of the stairs.

Olivia didn't seem to be worried about it, her voice almost booming. "Oh, he's gone into matter-of-fact mode, as if I'm just one of the many sick patients he sees every week. I know it's his way of coping, but I'm finding it very difficult." Her eyes look sad.

"He just won't sit down and talk about it. Every time I try to start a serious conversation, he becomes all shifty and suddenly finds something of utmost importance that he simply
has
to do. As you've just seen . . ." She gestures towards the door.

"Men have always had trouble dealing with emotions." I grin, trying to lighten proceedings. "He's obviously just gone into cave mode for a while. He'll soon be back out, beating his chest and dragging you round by the hair again. Probably, with any luck, when you get the all clear."

Olivia says nothing for a few seconds, staring at the table. Then she takes a deep breath. "I've had the results already."

I straighten my back and look intently at her, unable to read her expressionless face. "And?"

"And it's definitely cancerous. It also looks like it may have spread."

"
Looks
like? Don't they know for sure?" The word "cancerous" is enough for me to grasp that, far from being in the clear, Olivia's troubles are only just starting.

"They can't confirm it completely until I have more tests," she sighs. "The most effective way to find out is to have an MRI scan, so Michael's setting it up."

"Then what?" I can't bear it. I want to fast-forward through the next few weeks or months, to a time when we know everything will be all right.

"Then, if it has spread, I'll probably have to have this one removed," she says softly, cupping a hand over her right breast. "But they would do reconstructive surgery at the same time. So I'll have one fantastic Pamela Anderson breast and my own droopy one."

She attempts a little laugh, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. I don't respond, my face stricken with worry and panic. There are a million other questions I want to ask, but again, a sense of injury rises to the surface and I have to know.

"Olivia, first you didn't tell me about the lump, and now you haven't told me this until now. I want you . . .
need
you to tell me about these things as soon as they happen. I want to be there for you."

She smiles sadly and strokes the side of my face. "Darling, I'm not hiding things from you. It's just that I want to tell you face-to-face, not in some distant phone call. That wouldn't be fair."

I leap to my feet, frustrated and needing to move. "Not fair on whom?"

"On you."

"You see? You see?" I jab my finger several times in her direction. "It's about
you
protecting
me
, shielding me from bad news until such a time as you're there to deal with any fallout. Olivia, I know you're slightly older than me, but you have to snap out of big sister mode and lean on me for a change." I don't mean it to, but my voice has become harsh and shrill.

Striding over to the kitchen window, I stand and stare out of it for a few moments, my hands resting on the edge of the sink. It's a calm, late-summer day, belying the whirling chaos going on inside my head.

When I turn back to face Olivia, she's staring at the floor, tears pouring silently down her face. Hastily, she tries to brush them away with the back of her sleeve.

"Oh, Liv, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to be horrible." I rush across the room and kneel down on the floor in front of her, wrapping my arms around her hunched shoulders.

"It's not you," she says through muffled sobs. "It's just that everything is backing up on me and I haven't been able to deal with it. I'm either at work, where they don't know anything, or with the children, who mustn't be told anything until it's absolutely necessary." She casts a worried look at the doorway, then blows her nose. "They mustn't see me like this."

I stand up and sit back in the chair adjacent to her. "Surely you can fall apart a little in front of Michael when the children have gone to bed?"

She shakes her head. "Not really. You get to a point where everything seems so miserable that, when you have a couple of precious hours together, the last thing you want to do is spoil them by talking about problems."

I lean forward and squeeze her knee. "I understand, but it's really bad to bottle things up. You need to talk about it, particularly at this early stage, when it's all still such a shock."

"Well, when I want to fall apart in future, I know I can do so in front of you," she says with a weak smile. "Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Absolutely." My tone and expression are firm, but inside my rib cage it feels like an entire aviary of hummingbirds is trying to escape.

"Can we talk about something else now?" She wipes away the last vestiges of moisture from her face and smoothes down her hair. "As I said, it's not the time to fall apart with the children running around."

"Of course," I murmur. "But I just want to know one more thing . . . when are you having the scan?" It's only one of a hundred questions I want to ask, but it's the most pressing.

"As soon as possible, really. Michael and I were discussing it last night, and we thought one day next week would be good. Apparently, they will pay particular attention to my bones, as that's often a secondary site for cancer when the primary site is in the breast."

I feel overwhelmingly sick. "So you might have it elsewhere too?"

She shakes her head. "Very doubtful. They just have to check, that's all."

"Right." I smile, but I'm acutely aware it doesn't reach my eyes.

"Then,
if
I have to have the mastectomy and reconstructive surgery, we thought the October half term would be a good time. We'll send the children to stay with his parents in Bournemouth. They love it there."

"Love it where?" Matthew has appeared in the doorway, one sock missing and a splash of grape juice down the front of his shirt.

"At Grandma Baxter's, darling." Olivia gestures to him to come to her for a hug. "Daddy and I thought you and Emily might like to go there for half term."

"Yes!" He punches a small fist into the air, his wiry little body squirming with excitement. "Can we get fish and chips on the pier?"