In which he tries to surprise me
On Friday afternoon I miraculously, after putting on a bit of a spurt, finished work at about 2pm. I was in my London cupboard, with nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon. I knew I had to drive back to Somerset, but I kept putting it off. I was thinking, ‘Maybe I’ll just have an oily bath,’ when there was a strange noise. Bloody building works. I shut the window, but it seemed to get louder. Then my phone rang. It was Him. (No, not God: the RS.) ‘Hello,’ I said, cheerful for once.
‘I’ve been leaning on your doorbell for about an hour,’ he said.
‘Oh, I wondered what that noise was,’ I said.
‘Are you going to let me come up?’
‘Ummm. Why didn’t you say you were coming? I’m working.’
‘That’s OK. I’ll hang around until you’ve finished.’
I don’t need to be taken to Florence for dinner. I’m happy with a sandwich and EastEnders
I let him in. I hate surprises. I like to plan for visits, not have them sprung upon me. He had a suitcase with him, one of those square, rigid, old-fashioned cases. At least it wasn’t a rucksack. I used to hate my husband’s green rucksack with all its pointless pockets and buckles. I remember I bought him a pair of green combat shorts to match when we went to Jamaica on our first mini break. When he went in the sea, the pockets on his thighs filled with water and sand and he almost drowned. That was the only holiday I’ve ever been on when I walked around upright in a bikini, without a sarong or a big coat. Normally, on holiday I will only expose my flesh if I am lying flat. But I had been so excited to have a man to go on holiday with, the first time it had ever happened, that I had stopped eating for weeks beforehand. The only dampener had been the wretched rucksack. But I digress. Back to the solid case.
‘Why have you got a case with you? Where are you going? On tour, to your hotel?’
‘Not where am I going, where are we going?’ He was grinning. I have never seen him look this excited. I tried to look excited too. ‘Um… You’re coming with me to Somerset?’
‘No! We are going to Firenze!’
I must have looked panicky, because he said, ‘No, we’re not going to the Villa San Michele. I’ve read your book, remember. I don’t want to stir up memories of a previous romantic break. But where we’re going is just as lovely, and it overlooks the Duomo. A car will pick us up from the airport, and we’ll arrive in time for tea.’ (He always says tea when he means dinner. It’s very confusing.)
‘But I’m not allowed to fly,’ I said.
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Don’t be daft. Tell me.’
‘No, I can’t.’ I can’t tell you, either, but it will all become clear at some point. He put his case down, and started wandering around. ‘My God, you’re tidy when you haven’t got dogs and cats,’ he said.
‘I know you’re trying to spoil me and be nice,’ I said. ‘But it’s not necessary. I don’t need to be taken to Florence for dinner. I’m happy with a peanut butter sandwich and EastEnders. I don’t have the right clothes with me. I’m not prepared.’
‘Aren’t you?’ he said, raising an eyebrow, glancing at my trackie bottoms. The sauce! He laid himself out on the sofa. He had taken his shoes off as he entered the flat. ‘You know, there are loads of women who would jump at the chance of a weekend with me, somewhere nice.’
He patted the sofa next to him. What am I? Mini Puppy? ‘Why don’t you take one of them?’ I said. ‘What about the one you call Darling. The one who makes you laugh.’ He smirked. What am I doing, putting myself out there, making myself vulnerable. Dating at my age! It’s ridiculous. All the game-playing and the flirting. Why am I not married with grandchildren and a cake tin with a removable bottom?
He sat up, and slapped his thigh. He was wearing torn old jeans. He has nice feet. ‘I know. We’ll drive.’
