The Woman Who Met Her Match Read online

  ‘Yeah, it was fun,’ she said, grinning. ‘Stu helped us.’ So my oldest friend – currently our lodger – was in on this too? The traitor!

  Cam fetched his laptop to show me their ‘work’:

  Our mum is a lovely outgoing and attractive person who would like to meet someone special. She is kind, sociable and loves a laugh with her friends. She is incredibly thoughtful and has brought us up all by herself for the past seven years. In all that time she has been single, not because there is anything wrong with her but because she has always put us first. But we are older now and both feel it’s time for her to get out there, meet someone special and enjoy life to the full.

  Mum is called Lorrie – short for Lorraine – and is forty-six (but looks younger). Why not meet her and find out how lovely she is?

  Please get in touch,

  Cam and Amy

  Oh my God. It wasn’t perfect, I decided as I blotted my sudden hot tears on a tea towel. It certainly wasn’t what I would have written myself. But, like a child’s lumpen rock cake lovingly transported home from school, you have to give it a try.

  Slowly, the idea started to grow on me. Not in a ‘finding a life partner’ way – I’d had that in David, my children’s father and lost him seven years ago – but the odd date now and again, just to liven things up. So I agreed to go with the profile my kids had so sweetly created, and see what happened. Perhaps I’d find a ‘companion’, like wealthy Victorian ladies used to have?

  First of all I met the curiously named Beppie, a plummy ‘lifestyle consultant’ – whatever that meant – who charmingly remarked, ‘If you’re not looking for anything serious we might be able to have a bit of fun.’ As if he might deign to sleep with me when there wasn’t much on the telly. No thank you.

  Marco, my date before Ralph, had perhaps three teeth in the whole of his head due to extensive oral decay, judging by the remaining examples (in his profile picture he’d had his mouth firmly closed). Was I being too fussy, hoping for something at least approaching a full set? Probably.

  Yes, I get lonely, but for someone to hang out with there’s always Stu, who’s funny and kind and does possess teeth, and who I have known since we were school friends growing up in our beleaguered West Yorkshire town. We snogged just the once, under the stairs at a party in 1987 (my futile attempt to get Antoine Rousseau out of my head), and never mentioned it again. The unspoken message was that we knew each other too well as friends for anything else to happen, and the kiss had been a drunken accident. By our early twenties, when we drifted to London at around the same time, I’d almost forgotten it had ever happened.

  I glance at Ralph now as he prowls around the gallery, reading all the little cards on the wall. Will this be a case of third time lucky with my online dates? I’m trying to remain positive.

  He turns to me and indicates the bundle of brown fabric. ‘Ooh, it’s called “jacket for two”. The idea is, we both get in it and wear it together.’ He beams eagerly as I step back.

  ‘But surely we’re not supposed to touch it?’

  Ralph shakes his head. ‘No, it’s an interactive piece. Look, it says over there on the wall, “Please wear me with a friend …”’

  But we’re not friends! ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so …’

  He holds up the grubby-looking garment. ‘Look, it’s enormous.’

  ‘It really is,’ I agree.

  ‘I think even we could fit into it!’ What, me with my ample chest and sizeable backside? He’s really not helping himself. ‘Must have been specially made,’ he adds.

  ‘Yes. Wow.’ I can smell coffee wafting through from the cafe. I’m starving now, to the point of light-headedness. Perhaps this, coupled with my pity for Ralph, is why I find myself standing there like some inert shop mannequin while he drapes half the jacket around me. It smells like an ancient sofa in a tawdry B&B as he feeds one of my arms into a sleeve whilst shimmying into the other half himself.

  He buttons up the jacket with impressive speed. We are now both trapped in it, our bodies pressed awkwardly together. I can feel the thumping of Ralph’s heart as he grins at me. ‘We’re a living sculpture!’

  ‘Yes, lovely. Very good. What an amazing, er, concept.’ What the hell am I saying? If Amy told me she’d been cajoled into wearing a stinky jacket with a man, I’d be horrified. As a single parent, I hope I have raised her to have a darn sight more self-respect than I clearly possess. I’m sweating now, my special date pants clinging to my bottom (not that I was expecting to show them but, you know) as I fumble for the buttons.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Ralph exclaims as I struggle out of the jacket.

  ‘Nothing. I’m just a bit hot, that’s all. Think I might be having a flush. Look, Ralph, I’d really like a coffee now if you don’t mind,’ i.e. enough of Thomas-bloody-Trotter and his so-called art!

  ‘Oh! Yes, of course …’ He pulls his arm from the sleeve and dumps the jacket back on its plinth, trooping rather sulkily beside me as we make our way to the cafe.

  As we order lattes, my gaze skims the array of baking on offer. ‘A piece of carrot cake please,’ I tell the girl behind the counter before turning to Ralph. ‘Would you like something?’

  ‘No, no, you go ahead, though,’ he says.

  We install ourselves at a table at the waterside. It’s a picturesque stretch of canal, with a row of brightly painted narrowboats moored on the opposite bank. A mallard duck bobs along on the water, and a young couple stroll hand-in-hand along the towpath.

  ‘Well, that was interesting,’ I remark.

  ‘Glad you thought so,’ he says with a smile.

  Silence descends, and I focus instead on sampling the carrot cake which, I have to say, is perhaps the best I have ever tasted.

  ‘I’ve really enjoyed this afternoon,’ Ralph adds.

  ‘Oh, me too,’ I say through a mouthful of delicately spiced sponge and creamy icing. I swallow it down, soothed now by the delicious cake and the slight breeze, and decide Ralph’s not that bad really. This has become my marker of dating success: he’s not that bad really. I glance at him as he observes the bobbing boats. ‘I hope you don’t mind …’ I venture cautiously, poking at my cake with my fork. ‘I mean, I sort of need to ask you this really, but, of course, I completely understand if you don’t want to talk about it …’

  He raises a brow. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Um, you know the painting with the big yellow sun? The one you said Belinda liked?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s called “Orb”.’ He sips his coffee.

  I clear my throat. ‘Look, I hope this isn’t intrusive, but you said, “My wife”. So I’m sort of assuming – well, you know, otherwise you’d have said my ex …’ Hotness spreads up my cheeks. ‘Is she … I mean … what happened to—’

  ‘Oh, it was all very amicable. We married very young, silly mistake really. In fact, we’re still married—’

  ‘You’re married?’ I dump my fork on my plate.

  ‘Well, yes, technically, I suppose …’

  ‘Which means yes!’

  ‘No – we’re separated, split up over a year ago. Sorry, I really must stop saying my wife. I realise how confusing that sounds …’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. So, where is she now?’

  He shrugs. ‘Moved north, to Halifax.’

  ‘Oh, right!’ I glance towards the canal, wondering whether or not to feel relieved. A narrowboat is chugging by, a man with a white beard at the helm, an elderly woman in jeans and a faded rugby top primping a tub of Michaelmas daisies on the deck. They both wave, and I wave back, then glance down at my cake which, although I’ve made inroads, now seems huge and unwieldy. It’s not that I’m trying to appear feminine and dainty. It’s just, my appetite seems to have withered away. ‘Er, would you like some of this, Ralph? I’m not sure I can manage it all.’

  ‘Oh, no thanks, I stopped off for a sandwich before we met.’ His mouth flickers into a smile as he adds, ‘You tuck in, Lorrie. I can see you’re a girl who very m
uch enjoys her cake.’

  I blink at him. Well, that’s flipping charming, isn’t it? Fatty, is what he means. Porky lady, cramming in the carbs and cheesy topping. ‘I am actually,’ I say with a terseness he doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ he says with a smirk. ‘A healthy appetite, that’s what I like to see in a lady. Not your picking-at-a-lettuce-leaf type!’

  ‘Okay, thank you, Ralph …’

  He leans forward. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘No, it’s fine, really.’ That’s it. I have to get out of here. I edge my plate aside and pull my phone from my bag, frowning as if something urgent might have happened at home. ‘Sorry, but I’d better be going …’ I slip my phone back into my bag and get up from my seat.

  His face falls. ‘So soon? That’s a pity …’

  ‘Yes, um, I’ve enjoyed the gallery, it’s been a lovely afternoon but I really must dash …’ Then I’m off, turning briefly to wave goodbye as I leave the cafe by its wooden gate, and striding towards the tube station, feeling leaden inside, and not due to the Nutmeg Gallery’s home baking.

  Chapter Two

  Like a burglar, I creep into my house and dart upstairs before Stu and the kids can accost me. They know I’m back, of course. Stu has already called out ‘hi’, and I can sense them all waiting downstairs, keen to hear all about my date. That’s what my personal life amounts to these days: cheap entertainment for my lodger and kids.

  In the bathroom now, I start to cleanse my face. Primer, base, blush, tawny lips. Eye shadow – three shades – plus liner and mascara: what a fat waste of make-up. Lovely make-up at that; La Beauté is a premium brand. ‘That just means expensive, Mum,’ Amy observed. ‘Why don’t they just admit it?’ She was right, and our gorgeous products are worth every penny – although of course, I would say that. I am La Beauté’s counter manager in a beautiful, old-fashioned department store – a little like Goldings in Bradford, to which I would accompany Mum as a child, fascinated as she had her face done by one of the scarily made-up ladies who worked there. While there are La Beauté counters in stores all over the country, ours was the UK’s first and remains the favourite among customers. Somehow, despite being a global brand, the company still retains a cosy, family feel, and I can’t imagine working for anyone else.

  Plus, I adore cosmetics and the magical things they can do. Just as when Nicole taught me the ways of make-up in France, I still love the way it can change how a woman feels about herself: with confidence all buffed up, as if given a brisk shimmy with a chamois leather cloth. That’s how I felt as I put on my face before setting out to meet Ralph. Now, though, I realise it was all wrong for a casual date at a gallery on a Sunday afternoon (and I’m supposed to be an expert on make-up!). I’m not a shined-up version of myself. I’m just a tired-looking middle-aged woman who’s too fond of her cake.

  Laughter drifts up from the kitchen, where Stu and the kids are bantering away. I sniff my cardigan sleeve. It pongs of that arse-smelling tweed jacket. I whip it off and change into a T-shirt and jeans, tie back my shoulder-length dark brown hair – hair that I not only blow-dried but deep conditioned for my date – and head downstairs to greet my public.

  ‘So?’ Stu grins at me.

  I shrug and start to make coffee. ‘Not good.’

  ‘What happened?’ Amy asks, still in her basketball kit from training this morning. ‘Was he weird?’

  Was Ralph weird, or is it me? I tell them about the un-dead wife, Ralph’s arty pretensions (‘juxtaposed!’) and the fact that the photo he’d used was decades old. ‘It’s so much easier for men,’ I grumble. ‘They just come onto the site and write their own profiles, thinking they have the pick of all us desperate single mums …’

  ‘No one thinks you’re desperate,’ Stu says with an unconvincing smirk.

  ‘So what else happened?’ Amy asks eagerly, folding her slender arms. I describe the lobster pots and the outsized jacket while they all stare, agog, as if enjoying a thrillingly diabolical Eurovision performance.

  ‘What a twat,’ Cam exclaims, chuckling.

  ‘And he said,’ I add, indignation bubbling up in me again, ‘“You’re obviously a girl who very much enjoys her cake.”’

  ‘Girl?’ my son sniggers, missing the cake significance entirely.

  ‘Never mind the girl bit—’ I start.

  ‘Well, you do enjoy cake,’ Stu teases, his greeny-blue eyes glinting. ‘You’re a cake appreciator. You wolfed that lemon sponge I made last weekend …’

  ‘Oh, thanks—’

  ‘C’mon, you’re just a woman with a healthy appetite …’

  ‘That’s what Ralph said! Can we stop this? Please?’

  Stu gives me a pained look as I slump onto a kitchen chair. ‘Hey, what does it matter what some idiot said? Forget all about it and move on to the next …’

  ‘There won’t be a next,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Aw, Mum, don’t be like that.’ Cam gets up from his seat, towering above me at well over six feet, pale arms dangling from the sleeves of his unironed grey T-shirt. He bends to give me a little squeeze.

  ‘No, I’ve decided, I’m coming off the site.’

  ‘But you’ve hardly met anyone yet,’ protests Amy.

  ‘I have, love. I’ve met three and that’s quite enough. I don’t think I can go through with this anymore—’

  ‘Oh, we’ll miss the reports,’ Stu says, pulling his trilling mobile from the back pocket of his scruffy jeans. Mercifully, this halts the interrogation. He snatches his ring-bound notepad from on top of the microwave and starts to scribble with his phone gripped to his ear. ‘Walnuts, cashews, agave nectar, medjool dates … yep, got all that …’

  The kids amble off, and I load the washing machine as he falls into some light-hearted banter with the customer at the other end of the line.

  Stu moved in with us last September, when his live-in relationship with Roz, an intimidating psychotherapist, finally fell apart. It was supposed to be a temporary measure, but he slotted in so easily that neither of us has seen any reason for him to move on – and of course the extra cash helps out. In fact, it was from a wine-fuelled chat around this very kitchen table that the idea for Parsley Force, Stu’s emergency forgotten ingredient delivery service, was launched. We’d had a craving for posh crisps, and I’d joked that it would be terribly handy if we could just call someone up and bark, ‘Salt and vinegar, please – 120 Pine Street!’ down the phone. Stu had remarked that, surely, people were always needing things: snacks, booze, a missing ingredient from a recipe. What they needed was a hero to deliver it to their door. He’d been working as a motorcycle courier but really wanted to set up something of his own. This, he decided, would be perfect.

  ‘But don’t people read a recipe right through before they start, to make sure they have everything?’ I asked. Apparently not, he declared with tipsy confidence. They just skim it and lurch right in and then … disaster! Dried mulberries are required! ‘So why wouldn’t they just run out to the shops? I mean, this is London, not the Shetlands. Shops are open all the time.’ Too busy, lazy or drunk, he reckoned. ‘Where will you buy the stuff?’ I asked.

  Stu rubbed at his darkly-bristled chin. ‘Er, just in supermarkets, obviously, or delis, specialist shops, whatever. Basically, I’ll just be picking up all the annoying little things they’ve forgotten to buy.’

  And so the business was born, with the aid of a hastily knocked-together Facebook page and some judicious advertising in local magazines. In partnership with his mate Bob, Stu took to zooming all over North London on his motorbike, giving me a fascinating insight into miniature dramas happening all over the city: ‘We crave cheese and we’re too drunk to drive!’ And – frequently – ‘Could you bring wine and cigarettes?’

  ‘But who’s Parsley Force for?’ I wanted to know, a few weeks into their venture.

  ‘People who call in help. The types who have cleaners, gardeners, all that.’

  ‘Not me, th
en.’

  ‘No, and you don’t need any of that because you have me.’

  He’s right and, although I’d never imagined having a housemate at forty-six years old, I doubt if I could have found a better one. He leaves sauce bottles sitting on the table, lids off, but does loads of cooking and we never seem to run out of essentials anymore. He is incapable of grasping that bread doesn’t need to be stored in the fridge, but he can deal with a bird that’s flown in through the open kitchen window, catching it deftly in a tea towel before freeing it outside. He is not averse to running the hoover about, and on weekends, like an obedient Labrador, he goes out for the newspapers, which we lie about reading companionably.

  He is handsome, certainly, in a mussed-up sort of way, and has been resolutely single since Roz called time on their relationship. Yet, when I suggested he tried online dating too, he gawped at me as if I had suggested colonic irrigation: ‘Christ, no thanks. Too many crackpots out there.’ Yet the meeting of crackpots is positively encouraged where I’m concerned.

  He finishes the call now, shoving his phone into his pocket and beaming at me. ‘Ingredients for vegan cheesecake. She hadn’t realised her guests are vegan and she’s now having to rethink dessert. I mean, that’s not going to be a cheesecake, is it, by any stretch?’

  And off he goes, just as my phone pings with a text: Would very much like to meet again, Ralph. What, to insult me some more about my fondness for baked goods?

  Sorry, I reply, it was lovely to meet you, but I’m afraid there wasn’t any chemistry for me. Yep, that old line. Good luck with meeting someone, I add before deleting him from my phone.

  Chapter Three

  The summer holidays used to be a source of low-level guilt for me – despite Pearl, our wonderful childminder, who soon became a close friend – but those days are gone. As Cam is working – albeit sporadically, helping to set up lighting for gigs – and Amy’s sporting activities continue all summer long, nowadays I can trot off to work, leaving them to their own devices with a fairly clear conscience. Plus, Stu is around much of the time, not as a surrogate father or anything, but as a reasonably sensible adult about the place.