Cloudy with a Chance of Love (11 page)

‘God knows!'

‘Send me a photo later, so I can critique you.'

‘If I must…'

‘Right. I'm going to have to go, Mum. I want to do some prep before work. Busy day.'

‘Okay darling.'

I had a busy day, too. Work, a spot of decorating, then a date. I was already feeling quite embarrassed about the fact I had to tell Will I had a date later in the evening. I could put him off, maybe. I could perhaps tell him I couldn't make the decorating thing now… No, I couldn't. He'd been so kind to offer, it would be terribly rude.

‘Let me know how it goes tonight.'

‘Will do.' Oh dear, it was another failure in the whole ‘reversing our roles back to normal' plan. I was going to keep my daughter updated about a date; I was still Edina to her Saffy, it seemed. ‘Oh, and don't tell anyone else about it. By that I mean Grandma.'

I really didn't want my mother knowing. I'd never hear the end of it.

‘Okay, I promise,' trilled Freya. ‘Oh, it's so exciting! Byeee!'

It was a little bit exciting, wasn't it? I placed my phone back on the floor and tried to get back to sleep. Tiny bubbles of nerves started to churn inside me. About Gabby being at the graduation – damn! And about my date tonight. My first man since Jeff. The possible beginning of something. Fun, romance… I suddenly thought about Sam's love forecast again. Was Ben my ninety-nine percent chance? The thought of falling in love still absolutely terrified me; I didn't want to be in love again – no way. Look what had happened! Look how it had ended up! No, I didn't want love, but maybe it would be good to have a (risk-free) man in my life again. Maybe Ben was my ninety-nine percent chance of
that.

Chapter Nine

Scattered showers will sweep across the region this morning, buffeted by strong winds from the east, before bringing an uncertain picture for this afternoon and tonight – windy weather with the chance of rain and perhaps some blustery, isolated episodes of hail…

I'd just done one bulletin and was at my desk, writing my next. The office was crazy busy this morning. People were dashing around, carrying things here and there, a news package had gone AWOL, causing all sorts of chaos and there were seven people in reception, including an up-and-coming pop star and a man dressed as a dog, waited to be interviewed at various junctures. The door to Studio One kept being opened and the sound of Queen was currently wafting through to the office. ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love'. Oh, indeed.

I was feeling… weird. Extremely excited and nervous about the date tonight. Incredibly nervous and absolutely
terrified
about the graduation on Friday. I was doing a lot of finger waggling, pen twiddling and foot tapping. I do that a lot when I'm working, anyway, but I suspected I may have looked like I was auditioning for a one-man band. Peony passed my desk, looking all fresh and gorgeous and unruffled. I wished I was still thirty-something with it all ahead of me. Forty-something just seemed to mean lots of complications and baggage and sagging faces. Everything was just harder (not firmer, obviously,
harder
).

‘Time to grab a quick coffee?' she said.

‘Why not?'

I laid down my twiddling pen, reprieved my fingers and my foot and followed her into the kitchen. Sam was in there; we all grinned at the sight of each other.

‘So, tell me all about it,' said Peony.

‘It was a very funny night,' said Sam. ‘Fancy dress which we didn't know about –'

‘– Because Sam doesn't know how to read…'

‘… A bunch of
interesting
, if not exactly attractive men.'

‘Terrible!' I groaned.

‘And Daryl has a date. Tonight.'

‘
If
he calls me. He might not call me.'

‘Of course he'll call you,' said Sam.

‘Hang on, you said the men were unattractive,' said Peony, looking perplexed. ‘You're going on a date with an unattractive man?'

‘
Ben
wasn't unattractive.
Ben
was really attractive, wasn't he, Daryl?' Sam teased.

‘Ben
is
quite good looking,' I conceded, with a grin. ‘I met him at the end of the night.'

‘And are you nervous about it? This date tonight, with
Ben
? You look a bit nervous,' said Peony. ‘I saw your foot going like the clappers. You'd make a great machinist.'

‘Ha. I am a bit nervous. Well, I'm nervous about a couple of things, actually.'

‘Like?' asked Sam.

‘Gabby's coming to Freya's graduation.'

‘No!' They both looked horrified.

‘Yep. Jeff used his contacts to get another ticket.'

‘What a bastard.'

‘What
a bastard.'

‘What are you going to do?'

‘What can I do? Suck it up. Go. Feel wretched.'

‘Oh no, Daryl,' sympathised Peony. ‘You poor thing.'

‘Yep,' I moaned. ‘And it's not just the ceremony. I've got to go for dinner at Caspar's afterwards with the buggers, too.'

‘Oh, the horror,' sympathised Peony. ‘Shame we can't come too, as your backup.'

‘Yes, that would be nice, wouldn't it?' I said. ‘If only. We could go in as a posse and sort that cow out.' I shrugged. ‘There's nothing I can do about it. I just have to brave it out.'

‘Well, you're one of the bravest people I know,' said Sam determinedly. ‘So you'll be fine. Chin up, chest forward, bottom out.

‘Ha. The last two will be easy.'

‘Show them you don't care,' added Peony. ‘We'll be thinking of you.'

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘It means a lot to have people thinking of me. Especially you two.'

‘Coffee?' offered Sam, and she switched the kettle on. ‘At least you've got your date tonight to help you take your mind off Friday,' she added, getting the mugs and the coffee down. ‘What are you going to wear…?'

‘I haven't thought yet,' I said. ‘Something from my usual repertoire…'

‘You'll look stunning,' said Peony. ‘You always do.'

‘Stunning is requiring more and more effort these days,' I noted, ‘but I'll do my best.'

‘Where are you even going?'

‘I don't know yet. I bet he doesn't call me.'

‘He'll call you!' chanted Sam and Peony, in unison.

I wasn't sure. What if he didn't call me?

The phone on my desk rang. It was quarter past eleven.

‘Hey, poppet, I've sold the commode!'

Mum. I keep telling her not to ring me at work, but she always does. Pretty much every day.

‘Ah, well done, Mum.' She'd been trying to get rid of that revolting thing for ages. I say revolting, she says steeped in history (steeped in
something
, I thought). Whatever, I doubted the horrible relic had seen the wrong side of 1972.

Mum buys and sells antiquities – what Jeff used to call ‘toot.' Antique furniture, china, bits and bobs. She stores them for a while in her garage, then sells them on. Mostly via eBay, but she is hardly the global phenomenon's greatest ambassador. Her packaging is shocking. She spends more time issuing refunds for broken Royal Albert than she does listing the stuff in the first place. I reckon her profit margin is about five percent but it keeps her busy and makes her happy. She loves it.

‘So how are you, Daryl?'

‘I'm all right, Mum. Ticking along.'

‘Have you met anybody yet?'

‘No, Mum.' She was exasperating but ever hopeful. She'd been asking me if I'd met anybody since the day Jeff moved out. Mum believes in moving on super quickly.
She
did, after my dad did a bunk (leaving us for ‘that woman' and then having the ‘bloody cheek' to die six months later…). Life is short, she always says, you just have to get on with it.

‘No Adonis on the horizon?'

‘No.' I wasn't telling her about Ben. ‘What have you been up to?'

‘Rehearsing.'

Mum and her sister, Auntie Margaret, are both really, really good at playing the piano. Like, excellent. Mum has one in her house, Auntie Margaret has one in hers, and when they get on a piano together they are a force to be reckoned with, especially when Auntie Margaret starts singing, too, with her fine, wavering voice reminiscent of old ragtime theatre. They
love
to perform; they're permanently showcasing their talent. Family do's, quiz nights, random restaurants they're having dinner in… if there's a piano in the room, they'll be on it, eventually. And they have quite a repertoire. My mum's a real East Ender who was born within the sound of Bow Bells. She loves acts like Chas and Dave, and all the old music hall songs. Auntie Margaret does, too. They also – for contrast – love a bit of Barbra Streisand. Many a sedate night in a restaurant has been turned into a raucous round-the- piano singalong as the sisters take to the piano and diners have – reluctantly at first, often – gradually joined them for a bit of foot-stomping, some ‘Knees Up Mother Brown' and some ‘Woman in Love'. Oh, they are a right pair, and recently they've become semi-professional. People are actually
paying
them to perform. Last month they played at the opening of a new pub in Mile End.

‘Freya told me you went speed dating last night,' she said. Ah. Hence all the loaded questions, not that she wouldn't have asked them anyway. So, Freya couldn't keep her mouth shut about that, then. I shook my head and kneed my desk drawer shut with a thump. They're terrible, those two. Always in cahoots, always cutting out the middle man and tittle-tattling about me. Freya is organised and independent, but she can also be a right gossip. I prayed she hadn't told Mum about my date. ‘She texted me, this morning, from work. Auntie Margaret's here, so she knows all about it. Oh, she was quite surprised, as was I!' Oh god, Auntie Margaret knew about the speed dating. The jungle drums would be beating as far as Bromley-by-Bow. Please
god
let her not know about Ben. ‘She's still here now. We're just putting sugar on our lettuce and having a nice winter salad.' Sugar on lettuce, vinegar on a roast dinner, raucous laughter. That was those two. Never a dull moment or a dry eye – tears of laughter were constantly being wiped away with packets of tissues.

‘Yes, I went speed dating,' I sighed.

‘Did you meet anyone?' Oh good girl; Freya hadn't told her that bit.

‘No, I didn't.'

‘I wonder if you tried hard enough. Sometimes you can clam up –
Dickens! Duh-brain! Everyone knows that
!' Mum's other passion is TV quizzes. She loves all of them: The Chase, Tipping Point, Pointless, Eggheads, and adores nothing more than shouting at contestants who get things wrong or know absolutely
nothing
.

‘You mean I don't talk nineteen to the dozen without drawing breath, like you.'

‘Cheeky mare! Did you hide your light under a bushel?'

‘My light was on, Mum. It really wasn't me,' I said. ‘It was them.'

‘Losers and ne'er-do-wells?'

‘Something like that.' Just because
she'd
had a steady stream of boyfriends since 1989, a lot of them fitting that description (current, very casual, boyfriend: Malcolm, shifty allotment enthusiast and committer of the crime of Crocs…). ‘Look, Mum, I've got to go, I'm at work.' I always said that. It had no effect whatsoever. None. She still rambled on. ‘I'm
busy
.'

‘What? Come on, dimbo! It's magnesium!
Magnesium
. For god's sake, some people are so thick!' She was shouting at the telly again. She had one in the kitchen and nearly every other room in the house. ‘I know, dear. I've got to get on, too. Auntie Margaret's just fired up the Kenwood and there's meringue on my Delfts already. I'd better go sort her out.' I could just imagine the scene. There would be lots of hooting and whipping of bottoms with tea towels. ‘Are you sure you didn't meet anyone? You can tell me, you know.'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘Certain sure?'

‘Yes!'

‘Okay, love. Right, I have to go; I've got things to do. I'm also bidding on a pair of bone china eBay doves.'

‘Bye, Mum,' I said, wearily.

‘Bye dear.'

I put the phone down. It immediately rang again.

‘Don't tell me, Auntie Margaret's blown up the kitchen and the doves have flown the coop.'

‘Er, no,' said a voice. ‘Unless that's some kind of spy code like the ducks fly east for the winter, or something. You told me you do the weather. You're not actually M15, are you? Do we have to meet on a bench and swap briefcases?'

Oh god, it was Ben. How embarrassing.

‘Oh. Ben. Hi. Sorry, I thought you were my mother.'

‘It's a common mistake. Happens all the time. It's the blue rinse and the curls.'

I laughed. ‘How are you? You've called me on the office phone.' Oh dear. Why did I say that? Did it matter?

‘Yeah, is that okay? Sometimes people don't answer mobiles. And I'm good, thanks. I've just shaped an ash tree and done some trenching. You still up for tonight?'

‘I certainly am,' I said, more confidently than I felt. I tried to take on Peony's positivity and Sam's airy-fairy yet practical view of fate.

‘Great. How would you like to go to a party?'

‘A party! On a Tuesday night?' Oh god, I sounded more ancient than Richard the Third's commode.

‘Yes, on a Tuesday night,' Ben laughed. ‘My friends are quite bohemian. They don't operate on normal people's schedules. They've even been known to have a party on a
Monday
night!'

‘Wow. That's impressive.'

‘So do you want to go?'

‘Yes, I think so.' I didn't think I'd ever been to a party on a Tuesday night before, and I hadn't been to
any
kind of party at all for yonks. ‘Okay, yes, I'd love to go!''