Out Late with Friends and Regrets (12 page)

“No, no, that’s
quite
all right – I’m still working, though I must admit, with a pre-dinner drink at my elbow!” she responded.
 
“Your Saturday couple were late in, so I didn’t have a chance to check whether the time was OK for you.
 
Could we squeeze them in after the other two lots on Sunday, d’you think?”

Fin
 
made the new appointment, thinking she would have to check the whereabouts of Mornington Road and make up her mind whether to book a room overnight or not.
 
Having no information to go on was infuriating.
 
Fuck, you, Ellie, she thought irritably, after bidding Victoria goodnight.
 
And a
date
already! When, for heaven’s sake?
 
Tomorrow, next week – when?
 
Did the date live at Mornington Road?
 
She felt far from comfortable at being manipulated like this.
 
She wanted and needed to meet women socially, first, and get used to the fit of her new skin.
 
How dare Ellie …?

She muttered for a while, coming to the uncomfortable conclusion that Ellie probably thought she had Fin’s best interests at heart, and was trying to get her into the arena as soon as possible.

It was a warm night, and she slept badly.
 
Ellie hadn’t replied to her email or texts, and
 
nor was Fin any more successful in reaching her throughout Saturday.
 
She had remembered to download directions as well as put the A to Z in the car, and pack a minimal overnight bag containing basic toiletries and a change of knickers. Perversely, there was a late customer who rambled on, sorely trying her patience, so she couldn’t leave Cantlesham until twenty past five.
 

She had studied the map carefully over lunch, and was relieved to find she was able to navigate her way to Mornington Road in the west part of the city fairly easily.
 
It was a pleasant, speed-humped residential road, with many prosperous-looking houses, as well as some rather less so.
 
Number 52 was in the “rather less so” category, a sprawling pebbledashed bungalow whose front lawn was home to large families of jaunty daisies.

She parked, and, mentally practising a variety of greetings to suit any circumstance, approached the front door.
 

The buoyant excitement and anticipation of last week had been succeeded by edginess and discomfort.
 
At least she had made it at 7.29; she hated to be late.

Taking a deep breath, knees literally knocking, she rang the bell.
 
The door was opened by a middle-aged man in baggy corduroys and a viyella shirt.

“Hello,” said the man.
 
“Who are you?”

 
She was, it seemed, unknown here; not even expected.
 
The sky fell in, but the earth, like a truculent toddler, failed either to open up or swallow.
 
Time stretched itself languidly, as if to make the most of the awful moment.

A woman came up behind the man’s shoulder, putting a hand on it and moving her head to look round it.
 
She had a broad rosy face, framed by an electric shock of light brown hair.

“Hi-ya,” she said, with a delightful smile.
 
“Come on, Dave, invite the girl in, won’t you,” gently pushing Dave aside and giving Fin a hug, gesturing her along the narrow hall and into the lounge.
 
Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and even this generous provision seemed under threat from the sheer number of items displayed:
 
hardbacks old and new, paperbacks, pamphlets, magazines, packets of photographic prints, videos, DVDs, CDs, bulging A4 pockets, bursting files and overflowing boxes.
 
All that was lacking was any semblance of system or order.
 
Two enormous sofas dominated the centre of the room.
 
They were not apparently related, despite their mutually facing positions across a low coffee table;
 
the larger one raffishly sported a multicoloured throw crocheted in squares, like a seventies survivor trying to bring back the good times.

“Sorry about that,” Dave was saying, “I must have seemed rather rude.
 
Now you’re here, though, I’ll just crack open a bottle of wine – you’ll be the first to try this one, you must let me know what you think …”

“One of the nice things about this house,” overlapped the woman,
 
“is that our friends bring us new people to meet all the time – sit down, and tell us all about yourself over a drink.”

“Rachel!” called Dave, from the kitchen, “where’s the bloody bottle opener?
 
You haven’t knocked it into the bin again?”

“Course not!” replied Rachel, “Are there enough glasses washed?”

“Yep.
 
Just unloaded the machine – got seven proper ones, plus those French café tumblers…”

Fin suddenly realised that she herself had said not a word yet to her hosts.
 
Before she could decide whether thank you or sorry would be the more appropriate opening, Dave handed her a huge wine glass on which condensation was already forming like frosting, displaying to advantage its liquid contents of light creamy gold.
 
Dave and Rachel began swinging the wine around reverently in their own glasses, burying their noses in the vapour with all the concentration of coke sniffers.
 
Fin followed suit, and despite her usual preference for red wine was moved to mumble “Cor,” at the delicate, new-mown hay fragrance.

“Cheers!” declared Rachel, holding the nectar up to the light like some latter-day priestess, “To our guest!”

 
“Cheers!” responded Fin with a newborn smile, taking a sip.
 
It was as delicious as it smelt.

“Cheerio,” added Dave, then, confidentially, “what do you think?”

“Gorgeous.
 
Like heaven.”

“Oh,
good
.
 
This is a particularly special New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc; I’ve been after it for ages.”

 
“He tracked down a case of it just last week on the internet,” said Rachel.
 
“If you ever see the name Trafford Bay on the shelves of a winemerchant’s anywhere, buy it, buy it at any cost!”

“I certainly will,” Fin assured her after a further sip, reflecting that her own winemerchant was normally Tesco, and that, sadly, Trafford Bay was unlikely to appear amongst their special offers.

Busy paying the experience the respectful attention it evidently merited, she failed for a moment to notice that the couple were now watching her with expectant interest, Dave from the opposite sofa and Rachel from her perch on a camel saddle next to the coffee table.
 
Both sat forward, chin cupped in one hand, glass in the other, head cocked slightly, as they waited for their guest to look up.

“Now,” beamed Rachel.
 
“Come on, tell us who you are, and who you’re with.”

“I’m, well, I’m not actually
with
anyone –”

“Go on!” interrupted Dave, “You mean to tell us you just came to our door by sheer chance, to ask for directions?
 
Oh, priceless!”
 
He roared with laughter, almost spilling some of his rare wine.

“No, oh no, I’m a friend of Ellie, and she left me a message to –”

A duet of Ahhhs seemed to signify that all was now clear.

“That would pretty well explain both your presence and your confusion,” continued Dave, “her messages can be bafflingly cryptic at times.
 
I’ll bet you even thought this was
her
house!”

“Well, no, I slept at her place last week, after we met.
 
That is, I, we, went out and had a bit to drink, and she took me back to her flat, and … oh dear, this isn’t coming out sounding at all good, I’m afraid.”
 

The thought had just struck her – how well did they know Ellie and just how much about her lifestyle?
 
She felt the colour rising in her face.

“What you’re saying, dear, is that you’re not actually Ellie’s current squeeze,” interrupted Rachel archly.
 
“And what you’re
not
saying is what your name is – do tell!”

“I’m so sorry,” replied Fin, swallowing another trickle of the wonderful wine.
 
“It’s Fiona Hay, Fin to my friends.”
 
That sounded good.
 
“As I said, Ellie and I met just last Saturday, and she promised to introduce me to some … people.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Rachel, knowingly.
 
“So she left you a message without any clues, just telling you to turn up.
 
Typical! That’s a rotten thing to do to a new friend!”
 
She smiled despite the criticism; they were obviously fond of Ellie.

“Great to meet you, Fin,” said Dave, “We’re Dave and Rachel Brand.
 
We work for the city in the Social Services Department.
 
We’ve three children, all of whom we foolishly and probably quite erroneously think are incredibly brilliant and nice; and yes, we know heaps of people who all seem to congregate round this place whenever they’ve nowhere better to go …”

“It’s the cooking, Dave,”

“It’s the wine, Rachel,”

“Could be the sparkling and witty conversation,”

“Or even our exotic holiday videos …”

They laughed easily, leaning slightly towards each other as they did so.
 
It was easy to see how one could spend a most pleasant evening at Dave and Rachel’s.

“There’ll be plenty of folk you’ll want to meet coming by later on;” said Dave, “to be honest, things don’t usually get going properly ‘til about half eight or so.”

“There, now.
 
Ellie did say half past seven, and I bust a gut to make it on time.”

“No matter.
 
She probably thought she’d be here by then.
 
She must have been held up.
 
Often is.”

Rachel moved over and sat next to Fin on the hippy sofa.

“Where do you live, Fin?
 
Do you work at the university, or have you just moved here?”

“Well, I’m actually expecting to be homeless pretty soon,” replied Fin.
 
A shadow of professional concern passed over the faces of both her listeners.

“No, no,” she swiftly explained, “I’ve got viewers crawling all over my house near Cantlesham, and I haven’t had time to look around the city – I’ve decided to move here, get a bit more cultural stimulation in my life.”

“That’s really impressive,” stated Rachel.
 
“We’ve been talking about moving since our eldest went up to Cambridge.”