That certain spark, p.15
That Certain Spark, page 15
Standing outside underneath the awning I hesitate, willing myself the strength to walk in. What if he’s not there? I spin the rings on my left hand. Nervous habit.
Shit! I’m still wearing my wedding and engagement rings.
I slip them off my finger and slide them into a compartment inside my bag, leaving my finger bare. I stare down at the dents left behind. Then, before I can second guess myself, I push inside.
I smile at the owner, eyes scanning the tables for my date, spotting him in a corner. Already here, that’s a good sign. I lift my hand and wave to show I’ve seen him, weaving my way past the other diners.
“Hi,” I say, smiling as a flush of heat rushes to my cheeks. “It’s nice to see you.”
Chris grins. He has a nice smile. Good teeth. “Nice to see you too. I wasn’t sure you were going to come in.” He nods towards the window. He must have had a clear view of me dithering outside. My cheeks heat again. “Do you want to sit down?” he says. When I nod, he stands and pulls out my chair for me. “Are you happy to share a bottle of wine? Red if that’s okay?”
I nod again, feeling a little shy now that I’m here. What the hell was I thinking? What are we going to talk about?
“So, Claire, apart from the fact you like peppermint tea, I know very little about you. Tell me about yourself.”
I clear my throat. He smiles again. He really is very good at making me feel at ease. For a first post-marriage date this could be a whole lot worse. “Well, I’m an interior designer,” I say. I think I surprise him, because his eyebrows lift a little. “I’ve started my own company. It’s only small, but I’m enjoying the work.”
“And have you always worked in interior design?”
“Since university. I love it. What about you?” I’m intrigued to know what this guy does. He looks fit; something that keeps him active, I’d guess.
“I’m a fireman.”
We pause as the waiter arrives and hands us both a menu, placing some breadsticks in the middle of the table. I use the time it takes Chris to choose a bottle of wine to calm my thundering heart with some deep breaths. A fireman! Holy hell. I grab a breadstick for want of something to do, nibbling along its length like a beaver.
“Hungry?” he asks with a grin.
I’ve already demolished the first breadstick and am reaching for a second. Oh, no! I don’t want him to think I’m greedy... But what am I thinking? He’s seen me and I’m clearly not a picky eater.
Stop! What am I doing?
He’s staring at me now, as if I’m some sort of a puzzle to solve. “Yes, I like my food,” I say. I might as well tell him how it is.
“Good,” he says, grabbing a breadstick of his own. “Me too.” He demolishes the thing in three bites. “What do you fancy?” he says, lifting the menu.
“I like the lasagne.” I don’t need to see the menu to choose, I know it by heart.
He lowers the card to look at me, head tilted to one side. “So you’ve been here before then?”
“Yes. I used to work in a studio just around the corner. I like it here; the food’s great.”
He rocks back in his chair. “I can’t believe I never noticed you before. I come here all the time.” Of course he does. The fire station is just up the road from the studio. I resist fanning myself with my menu as I contemplate what he might look like in a uniform. Nicole will positively pop with excitement when she hears. “I normally notice any good-looking woman sitting on their own.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you didn’t notice me because I was here with my husband.” At this his eyebrows nearly vanish into his hairline, eyes dropping to my left hand. Perhaps he sees the dents there. “My ex-husband,” I clarify, taking a third breadstick.
I watch him out the corner of my eye as the waiter comes to take our orders. Chris seems to have taken the news reasonably well. At least, he hasn’t run off yet. He’s watching me. I squirm a little under his gaze. When the waiter leaves again, he sits back and crosses his arms across his chest. “How long ago did your marriage end?”
“Nearly ten months.”
“And are you happy about it?”
How to answer that? There’s no point in lying – not if we want to have any sort of chance of developing a relationship. We’re too old to mess about. “I wasn’t, to begin with. He left me for another woman. But they’re having a baby now and so that’s that. I’m ready to let go. I’m making a new life for myself. It’s been a process – it’s still a process – but I’m getting there.”
He smiles at me, a gentle smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. “Thank you for being so honest. I appreciate it. I’m glad you’re getting there.”
The next half an hour is more pleasant than I expected. He’s easy to talk to. A widower, I learn. His wife passed away from cancer nearly five years earlier. I take another bite of my lasagne, reflecting how lucky I am to have bumped into this man. What twist of good fate led me to the café at the same time as him? The food is delicious and he’s better company than I ever hoped. A kernel of hope buds inside my chest as I listen to him talk about being a fireman, his face animated.
Taking a long sip from my wine glass I place it carefully back down on the table. Smiling my best smile, I peer up at him from under my lashes. “So, what are you looking for in a relationship? I mean, what’s important -”
He holds a hand up. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, reaching forward. “It’s just, you’ve got a little bit of lasagne in your eyebrow.”
I take a moment to process this. It’s not a phrase you hear every day. I mean, where am I meant to go from here? I hastily scrub my eyebrow with my napkin. He’s right, there is lasagne in my eyebrow. More than a splash. I excuse myself from the table and retreat to the ladies where I hastily text Nicole. She calls me straight back.
“How’s it going?” she asks without any preamble. “What’s he like?”
I sigh. “He’s lovely. Really nice. A fireman.”
She squeals with joy. “A fireman. Holy hot fire hydrants, Claire! You’ve hit the jackpot!”
“Yeah, well, maybe.”
She makes a frustrated noise. “What are you talking about? What’s not to like? Let’s recap on what you just said; he’s lovely, he’s a fireman, he’s single, he’s a fireman, you’re single... He is single, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s single. His wife died of cancer five years ago.”
“Oh. Sad. But still... what’s the problem?”
I sigh again. “He just had to stop me mid-sentence to tell me I had lasagne in my eyebrow.”
Nicole is not often lost for words, but she’s quiet for so long I have to check to make sure we haven’t been cut off. Then she snorts, muffled laughter now obvious despite her having placed her hand over the phone. “I can hear you,” I hiss, as another woman in the cubicle next to me starts laughing.
“Oh, I’m sorry, babe. It’s just that’s... that’s. . .” Another loud snort, “Fucking awesome. I mean, what a perfect first date story to tell your kids when you’re older.”
I sniff, a little mollified now I’m thinking about it in those terms. “I’m going back to the table,” I say, mustering what dignity I have left.
“Maybe just have coffee rather than risk a pudding,” she says, not bothering to hide her snorts of laughter now. “Call me later. I have to hear part two.”
Chris looks up when I approach the table, the corners of his mouth lifting a little. “Are you okay? I was about to ask if there was a window in the ladies you might’ve bunked out of.”
I grimace. “I was just trying to regain my composure after the lasagne incident.”
“What’s a little food in the eyebrow between friends?”
I grin, despite my embarrassment. This guy is really quite adorable. I’m probably done with trying to be coquettish though. I pull out my chair, hand resting on the back. A thought strikes me. “So why are you still single then?” I ask, deciding it’s time to get straight to the point. There must be something wrong with him. He’s too good to be true.
“Ouch. Straight in there! You don’t mess about, do you?” He lets out a deep breath. “I normally leave this sort of conversation to the second or third date. What makes you think there’s something?”
If I could raise an eyebrow, I’d be arching it right now. “I mean, look at you… There must be something.”
He grins. “I like you, Claire.” There’s a pause, his face sobering, and then, “I don’t want kids. At all. Turns out that’s a deal breaker for a lot of women. They either finish with me straight away or, worse, hang around for a bit hoping they can change my mind.”
I sit down heavily. “I can’t have kids. I tried with my ex-husband. It never happened.”
Chris’ expression brightens. “See – we’re a match made in heaven.”
I shake my head. “But I still want them one day. Even if I have to adopt.” I didn’t know it for sure until this moment, but now I’m certain. I meet his gaze. “I guess that’s a complete no-go for you?”
He nods, his expression sad.
I lift the bottle of wine and re-fill our glasses. “Ah, well, at least we had a nice dinner. We might as well finish this. And I think I will look at the dessert menu after all.”
Chapter 20
Three days later, I’m still a bit down in the dumps. Worse, I’m now second guessing myself about Ben. He’s been texting me. Just little reaching out texts, but still. Three times I’ve constructed a text back to him. Three times my fingers have hovered over the send button. Three times I’ve deleted it before I sent it. But it was a close-run thing the last time. I don’t trust myself with a fourth test of my resolve. Nicole is away with the kids for a week at Center Parcs, so I don’t really feel like disturbing her with yet more of my tedious mental anguish. And, despite the brief text exchange with Sarah, there’s been nothing since. I’m feeling a little forlorn. I’ve been working every hour, just to avoid giving myself any headspace to think about the debacle with Chris. The experience has made me long for the easiness I had with Ben. That’s not good.
I pick up my phone, then put it down again quickly. I’ve been playing this game all morning. Worse, anxiety is crashing over me in waves; the fear he might not want me now even if I do change my mind. Fear of what might happen if I call him. Fear of being alone. Fear of not being good enough – of only being his bit on the side while he lives his best life with Bella. Fear of being unlovable. Fear of another lasagne-in-the-eyebrow moment if I do try dating again.
I need to do something to pull myself out of this ever-decreasing circle of anxiety and self-recrimination. I’m not sure what, but something. Alex recommended some techniques for when stress, anxiety and depression threaten at group last week. It might help if I remember where my bloody notes are.
I spend fifteen minutes hunting for my workbook. Normally, I’d call Sarah, but I can’t. We’re still not really talking. Not like we were. Instead, I turn the flat upside down. Then I find what I’m looking for in my car. I really need to sort my shit out.
I collapse onto the sofa and open the book to week seven.
Do something pleasurable.
Do something that gives you a sense of satisfaction.
Act mindfully
They make it sound so easy. I start with what I know: a meditation session to get me in the zone. It helps. I’m calmer afterwards, feeling more grounded again once I’ve finished. I choose cooking a nice meal for the ‘something pleasurable’. I’ll combine that section with the ‘do something that gives you a sense of satisfaction’. I’ll walk to Sainsbury’s and get the stuff for dinner and post the divorce papers back to my solicitor on the way.
I’ve been putting that off for days now. I’m finally convinced I must make the break. I can’t change everything that’s happened between Ben and me over the last year. All I can do is make a good choice for me now. And being married to a man who left me for another woman, one who is now having his baby, is not a good choice. If he couldn’t respect and love me enough to be faithful last time, what hope is there that he’ll manage it second time around? The fact he seems willing to be unfaithful to Bella, despite their impending parenthood, does not inspire much confidence. No, I deserve better. I choose to deserve better.
I grab the papers, and before I overthink myself, I scribble my signature everywhere my solicitor has indicated I should.
There. I’ve done it. I’ve actually bloody well gone and done it!
The momentary euphoria passes. Next thing I know, I’m blubbering like I did the first time I watched Titanic. Three soggy tissues later, I determine I can’t afford to wallow any longer. This way lies panic attacks and comfort eating.
I stuff the paperwork into an envelope, press on a stamp and write the solicitor’s address across the front, leaving behind large blots of ink everywhere my tears have fallen. Grabbing my favourite recipe book from the shelf, I scribble down all the ingredients I’ll need for my favourite pan-fried salmon recipe, then grab some shopping bags from the drawer overstuffed full of them – because I constantly forget to take one with me – before pulling on my old coat and scarf. It’s a bit tatty but it’s warm. And it’s not like I’m out to impress anyone.
I grab the letter from the side and leave the flat, trotting down the steps before I change my mind.
Thick grey clouds squat overhead like broody hens, but it’s not raining – or even snowing – yet. It’s cold enough for me not to want to hang around though, so I set off at a fast pace, attempting to ignore the chill by tucking my chin into the wool encircling my neck. I can’t ignore the bite of aching cold against my cheeks and fingers, choosing to stuff my hands into my pockets and leaving the envelope tucked beneath my arm.
Why the tears? It’s the right decision, there can be little doubt about that. I thought I’d come to terms with it weeks ago. Alex said tears can be the outward manifestation of our fears. A physical response to the inward mental assault of fear and self-doubt. Or am I just mourning? The ending of my marriage. The loss of love. Maybe it’s a bit of both.
I choose a route through the park, knowing there’s a post box beyond the exit on the other side. It’s in the right direction for the shop too. Halfway across, I pass the café. I haven’t eaten since... maybe I haven’t eaten. I pause long enough to buy myself a banana before continuing my march to the other side. I’ve eaten it in three bites and am left holding the skin out in front of me to avoid smearing the banana slime all over my coat. The park is quiet today, perhaps the cold is keeping some of the regulars inside. It crosses my mind to drop the skin in a bush. It’s biodegradable after all and my hands are certainly regretting having the envelope and the banana skin to hold, but I don’t. I know there’s a bin beside the post box.
Instead of worrying about the cold, I focus on another pressing matter: what am I going to do about Sarah? I can’t leave things as they are, but I don’t want to provoke anything by reaching out to her when Gavin might be around. I need to be patient, wait for her to come to me. If nothing else, I’ll see her at group on Wednesday. It’s our last session. That thought makes me very sad.
I smile at a woman and her daughter handing out leaflets advertising a sale at Hair Today Gone Tomorrow – a local hairdresser’s. I’ve never been there; I always found the name a little threatening. I reach the bin, deposit my rubbish and then stand in front of the post box. This is it... the point of no return. I raise my hand and look at the banana skin. Banana skin? Where the hell is my letter? I look back across the park, in case I dropped it on the path, then down to the cracked pavement. I walk once around the post box, and then stare at my empty hand for a full minute. And then it comes to me. The bin. I posted the letter in the bin.
I stare at it, half hoping it might spit the letter back out. It’s the kind of bin that only has a small opening at the top where you post the rubbish. Stops it blowing out again, I suppose. Or maybe it’s to stop terrorists popping their bombs inside? The cracked pavement and large recycling containers daubed with graffiti suggest otherwise. No, they’d not get much mileage from blowing up this bin. Although, if I had some explosives, I’d put them to work right now. Who knows why they put lids on bins nowadays, but it’s bloody typical of my luck that this one has one. There’s almost no space at the top to reach inside. I mean, why would most people even want to? There’s a lock on the front that whoever comes to empty it presumably has a key for. I contemplate waiting until that person turns up, but I have no idea how often they come. It could be once a week, for all I know. And it’s bloody cold. What the hell am I going to do?
I step closer, the pungent stink of rot and decay leaving its tang in my nostrils. I resort to breathing through my mouth. There’s nothing for it, if I want to get the letter out, I’m going to have to force my arm into the small gap and hope I can bend it sufficiently to reach inside.
I crouch down, pushing up the sleeve of my coat up to my elbow as I take a deep breath and insert my arm. It’s tight. My arm’s a little too wide. It quickly becomes wedged as my fingers grope about in nothing for a moment. I twist a little and my fingers brush against something solid... Too solid to be my letter. I register slimy wetness on the back of my hand and gag. Who knows what people have put in here. I gag again, forcing my arm further inside. The only way this can get worse is if my arm gets stuck.
“Mummy, what’s that lady doing?”
I look up to find the leaflet lady and her daughter both staring at me.
“Don’t stare darling, it’s not kind. You never know what hard times people might be up against.” The woman offers me a sympathetic smile. “Do you want me to fetch you a cup of tea and something to eat?” she asks.
I know she means it kindly, but the fact she’s assumed I’m homeless is a bit of a kick in the teeth. Maybe I shouldn’t wear this coat again. Maybe I should buy myself a new one. “Oh, that’s terribly kind of you,” I say. My voice sounds horribly prim – like Mummy’s when she’s trying to impress someone posh, “but really, I’m fine.”
