I feel like a kid again – the smell of the damp earth, racing over twigs and stones, the promise of tea and cake . . .
I wasn’t expecting Ben to have a car but when I see a dinky Fiat with a dent on the side panel it just seems to fit.
‘Actually, this is me!’ He points two cars back.
Suddenly the rain stops and the sun illuminates a shimmering gold sedan.
My head jerks back in surprise. ‘You drive a Mercedes?’
‘It’s an old one, I got it for three grand. Door’s open.’
‘Oh, I love it!’ I coo as I slide into the worn leather passenger seat. ‘Look at this dashboard!’
It has a glossy tortoiseshell finish with a chrome-trimmed cigarette lighter and narrow ivory steering wheel. As we pull away from the kerb, Ben drapes his arm out of the window like he’s on an American road trip, desert breeze wafting through his fingers. I can almost hear The Doobie Brothers playing, even though the stereo doesn’t work.
In a little over ten minutes we’re cruising down an unfamiliar high street with an enticingly quirky range of boutiques, cafes and knick-knack shops.
‘A bookshop!’ I cheer, twisting around – such a good reminder of all there is to know and wonder at in the world. ‘It always makes me happy to see one still going strong.’
‘There’s actually three here.’
‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘Where are we?’
‘Crouch End.’
‘Is this where you live?’
He gives a little shrug. ‘Until Wednesday.’
‘You’re moving?’ I can barely conceal my dismay. Already I’d compiled fantasies of Sunday coffee in the open-fronted cafe, laughing in the local pub with his mates, resting my head on his shoulder in the cinema, picnics and piggy-backs in the park and sunbeam-streaked photos with the big shaggy dog we adopted the day we decided to share a postcode.
‘I’ll probably be back in the summer,’ he consoles me.
‘Where will you be in between?’
‘Let’s see, next stop is Chiswick, then I’ve got a weekend in Chelsea, followed by nearly a month in Clapham.’
‘You only live in places beginning with C?’
‘That’s actually just a coincidence.’
‘Also a C.’ My eyes narrow.
He laughs as he slides neatly into a parking space. ‘I’m pet-sitting. This car is the closest thing I have to a fixed abode right now.’
‘So, are you in the process of looking for somewhere to live?’
‘Well, I was. But then the sits kept coming so I put the flat-hunting on hold and now I just can’t bring myself to pay a grand or so in rent when I can share a bed with three cats or an enormous Saint Bernard.’
‘Who on earth has a Saint Bernard in London?’
‘I can’t say, I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement.’
‘Seriously?’ My eyes widen.
‘Total C-lister, but all the same.’ He mimes zipping his lip.
‘Is it a fancy place?’
‘It’s big, with a big garden. And that’s really all I’m prepared to say.’
‘Wow.’
‘Come on.’ He gives my leg a little squeeze. ‘Cake time.’
As we head down the street I ask, in my most casual tone, how this house-hopping has impacted his romantic life . . .
‘In terms of bringing someone home? It hasn’t really come up, I’ve only been doing it for six months.’
I try not to look too pleased with his answer.
He tells me the bigger hassle is all the packing and unpacking – not so much his wardrobe but all the food items.
‘There have been several leaky soy sauce and melted butter incidents,’ he grimaces. ‘Plus, I seem to lose something every time I switch places. And sometimes I finish work and just stand there in the street thinking, Where am I staying? I drove halfway to Camden last month before I remembered I’d moved on.’
‘To . . .?’
‘Camberwell,’ he replies and then smiles. ‘You seem to have a point about the C thing . . .’
‘How long do you think you can last doing this?’ I ask. ‘I’m just curious, no judgement. I’m looking to buy a flat but now you’re making me wonder about other options!’ Like maybe housesitting for a year to add a bit more to my budget . . .
‘Well,’ he muses. ‘I’m twenty-five now—’
‘Wait! You’re twenty-five!’ I come to an abrupt halt. ‘I thought you were my age!’
‘I’ve had a rough couple of weeks sleep-wise,’ he says, rubbing his eyes. ‘The dog snores and the cat gets her kicks scaling the wall to flip the light switch – usually around four a.m. I certainly feel like I’ve aged ten years lately.’
Before I can fully process the decade age gap, he motions for me to step through the adjacent doorway.
‘This is the place?’
He nods. ‘After you.’
For a second, I think I’ve stepped into his grandmother’s sitting room – there’s chintz upholstery with lace antimacassars, standing lamps with peach tassles, framed photographs of kids with bowl cuts hung on floral wallpaper, a basket of yarn and knitting needles beside a chunky, wooden box TV, not to mention a pair of Noddy and Big Ears salt and pepper shakers.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘I truly couldn’t love it any more,’ I sigh.
‘I thought you’d like it.’ He looks chuffed.
It takes a very particular man to be able to enjoy homespun kitsch. Suddenly his age seems to be of very little consequence.
*
Rose and lemon loaf with glittery sprinkles. Banana bread with espresso butter. Chocolate Guinness cake with creamy frosting.
We order one of each to share, heeding the advice penned on a porcelain plate: THE MORE YOU WEIGH, THE HARDER YOU ARE TO KIDNAP. STAY SAFE – EAT CAKE!
My phone dies as I try to photograph it, though I may get it tattooed at a later date.
‘And your choice of tea?’ the waitress enquires.
We lean into the menu, sleeve to sleeve. I do like being in Ben’s personal space. I linger over the description of the Oolong Iron Buddha just to prolong the proximity.
‘How about this one?’ He points to the Darjeeling Second Flush. ‘In case you don’t know, a flush begins when the tea plant grows new leaves and ends when those leaves are harvested. I used to do the tea service at the Waldorf.’
‘I believe you, and yet you seem to have a particularly mischievous look on your face . . .’
‘Did you see this plate?’ He attempts – and succeeds – in distracting me with more quotes.
‘My theory is that all Scottish cuisine is based on a dare,’ I read with a giggle.
‘I saw one last week that has become my motto for life: When nothing goes right, go left!’
‘Brilliant!’ I enthuse. ‘If it’s not working, make a different choice.’
‘Exactly! And speaking of going left . . .’ He ushers me up a couple of steps and through a doorway.
If the initial area was styled after a front room, we are now entering the boudoir. There’s a chaste single bed with floral sheets and a hot water bottle set alongside a vanity table with a three-fold mirror and a white plastic hairdryer, perfect for Seventies flicks.
But the pièce de résistance – or should that be piss de résistance – is the powder pink bathroom suite: pink tiles, pink sink, pink loo with ultra-frilly nylon covering.
‘Who would sit there?’ I gasp. ‘I mean, someone would actually have to sit on the toilet!’
‘And today that someone is you!’
‘No way!’ I shrink back.
‘You have to – I called to reserve it!’
‘You didn’t!’ I gasp, wondering if that was what he was up to when he seemed to disappear at the cemetery. ‘But where will you sit?’
‘On the laundry basket.’ He points to the wicker unit, padded with a neatly folded pink towel.
I shake my head. ‘This is blowing my mind.’
We slot into position to allow the waitress to place our order on a sheet of glass covering the sink.
‘I can’t believe I’m going to eat cake sat on a toilet!’
She holds up a teapot commemorating Charles and Diana’s wedding. ‘Darjeeling?’
‘Second flush, that’s me!’ I raise my hand.
As Ben hoots with mirth, the penny drops. I look down at the toilet then cover my face with my hands. ‘I knew you were up to something!’
‘Would you mind taking a picture?’ he asks the waitress, handing her his phone.
‘What, now that my face is the same colour as the fixtures?’
He tells me not to worry – I look great! – but the image tells a different story: between the rain spritzing and Ben’s artistic tousling I now have the same frazzled locks as the doll covering the toilet roll.
‘Isn’t it funny how dolls’ hair always ends up all matted and mad?’ I muse. ‘I know I ruined mine with a mix of talc and my mum’s tongs.’
Ben takes a closer look at the doll’s outfit – a voluminous pink crocheted number, a cross between a tea cosy and a Disney princess. ‘They need to do an updated version of this,’ he decides. ‘Something like Billy Porter’s black velvet gown from the Oscars.’
‘Wasn’t that sublime?’ I sigh. ‘I actually know a brother and sister team that could make that happen.’
As we tuck into our cakes, the conversation veers from friends to fashion to school uniforms, worst childhood hairstyles and then teenage crushes. I try to get him on the subject of more recent exes but all I glean is that his last girlfriend was a tattoo artist, which makes me question whether I’m remotely his type. Mind you, he’s also very different to anyone I’ve dated. I’ll say one thing about this ‘which cup is the ball under’ style of dating – it’s making me give men a chance that I wouldn’t normally have thought I could have a future with.
‘Fancy another cuppa?’ he offers.
‘I do indeed – and maybe we could try the scone with the fig jam?’
This time round I insist Ben gets the toilet seat and he pairs it with some toilet humour, showing me some graffiti he saw in a recent cubicle: ‘Dear Automatic Flush – I appreciate your enthusiasm but I wasn’t done.’
‘I always seem to have the opposite experience,’ I confide. ‘I’m waving my hand trying to trigger the sensor, pressing everything that could pass for a button . . .’
‘You know the C-lister’s house? They have a toilet with an LED light in the lid for night-time peeing with six colour options!’
‘No! What did you choose?’
‘Well, green felt too alien, red too Amsterdam but blue was quite soothing.’
We’ve really run the conversational gamut today. Eventually we look up and realise we are the last people here. If the bed in the corner could accommodate two people, I’d happily snuggle up and keep chatting through till the vegan breakfast serving.
‘You don’t know if there are any estate agents around here?’ I ask as I gather up my bag.
‘You’re thinking of moving here just to be near this place?’
‘Well, it does feel like the next best thing to a guinea pig cafe with Phoebe Waller-Bridge behind the counter,’ I reply. ‘But honestly, I like the whole area, the cosy village feel . . .’
‘Well then, let’s go have a look.’
Of course, the flat next door to Gareth would still be my first choice but given the slim chance of that coming to fruition, this would be an excellent consolation prize.
*
As it happens, the estate agents are all closed but several boutiques are calling to me with their multi-textured, muted-hue wares promising instant serenity if I just purchased a macramé plant holder, a set of sage smudging sticks and a bar of activated charcoal soap.
‘You want to look inside, don’t you?’
I feign indifference though internally I’m swooning at the idea of ‘desert ghost flower’ scented candles. ‘Some other time.’
‘I really don’t mind!’
My eyes narrow. ‘Is this some kind of trick?’
He leans in. ‘Haven’t you heard – they’ve created this device for increasing the male shopping tolerance by up to five hundred per cent?’ He holds up his phone with a smirk.
Now I’m smiling. ‘I’ll just be a few minutes.’
As I step inside I almost feel like we’re a boyfriend and girlfriend at that nice harmonious stage where you can tootle off and do your own thing and then happily reunite. At least I’ve heard of such things; I’ve never actually experienced it myself.
I’m rifling through a rail of cute sweaters with coloured pom-pom bobbles when I come to a cluster of silk camis. I pull out the black one with the deep V of spidery lace at the décolletage and then look back through the window. Ben is leaning on the wall, contentedly tapping away on his phone. This could be just what I need to step up my game.
‘May I try this?’
The petite assistant pushes back the curtain to the changing room and then swishes it semi-closed behind me. It’s one of those cubicles that never quite seals you from view and makes you wonder how much of a peep show you are putting on, but I want to see what it looks like with nothing underneath so I quickly strip and slip it over my head at double-speed. It certainly feels pleasingly slinky on my skin. I give my hair a fluff, imagining inviting him over for dinner, putting on a little Nat King Cole, teaming the cami with a pair of jeans and a slinky gold chain like the Instagram babes do. I might even get some shimmery body lotion . . . Suddenly I’m so impatient for that moment I want to rush over and tap on the window and mouth, ‘What do you think?’ but with my cleavage that’s a move that needs to be reserved for a private viewing.
‘I’ll take it!’ I say as I emerge.
My heart is racing at the till and I find myself adding a pair of pale blue drop earrings.
‘You look happy!’ Ben smiles as I exit, swinging my bag.
‘I am!’
I want him to ask what I bought so I can say, ‘You’ll have to wait and see . . .’ but instead he tells me he was just texting his friends and they want to know if we’d like to join them at the cinema – he points across the street to the cool, glass-fronted picture house. ‘And there’s the option of an Italian after.’
‘Italian!’ I jump, looking at my watch, then clamping my hand over my mouth. I’d completely forgotten about Tristan!
‘That looks like a no . . .’
‘Ben, I’m so sorry! I’m supposed to be having dinner with . . . ’ – I catch myself – ‘a potential client. For work. I completely lost track of time!’ I spin around, unsure of the speediest route from here. I can’t even use my phone for directions.
‘Where do you need to get to?’
‘Mayfair.’
‘Okay. Quickest option is the tube. I’ll drop you at Finsbury Park so you can get the Piccadilly line straight down . . .’
‘No, no I don’t want to throw out your evening.’ I can’t have Date Number One drive me to Date Number Two, it’s just wrong. ‘I’ll get a taxi.’
‘Come on, the car’s right here.’ He’s already striding towards it.
I scurry after him. ‘It’s really so nice of you.’ I feel all jumbled up as we bundle in, then brace myself, hand on the dashboard, as we begin dipping and weaving through the traffic.
‘You certainly know your way around!’ I note.
He shrugs. ‘One of the benefits of house-hopping – all the different areas start to patchwork together . . .’
‘I can’t even imagine driving in London,’ I say, flinching at a near miss with a cyclist.
‘It’s one of those things where the only way to find it less scary is to do it more. Right. If the next lights are red, you’re best jumping out. You see where to go?’
I nod vigorously, tucking my boutique bag into my tote and preparing to unclick the seat belt.
‘Okay, go dazzle them!’
Oh god. ‘Thank you!’ I squeal as I bundle out.
I feel decidedly off-key as I run towards the tube station. This is so absurd – cutting the flow on a date that is going well in order to start another one off on the wrong foot. I’ve even done myself out of a farewell embrace with Ben, leaving me with no sense of when – or even if – we’re going to see each other again. Clattering down the escalator, I’m also aware of a guilty sensation – as if I’ve sold out Crouch End for Mayfair. It would serve me right if I get there and Tristan’s already gone.
‘Excuse me, sorry!’ I squeeze into the carriage, find a rail to hold and take out my phone, clicking and depressing every button in the hope that it will magically come back to life. No such luck. I can’t warn Tristan that I’m running late and I can’t get May to meet me at the entrance with my change of outfit. What can I do? I go to rummage in my bag to see if I can at least find my lip gloss but another surge of people squish in at King’s Cross and now all I can do is spend the next six stops hoping that a) he’s later than me, b) the maître d’ has us down for a low-lit booth tucked at the back of the restaurant and c) the strange sweaty-food smell coming from the man next to me isn’t transferring onto my outfit . . .
