What? What? I stare at May’s one message. She just leaves me hanging?
Or I suppose technically I left her hanging, seeing as I didn’t respond due to my smashed phone.
I reread her words.
It just occurred to me what we overlooked on the night of the wedding . . .
Does she mean there’s a new contender? A new clue. Could it be the vicar? I don’t even remember what he looks like. He wasn’t at the dinner but perhaps he came back for the party?
Call me when you surface! I tap to May, wondering if she’s still with her date. I’m just headed to see Mum.
I won’t mention that I’m seeing her in hospital in a text.
When I do get there, Mum is sitting up in bed, looking physically fine but having one of her ‘away days’ mentally. Which is okay because I’m hardly with it myself. She keeps talking about Jimmy, looking around the ward, wondering where the love of her life has got to. I can certainly relate to that.
I have a pleasant, positive chat with the doctor who says she’s ready to go back to the nursing home and I’m delighted to see Lidia arriving to help facilitate that.
‘So, on a lighter note, your mum has decided on her outfit for the party,’ Lidia tells me as we wait for the parting paperwork. ‘But I don’t know how you’re going to feel about it.’
I brace myself for Karen from Will & Grace but instead she tells me it’s Roz from Frasier.
‘Oh well, that’s easy. She’s already got a cashmere sweater and a pencil skirt.’
‘Well, it’s a little more elaborate than that, we might need a fitting . . .’
‘With Jay? Sure thing, I can arrange that,’ I say, tapping him a text as we speak, including her number so they can speak directly. ‘Did you want any help with your outfit?’
‘I’m actually all set.’
‘As . . .?’
‘You’ll have to wait and see!’ She winks. ‘What about you?’
‘I still can’t decide.’
Lidia gives me a sympathetic look, all too familiar with the emotionally vulnerable. ‘It’s Sunday, why don’t you go home, get into your pjs and binge-watch sitcoms until you find one that resonates?’
I take her suggestion like it’s a prescription and, as it happens, hit a home run with my first sitcom selection. Even Jay would approve of the retro vibe of Zooey Deschanel’s outfits in New Girl and I could easily get some black-framed glasses and a clip-on fringe . . .
The more I watch, the more hooked I get. It’s so great when you’ve missed out on a series when it first aired and then discover you now have 146 episodes to power through. I can even justify my compulsive viewing as a form of research into the masculine psyche for the skincare account thanks to Jess’s three male roommates, who range from metrosexual to someone who cuts their own hair. The bathroom scenes are especially helpful in terms of filling the gaps left by my personal reference points, i.e. Jay, who could take over a beauty counter at the bat of an eye, and Gareth who probably wouldn’t notice if you removed his bathroom mirror.
I’m just wondering why none of the characters are acknowledging the ringing phone when I realise it is my own shiny new phone set to an unfamiliar ringtone. Better yet, it’s May calling.
‘Finally!’ I crow, excited to chat.
‘I can’t talk now, meet me at Zannoni’s at six p.m. tomorrow.’
I give a startled laugh. ‘Sounds like a line from a thriller! Please don’t get murdered en route.’
‘What?’
‘You know how the person who has discovered the identity of the killer always gets bumped off en route to the meeting place.’
‘What am I missing?’
‘Your text? From last night.’ I roll my eyes. ‘The thing we overlooked at the wedding?’
‘Oh god, what was that? It came to me in a flash but I was half-cut at the time . . .’
‘May!’ I despair.
‘It’ll come back to me. I’ve got to go, the show is about to start.’
I don’t get to ask her what show or whether this is an extension of her date because the line cuts out. For a minute I sit in a daze. So much for a breakthrough.
I decide to finish off the last of my blackberry gelato then press play and watch another episode and another until my eyelids droop. I then fall asleep for nine hours straight and have a sex dream about, of all people, Elliot.
*
The next morning at work we dive directly into mocking up packaging ideas, in all the neutral tones you would expect men’s skincare to come in – charcoals, tans, leather browns. We look at fonts that imply everything from cowboy swagger to camera-ready sophistication. And then we have a team meeting to look at the possible charities we could pair up with.
‘You know, one simple option would be to join that global network of businesses giving one per cent of profits to environmental non-profit organisations. Collectively they’ve given back more than two hundred million dollars to save the planet. You can be any size business – from a household name to someone like my friend Gareth with his flower shop.’ I pause. ‘You don’t look convinced?’
‘I think they might think that’s a bit airy-fairy,’ Boss Lindsey says, wincing.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Saving the planet. I mean, it’s not going to happen, is it? I think they’d probably prefer something a bit more tangible with actual faces and stories of people impacted. You know – we raised fifty thousand pounds and we bought this life-changing item for this disadvantaged group.’
I open my mouth to offer a counter argument but Becky chimes in, ‘Can’t it be for animals? Everyone likes animals.’
‘Not everyone,’ Lindsey sneers.
‘What about mental illness? That’s trending now.’
Oh my goodness. It’s a good thing our business meetings aren’t recorded.
I come away more confused than ever. As usual, there are way too many cooks. I mean, you put six different personalities in a room, everyone is going to be pulling in different directions. And don’t even get me started on focus groups.
By the end of the day I’m feeling keen to let off a bit of steam and all but run to Zannoni’s.
‘Hey, girl!’ May gives me a faux Valley Girl wave.
‘Hey, May!’ I say, falling heavily into her arms.
‘Right back atcha,’ she sighs, gripping me tight.
‘How was the date?’ I say as we slide into our regular booth.
She gives a ‘whatever’ shrug. ‘I’ve got to stop messing with these fashion girls.’
‘You’re a fashion girl.’
‘Exactly – how can I be surprised and amazed when I’m looking in the mirror?’
‘Ladies. Your pizza.’
We’ve got this down to a fine art – May orders en route to the restaurant and the pizza arrives at our pre-reserved table minutes after we do. I mean, it’s the start of the week, you have to cut to the chase.
We normally get a couple of Peroni to go with the oozy slices but today the waitress is recommending cider to offset the six-cheese topping. Yes, six.
‘Ooh, now that’s a good call,’ I say as I take a swig of the chilled apple bubbles.
‘Almost sherbetty,’ May notes as she reads the label. ‘Devon Mist – doesn’t that sound alluring?’
I make a grab for her hand. ‘Why don’t we just run away to Devon for the weekend? Forget our city girl woes, just for a night!’
‘I’m listening.’ She leans in.
‘We can take the train to Torquay on Friday, be there in time for a fish and chip dinner, do the Agatha Christie escape room at Torre Abbey on Saturday and be back in time for the fancy dress party on Sunday. No dates, no drama, just cream teas, cider and crime-solving.’
‘I can’t say I’m entirely opposed to this.’
I beam back at her. ‘If the others want to come, great. If not, we’ll have a fun trip and a blast of sea air.’ I take another bite of pizza and get a dob of bright red sauce on my top. ‘Every flipping time.’
‘You need to get cold running water on that now. And then some soap.’
I huff irritatedly. May will have gone off the idea by the time I come back – found at least three reasons why it’s bad timing or the train fares are too jacked up this close to travel, which is probably true. I just want to believe there’s a place I could go where I wouldn’t feel so frustrated. It’s tiring chasing down a man who doesn’t want to be found.
‘Do you know there are a ton of female farmers in Devon?’ May looks up from her phone when I return to the table, now with a wet splotch across my tummy.
‘Are we going there looking for love now?’
‘Not necessarily but I thought I’d give it a quick google on the off-chance that my dream gal has a farmhouse and a herd of cattle.’
I give a little snuffle but May looks sincere. ‘I just feel like something has to change. I think I may have reached my limit of flawless faces with vacant stares. I go to put my pictures up on Instagram and every one could be captioned, “Unclouded by thought . . .” It might be nice to see some ruddy cheeks and muddy boots.’
I flashback to my snug under the stairs at the wedding, thinking fondly of that tweed dog bed and how the Wellies were calling to me to kick off my stilettos and slide into their solid rubbery form. And then my heart dips and I feel as if magical fairy dust is being sprinkled over my inner organs.
‘Mmmm . . .’ I give an involuntary gurgle of pleasure.
‘What was that?’ May looks vaguely grossed out.
I sit upright, trying to get a firm grip on the sensation. ‘Something happened by the staircase at the wedding. I remember hiding under there early on and talking to Ben but this is different.’ I swoon again. ‘Whoever this mystery guy is, he’s gorgeous!’ I say. ‘My whole body is in love with him.’
May suddenly grips my hand. ‘That’s it – mystery guy!’
‘What?’
‘This is what I was thinking last night – what if there were other guests staying the same night as us? I mean, I know it was supposed to be exclusive use for the wedding party but what if the owner had a friend or relative in town?’
‘I guess it’s worth getting Charlotte to look into it when she gets back.’
‘Of course it is,’ May insists. ‘For all we know there’s a younger, hotter, less gratingly posh brother of the owner, also blighted by a lifetime of first kiss premonitions and disappointments!’
My eyes widen. ‘Well, that would be something.’
‘He could have snuck out from their quarters to take a peek at the wedding and spied a vision in lilac . . .’
‘He wonders how she’s still standing having consumed so much booze,’ I chime in.
‘Perhaps he reaches out a hand to steady her just as “Someone to Watch Over Me” comes on.’
‘Was there a slow dance section?’
‘Of course! They sway to the music, lost in their own world.’
‘Go on.’ I’m warming to this now.
‘He wants to hold her in his arms forever but her friends are calling her, like midnight calling to Cinderella.’
‘That’s very poetic,’ I note.
‘Thank you. She turns back, raises up on her tiptoes and kisses him.’
‘So he’s tall?’
‘You’ve taken off your shoes by this point so it’s hard to say. Anyway, there’s a kiss and you have a shared premonition of a long and happy life together.’
I sit back and take a large gulp of cider. ‘That’s awesome. So where is he now?’
‘Well, I imagine in his excitement at having found you he took the stairs two at a time, tripped on some family heirloom and has been out with a concussion and amnesia ever since.’
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘Ladies, would you like to see the dessert menu?’ The waitress makes her peppy enquiry.
‘Share a lemon mascarpone cake?’ I suggest.
‘Always,’ May confirms.
As soon as the waitress has gone I ask, ‘Is he going to get his memory back, my mystery man?’
‘It’s touch and go.’
‘May!’
‘Of course,’ she laughs. ‘The minute he sees you.’
I smile back at her. ‘Okay, so that’s me all sorted, what about you?’
She scoots closer so I can join in her farm girl scrolling. ‘Could you see me living in Truro with eighty-five thousand free-range hens?’
‘Um . . .’
‘This chick at St Ewe looks hot. She’s even made Poultry Farmer of the Year shortlist. Twice.’
I raise a brow.
‘What? I don’t think it’s as far-fetched as it sounds. We could get Charlotte to host some events on the farm – give a whole new meaning to hen party . . .’
We burst out laughing.
‘I feel like this cider is filling our heads with crazy notions,’ I note, wiping a tear from my eye.
‘It is. Shall we have another one?’
‘Let’s have another two!’
