Fiona and I spread out the picnic blanket. Settle. Whilst we eat and drink, we swap the odd comment but don’t commit to a conversation.
‘Oh my God, that brie.’
‘Good?’
‘Heaven.’
‘Tear me off some bread, will you?’
‘Top-up?’
We don’t feel the need for constant chatter. We have known one another for twelve years. We don’t have many surprises to offer each other. There are few, if any, stories we haven’t shared. This week’s news and gossip from our respective offices has been dissected. It doesn’t matter, the silence between us is comfortable, companionable. We met just after we graduated, in the waiting room of a recruitment agency. Both of us clueless. I didn’t know much more than I wanted to work ‘in an office’. Fiona wanted to work ‘in fashion or interiors, something not boring’. We struck up a conversation and then after we’d both registered and interviewed we went for a coffee, eager to share our dreams and admit to our insecurities. We just clicked, easily and instantly became close. Thank God I have Fiona. I think I love her more than anyone else in the world. I don’t want this to be the case. I want to love my husband and my kids more but since neither thing exists, I’m grateful I have Fiona to love.
We first flat-shared years ago, then went our separate ways. We both broke up from serious relationships around our thirtieth birthdays, neither of us could afford our own place, or bear to be alone, so we got a place together again. It was convenient, often fun. It was supposed to be a temporary measure, we didn’t buy, not wanting to tie up our cash. That was three years ago. Property prices have gone up so much since then. We should have bought.
Fiona puts on her headphones and closes her eyes. I reach for my paperback. I open it where the bookmark nestles but don’t start reading. The sun is glaring, the glass of prosecco I’ve already downed is oozing around my bloodstream. I keep losing my spot on the page, rereading the same paragraph over again. I let my gaze drift to those around me. I like people-watching. I always have. In fact, I secretly feel considerably more comfortable observing than participating. Sunglasses offer a benefit. No one can tell if you are staring at them too long, too hard, trying to work them out. That is my habit. Working people out. Trying to solve the puzzle of who they are and what makes them tick. I’ve been told it makes me a little intense. It’s just I believe that there are people in this world who are simply better at living and being involved than others. They have the knack. A zest. I’m not one of them. I think maybe if I stare at such people for long enough, I’ll learn, discover the capability of being adult, of fitting in, maybe even thriving – something that seems eternally elusive to me.
I’m not deluded. As I glance about I see that there are cranky, cross parents squabbling with one another because one of them is fed up of pushing their offspring on the swing, whilst the other has their phone glued to their ear. Some are bickering, others have nothing to say to one another. Family life isn’t a guarantee for happiness. God, I know that. But I also see the families that are the goal. The ones that laugh at the cuteness of their chubby toddler doing something mundane like picking a daisy or petting a dog. The ones that hand over enormous ice creams to grasping pudgy hands and bask in the beam that the child throws out in return. I know it’s a habit I need to kick. This professional voyeurism. It’s unhealthy. I need to get involved, not ceaselessly hover around the edges of life. If I could afford to see a therapist, she’d most likely want to talk about me confronting my fertility issues. I wouldn’t want to talk about the matter. It’s probably a good thing I can’t afford a therapist.
His hair is thick and black. So black I think he must dye it because I’d put him in his late thirties, early forties and most people that age are fighting grey, right? Fleetingly, I think less of him for it. A man carrying such vanity seems off-putting. Which is a) stupid because this man I’m staring at hasn’t asked me to ogle him and probably doesn’t care at all what I think of his grooming habits and b) it’s deeply hypocritical of me, sexist, because I dye my hair, always have. Since my teens, for fun and fashion. And – for about the past three months – for what I think of as necessity. Holding back the tide. Prematurely (I like to think) some nasty white hairs (not grey – straight to white – I’m that extreme) have suddenly started to sprout around my hairline like mushrooms in a boggy autumnal field.
But his eyebrows are dark, and the hairs on his legs are dark too so maybe he doesn’t dye it. He has a great jawline, strong, definite. He’s tanned. A lot of London men spend long hours hunched over laptops and it shows. This man looks like he spends a significant amount of time outdoors. This handsome man is only average height, five ten, maybe eleven, but he looks especially strong and purposeful. He’s muscular, he picks up his boys and swings them onto his shoulders with ridiculous ease. Both boys at the same time, like someone performing in a circus! I don’t think he’s trying to draw attention, but he is. He’s compelling. I notice a number of women take furtive sideways glances, even the ones with their own husbands and children. The boys look aged about two
