‘You could come anyway,’ Sheena said. ‘It’s supposed to be really good.’
Anthony glanced up at the poster above our heads, momentarily considering it, I think. But then he said, ‘Nah. Not really my sort of film.’
The queue suddenly shuffled forward and, as ever, desperate to end the embarrassment of talking to a man, I faked a laugh and said, ‘Well, it was good to see you,’ before staring at my feet, then at Sheena, and finally turning resolutely towards the front of the queue.
‘Call me sometime,’ Anthony said. He was holding out a business card. ‘Let me give you some DIY tips.’
‘You get my vote, honey,’ Sheena said, taking the card. I snatched it from her and slipped it into my coat pocket. ‘Thanks,’ I told Anthony, hoping it would get rid of him, ‘I will.’ At that moment the queue moved forward again, and as we’d reached the glass door into the lobby I gave him a fingertip wave and stepped inside.
I stared at my feet for a moment longer until I saw from the corner of my vision that he had swooshed away in his long coat.
When I looked up, Sheena was frowning at me. ‘Was that the bloke from Homebase you told me about?’ she asked. ‘The one who wanted to put up your bog roll holder?’
‘B&Q,’ I said, ‘not Homebase.’
‘Don’t just do it, B&Q it,’ she said salaciously. ‘He’s hot.’
‘He’s a property developer,’ I commented. I’d pulled the card from my pocket and was studying it. His surname was Doyle. ‘Anthony Doyle,’ I murmured out loud. And then, rather pathetically, I couldn’t resist trying out another combination in my mind. Heather Doyle. It didn’t sound so bad.
‘He’s smoking hot,’ Sheena said. ‘You should get in there. I bloody would.’
‘I know you would, even though you’re married!’ I said. She was reaching out for the card, so I slipped it back into my pocket.
‘I’m not actually married . . .’ she said, winking. ‘You are going to call him, aren’t you?’
I shrugged again.
‘God! The way you go on about being single . . .’ she said. ‘It’s all day, every day. It’s all you talk about most of the time. How there are no decent men around, or they’re all gay, or blah blah blah. And then something like this happens . . . I mean, a good-looking bloke . . . a very good-looking bloke, actually. Virtually lapping at your feet and—’
‘Please stop,’ I said. I’d had these conversations with my nursing friends many times, but they didn’t help. My incapacity to find a man always remained as much a mystery to myself as it was to them.
‘Get a grip,’ Sheena continued. ‘Stop acting like an adolescent and just, you know, grab life by the balls. Grab Anthony by the balls, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Just . . . stop!’ I said again, more forcefully than I’d intended. ‘I know, all right? It’s just . . .’
‘Just what?’
‘I’m not convinced, that’s all.’
‘Something’s wrong with you,’ Sheena said.
‘You think?’ I asked, trying to sound sassy.
‘You know who you’re going to end up like?’ she continued. ‘Bridget Jones! A hundred years old in a room full of cats. You do realise that, don’t you?’
‘Actually, Bridget ends up with Colin Firth,’ I pointed out. But we had reached the ticket booth, so I didn’t have to listen to Sheena’s depressing view of my future any longer.
The film was a bit of a waste, really. I was too busy thinking about Anthony, about the card in my coat pocket and getting old in a room full of cats. I was too busy thinking about the fact that I was thirty-three, that I’d always imagined having children but was running out of time; about the fact that I’d had sex on only a handful of occasions, and had only ever dated for the sum total of three weeks during nursing college (he’d turned out to be a heavy drinker, which had been a definite no-no). But Sheena was right, something was wrong with me, I had known it for years, and so I spent the rest of the film wondering, not for the first time, if there was some special kind of shrink or dating coach I could consult to get over my fear of talking to men. Because otherwise I really was going to be single for ever.
What happened next was entirely Sheena’s fault.
We went for coffee after the film and, while I was in the loo, she fished, unbeknown to me, my phone and Anthony’s card from my pocket.
I noticed how strangely buoyant she seemed during the half an hour we were together, but I didn’t guess why until I got home.
I fed Dandy and sat down on the sofa, and as I reached for the TV remote, my indestructible Nokia buzzed with an incoming SMS.
‘Wow. Now there’s a programme!’ the message read. ‘Happy to help. Let me know when you are free.’
I frowned at the screen and, thinking that it was a wrong number, was about to delete the message when it occurred to me to check my own sent message list.
‘LOVELY TO SEE U TODAY,’ the outgoing text read. ‘IF THE OFFERS STILL ON ID LOVE YOU TO TEACH ME HOW TO DRILL. AND SCREW.’
‘Oh Christ!’ I said out loud, a sickening feeling rising. ‘Oh, the cow!’ And then I reread the message Sheena had sent and noticed the full stop she had inserted between DRILL. AND SCREW. Typing text messages on a Nokia back then was no mean feat, requiring multiple presses for each letter. Punctuation did not happen by accident. I felt so embarrassed I had to fight back tears.
Anthony, it turned out, really was ‘into me’, though. Now he had my number, the text messages didn’t stop.
His enthusiasm still made no sense to me – I honestly couldn’t understand what the attraction was. But after a few days, encouraged, nay pushed, by Sheena, I started to go along with it, just to
