Ant had picked up the girls late Friday afternoon. He’d rented a cottage in Wales, he said, and snow was forecast. There would be an open fire and they had marshmallows to toast. The girls were excited and climbed into the car with an enthusiasm that pained me.
Catching sight of Amy in the passenger seat peering out at me, I waved them off and closed the front door. I stood for a moment, contemplating the silence of the house. I blew through pursed lips. ‘You’re OK,’ I said out loud. ‘You can do this.’
Friday evening was fine. Actually, if I’m honest, I’d even have to say it was nice. I heated up a frozen quiche and downed the best part of a bottle of wine. I watched a romantic comedy on Sky and ate a family-size bar of Fruit and Nut.
Saturday was OK, too. I hoovered and mopped, I stripped, washed and folded; I took pleasure in how clean my house looked.
But Sunday left me edgy, and by Monday I was feeling tearful. It was silly, I told myself. New Year’s Eve was an evening like any other. It was better than spending it with Ant, after all! I could snuggle with a book. I could eat anything I wanted. I’d be fine!
By seven I was flailing, so I phoned Kerry in Rome. She was getting ready for a night on the town, she said. A friend of hers was DJing in a nightclub. She’d probably be out dancing until dawn.
I was shocked by the contrast between our lives. How come lesbians get to have all the fun? I wondered. I supposed it was the fact that Kerry didn’t have kids that made the difference, but then my own children were away for the weekend, and I wasn’t heading out clubbing, was I?
I told her about Christmas and she said the obvious thing: why didn’t I invite Joe over? That was another idea I’d had floating on the edge of consciousness for days, another thing I’d been refusing to confront face on.
‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘It would be weird.’
‘Why would it be any weirder than Christmas?’ Kerry asked.
‘Well, to start with, there’d be no kids,’ I explained. ‘So it would be just the two of us. It would be awkward.’
‘Then go out,’ Kerry said. ‘Go to the pub. Have a drink.’
‘I never really go to pubs. Or not in the evening, at any rate.’
‘Well, try it,’ she said. ‘Make an effort, for Christ’s sake. Or go to a restaurant. Take him for a nice meal out.’
‘Then it would really feel like a date,’ I said, finally spearing the elephant in the room.
‘Oh,’ Kerry said, and I could sense that I suddenly had her full attention. ‘You don’t fancy him, do you?’
‘Of course I don’t. No, absolutely not.’
‘Well then,’ Kerry said. ‘Where’s the problem?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It just doesn’t feel right, I suppose.’
‘What’s he like, anyway?’ she asked then. ‘This Joe . . . Tell me about him.’
‘He’s just a really nice bloke. He’s ordinary.’
‘Ordinary,’ Kerry repeated. ‘Ordinary, as in boring?’
‘No, more in a good way,’ I told her. ‘He’s quite clever, actually. He’s one of those people who, if you talk to him, he knows what you mean immediately. You don’t have to spell everything out. He’s got that, you know, emotional intelligence, I think they call it. He reads people quite well. He likes to joke quite a lot, too. He’s quite funny when he wants to be. He surprised me on Christmas day – I gave Lucy a guitar – and Joe picked it up and started playing. Just like that. He’s really good, actually, and his voice is incredible. He’s ever so honest, as well. Quite shockingly honest sometimes. But it’s better to know where you stand with people, don’t you think?’ I suddenly realised how long I’d been talking about Joe and pulled a face. ‘Anyway . . .’ I added vaguely. It was an invitation to Kerry to change the subject.
Instead, she said, ‘And physically?’
‘Oh, he’s really nothing special, Kes,’ I said, trying to make up for my bout of overenthusiasm for all things Joe. But as I said it, I pictured his chunky body and, for the first time ever, imagined myself kissing him. The image my mind had created shocked me, and I felt lucky that Kerry wasn’t there to see me blush.
‘Tall, short?’ Kerry said. ‘I’m just trying to imagine him.’
‘He’s sort of average height and chunky,’ I said. ‘Thickset.’
‘You mean fat?’
‘No, no, he isn’t fat at all. His job’s pretty physical – he’s a kitchen fitter. So no, he’s quite muscular, but in a sort of rugby-man kind of way. Not like a runner or whatever.’
‘Right,’ Kerry said. ‘So let me get this right. He’s clever and funny and sings; he’s fit and looks like a rugby-man . . . But you don’t fancy him at all.’
‘No,’ I said. Then, ‘Oh, I don’t know, Kes! But there’s nothing cooking there anyway, so . . .’
On hanging up, I poured a glass of wine to calm my nerves and thought about my phone call with Kerry. I reran the conversation in my head – hearing how I’d sounded like I had an adolescent crush on Joe – and I wondered if what I was feeling was real. And then I thought about what Kerry had said. Because her final attempt at persuading me had really hit the spot. ‘He’s probably alone and feeling miserable as well,’ she’d said. ‘Don’t be so bloody selfish. Call him.’
Eventually,
