is firmly screwed on. I get the warm glow of satisfaction that comes with knowing I’ve made a right decision. We’re going to get on great. ‘What kind of show?’
Picking up his clothes he walks out the bathroom. Then he goes and spoils it all by telling me something I really don’t want to hear.
Chapter Eleven
‘ H e’s a stand-up comic.’
The next morning as soon as Gabe leaves the flat I phone Jess to tell her my terrible news. Despite the hangover that’s imprisoning her under the duvet with a blister-pack of ibuprofen, she summons the energy to be as horrified as I am. A sign, if ever there was one, of a true friend. ‘You’re joking!’
‘No, he’s the one joking.’ I wedge the phone under my ear. With one hand I hang on to my bowl of cereal, while with the other I grab the milk from the fridge. ‘He’s a stand-up-bloody-comedian.’
There’s muffled laughter. ‘Knock knock,’ she teases weakly.
‘Oh, please, don’t.’ I plonk myself down at the kitchen table, which is littered with magazines, unopened mail and God knows what else. Balancing my bowl on top, I begin munching on a mouthful of All Bran. ‘It’s not funny,’ I say, my voice muffled with horrid-tasting little brown sticks. God, I wish I could hurry up and lose those few pounds. I hate having to eat this stuff.
‘They never are.’ She laughs throatily. ‘That’s the problem.’
‘So, is he still your Plan B?’ I ask, still munching.
‘No, he’s not what I’m looking for.’ She sounds as if she’s talking about a lamp at IKEA. ‘He’s too American.’
‘So what?’
‘Heather, I’m looking for a serious boyfriend. I don’t want a long-distance relationship. Haven’t you seen Green Card ?’
‘But didn’t Gérard Depardieu play a Frenchman in that?’
‘He plays a Frenchman in every film,’ yawns Jess. ‘Like Hugh Grant’s always a stuttering English toff. But that’s not the point. The point is I’m into ticking boxes, not creating new problems like having to deal with all that immigration crap. And then there’s the culture clash.’
I love Jess. Ever the romantic. ‘Well, now you put it like that,’ I murmur, contemplating another mouthful of cereal and wishing I could have a pain au chocolat instead.
‘What are you going to do?’ she persists.
‘About what?’ Curiously I eye a little leather notebook lying on the table among the mess. It looks like the one I’ve seen Gabe scribbling in. I wonder what’s in it.
‘Gabe being a stand-up comedian,’ she says, barely able to keep the laughter out of her voice.
I’m beginning to think Jess is enjoying this. ‘Isn’t there a saying about how you’ve got to laugh or you’ll cry?’ I say absently, stretching out my arm and flicking open the notebook. Well, one little peek won’t hurt.
‘Absolutely,’ agrees Jess, supportively. ‘You’ve got to laugh.’
On the first page, in curly blue handwriting are the words: ‘My Top Ten Mother-in-Law Jokes’. I snatch my hand back. Actually, on second thoughts . . .
As it turns out I’m spared any mother-in-law jokes over the next few days as I barely see my new flatmate. In fact, apart from the occasional ‘Hi, how’s it going?’ when I’m arriving and he’s leaving, it’s almost as if he never moved in. Almost, but not quite.
Little things begin to appear. A collection of spices in the kitchen, a carton of soya milk in the fridge, a new loofah the size of a French baguette in the shower. But there’s something else – and it has nothing to do with his Wilco CD that I found by the stereo, or his brightly patterned beach towel neatly folded next to the sink. It’s a feeling.
For weeks I’d been dreading the thought of having a stranger in my flat, hated the idea of a man who wasn’t Daniel soaking in my bath, but all my fears were unfounded. It’s fine having another person around. In fact, it’s more than that: it’s nice.
Somehow the flat feels different,
Picking up his clothes he walks out the bathroom. Then he goes and spoils it all by telling me something I really don’t want to hear.
Chapter Eleven
‘ H e’s a stand-up comic.’
The next morning as soon as Gabe leaves the flat I phone Jess to tell her my terrible news. Despite the hangover that’s imprisoning her under the duvet with a blister-pack of ibuprofen, she summons the energy to be as horrified as I am. A sign, if ever there was one, of a true friend. ‘You’re joking!’
‘No, he’s the one joking.’ I wedge the phone under my ear. With one hand I hang on to my bowl of cereal, while with the other I grab the milk from the fridge. ‘He’s a stand-up-bloody-comedian.’
There’s muffled laughter. ‘Knock knock,’ she teases weakly.
‘Oh, please, don’t.’ I plonk myself down at the kitchen table, which is littered with magazines, unopened mail and God knows what else. Balancing my bowl on top, I begin munching on a mouthful of All Bran. ‘It’s not funny,’ I say, my voice muffled with horrid-tasting little brown sticks. God, I wish I could hurry up and lose those few pounds. I hate having to eat this stuff.
‘They never are.’ She laughs throatily. ‘That’s the problem.’
‘So, is he still your Plan B?’ I ask, still munching.
‘No, he’s not what I’m looking for.’ She sounds as if she’s talking about a lamp at IKEA. ‘He’s too American.’
‘So what?’
‘Heather, I’m looking for a serious boyfriend. I don’t want a long-distance relationship. Haven’t you seen Green Card ?’
‘But didn’t Gérard Depardieu play a Frenchman in that?’
‘He plays a Frenchman in every film,’ yawns Jess. ‘Like Hugh Grant’s always a stuttering English toff. But that’s not the point. The point is I’m into ticking boxes, not creating new problems like having to deal with all that immigration crap. And then there’s the culture clash.’
I love Jess. Ever the romantic. ‘Well, now you put it like that,’ I murmur, contemplating another mouthful of cereal and wishing I could have a pain au chocolat instead.
‘What are you going to do?’ she persists.
‘About what?’ Curiously I eye a little leather notebook lying on the table among the mess. It looks like the one I’ve seen Gabe scribbling in. I wonder what’s in it.
‘Gabe being a stand-up comedian,’ she says, barely able to keep the laughter out of her voice.
I’m beginning to think Jess is enjoying this. ‘Isn’t there a saying about how you’ve got to laugh or you’ll cry?’ I say absently, stretching out my arm and flicking open the notebook. Well, one little peek won’t hurt.
‘Absolutely,’ agrees Jess, supportively. ‘You’ve got to laugh.’
On the first page, in curly blue handwriting are the words: ‘My Top Ten Mother-in-Law Jokes’. I snatch my hand back. Actually, on second thoughts . . .
As it turns out I’m spared any mother-in-law jokes over the next few days as I barely see my new flatmate. In fact, apart from the occasional ‘Hi, how’s it going?’ when I’m arriving and he’s leaving, it’s almost as if he never moved in. Almost, but not quite.
Little things begin to appear. A collection of spices in the kitchen, a carton of soya milk in the fridge, a new loofah the size of a French baguette in the shower. But there’s something else – and it has nothing to do with his Wilco CD that I found by the stereo, or his brightly patterned beach towel neatly folded next to the sink. It’s a feeling.
For weeks I’d been dreading the thought of having a stranger in my flat, hated the idea of a man who wasn’t Daniel soaking in my bath, but all my fears were unfounded. It’s fine having another person around. In fact, it’s more than that: it’s nice.
Somehow the flat feels different,
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