indulgence. I’m going to have a Jo Malone bubble
bath (a Christmas present, your honour), a box of Maltesers (they were on offer) and an evening of cinematic pleasure in front of
The Notebook
on DVD. I don’t know why weeping in
front of a film cheers me up quite so much, but this one does it every time.
As I turn into my drive, I spot a removal van outside Rita’s old apartment.
‘Shit!’ I mutter, as my heartbeat triples in speed and I slam on the brakes and duck my head under the dashboard.
I
cannot
let my new neighbour see me. Not just because he has a detailed knowledge of my gynaecological bothers. Or because seeing him again would breach the terms of my one-night stand
(which involve sleeping with someone
you never see again
, not someone with whom you share a council tax band). But also because I’m very aware that he has a wife. And I want to see
her even less than I want to see him.
With my head in a brace position, I attempt to roll the car the final few feet into the drive, assuming that after two years of living here I can do it with my eyes shut.
It’s apparent this is an optimistic assumption when I smash a potted azalea and come alarmingly close to scraping the car against the wall in the manner of someone taking a potato peeler
to it.
I turn off the engine and listen. There are voices outside Rita’s old flat, instructions to removal men about where to put pieces of furniture. I refuse to move until they die down, and
even then it’s only to cautiously pop up my head to check the coast is clear.
Then I fling open the door, swing out my legs, slam it shut, and am about to race to the house, when I realise I’ve trapped my cardi. I manage one large stride before being catapulted,
Laurel and Hardy-style, onto the side panel and almost rupturing a kidney on my wing mirror. Muttering expletives, I stumble up the five steps to the main door, then I hear something that nearly
melts my brain.
‘Hey!’
Matt Taylor, my One-Night Stand, is walking towards me – waving, smiling, clearly counting on a pleasant introduction to his new neighbour.
Well, screw that.
Stacey might have been straight round there with a basket of her home-made satsuma jam, but not me. I stumble up the steps, holding my hand against my face, like Lady Gaga avoiding the paps,
before racing into the house and slamming the door.
I storm along the hall, feeling stress fall away from me the second I’m in the refuge of my flat. I open the Maltesers immediately, the ready meal now surplus to requirements.
For the remainder of the night, I feel like a prisoner in my own home. No matter how many Maltesers I pop, how many times I rewind the snog-on-the-lake bit in
The Notebook
, my mind is
firmly focused on two issues.
The first is the unsustainability of this. No matter how much I try to convince myself that perhaps he’s only renting and might move out in a week, I know that meeting Matt Taylor –
and his wife and children – is inevitable.
The removal van doesn’t leave until gone eight and, for an hour afterwards, my new neighbour is striding between his car and the house. Not that I’m looking. Oh, okay, yes I am. And
thinking about the night we spent together, and my knickers, and my hangover, and Marianne’s warnings – basically, my kaleidoscope of regrets.
Which brings me to the second object of tonight’s obsession. Rob. And how I wish with all of my heart that he was here with me tonight.
Chapter 22
Despite my determination to have a restorative lie-in, I wake the next morning at 7.05 a.m. with an odd combination of grogginess and agitation. I throw off the covers, slip on
my flip-flops and pad to the kitchen to make tea and tidy up a bit.
I don’t know when de-cluttering became fashionable. I suspect it was courtesy of those
House Doctor
programmes that advocate removing all evidence of human life, leaving all the
ambience of a Travelodge room.
I open one of the cupboards in the kitchen
bath (a Christmas present, your honour), a box of Maltesers (they were on offer) and an evening of cinematic pleasure in front of
The Notebook
on DVD. I don’t know why weeping in
front of a film cheers me up quite so much, but this one does it every time.
As I turn into my drive, I spot a removal van outside Rita’s old apartment.
‘Shit!’ I mutter, as my heartbeat triples in speed and I slam on the brakes and duck my head under the dashboard.
I
cannot
let my new neighbour see me. Not just because he has a detailed knowledge of my gynaecological bothers. Or because seeing him again would breach the terms of my one-night stand
(which involve sleeping with someone
you never see again
, not someone with whom you share a council tax band). But also because I’m very aware that he has a wife. And I want to see
her even less than I want to see him.
With my head in a brace position, I attempt to roll the car the final few feet into the drive, assuming that after two years of living here I can do it with my eyes shut.
It’s apparent this is an optimistic assumption when I smash a potted azalea and come alarmingly close to scraping the car against the wall in the manner of someone taking a potato peeler
to it.
I turn off the engine and listen. There are voices outside Rita’s old flat, instructions to removal men about where to put pieces of furniture. I refuse to move until they die down, and
even then it’s only to cautiously pop up my head to check the coast is clear.
Then I fling open the door, swing out my legs, slam it shut, and am about to race to the house, when I realise I’ve trapped my cardi. I manage one large stride before being catapulted,
Laurel and Hardy-style, onto the side panel and almost rupturing a kidney on my wing mirror. Muttering expletives, I stumble up the five steps to the main door, then I hear something that nearly
melts my brain.
‘Hey!’
Matt Taylor, my One-Night Stand, is walking towards me – waving, smiling, clearly counting on a pleasant introduction to his new neighbour.
Well, screw that.
Stacey might have been straight round there with a basket of her home-made satsuma jam, but not me. I stumble up the steps, holding my hand against my face, like Lady Gaga avoiding the paps,
before racing into the house and slamming the door.
I storm along the hall, feeling stress fall away from me the second I’m in the refuge of my flat. I open the Maltesers immediately, the ready meal now surplus to requirements.
For the remainder of the night, I feel like a prisoner in my own home. No matter how many Maltesers I pop, how many times I rewind the snog-on-the-lake bit in
The Notebook
, my mind is
firmly focused on two issues.
The first is the unsustainability of this. No matter how much I try to convince myself that perhaps he’s only renting and might move out in a week, I know that meeting Matt Taylor –
and his wife and children – is inevitable.
The removal van doesn’t leave until gone eight and, for an hour afterwards, my new neighbour is striding between his car and the house. Not that I’m looking. Oh, okay, yes I am. And
thinking about the night we spent together, and my knickers, and my hangover, and Marianne’s warnings – basically, my kaleidoscope of regrets.
Which brings me to the second object of tonight’s obsession. Rob. And how I wish with all of my heart that he was here with me tonight.
Chapter 22
Despite my determination to have a restorative lie-in, I wake the next morning at 7.05 a.m. with an odd combination of grogginess and agitation. I throw off the covers, slip on
my flip-flops and pad to the kitchen to make tea and tidy up a bit.
I don’t know when de-cluttering became fashionable. I suspect it was courtesy of those
House Doctor
programmes that advocate removing all evidence of human life, leaving all the
ambience of a Travelodge room.
I open one of the cupboards in the kitchen
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