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She knew she had become slightly addicted to the sound of her WhatsApp notification. A dopamine hit that made her heart leap and her blood fizz. She and Ralph were exchanging messages on a daily basis, and the more she read the more she looked forward to hearing from him. It was very light-hearted. He was very easy to communicate with. She didn’t feel self-conscious about her replies, which she found surprising, for she wasn’t used to writing her thoughts. He always seemed to appreciate what she said, and took an interest in her opinions.
And it was strange. She didn’t feel in the least bit guilty, or as if she was betraying William. It felt easy and right. Of course, at this point it was only a tentative friendship. And perhaps the fact that Ralph was a widower helped. For they had both confessed to each other how much they had adored their other halves, and how no one would ever replace them. And both had agreed that both William and Eleanor (Ralph’s wife) would have wanted them to find someone new.
She poured herself a small glass of wine and sat down to reread his latest message:
I’ve been stumping around the park in my duffle coat like Paddington Bear, he wrote, for there was a chill breeze here in Taunton today – one of those spiteful unexpected ones that take you unawares if you head off without a coat. And now it’s time for Heinz tomato soup and a crumpet with melted Stilton on top. The height of my culinary skills – I’m no cook, I’m afraid, but I love comfort food. Scrambled eggs, porridge, kippers, shepherd’s pie (is it shepherd’s or shepherds’ – does the pie belong to one shepherd or many?). Custard on anything, of course, and also rice pudding with a blob of strawberry jam. And, of course, toast and marmalade, like the bear himself – and to be brutally honest with you, our figures aren’t that much different. Paddington, Winnie the Pooh – I’m of a generally rotund physique, though I like to think of myself as cuddly rather than obese. I thought I’d be honest about this, as these things seem to matter. I’m not a slob, though. I do my ten thousand steps a day, but it doesn’t seem to do much to offset the roundness. So there you are. I’m a tubby bear, but with excellent blood pressure and good stamina.
Helen found herself laughing at his description. She liked him for his honesty.
I’d really love to hear your voice, he went on. I hope that doesn’t sound creepy, but I’m not sure how else to say it. If you think you could bear a phone call, I feel as if that could be the next step. If you want a ‘next step’. You might be recoiling in horror at the very thought. I find this all quite difficult. Not talking to you – that’s the easiest thing in the world. But how to navigate this process without causing offence or putting pressure on. Please be assured that is the very last thing I want to do. Ever. The thought of causing you to feel awkward makes me cringe inside. I’ll leave it up to you. If you’d like to speak, just call. If not, I understand. Oh God, bring back the olden days when you met in real life, on the top deck of a bus or at the tennis club. On second thoughts, don’t, because I would never have met you. The ball, as they say, is in your court.
Helen sat in the silence of the kitchen, pondering his proposition. This was the next step, but it was daunting. At least he hadn’t suggested a video call. That would be terrifying. She sipped her Sauvignon and considered his proposition. Should she call him? Was now the right time? It had been a couple of hours since he had sent the message, and it was gone nine o’clock. She ought to put him out of his misery – though was it presumptuous to think he was desperate for a reply?
She might as well do it now. Otherwise, she was going to torture herself all night, weighing up the pros and cons and plucking up the courage. Nothing terrible could happen. The worst-case scenario would be that she didn’t like the sound of him – that he would have a grating voice or a manner of speaking that wasn’t as appealing as the way he wrote. It was easy to fall into the trap of creating the perfect person from a few clues. The chances of him being the man of her dreams were slim. But if she didn’t call him, she might never know. Or he might get bored of waiting and find someone else on Sunshine After the Rain. Someone braver than she was, who wasn’t afraid to pick up the phone.
She reached out her finger and pressed the little phone symbol on her iPad, putting him on speaker. She squeezed her eyes tight shut as she heard the ring begin. One. Two. Three.
‘Helen.’ He answered on the fourth ring. ‘I thought I’d frightened you off. How lovely to hear from you.’
There was a lightness in his voice, which was brimming with warmth and pleasure and a convivial eagerness. A cosy, BBC sort of a voice, that might narrate a Book at Bedtime. Or read the shipping forecast.
‘Hello,’ she said in reply. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to ring.’
‘Oh golly,’ he said. ‘I saw you’d read my message a while ago and I thought I’d blown it. The dreaded blue ticks.’
Helen knew the agony – the blue WhatsApp ticks that indicated your message had been read, and the agonising wait for a response.
‘I was out when I picked it up. Someone’s opened a new bar down by the harbour.’
‘Sounds very glamorous.’
‘It was, actually. But not really my scene nowadays. I just showed my face and came home again. I much prefer to stay in on a Friday night these days.’
‘How lovely,’ he said. ‘So, are you still in your marital home? If you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Yes. My kids would riot if I sold up.’
‘I bit the bullet and downsized.’ He gave a small sigh. ‘But I found a very nice flat with room for the piano and decent soundproofing so the neighbours don’t mind if I bang out Chopin at unsociable hours.’
‘That must have been hard.’
‘It was agony. But it’s done. When I pop off, the kids won’t have much clutter to sort through. It was therapeutic, in a funny way. But I waited two years. I couldn’t have done it straight away.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Helen, not wanting to admit that barely anything had been thrown out in the twenty years since William had gone. She found it hard to get rid of anything he had touched. And because there was plenty of room in the house, she didn’t have to. But perhaps it was time. The thought of one neat row of kitchen utensils hanging up, instead of drawers full of clutter you had to root through to find a vegetable peeler or a tea strainer, was very appealing.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to get an early night. I’m adjudicating tomorrow so I need my wits about me.’
‘Of course,’ said Helen, immediately worried that she had bored him, that he wasn’t interested in her, that he was desperate to get her off the phone and get back to whatever was on the telly.
‘Nighty night,’ he said cheerfully, and rang off.
She sat for a moment, not sure what to think. Then, a moment later, a message popped up on her screen.
Sorry to be boring. But I know myself too well – I could happily rattle on for hours and then I’d be fit for nothing and it’s not fair on the kids who are doing their exams. It was lovely to speak to you. I’d love to speak again soon.
She smiled. She could go to bed reassured now. Night, Ralph Potter, she thought, imagining him in a tartan dressing gown. She wanted to meet him. She really, really wanted to meet him. Should she make the first move or wait for him to suggest it? Maybe she should ask Nikki or Jess? It felt a bit teenage, to need advice. But it had been a very long time since she’d been on her first date with William. More than fifty years. Oh God, that made her feel old.
There was another ting.
