‘I’m going to have something to eat now, Pilar’s left supper. Do you want some?’
He agreed, and ten minutes later, we were sitting down at the now clear and gleaming dining room table to eat. A tiny – only very tiny, I promise – part of me was slightly missing that detective series, but that ebbed away as Lando and I chatted about everything and nothing. He made me choke with laughter over his descriptions of Chakra’s previous behaviour, which seemed to veer wildly between high heels and champagne to hessian and gathering her own mushrooms.
‘You seem to know a lot of people in the village,’ I said. ‘Won’t you miss it when you move to Greece?’
There was a pause. Lando held my eyes in his and my heart quickened. Eventually he spoke.
‘Greece. Hmm, yes, we’ll see about Greece.’
What was that supposed to mean? I’d obviously overstepped the mark with my question – he probably even thought that I was fishing for information, pathetically and pointlessly. I had a big drink of wine.
‘Well, it’s full steam ahead for India,’ I said with a tinny brightness. ‘Can’t wait. In fact, I must email my mother back, she needs some details.’
He smiled thinly.
‘You’re definitely going?’
‘Yes, yes,yes! Of course! Just what I want, an Indian adventure. Can’t wait. We’ll have to send each other postcards.’
I trailed off feeling miserable, but keeping a big smile pasted to my face. Lando took his plate and stood up.
‘Postcards, right. Well, I’ve got some more work to do, so I’ll head back over to the studio. I was going to ask if you wanted to come over for a drink, but I guess you’ll be too busy with your email.’
Every atom of my body screamed to go with him, but my brain took over firmly. Tempting though Lando’s offer undoubtedly was, it would only lead to disappointment, whether by a short route – being dismissed after one quick, polite drink – or a long one – something happening between us, me getting my sorry little hopes up and ultimately ending up humiliated.
‘Yes, that’s right. Lots to do! Can’t wait!’
That was the third time I had claimed not to be able to wait, and it was beginning to ring untrue even to my ears. I scooped up my plate and grabbed his from him.
‘I’ll deal with these, don’t worry. See you in the morning.’
He replied with a grunt, and I headed for the kitchen, trying to congratulate myself on swerving a disaster, especially now he seemed to have reverted to his former grumpy, monosyllabic self. I kept up the jolly self-talk all the way to bed, but as I turned out the light, exhausted from the party and the pretence, the tears slid into my pillow.
FIFTEEN
I awoke the next morning feeling utterly unrefreshed, and groaned when I looked at the clock and saw how early it was. Nobody else would be up for at least an hour, even the twins, but I was wide awake. Some of the previous day’s party adrenaline was still coursing around my veins, but of course I also couldn’t stop thinking about Lando. Whatwasthat invitation for a drink? Had he really wanted me to go over? And what might have happened if I had? Oh well, no point in lying around agonising over the whole thing, and at least it had pushed the niggling worry over my text to Timothy out of the way. I swung out of bed, grabbed my laptop and hopped back in again. It was too early for the heating to have kicked in, and distinctly chilly. I opened up the email from my mum that I had ignored the day before, resolving to give it my best attention.
Dearest Pen,
How are you? It’s been a little while since I heard from you, so I do hope that you aren’t moping over Timothy. I know it was a nasty shock, I know you had hoped for a different outcome, but it’s time to move on. I know one isn’t meant to say these things, but your father and I aregladhe’s gone. We’re sorry you’ve been hurt, of course, but he wasn’t for you, darling. Well, I suppose what we think doesn’t really matter, but maybe it will give you some encouragement. Anyway, the important thing now isad astra per aspera…”
I did wish my mother wouldn’t pepper her correspondence with Latin. I Googled it quickly: ‘through adversity to the stars’. Well, at least it was encouraging. I carried on reading.
“…so don’t waste a second longer thinking about what’s-his-name and certainly don’t let your mind wander to what might have been. As Yazz said: ‘The Only Way Is Up’.”
My mother spends too much time sharing dated social media memes with her friends. It’d be a Bonnie Tyler quote next urging me to hold out for a hero. On I read.
So, in case you’ve been too low to do it yourself, here are some links to job adverts around here and some lovely flats for rent – assuming, that is, you don’t want to move in with us. To be honest, I’m not sure our current lifestyle would be wholly compatible with that of a working girl.
I shuddered and prayed she wouldn’t go into further detail – there was too much danger that they had discovered tantric sex and were practising it day and night.
Do have a look at them, Pen, and let me know what you think. They may help you to envisage your fresh start. I want to help, you know that, and I don’t want you wasting another moment of your beautiful life. Gather ye rosebuds, darling, in abundance.
Lots of love,
Mum (and Dad) xxx
A list of links followed, and I scrolled down them dejectedly. Mum meant the very best, but somehow always had the effect of making me feel even more low. She always seemed so vigorous, decisive…sorted, and her pep talks imbued in me a sort of babyish lethargy, as if I could never reach her heights, so why even bother trying? I knew, of course, that we are very different people, with different ambitions, but nevertheless I found her crushing. I clicked on a few of the links, trying to work up some enthusiasm for what should have been exciting prospects: flats with shiny tiled floors and stone balconies, children playing in dusty yards, smiling and laughing like the children I taught, but with a hot sun lighting them up, views of onion domes against modern cityscapes. I clicked the pictures shut almost angrily and let them be replaced in my mind’s eye by images of Lando working quietly at his bench, of the dense greens of the Dorset countryside, of myself holding a baby. I drew in a sharp breath, as if I had been punched, and realised that I was about to be overwhelmed by emotion, yet again. Although there was no residual sadness about Timothy himself, my mother was right: I was wasting precious moments on ‘what if’ and ‘if only’ rather than pushing forward into reality. It was time to start taking charge of my life, making some choices, moving things along. I wouldn’t spend any more time moping. I returned to Mum’s email and clicked on the links again, trying to look at them this time as if they were friends. Ten minutes later, I hit ‘reply’:
