‘No, what Ineedis this cappuccino and then Ineedto get home and make dinner for Charlie.’
Victoria pauses and tilts her head to look at me. ‘You know, Faith was telling me about some guy she met who would be perfect for you.’
I already know. I had been in the middle of the lunch rush yesterday when my younger sister, Faith, rang my phone so incessantly, I became convinced that someone was dead or getting their last rites.
‘Faith? What’s wrong? Is everything OK?’
‘Yes, yes. Now listen; I’m at a press launch for a new client and there’s an amazing guy here. How do you feel about project managers?’
‘I don’t know how to answer that.’
‘He’s fit, under fifty and no wedding ring. Shall I give him your business card?’
‘Faith! I’m up to my eyes in it here today… why are you whispering and… wait, why do you have my business cards?’
‘I’m in the loo, I didn't want him to hear me. Well? Shall I?’
Balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder, I began plating a salmon and avocado salad.
‘NO! Don’t you dare. I don’t want some random guy calling me. What if he shows up at the café? He could be weird. Victoria, can you take that coffee to table six? I’m doing eight’s salad.’
I heard Faith sigh louder than she probably intended. ‘Eleanora Brown, the problem is you don’t wantanyoneto call you. You’ve completely given up. You must get back out there. If you—’
‘What? Sorry, you’re breaking up. I’m going into a tunnel. A big underwater one. Speak later.’
‘Yep, Faith told me,’ I finally reply to Victoria. ‘And for the eightieth time this month, I’m not interested. You both need to cool it with the matchmaking.’
For the past couple of years both Victoria and my sister Faith have made it their mission in life to set me up. To them, the idea that I could possibly be perfectly content on my own is utterly ridiculous and therefore must be corrected as soon as possible. Victoria tends to set up dating profiles on my behalf without telling me, while Faith’s method is to secretly scout out all the available men she meets and assess them for marriage suitability. It doesn’t help that she’s head of marketing for a huge media agency and meets new men roughly every seventeen seconds. I’ve pretty much given up telling them to leave me alone. I figure they’ll get the message soon enough.
‘But you need some company, Nora,’ Victoria says softly. ‘Everyone does. Maybe a few dates? A couple of dinners or—’
‘I don’t have the time or the inclination to start dating again,’ I say firmly. ‘Besides, the perfect man – the one who will give me emotional support, great sex, kindness and access to his Netflix password – doesn’t exist.’
‘You have your own Netflix account.’
‘Yes, but I hate paying for it. Ninety percent of the films are terrible. All I’m saying is, I don’t need anyone. I’m fine just as I am.’
Victoria lets it go for the time being and we finish closing, before stepping out onto Bread Street. The harsh November wind bites my cheeks as we briskly walk towards the bus stop under a sky so dark, it feels much later than 6.30pm. Edinburgh is charming at night, and as much as I never tire of seeing the beautifully lit castle, it always feels just a little too crowded. Thankfully tonight isn’t Edinburgh Fringe crowded (Edinburgh’s famous festival and three weeks of zero-personal-space misery), but it’s busy enough that I’m tripping over tourists on the narrow pavements while giving weary nods to fellow workers who look as glad to be heading home as I am.
Victoria wraps her red scarf around her neck before linking arms with me as we cross the road. For someone with no children, she is the most maternal person I’ve ever met. I swear once she tried to clean my face with spit.
‘You should start bringing your car to work,’ she suggests, body-swerving some tourists who stop suddenly in front of us. ‘It’s too cold for this shit.’
‘It costs me £3.40 a day on the bus. I’m not paying idiotically expensive parking rates just so I can have the pleasure of driving you home afterwards,’ I reply, smirking. ‘You know how to drive, why don’t you buy your own car?’
She sniffs and shakes her head. ‘Nah, I just use Benjamin’s. Besides, it might interfere with my wine time. Damn, there’s my bus already – see you tomorrow!’
Twenty minutes later I arrive in my neighbourhood of Broughton, and after a five-minute speed walk, I’m home, where my fourteen-year-old daughter Charlotte has already increased the central heating temperature from ‘comfortably warm’ to ‘stifling as hell’. She gets home from school at four and while I’m usually home by six, I still feel like a terrible parent for leaving her alone. Charlie, on the other hand, relishes the independence.
‘Hey, Mum!’ she yells from her bedroom. Even when I’m not there, she prefers to hang out in her room with the door closed. ‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Pizza,’ I reply, throwing my coat in the hall cupboard. ‘Did you have a good day, honey?’
Her door swings open and she appears, school shirt half tucked in and hair like a burst couch. She gives me a huge hug. ‘You’re late tonight. I’m starving.’
‘I know, honey, I’m sorry. I had to finish off some invoices.’
‘But you never do the invoices – Victoria does.’
