I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket and take a quick peek while Yvonne continues to tell me shit I already know. It’s my client, Tara– the one I said I’d call an hour ago before Ed decided that a walk with his mother was more important than my job. Her one missed call has now morphed into three unread messages and I feel my stress levels starting to rise again. I need to deal with this, so I can get on with enjoying this bloody holiday.
‘Yvonne, let me buy you a coffee,’ I suggest, spotting a café across the road. ‘I could use something to warm me up.’
Yvonne agrees, before telling me that the café was once owned by William the Conqueror or something but I’m not listening. I need a toilet cubicle and five minutes to reply to Tara.
‘Back in a sec,’ I tell her as she sits at a table near the window. ‘Order anything you’d like,’ but now Yvonne’s not listening, as a woman and her Pomeranian have just walked in, and the entire café is asking if he’s a good boy.
I’m forced to wait for a cubicle, enduring sounds that I’d rather forget, until one becomes free. I lock the door and take out my phone.
Kate, I emailed u but ur out of office is on. He’s taken me bloody foot spa (u know the good one with the magnets and the infrared lights) and given it to that bint! I’ve just seen an Instagram post with her crusty size 8s crammed in there.
Seriously? This is what she’s been so desperate to talk to me about? A foot spa? Of course, I understand that the problem here runs deeper than the foot spa, but I’m now busy trying to come up with a response that doesn’t start withARE YOUand end withKIDDING ME?
Hi Tara, sorry, I’m away for a few days for Christmas (phone signal is poor here) but I’m sure we can sort this out on my return and get your foot spa back for you. Best, Kate.
I’ve barely even had time to wash my hands before she replies.
Well, I don’t want it back, not after she’s been ankle deep in it. Just add the value to the settlement. Two grand should do it. It was an irreplaceable gift from my grandmother.
According to Tara’s autobiography,Tara Tells All, her grandmother died in the late seventies and left behind nothing but a five-pound Premium Bond and a signed photo of Sean Connery. And besides, the foot spa in question was only releasedlast year, so I’m calling bullshit. However, I’ll help her come up with a more believable sad story, when I get back to London.
Yvonne has ordered me a latte and a vanilla cupcake, which is now being licked half to death by the Pomeranian while his owner chats to Yvonne. I sit down and inspect my latte for dog hair.
‘Just as well I’m on a diet,’ I say to the dog, pushing my plate closer to him.
‘Oh dear!’ his owner exclaims. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t even notice.’
‘Violet runs the new holiday cottages,’ Yvonne informs me. ‘Luther has become quite the local celebrity.’
I smile. ‘His name is Luther?’ I lean over and pet his head. ‘It absolutely suits him, handsome devil that he is.’
‘You must let me replace the cake,’ Violet insists. ‘I’m embarrassed. He’s normally so well behaved.’
She won’t take no for an answer and soon I’m enjoying a Danish pastry as Luther scoffed the last cupcake.
‘You’re good with dogs,’ Yvonne tells me as we watch Violet and Luther leave the café. ‘Just think how wonderful you’ll be with children.’
I nearly choke on my pastry. ‘Um, I’m no expert but I’m pretty certain that children and dogs are not the same.’
She sips her tea and chuckles. ‘I meant the patience and love you give them. You’ll be a great mum. You’re very caring and efficient. And you know. . . tick, tock, tick, tock. . .’
I smile weakly and go back to my Danish. I knew this would happen. The closer I get to thirty, the more Yvonne keeps bringing up my fucking ticking time bomb of a biological clock.
We walk over to the clothing store, a quirky-looking sand-coloured building which always smells like a mixture of pine air freshener and new shoes. This store has everything for those who love the great outdoors. For everyone fromhillwalkers, to climbers, casual strollers and camping fans, this is the place to buy something you’ll never use and hang on to it for the next two decades, ‘just in case’– like that seventy-two-piece Swiss army knife my dad insisted he needed, and which still sits unused in a drawer to this day.
Yvonne picks out some new, ridiculously overpriced sheepskin gloves, while I grab a black scarf, cursing myself for leaving my perfectly good one at work. I’ll need it for tonight, though. It’s like the Arctic inside the caves during winter.
‘Now would you look at these,’ Yvonne says, holding up something pink and fluffy. I lean over and take a closer look before pursing my lips. Baby mittens. ‘Hmm,’ I reply. ‘They look. . . warm.’
‘I remember when Eddie was this size. All pink cheeks and fat baby ankles. Did I ever tell you about—’
I switch off and run automatic baby-Eddie-story-nodding mode, but I’m on the verge of tying my own tubes with the climbing rope on display near the cash desk. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take, not with everything else that’s going on. The stress of pretending everything is normal between Ed and me is more than I bargained for; however, I’m glad I won’t have to be the one to break it to Yvonne.
Half an hour later, we arrive home. I mumble something about having a headache, so I have an excuse to be alone and avoid afternoon tea. We still have a few hours before the Christmas Eve carolling begins– something I normally enjoy (apart from the sound of my own voice breaking rock formations). But tonight I’m dreading it. I just want to go home.
Ed
As we walk along the path leading to the Peak Cavern (also known as the Devil’s Arse, due to the farting sound emitted when the cave floods and the water drains), I can hear the band playing jaunty festive music from inside the cave. It reminds me of playing clarinet in the school band and feeling miffed that the teacher wouldn’t let me play guitar or piano, which, as a teenager, I felt were far cooler instruments to show off with in front of my peers. No fifteen-year-old wants to hear ‘Off to blow yer instrument?’ or ‘Get yer lips round it, veggie boy!’ while they’re playing a solo in ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’. Bully boy, Mark Castle, got detention for a month but told everyone it was totally worth it as I was a poncy, muso. Ironically, years later, his wife would leave him for a session musician who plays the trumpet.
