‘Fuck him!’
Alex wasn’t sure whether that was an instruction or a dismissal, but she nodded anyway.
‘Is it just easier for men?’ she asked. ‘Pete literally matched with one woman, went for a drink and now she’s practically living with him in my granny flat, doing her best to hate me.’
‘Nah, he just got lucky,’ Jasmine replied, ‘and you will too. One day,BAM, your perfect person will appear and you’ll get married and have babies and—’
Alex grimaced at the B word. The thought of being responsible for another human being was terrifying.
‘No thank you,’ she muttered. ‘It’s hard enough looking after a grumpy dachshund.’
‘Fine then, maybe not babies, but your time will come. Even after the divorce, I managed to find someone and I’m a complete nightmare, you know this.’
‘I do. I’m still stunned.’ Alex smiled and sipped her chardonnay, but deep down she wasn’t so optimistic. Next birthday she’d be thirty-three and she was still no closer to finding The One. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever been in love, not really. She loved Pete, she still did, but it was never in a ‘fire in your pants, butterflies in your belly’ kind of way. Their relationship was like a warm, fuzzy blanket: enormously comforting but not terribly exciting.
‘I dunno, if I never meet anyone… well, maybe it’s not the end of the world, is it?’ Alex said. ‘I have a good life, I have Winston—’
‘Pets die, Alex.’
Alex gasped. ‘What? For feck’s sake, Jasmine, break it to me gently, why don’t you?’
Jasmine waggled the empty wine bottle towards the waiter.
Alex continued, ‘Look, all I’m saying is that being alone doesn’t have to be this tragic story and I’ll have you know that Winston and I have an agreement where we’re both immortal.’
‘Seems reasonable,’ Jasmine replied. ‘Just promise me you won’t give up entirely. You’re still young. I truly believe that there is someone for everyone,even authors who miss deadlines and make my life harder than it needs to be and—’
Alex coughed. ‘Where is that wine…’
As the third bottle of wine appeared, Alex had found herself warming towards Jasmine’s advice, albeit with a pinot glow. Maybe there was someone out there for her. She’d rather keep the door open to that possibility than close it forever.
Now, face complete, she dragged her case through to the front door, glancing at the grandfather clock in the hall. She adored that clock; it was one of the first big pieces of furniture she’d bought when she moved in.Serious writers have serious homes with serious furniture, she told herself, yet still managed to buy one that bent to the left and also doubled as a wine rack. Close enough.
‘Do I look decent?’ she asked, standing at the living room door. ‘I mean I wanted to make the effort but not go full Kardashian.’
She twirled around so Pete could admire her blue patterned shirt dress. He gave it the once over and nodded. ‘You look great. Really nice. Blue suits you.’
‘Mm-hmm…and?’
She waited. It was Pete. There was always something.
‘I’d maybe rethink the heels though. They can be quite the hazard. I mean, if you need to run or, God forbid, the plane crashes and you need to use an emergency slide then they could puncture—’
‘Spoken like a true health and safety guru! Thank you, Mr Connor, I shall take your comments on board… as well as my heels.’
Pete’s job as a firefighter meant he had a keen eye for potential hazards, even Alex’s extremely amazing – and appropriate for every occasion – Christian Louboutin summer sandals, a gift to herself when she hit number one on theSunday Timesbestsellers list.
He shrugs. ‘You did ask.’
I was fishing for a compliment, not a hundred ways your shoes can kill you.
‘I did,’ she acknowledged. ‘Thank you. Right, I’m off. Look after my baby boy and give Florence my love, won’t you? I’ll be back Monday night. I left some fancy bath fragrance out if she wants to have a jacuzzi.’
Both Alex and Pete knew it was unlikely to happen, but she was determined to make Florence like her. It had almost become a mission, a side quest in her pursuit to live a happy, hate-free life. She disliked the fact that it was awkward between them, for no other reason than that she once dated Pete. She always thought that she and Florence could be the best of friends if Florence wasn’t such a feckin’ po-faced cow.
She was pleased to see that her taxi was right on time and the driver, Patrick, was an elderly man of few words, taking her to Dublin airport in plenty of time to catch her flight.So far so good, Alex thought.No additional stress, no mind-numbing small talk and still time for a glass of wine before I board.
Alex enjoyed the noise her heels made as she left the check-in desk and crossed Terminal One towards security. They produced a noticeable and expensive-sounding click-clack. Definitely more clicky than clacky, she thought, which made her feel rather sophisticated, feminine even. Magical. She felt like the lead in an arty seventies European film calledThe many faces of Chantalorl’amour dans un aéroport.If she’d had a sheer scarf she would have swept it across her neck while she laughed gaily at children playing nearby. Men called Pierre and Hugo would raise their eyebrows in lustful approval.
