‘Where’s that pretty little milk jug I bought you, Harriet?’ she said, looking pointedly at the plastic bottle of semi-skimmed I’d placed in front of her.
‘Of course,’ I said, whisking it away and transferring the milk to a tiny jug I found on a shelf behind a pot of half-dead basil. I did have to remove a cobweb from the jug handle and give ita rinse first, marvelling the entire time at my mother’s ability to find my domestic arrangements below par when she had dropped in completely unannounced like some sort of National Trust secret shopper inspecting a stately home.
‘So.’ I pulled up the chair opposite. ‘What is it?’
She surreptitiously wiped a fingertip around the rim of her cup to remove some non-existent speck of dirt. ‘I’ve been stood up,’ she said eventually.
‘Oh?’
‘Last night.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘And to be honest, I felt like a bit of a fool.’
‘You should have called me,’ I said. ‘I’d have come and got you. Where was it? Andwhowas it?’
‘There was no need to call,’ she said. ‘I’m more than capable of getting myself home. It’s just that when I woke up this morning, I felt a little sorry for myself, that’s all. And I thought. Well – I thought I’d come and see you.’
‘I’m glad you did. Now, spill the beans. Who was the dastardly rogue in question?’
‘Roger. Roger Cullompton. At least that’s who he said he was in his profile.’
‘Sounds like a made-up name to me.’
She considered this. ‘Yes, perhaps it does a bit. Anyway. He seemed terribly nice online. We’d been exchanging messages over the past couple of weeks, and he suggested we meet.Hewas the one who suggested it. Not me.’
‘I get it. He was the keen one.’
‘Well, yes. He certainly seemed it.’ She took another sip of her tea. ‘Anyway, he booked a table at Estrella’s in town.’
‘Ooh! Fancy,’ I said, never having been.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The décor is exquisite. Unfortunately, I can’t testify as to the quality of the food because I didn’t eat anythingthere. Instead, I had the most expensive and embarrassing gin and tonic of my life because Roger Cullompton did not turn up.’
‘Oh.’
‘He sent me a message just beforehand saying he was on his way. Look…’ She pulled her phone out of her handbag and took about four hours to open the screen and locate the Roger Cullompton thread. I reached for my reading glasses, which were buried under a mound of books beside me and read the following.
Just leaving now. Very much looking forward to seeing you in person. Love Roger xx
‘Two kisses,’ I said.
‘Yes. Keen.’
‘And then, what, he just didn’t show?’
She nodded.
‘And no further messages?’
‘No. Nothing.’ She showed me the phone screen again, her voice bitter. ‘You can see my messages to him, increasingly desperate and tragic…’
I could see the messages. ‘They’re not tragic, Mum,’ I said. ‘It’s perfectly reasonable to ask where he is… seven times.’
She pursed her lips. ‘I tried calling him too. I left a few voice messages.’
I grimaced, imagining the content of those voicemails. ‘And nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well, sod him,’ I said, slapping my hands together briskly. ‘He’s probably a Catfish.’ I wasn’t entirely confident of the terminology but felt this was the right ballpark.
