Page 45 of Just for the Season

What was that? What was that?

I take the stairs down to the ground floor two at a time and, making sure the front door of the café locks behind me – I don’t like to think of Frankie alone up there in case of any intruders, although there hasn’t actually been a single crime of any kind recorded in this village for a good twenty years, so it isn’t hugely likely – I’m across the pavement and over to my car in two strides. Almost as though I’m running away from something.

I frown the whole way home.

Because.

There was a moment there – at the end of the film – where all I could think about was what it would be like to date Frankie for real. Just because we had one nice evening together.

I do date – occasionally, in a very short-term kind of way – but I do not date close to home. And the reason for that is really once bitten twice shy. My wife and I fell in love, and then she got pregnant and we decided to get married, very young, both of us only twenty-three. Astrid didn’t enjoy motherhood, but that was fine; we were very lucky to have help from my parents so that we could both build careers, and I thought a lot of people had problems in the early years of parenting, especially when they were as young as we were. Then we had Sam and that was it. Astrid is German – she grew up in Munich and went to university here in the UK (that’s where we met) and then started work here – and she got a job offer in Munich and just decided to go, without discussing it with me or suggesting that the kids and I join her. I didn’t want to go and live in Germany – my whole life is here – but I would have gone with her, because I’d made a commitment to her, although we weren’t getting on amazingly well by then. No arguments; we’d just drifted apart. We probably wouldn’t have stayed together anywhere near as long if she hadn’t got pregnant with Ruby.

It turned out that she just didn’t want the kids and me to go to Germany with her. When she barely got in touch again, I realised that she’d made a conscious decision to leave us. She didn’t want to be a mother. I don’t know whether she’d have happily stayed with me if we hadn’t had children (I strongly doubt it) but I do know that she definitely didn’t want to remain part of our nuclear family.

She occasionally acknowledges the children’s existence, but never on their birthdays or at Christmas.

Sam doesn’t ever mention her.

Ruby, though, really hankers after her mother, and gets hurt and hurt and hurt. Every Christmas, every birthday.

I fell out of love with Astrid a long time ago. When someone hurts your children the way she hurt Ruby, in particular, it’s hard to carry on being in love with them.

And now I wouldn’t dream of entering into any kind of romantic relationship that involved someone meeting the kids, because I don’t want them to get close to a partner of mine and potentially feel abandoned again if we split up.

So, yes, I do date from time to time, but never anyone who might meet the kids.

Anyway. Obviously Frankie and I are not dating.

It was a nice evening. It’s a long time since I watched TV with a woman like that. Companionable. I smile, remembering the way Frankie screamed and gripped my arm; the way she became so engrossed in the world of the film was very endearing.

Yeah, so, actually, I had a good time, and this fake relationship will allow me to enjoy a woman’s company without any complications from any angle, which I think is why I was so happy to point out that in order to hoodwink everyone successfully we should probably see each other fairly regularly.

Basically, I’d be happy to continue for as long as Frankie likes with the fake relationship.

* * *

She texts me in the morning, just as I’m back inside the house from inspecting some of my fields, to check that we do actually like fish pie before she makes it for us tomorrow.

We tussle back and forth briefly about whether or not she really should cook for us, before she sends a definitive reply:

Okay. I owe you big. For all the reasons mentioned above. Fauxmance, removals, dinner, probably a bruised arm even though you won’t admit it. Therefore if you refuse to choose a meal I will just decide on one and deliver it at a time of my choosing. So it would make sense for you to choose what and when.

I reply:

Okay. No more arguing from me. Very kind of you. Fish pie tomorrow would be fantastic thank you. P.S. For the record: arm genuinely not bruised.

She responds:

Great. I’ll deliver the fish pie approx 6.30 p.m. tomorrow if that suits

I just say:

Perfect thank you.

I will, I realise, be looking forward to seeing her then.

During the afternoon, Sam completes an enormous Star Wars Lego kit that he got for his birthday last month, and I’m unable to resist sending a photo of it to Frankie and pointing out that not many films give rise to such enormous franchises.

She replies: