Page 54 of Just for the Season

‘That is nice,’ Simon agrees.

Our conversation moves on and then out of nowhere – I’m sure that twenty seconds ago we were discussing fabrics for his new client’s bedroom curtains – he says, ‘When’s the last time you thought about Rick?’

‘Yesterday,’ I say. ‘Or the day before. When he sent me a message asking me where he keeps his lightbulbs.’

‘When’s the last time you thought about him without being prompted and felt sad about him?’

‘Erm.’ I ponder. ‘I’m not really sure. I’m kind of more sad about myself, as in I feel absolutely ridiculous for being such an idiot. I should never have dated him and I certainly shouldn’t have moved in with him or convinced myself that I was in love with him.’

‘Good,’ says Simon. ‘How often do you think about… your other friends?’

‘I mean…’ That’s a silly question. ‘It varies?’ Obviously.

‘Like… your other London friends?’

‘I mean… quite a lot? Because I’m still very much in touch with them and we message each other a lot.’

‘Do you miss them?’

‘I do, actually. I love it here. I love my friends here. I love being here. And at times I’m tempted just to stay long-term—’ I pause while Simon hugs me and tells me he would be incredibly happy if I did that ‘—but yes I do miss them. Like I miss my friends and family from here when I’m not here. You miss people you know well when you haven’t seen them for a while. In fact, I’ll probably go to London for the weekend soon.’

‘Yeah, so just so you know, you are hugely over Rick. And that is good. Are you thinking you’re ready to date anyone else yet?’

‘So, so not.’ I don’t need to think about that one. ‘Currently I feel like I never want to date again. As in ever. I make such stupid decisions. I know there are people out there who love me.’

Simon nods, like duh. ‘Me,’ he says. ‘Rose. Ellie. Miranda. All your London friends. So many people.’

‘Yep. I do know that, and I love you all back, very much, and I feel incredibly lucky to have you all. But when it comes to certain relationships, specifically my parents and every single boyfriend I’ve ever had, not so much. My parents did not love me enough to stay in my life, and I end up with the wrong people boyfriend-wise, and they don’t love me either.’

Simon frowns. ‘Do you think… you subconsciously choose people you haven’t hugely fallen in love with yourself because you assume in advance they’re going to dump you?’

‘I don’t know. But I do know that I don’t want to do it any more because I really, really do not enjoy rejection. Obviously.’

‘Hmm.’ Simon looks for a moment like he’s going to say something else but then very suddenly switches to talking about tiles and taps. I definitely prefer unchallenging bathroom chat to wherever he was going with our conversation, so I join in very enthusiastically, and, happily, the psychoanalysis-of-me moment has passed.

* * *

Marcus texts during the day on Friday to suggest that he pick me up at around six thirty, after he’s dropped Ruby and Sam at their sleepovers, and that we get some food before our film starts at eight thirty.

I tell him that sounds perfect, which it does: I’m looking forward to this evening, because Marcus is a very easy companion.

I’m ready and waiting when he arrives.

‘Good evening.’ He has the car windows rolled down and is speaking a little more loudly than normal. ‘You look gorgeous. Love that top.’

I ignore the silly feeling of pleasure I get from his compliment – it’s clearly actually just for show – and, when I’m sitting inside the car and have the windows rolled up, say, ‘Nicely complimented for grapevine purposes.’

‘You do look lovely and that is a nice top. But also, yes.’ He does an ironic I’m-so-clever tap on the side of his head and then grins at me. ‘Mrs Bittern’s probably watching. Another drive round the village?’

‘Of course.’

Marcus’s car is quite a fancy one, with a retractable roof – ‘Ruby made me buy it,’ he tells me apologetically and I say, ‘Spies really shouldn’t draw too much attention to themselves’ – and he opens it up, because it’s quite a balmy evening, and changes radio stations until we get a love ballad, turning the radio down so that we aren’t actually blaring music out of the car.

‘Gran will be hearing about this within minutes,’ I say.

‘I know. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.’

‘So how was your day?’