Page 32 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

Rod Stewart

MAGGIE MAY

David had changed the words to Rod Stewart’s ‘Maggie May’, singing ‘Patti,’ instead of Maggie as he half-danced from one side of the kitchen to the other with a frying pan in his hand. It had been three days since my gallery date with Sheila; two since our dinner date; one since David and I had been in the same room together. We had been the proverbial ships passing, between my working hours and David’s socialising (I hadn’t seen the WRITER AT WORK sign again since that first occasion, so I thought it had been relegated a backseat in favour of WRITER BEING A LOTHARIO). But today was Sunday, day of rest and, apparently, day of having my husband cook breakfast for me. I leaned in the doorway with Lucy winding between my legs and watched as he plated up bacon, threw the pan in the sink, and then went to collect another.

‘How much food are you making?’

‘Good God!’ He jumped and there came the hiss of hot oil. ‘Patti, think of my heart.’

‘If I was thinking of your heart we wouldn’t be having a fried breakfast. What can I do?’

‘Sit down and–’

‘Keep out the way?’

David’s head snapped up and he looked at me with a blank expression. ‘No, sit down and tell me everything about your philandering.’

‘Oh, David–’

‘Don’t you oh, David, me.’ He plated up a fried egg for me and one for himself, then dropped a second pan in the sink. ‘I haven’t seen you for three days!’

‘You haven’t been home for two!’

‘Now, that’s unfair.’ He pointed at me with the butter knife. ‘I turned down sex last night specifically so I could come home alone and be here for you this morning.’

I wiped a mock tear from the corner of my eye. ‘And they say romance is–’

‘Piss off and tell me about your romance. Two dates in two nights? Patricia…’

At the end of Date Two, Sheila had asked whether I’d like to see her again – to which I said a hearty yes, with such an enthusiasm that I will think of that embarrassment on my deathbed. But we hadn’t made plans for it yet, and I was relieved that it hadn’t become three dates, three days running. I wasn’t sure my heart could have taken it.

‘I know, it’s been a while,’ I answered.

‘I’ll say.’ He turned and pointed again, this time with a spoon. ‘You’re welcome, by the way.’

‘For what?’

‘The app!’ David spooned mushrooms onto both plates. ‘I helped you to meet the love–’

‘There is no love, you daft fool, there will be no love.’

David turned around with a plate of food in each hand and a cocked eyebrow. ‘Well I’m glad you’ve decided that already. Usually it takes you at least four months to decide you can’t love a woman.’

The comment stung, and David could tell.

‘Come on, Patti, you know that you… Actually, do you know what?’ He placed a plate in front of me. ‘We’re not doing the deep and introspective thing, not this morning at least. Eat your breakfast, tell me about your dates.’ He pulled out his chair opposite me. ‘Did you get laid?’

‘David,’ I reached forward to slap his arm, ‘I’m not you.’

‘Of course, darling, there can be only one,’ he answered in his best theatre tone.

I rolled my eyes, cut into my egg, and watched the yolk pour out.

‘Come on,’ David spoke around his first mouthful of food. ‘I’m waiting.’

I tucked into my breakfast, too, and regaled David with the details of intimidatingly large portraits of vulvas – ‘God, that sounds fantastic,’ he commented – followed by the second date, featuring dinner at a decidedly fancy restaurant. Sheila had been open, honest, funny – and she’d insisted on paying the bill, which was another luxury I hadn’t had in a long old time, unless you counted David (which I didn’t). The only awkward moment had been when she’d asked about previous relationships. Sensing my trepidation at the time, Sheila had been polite enough to go first and she gave me a potted history of two long-term relationships; both of which had involved an engagement and neither of which had involved marriage. She was still on good terms with both women, though. ‘Life’s too short for all that bitterness, isn’t it?’ she’d said, and I’d mumbled like I agreed. Though there were certainly one or two women in my past that I’d rather not see again for as long as I lived.

‘Christ, you didn’t tell her that you’re a complete phobe for relationships, did you?’