Page 52 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

The Drifters

COME ON OVER TO MY PLACE

Like every person who has ever reluctantly confessed to something ever, I found every excuse there was not to see Sheila in the days after the funeral. We’d make plans and then I’d be exhausted, or a friend would need help, or my leg would have fallen off. There were no limits to my elaborate excuses, the last of which was that I had to take Lucy to the vets. I felt so guilty for having inflicted a fictional ailment on my cat that I actually spent the evening feeding her Dreamies one at a time and stroking her fur, which did nothing to ease her Egyptian princess complex, I’m sure, but at least it assuaged my guilt.

After a week of avoidance, I decided the only way I would be able to go through with the plan to tell Sheila about David was if I didn’t give myself the opportunity to back out. So when I closed the shop on Friday afternoon, I put on my big girl trousers and marched the distance to Sheila’s front door. When I arrived, there was a period of shifting from one foot to the other while I stood on the pavement opposite her house, which went on for such a long time that I thought it might look suspicious to any curtain-twitchers. Then it occurred to me that it might, in fact, look suspicious to Sheila, too, if she happened to peer through one of her front windows and find me leering back at her from a short distance, like a character stripped straight from Fatal Attraction. So I drew in what I hoped would be a deep and cleansing breath, held it while I hurried across the road, and then exhaled just as deeply on the climb up the few steps leading to the front door. It was the first time I noticed that Sheila had a knocker and a doorbell. In my heightened state, I used both, as though to convey the urgency of matters.

The door swung open seconds later. But in place of Sheila there was another woman there to greet me. She was easily five years my senior and easily five points higher than me on the scale of what makes a woman attractive. Her hair was a brilliant white-grey and wrapped up in an elaborate bun contraption that looked as though it might have taken her entire life to master. Her make-up pristine, with red lips and a neat cupid’s bow that again suggested some kind of mastery in the art of being a beautiful woman. And she wore a long, black flowing… thing. It may have been a dress, it may have been a jumpsuit; whatever it was, she looked gorgeous in it. I suddenly wished that I’d taken the time to go home and change out of my ragged jeans and oversized linen shirt. There’d been a delivery to the shop that afternoon, and it had hardly seemed worth dressing up for. Of course, had I known my competition here would be so stiff…

‘You don’t look like a food delivery person,’ the woman said with narrowed eyes.

The comment caught me so off-guard that I laughed, despite my nerves. ‘You don’t look like Sheila. Is she…’ I looked behind the woman along the hallway and, as though summoned, Sheila soon came rushing out from the direction of the living room.

‘Patti!’

‘Oh my word, the Patti?’ the woman chimed, and I liked that addition of “the” even though I didn’t know what it implied. It seemed like the sort of thing that belonged in front of David’s name rather than my own. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony, come in, come in.’ She hurried me along and Sheila seemed to approve of the suggestion, as she schoolgirl giggled and stepped out of the way to make space for me in the hall.

‘This is Blanche,’ Sheila said when I was safely inside.

‘A pleasure.’ The woman held out her hand, which I took. ‘I’ve heard so much.’

‘It can’t all possibly be true,’ I joked, and she squeezed my shoulder and winked.

‘I sincerely hope it is.’

‘Blanche.’ Sheila seemed to caution her friend. ‘Why don’t you go and tell the others that we’ll need another place setting for dinner?’ She turned to me. ‘You’ll stay for food?’

‘Of course she will!’ Blanche said as she disappeared down the hall and out of view.

Sheila ran a hand through her hair. Somehow, the gesture reminded me of having sex with her and I found I had to blink hard to clear the memory.

‘I promise, not all of my friends act like they’re performing on a low-budget stage,’ she joked. ‘Blanche truly believes she was named after the Williams character, which means she… Hey, are you all right?’ She moved closer to me and reached for my hand. ‘You look a little peaky.’ Her other hand came up to my forehead, the back of it resting against the skin there.

‘I should have called, I didn’t realise you’d–’

‘My love,’ she interrupted me, ‘you are always welcome here, it’s an open house for you.’

My mouth bobbed open and closed at least twice and I felt genuinely worried for a second that I might cry, which wouldn’t have set the right tone for a confession at all. But then, neither does a dinner party with friends, so…

‘Look, I’ll go, we’ll see each other another time.’

I was turning for the door when Patti encouraged me back in. ‘I’d love for you to meet them,’ she said and I thought I caught something questioning in her tone.

‘You’re sure?’

What on the earth are you doing, Patti?

‘Of course! I’ll warn you, we’ve been drinking on and off all afternoon and we were hoping the knock at the door would actually be a nice man bringing us an offensive amount of Chinese food to soak it all up with. But if you don’t mind tackling my slightly tipsy friends, then I’d be, well, I’d be overjoyed, truth be told.’

I smiled. ‘I’d be overjoyed, too.’

What are you doing, Patti?

‘Come, come…’

For Christ’s sake, Patti, turn around and leave!

‘This is Estelle… Iris… That’s Mamie hanging out of my front window to smoke…’