Page 70 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

The Jackson Five

I WANT YOU BACK

Even from a young age, I’d never subscribed to stories that had an element of time-travel. Yet somehow, in the space of one night surrounded by the love of friends – and the buzz of alcohol – I’d managed to come home and catapult the living room back to a state of absolute chaos. There were Post-it notes and ideas scribbled everywhere and, as though dipping a toe into winter cold waters, I started with the most basic of ideas.

‘Yes, that’s a dozen pink roses… Could lilies be added, too? … Of course, and they’ll be delivered today? … That’s fantastic, thank you.’

‘Flowers, really?’ David stood in the doorway eating granola in his underpants.

If Eudora could see you now…

‘It’s a start. Consider it a bedrock.’

‘Okay, and what’s next?’

My tablet was lying on the table. I picked it up and lunged it in his direction.

‘You’re going to commission a piece of furniture?’ He spooned in another mouthful and spoke around the crunch. ‘That’s not altogether… romantic. Can you sparkle it up a little?’

‘With glitter?’ I asked, glancing down at Sheila’s contact form.

‘Not literally sparkle it up, you arse. What are you even going to ask for?’

‘A rocking chair,’ I answered plainly. ‘To match my own.’

There was a slow smile that appeared, a penny hanging on the edge of a dropper. I watched the realisation tip over. ‘Okay, I take it back. That’s actually very sweet.’ He turned and wandered off, as though signalling the end of our exchange.

‘I’m not finished with my ideas!’ I shouted after him.

‘I know,’ he answered, still chewing, ‘but I’m not finished with my breakfast and I’d like to keep it down if I can. I’ve a big day of writing ahead.’

David was already typing by the time I came to leave for work. I skipped my usual Dock of the Bay visit and instead went straight to the shop. My head was too busy, too loud to entertain Bill asking how my husband was. Besides which, I’d become too honest at Janet’s party and it had carried through to the everyday. I was now too comfortable answering questions about David by saying how loved up he was with his new girlfriend – which, of course, was an answer that only invited more questions. After several strong drinks it was an easy thing to explain. After a night of little sleep and only half a cup of tea at home, I decided I was better off brewing my own drink in my shop’s boxy kitchen than I was having my usual morning chat with Bill.

‘Delivery!’ Michel beamed as I rounded the corner into my road. He was standing on the pavement surrounded by boxes. ‘I had too productive a time this weekend, and I need to share the lucky findings.’

‘Good grief.’ I laughed. ‘You don’t have another dildo stashed in one of those boxes, do you?’ The memory was both beautiful and quite painful. But I had to hope the flowers might be the first of a few steps in taking some of that pain away – for one, or both of us.

Michel looked at the open mouths of boxes with a worried expression. ‘I don’t think…’

I reached out and squeezed his forearm. ‘To be clear, it would be a good thing if there wasn’t. I’m not actively looking for… those.’

He managed a laugh, though it was still fringed with something that sounded like nerves. ‘Oui, understood, it’s a no to… the… Well, a no to the things. We’ll take these in, though?’ he asked with a new note of enthusiasm. ‘You will have first pick over everyone.’

‘Oh, you’re very good to me, Michel,’ I answered as I unlocked the door. Not least because you’re giving me the distraction I need…

We took two boxes apiece and carried them in the general direction of the counter. I rested my two on top and peeled away the lips of the cardboard on the first one. There were no fewer than five porcelain faces staring back at me, and I bit back on the urge to physically recoil.

‘Dummies!’ he announced.

‘So I see…’ I part-lifted one out of the box. There was a grimace fighting its way out of me, no matter how hard I tried to stifle it. My grandmother had been a collector of porcelain dolls – two entire rooms full of them at her house – and it had always felt to me, from childhood onwards, that stepping into those rooms was like stepping into a kind of horror scene. All face and no feeling; I couldn’t ever read those dolls. Forty years later, and nothing much seemed to have changed.

‘They’re the sort where you’ – Michel bunched his fingers together and gestured his hand in an upward motion – ‘you put the hand in the…’ He gestured again, but the clink of the shop door opening interrupted his upward swing. Thank God.

Though I was less relieved when I saw what exactly had interrupted the exchange. There, in the entryway to my shop, was a young man clutching a ridiculously sized bunch of flowers.

‘Oh no.’ I hurried to greet him. ‘There’s been a mix-up–’

‘That’s what the last lady said,’ he answered, his tone flat, bored, unfulfilled with life. Wait until you get older, I thought but managed to hold back on saying. ‘I took these to the first address and she said to bring them to this address. Should I… I mean, do you want them? Otherwise, I’m taking them back with me.’ He shrugged. ‘The woman who ordered will still be charged, but whatever.’