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‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘You’re welcome, love.’ I’m thinking that this is the bride-to-be as she has a pink tiara and a short veil on her head. ‘It’s too early to go home. Come with us.’ She throws her arms around me and it’s like being cuddled by an octopus, although a very drunken one.
I look down at my torn outfit, the one I took so much time over. This dress will only ever now hold bad memories for me. ‘I don’t think I’m dressed properly.’ All I want now is a cup of tea and a hot bath. ‘But I’d love you to have a drink on me.’
‘There’s no need for that. We had to help a sister in distress.’
‘Please, please.’ From my purse I produce a twenty-pound note. ‘Get a couple of bottles from me.’
The bride ballet dancer hugs me.
‘I hope you’ll be very happy together.’
‘We will,’ she says, all teary with alcohol-based emotion. ‘We bloody love each other. We bloody love each other, don’t we Kylie?’
‘We do,’ a girl with a number one haircut agrees and they melt into each other’s arms.
Oh. OK.
‘We bloody love each other,’ they chorus together.
‘I wish you all the luck in the world,’ I say, quite choked now.
At least these ladies have managed to find their soul mates, I think. And then, before my date twigs that I’m missing, I slink away into the night.
Chapter Ten
When I pull up outside Little Cottage, the lights are still on inside Mike’s house next door. What shall I do? Give him a knock, see if he’s available for some tea and sympathy? Perhaps I’d be able to laugh about this, find my hideous evening hilariously amusing if only I had someone to share the sorry tale with.
It’s not late, it’s barely past ten. I start up Mike’s path and then I see the living room light go out and a few seconds later, the bedroom light goes on. Seems as if my neighbour has decided on an early night. Sensible man. I should do the same thing. Nurse my wounded heart alone.
I backtrack and trudge to my own cottage instead and let myself in. As soon as he hears the key, Archie comes down the stairs, complaining bitterly about being left alone. He gives me a love swipe as I pick him up to cuddle him, before he allows himself to be mollified with his favourite fish treats. I think these are the equivalent of giving him some Class A drugs as they instantly send him into a stupor of drooling ecstasy. If only I could find a food treat that would do the same for me.
I have some tea and toast as the promised dinner clearly never did and, it seems, was never likely to materialise. None of that ‘romance shit’ for me. After that I go and soak in a hot bath, pouring in some of my favourite jasmine and honeysuckle foam to soothe my mind and body and rid my nostrils of the smell of Lewis Moran’s overpowering aftershave. Archie sits on the floor next to the bath expectantly. My cat has a taste for scented bath suds and so I hand feed them to him in a languorously if regular fashion, and he laps them up appreciatively. If he feels his supply doesn’t come quick enough there will invariably be painful repercussions.
‘Why do I put up with you?’ I ask him. ‘You do nothing but abuse me and all I do is love you unconditionally in return.’
He answers my question with a series of embittered miaows and I wonder who has treated him so badly in the past that it has scarred his tiny feline heart.
I think of my date tonight, reminiscing thoughtfully, but not in a pleasant way. What is wrong with men these days? Did Lewis Moran – should read Moron! – really think that was the way to behave when you first meet someone? I couldn’t get away quick enough. In my mind I had played out how my date would go a dozen times. I thought there might be some initial awkwardness, then perhaps a little chemistry, some friendly conversation, a companionable and delicious dinner, maybe a bit of tentative flirting, perhaps even a shy kiss. Never once did I imagine that I would feel compelled to jump out of a powder room window into the arms of waiting lesbian ballet dancers simply to escape the torture.
I’m not a hopeless romantic. I’m not expecting a knight in shining armour. I’m not thinking that I’m going to be swept off my feet or that we’re going to go riding into the sunset together. But if I’m ever brave enough to risk dating a man again, and at this moment it seems highly unlikely, then I would like to be treated nicely.
After my bath, I slip on my fleecy pyjamas and slide into bed. Archie pads around deciding which of his thirty-two sleeping positions he’s going to adopt first. Usually he ends up in my hair at about four o’clock in the morning. I read a few pages of some romantic claptrap that I’m becoming deeply disillusioned with before my eyes start to grow heavy. By eleven o’clock I turn out the light and snuggle down for the night. I feel Archie wedge himself in the back of my knees and, in the silence, starts up a motorbike-style purr.
