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‘Ah,’ Nina says. ‘There might be just one little problem.’
Now I sit up straight.
‘When you said he didn’t know a thing about you,’ she says, ‘that’s not exactly true.’
‘Oh, Nina.’
‘I know, I know,’ she offers, defending her crime before I’ve even been told what it is. ‘He was just so convincing. I thought the feelings were mutual. I’ll swear I heard wedding bells ringing in the background.’
‘Oh, Nina,’ I say again.
‘I gave him your address,’ she confesses. ‘He said he wanted to send you flowers.’
I hang my head.
‘I’m so sorry, Janie. What a twat I’ve been.’ She gives me a consoling smile and offers me a conciliatory grape. ‘But look on the bright side. At least you might salvage something out of the date. By the time you get home I bet a pound to a penny that there’ll be a whacking great bouquet of red roses waiting for you.’
This from the man who told me all that ‘romantic shit’ was a complete waste of time? This is bad. Very bad.
‘I do hope not.’
‘Just say thank you politely and then you’ll never have to see him ever again.’
There is that. Lewis Moran doesn’t seem to be the type of man who would pursue his intentions when they’re not wanted. He looked to me like someone who would like an easy lay, he’s not one for the chase. Thank goodness for that, I think.
‘Janie,’ Nina ventures, ‘where exactly did the lesbian ballet dancer come into it?’
‘You wouldn’t want to know,’ I reply, knowing that being in the dark will drive my meddlesome little friend to distraction. ‘You so wouldn’t want to know.’
Chapter Twelve
‘You’re not yourself, Janie,’ Angie Watson observes. ‘Everything all right?’
And it’s true. I’ve been out of sorts all day.
‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘Just a bit tired.’
Angie is one of the few clients who is younger than me. She comes in every six weeks for a cut and highlights. Her hair is shoulder-length and she likes it straightened after I’ve dried it. I’ve been doing her hair since she was about fourteen and a sulky teenager. Now she’s a beautiful young woman with a slender figure and an ever-changing list of boyfriends. I don’t even try to keep track of their names now.
‘Isn’t it about time you had a break?’ Angie suggests. ‘You haven’t had a holiday this year yet, have you?’
‘No.’ I stroke the GHDs through her silky tresses. ‘The colour’s come up nicely.’
‘Yeah.’ She admires herself in the mirror.
While Angie Watson is glowing with health and happiness, the reflection of my face is white and dark shadows bruise my eyes. I couldn’t look any more like I need a holiday.
‘I’ve had a lot of expense with the cottage.’ It’s just so much harder managing on my own. I knew it would be in theory, but in practice the pressure of bill-paying is relentless. I have to watch every penny now. Not that I was extravagant before, I’ve always been Mrs Careful, but now all the bills are down to me and me alone and, unlike most of my contemporaries, I’m terrified of being in debt. Every month is a balancing act worthy of the Cirque du Soleil.
‘You should treat yourself,’ Angie urges. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of foreign sunshine to put a spring in your step.’ We both look out of the big window at the front to see the rain pouring down in the courtyard. ‘I try to escape Christmas every year by jetting off somewhere hot.’
If I remember rightly, I think Angie has had about three holidays this year, each of them with a different bloke and she certainly has a lot of spring in her step. I would do well to listen to her.
‘You never know, you might meet the man of your dreams out there,’ she teases.
Better than going to Blah-Blah Bar and meeting the man of your nightmares.
‘I wouldn’t know where to go,’ I admit.
‘You need to go a bit further afield to catch the rays at this time of year. You should give somewhere a bit exotic a go like the Caribbean or Thailand.’ My client shrugs. ‘You should just jump on a plane. You’ve no commitments, no ties. The world is your oyster.’
Angie is the sort of person who always has a few pairs of shorts and some flip-flops ready to throw in a case at a moment’s notice. I’ve never been like that. I’m not the spontaneous sort. I like plans. I like to prepare myself. I’m not the jetting off kind.
‘How’s the boyfriend?’ I ask.
‘Dillon’s wonderful,’ she sighs.
