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‘It’s admirable,’ he says and toasts my glass with his bottle. For a split second, our little fingers connect and I swear there’s a spark of electricity.
We talk more about me, my life before and after moving to the village, our mother-and-daughter relationship and what she was likepre- and post-diagnosis. It’s a cliché, but he and I are literally the last people in the restaurant by the time we realise they’re waiting to close.
And as he drives me home I can’t remember when a date last asked me so much about my life instead of talking over me about theirs. Then it dawns on me that I’ve asked very little about him. Now I’m worried I’ve blown it and this is destined to be a one-off. Because I’ve very much enjoyed myself and I’d like to see him again.
‘You did say you wanted dropping off at Gwen’s didn’t you?’ he asks as the van makes its way up her road.
‘Yes, I won’t sleep until I’ve seen she’s okay.’
‘You should get one of those nanny cams in her room so you can check up on her.’
‘She needs a good night because we have an early start in the morning. Doctor’s appointment. Just routine though.’ We pull over. ‘Thanks for a lovely night,’ I say. ‘I know I didn’t ask much about you, which is bad of me.’
‘Honestly, it’s been great. I’ll tell you about me next time, if you want a next time?’
‘Sure,’ I reply, desperately trying to play it cool.
Then the moment I have been waiting for happens. He leans over slowly towards me, his hand reaching out to cup my face. I move towards him, close my eyes and place my lips on his. Only, when we connect, they don’t feel like his lips. I open my eyes and I realise I’ve got them wrapped around his nose. And the worst thing is that they are still there. I haven’t pulled away yet. What the hell am I thinking! I push back quickly and he pulls his arm away.
‘The handle is a bit stiff,’ he says, and I realise he was reaching for the door, not my face.
I don’t believe it is possible for anyone to feel more embarrassed than I do. Once again, there is a good chance I might just die, here and now. Perhaps the only way to get mouth-to-mouth is to do just that.
CHAPTER 7
CONNIE
I wake up with a start, convinced someone is behind me in the doorway of my bedroom, watching me sleep. I’m lying on my left side, facing the window and covered only by a thin sheet. I’m vulnerable, rigid and frightened. I clench my fists, ready for fight or flight. The top window is open, so if my intruder attacks, I can scream and there’s a chance a neighbour might catch it and help me. I don’t know how much time passes but I hear nothing that indicates I have company. Eventually I pluck up the courage to turn, and to my relief, the door is as I left it when I went to bed last night. My subconscious mind must’ve been playing tricks on me again.
I remove my phone from the charger and check the time. ‘Shit,’ I mutter when I realise I forgot to set the alarm for 7 a.m. It’s now approaching eight-thirty. I throw the bedsheet aside, hurry to the shower, the movement making my head pound. I didn’t think I had that much to drink last night with Paul, until I realise I polished off a bottle and a half of wine myself while he drank non-alcoholic beers. No wonder my tongue feels like sandpaper.
She has a doctor’s appointment in an hour and a half and my sleep-in means we will be cutting it fine. It’ll set me back with my dog walks too. I’ve been awake all of ten minutes and, already, this day has gone to buggery. As I towel-dry my hair, I glance in the mirror and note the scratch marks on my face from Gwen’s tantrum earlier this week. I’ll need to put on more concealer to hide the darkening brown scabs. I still look as if I’ve been attacked by Freddy Krueger.
She’ll probably be famished by now and will need breakfast first, so I hurry things up. Even though each night by her bed I leave a flask of orange juice, a handful of Ritz crackers and some soft cheese squares, she’s been known to forget they’re there, and on a few occasions, has gone wandering. Once, she ended up in the garden, confused about how to get back inside. She has also turned up in the middle of the night at a neighbour’s house knocking on their door and begging for food because she forgets she’s eaten.
A couple of minutes later and I can’t stop the smile from blooming across my face when I see Paul’s transit van parked on the drive. He’s early, as he doesn’t normally arrive until about ten-ish. Maybe he hoped to catch me before she woke up? Aside from last night’s nose-sucking incident, I think our date went well. I guess he thought so too as he suggested a second one.
He has been here most days this week since Meltdown Monday, as I’m calling it. He’s spent more time keeping her company than doing the garden, which has really taken the pressure off me. She’s certainly enjoyed the attention and I’ve watched her become giggly and, dare I say it, flirty with him. But as sweet as it is, it can also be a little irritating. She wants to be around him all the time, which makes it that much harder for us to get to know one another. I became snippy with her on Monday when she gave him a bottle of wine I’d bought and left in her cupboard. She told him it was a thank you for his hard work, but we both know that she was trying to impress him.
I give the garden a quick once-over as I make my way up the drive. I must hand it to him, he’s done a really thorough job. And for the briefest of moments, I surrender to a pang of sadness as there isn’t much left for him to do. I’ve grown used to him being around. He’s shown interest in both of us and he’s a good listener.
Music from the 1950s wafts out of the kitchen and reaches me in the hallway. It’s the decade she adores, and above it, I overhear her and Paul laughing. I hesitate in the doorway. They sit either side of the table, separated by a steaming teapot, plates with crumbs and two empty paper bags from La Patisserie in town. I’m surprised to see she’s dressed, her hair is almost in place, and once again, she’s wearing make-up. She reminds me of one of those glamorous movie stars from the 1960s you haven’t seen in years before suddenly they turn up on the red carpet for some movie event and you can’t believe how incredible they look for their age. Paul is certainly bringing out the best in her.
They are too engrossed in conversation to notice me. So I take a mental snapshot of a lovely moment.
‘Good morning,’ I eventually say.
She turns her head. ‘Hello, Connie,’ she says, puzzled. ‘I wasn’t expecting you today.’
‘I’m here every day, Mum. Hi Paul.’
She doesn’t give him a chance to respond. ‘Did you notice the flowers when you came in?’ she asks. ‘Paul’s filled the borders with begonias. Aren’t they beautiful?’
Outside are rows of carefully planted yellow flowers, her favourite colour. There are none of the red ones that I like, though. Never mind, I guess they were out of stock.
‘And look what Bill’s brought with him ... croissants,’ she continues. ‘I used to eat these all the time when we lived in France. And they’re absolutely delicious.’
I refrain from reminding her of the number of times she’s refused to even try a bite of the ones I’ve bought her before, orthat her breakfast partner’s name is Paul and he’s not the man she married. My attention again returns to him and I realise he has yet to acknowledge me. Is there a dip in the room temperature or am I imagining it?
