Charlotte Butterfield - Crazy Little Thing Called Love

‘Jesus Layles, what have you done with your hair?’

It was almost seven thirty at night, the shutters were down on the shops flanking her smart Notting Hill office and the after-work crowd that normally hung about at the pub opposite had already dispersed. If it hadn’t persistently drizzled all day perhaps the faded benches outside the pub would still have a few stragglers on them. Leila had stayed late to help a colleague on a community project they were working on, and the last thing she wanted was the now-cold latte that was being offered by Freddie’s outstretched hand.

‘Where have you been? Thought you clocked off at six, been waiting here ages for you.’

Leila sighed, ‘Why are you here Freddie?’ It surprised her that the only emotion to course through her was irritation.

‘I came back.’

‘Evidently. But why?’ Leila shook her head again as Freddie motioned for her to take the paper cup, which he then balanced on a bus stop bench.

‘You can’t just leave it there, find a bin.’

‘It’s a gift for the next person to wait for a bus.’

‘It’s cold coffee Freddie, find a bin.’ Leila stopped walking. ‘Don’t be a prat.’

‘Is this about what happened in Jaipur?’

‘It’s about you littering up the streets of London for no reason other than not being bothered to find a bin.’

‘You’re still angry with me.’

Leila reflected on this for a moment, ‘You know what, Freddie, I’m really not. I’m just grateful for finding out when I did that you are a monumental waste of my time and energy. Now, if you don’t mind I’ve had a really long day and I want to go home. Pick up the cup, put it in the bin and go away.’

‘I only came back from India to explain. You owe me that at least.’

If Leila had been a violent sort of person she would have slapped him at that moment. She did toy with the idea of rescuing the cold coffee from the bus stop purely to fling it in his gormless grinning face, but she resisted. ‘Freddie. There is nothing to explain. You screwed up. I’ve moved on. Good night.’ She stuck out her hand and hailed a passing cab. She slammed the car door leaving Freddie standing open-mouthed in the street. It was a dramatic statement more than anything else – she wasn’t even sure she had any cash on her to pay for the cab. A quick rummage through her purse discovered that nope, she didn’t. ‘Um, sorry mate, can you just drop me here?’ The cab had just rounded the corner, less than 50 metres from where she’d got in. In the driver’s eyes, she must seem either deranged or extremely lazy. She looked in the rear view mirror and gave the cabbie a winning smile. ‘And will you accept a three quid Pret a Manger voucher for the fare?’

My ex surprised me outside work today with a cold coffee and a bucketful of hard-done-by-ness. The old me may have relented a little. May have agreed to go for a drink. At the very least the old me may have listened to his attempts to explain why he felt the need to entertain a naked buxom blonde in my absence. But the new me didn’t. The new me felt no stirring of emotion at all, no flicker of remorse or wistfulness. The new me is currently toasting myself with a well-deserved glass of cheap wine. Go new me.

***

There was never normally enough room in Alex’s car for Leila to get a lift with them down to Dartmouth for the monthly family roast. Despite it being a Range Rover, once you’d piled in two adults, three kids – two of them in bulky car seats – and bags full of the necessary detritus to keep three kids amused for a long car journey and a weekend with the grandparents, the car was full. Which Leila thanked the Lord for every time she stretched out on the train, ordered a cheese croissant and cappuccino from the buffet car and read half a book. But fifteen-year old Mia had special dispensation to stay at a friend’s this weekend, leaving a ten-inch gap between the two car seats that, according to her sister, had Leila’s name on it.

‘Remind me how Mia managed to get out of this, when I’ve been trying for the last fifteen years?’ Alex said, at the same time as craning his neck around trying to go across three lanes of traffic to his exit.

‘It’s Imogen’s birthday.’ Tasha replied, flicking through the Saturday supplements that were weighing on her knees. ‘And if we didn’t let Mia go to the sleepover she was going to die. And I didn’t want that on my conscience.’

‘Aunty LaLa?’

‘Yes Oscar?’ Leila turned her head to answer her little nephew, who was staring back at her keenly.

‘Play I-Spy wiv me pease.’

Leila loved her sister’s kids, she did. But they were less than eight minutes into a four-hour car journey. On a Saturday morning when all her friends were having lie-ins with their husbands or drinking coffee out of impossibly small cups at a pavement cafe, she was feeding a constant stream of cheesy wotsits to two little monkeys. One of whom had a trickle of green slime oozing from his left nostril.

Just as the M25 turned into the M4 Leila put a Peppa Pig DVD in the player on the back of the passenger seat which seemed to distract Oscar from a never-ending round of I-Spy. ‘Is Lucy coming as well?’ Leila asked her sister. She obviously didn’t do a good enough job at cloaking the disdain in her question because Tasha span around and asked her why.

‘No reason, I just find her a bit, um, cold,’ Leila shrugged.

‘She’s perfect for Marcus.’

‘He’s not cold!’

‘No, but he is a bit nice but dim. She’s the perfect trophy girlfriend, isn’t she? With her perfect nails and perfect blow-dried hair.’

‘She’s wonderful. What’s not to like?’ Alex interrupted. ‘Ow!’ he said, rubbing his arm where Tasha had punched him. ‘There’s no need for that, I just mean, she’s a bit of a looker, isn’t she? Way above Marcus’s league.’

‘I’m not even going to respond to that. Ignore me, I shouldn’t have mentioned anything,’ shrugged Leila.

‘I thought you were all about female solidarity and sisters doing it for themselves these days Leila?’ Alex looked in the rear view mirror at his sister-in-law.

He was annoyingly right. ‘I am, you’re completely correct. I shouldn’t speak ill of one of my own. Consider myself castigated.’

‘Speaking of your man-ban—’

‘We weren’t.’

Alex ignored her and carried on, ‘Speaking of your man-ban, I think I’ve found the perfect bloke for you. Name’s Andy, new guy in the office, a real laugh, rugby player, single, loves a good time, likes his booze, he’s not looking for anything serious, just a bit of fun—’

He wasn’t the first to assume that her celibacy vow was down to not meeting the right man, that she was just treading water until the next bloke came along. Shelley wasn’t getting it either, and still expected Leila to accompany her to those horrific blind date nights where desperate men made rubbish jokes and you were expected to laugh. She’d got really shirty with her last week when Leila had turned down yet another offer of warm wine and stilted speed-dating chat in a Mexican restaurant.

‘Andy sounds charming.’ Leila replied from the back seat. ‘But the whole point of a man-ban is to ban men, not sleep with them.’

‘Who mentioned anything about sleeping with them? But you’re only doing this because you’re lonely, and I’m just pointing out someone to stop you being lonely, that’s all.’

‘Is that what you think? That I’m just trying to fill my time before the next man comes into my life? Oh my God Alex, you’re so annoying.’ After fifteen years of having Alex as her brother-in-law, Leila felt justified in speaking to him the same way she would her own brother. ‘That just shows your complete lack of depth and understanding of women. I am doing this year – a whole year – to prove to myself and everyone else that I do not need to be attached to someone else to be happy.’