Romantic Association - Loves Me, Loves Me Not

Several dates in, I didn’t at all like turning down Max’s out-of-the-blue offer of a weekend in Barcelona but I heard my newly discovered cautious side suggesting to him that we slow down, take some time out and just be friends for a while. Trouble is, everyone assumes there is an underlying message in that particular line, and it’s not a positive one. I liked Max a lot and he liked me—so he gave me what I’d asked for: space, solitude and time to think. Under other circs Max-and-me could have been…well, who knows? I certainly won’t know, not now, not with him—the ‘space’ drifted into weeks, now months. I suppose it was too much to hope, after I’d effectively dumped him—and, oh, how teenage that sounds!—that he’d be OK with the occasional no-strings drink and a bag of nuts at the pub when we could have been strolling down Las Ramblas in the Catalan sunshine and getting cosy over tapas and Rioja.

It’s a shame you can’t put potential lovers in a cupboard for a few months, then get them out when the previous livid emotional scars have thoroughly healed. He must have thought I was a completely hopeless case, wittering on about wanting to try being alone, needing to Get To Know Myself. All rubbish really. A few months on from that moment of Being Sensible and I can tell you that existing determinedly on your own is highly overrated. What’s so great about being in sole charge of the TV remote? Who needs quite that much spreading-out space in bed? And, as the song doesn’t actually go: if I don’t know myself by now…

‘Hurtling’, by the way, is the reason why I’m here, a bit early, waiting to join a half-day Speed Awareness class and learn how Not To Drive Too Fast. As an alternative to points on my licence it’s likely to be a few hours well-spent. I had no excuse: being caught on a speed camera doing thirty-five m.p.h. in a thirty limit was bang-to-rights, even if it was a deserted dual carriageway, late at night, running my fox-bitten cat to the emergency vet. Sorry—did I say no excuses? We’ve all got our stories.

It’s time to go in and I check in with the jolly-looking organiser in an anteroom full of sheepish-looking fellow law-breakers. Slightly nervously, we smile at each other; someone makes a quip about us being in detention like naughty schoolchildren, and our ‘teacher’ grimaces and mutters, ‘There’s always one…’ I sense he’s got a running bet with himself about how many minutes into the proceedings some wag would come up with that one.

But it is like being in class, and we all sit in rows at desks with a computer each. Apart from a scurrying latecomer who whooshes unseen into a seat at the back, we’re all quiet and concentrating. The first part of the session is all mouse-clicking—on the computer screen there is a video in which we’re ‘driving’ a car; we have to click when we feel too close to the car in front. Appropriately enough, I’m pretty sure I’m being too cautious here—I want to keep a good safe distance. Same with the speed test: I want to slow the virtual car right down. I smile to myself, thinking how like my life this is, these days. Having raced into a young marriage, the first of my group of mates to go for the full-scale meringue frock and multi-layered cake event, now look at me: avoiding a new closeness the moment it comes my way. Oh, well, no point brooding—right here, if I’m not careful, I’ll score nul points for being easily distracted.

We do hazard perception next. The video has me driving in a variety of scenarios, inner city through to country lanes. I clock the cyclist, the horse-rider, the schoolchildren, the skateboarder, an ambulance, some elderly ladies. Click, click, click goes my mouse but there doesn’t seem to be an option for ‘possible love interest’ lurking in those on-screen streets. Perhaps they aren’t such a hazard after all. Too late now anyway, I tell myself. I mean, I could call Max, obviously, or send him a cheery email, but what’s he going to assume this time? That I’m fickle and flighty? That I’m ditsy and dithering? And of course he won’t be free anyway—you don’t get many delightful, attractive, entertaining, unattached men like him to the pound—it would be his turn to back right off. Who wants to line themselves up for a definite ouch? If we’re talking risks and hazards here today, I think I’ll pass on that particular one.

We’ve had our talk on speed limits and been reminded about Highway Code points that a lot of us had forgotten about since our driving test days. I pick up my bag and coat and say goodbye and thanks to the class tutor.

‘Claire—I thought it was you!’ And there he is—the class latecomer was, oh, heavens…Max, almost as if I’d ‘thought’ him into existence. ‘I’m surprised to see you here, Ms Careful!’ he teases as we walk together towards the street door.

‘Oh, well, you know, I just took it a bit fast on a vet run one night. Emergency, but no excuse, I know!’ I explain, heart pounding, words tumbling madly. ‘What about you?’

‘Ah, it was by the roadworks up near the airport. I was on my way back from…’

‘Barcelona?’ I interrupt, too fast. I can’t understand this heartsink feeling inside. Did he go there with someone else? I’m shocked at how much the very idea hurts. We only went out together for a few months—what proprietary rights do I have over one flippant weekend suggestion? None at all, I tell myself firmly, trying not to picture him with a stunning blonde and a guidebook, discussing the finer points of Gaudi’s architecture.

‘Dropping my sister off at Terminal Five, actually!’ He laughs. ‘And if you feel like risking it with a criminal driver, could I offer you a lift home?’

I feel embarrassed, flustered—he’s laughing at me now, for the Barcelona comment. What a giveaway, what an idiot I am! Which part of careful/slow/risk-free was that particular little gaffe?

We collect his scarlet Toyota from the car park and he pulls out onto the main road.

‘Bearing in mind the class we just did, I’ll take it very, very slowly,’ Max assures me.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Well within the speed limit, then.’

Are we talking about driving? Something tells me we’re not, entirely. I sense it’s not just me who’s trying not to laugh.

‘Absolutely,’ he replies. ‘And, if you’ve got time, I don’t suppose you fancy a spot of lunch?’

‘That,’ I tell him, ‘would be lovely. Where do you suggest?’

‘I know a lovely little bodega. ’ He’s teasing me, smiling wickedly. ‘Perfect tapas, a delicate little Rioja…’

‘Sounds perfect—where is it? Is it local? It’s not…’

He laughs properly now, reading my daft, crazy thoughts.

I glance up through the windscreen—the X hasn’t quite faded from the sky. Or maybe it’s a new one—hard to tell. I could say that all across the planet the sky must be full of kisses, or I could go with superstition and decide it’s a Sign.

‘No, Claire, it’s not Barcelona! Just off the High Street is a bit more down-to-earth, I’m afraid. But who knows? One day.’

‘Yes, who knows?’ I say as his hand brushes against mine. ‘Maybe some day…’

Benita Brown trained as an actress but after marriage and four children she switched to a writing career. At first she wrote for radio, then girls’ and teenage story papers such as Mandy, Judy, Jackie and Blue Jeans. She wrote her first contemporary romantic novel as Clare Benedict when the youngest of her children was poised to go to university. There were six more Clare Benedict novels before she changed genre and began to write under her own name. The Benita Brown novels are regional sagas and the first nine are set in Tyneside in the Victorian and Edwardian eras. One of these, Fortune’s Daughter, was long listed for the RNA Major Award. Her latest novel, The Starlet, moves forward in time to 1946. It is the story of Carol Marshall, a small town girl who wins a talent competition and begins a career in films. For more information about Benita and her novels visit www.benitabrown.com