Polly James - Would Like to Meet

* * *

I’m still sitting on the sofa, trying to work out why Dan suddenly started being so frosty, when Joel finally returns home.

“Where’s Dad?” he says. “Still in the kitchen working on the dryer?”

“He left,” I say. “Ages ago. As soon as he found out what you’d done to break the bloody thing.”

“Ah,” says Joel. He looks a bit embarrassed for a moment, then treats me to the winning expression he used to rely on to get him out of trouble when he was a toddler, more than twenty years ago.

“It worked, though, didn’t it?” he says, ignoring my scowl. “My plan, I mean, not the dryer, obviously.”

“What plan?” I say. “Why on earth would you plan to break the tumble dryer? I’ve got half a ton of damp washing in the kitchen that’s going to go mouldy if it doesn’t stop raining soon. And most of it belongs to you.”

It’ll serve Joel right if all his clothes end up covered in mildew, though God knows how much he spends on them each month. Almost as much as he spends on trainers, I should think, and he’s paranoid about looking after everything he owns, or about me looking after it, anyway. He went ballistic last week when I shrank one of his T-shirts by accident, so he’ll go nuts if his entire wardrobe ends up going mouldy.

“My plan,” says Joel, disregarding the threat of damage to his precious “streetwear” in an uncharacte‌ristically offhand way, “was to get you guys back together again, or talking about it anyway. So, did it work?”

“No,” I say. “And nor does the dryer so, tomorrow, you’ll have to take everything to the launderette.”

Joel looks horrified, though I’m not sure whether that’s due to the failure of his stupid plan, or to the prospect of having to take his clothes to the Eezimat, then sit there for hours watching them dry. I’d find that pretty boring myself.

Oh, shit. I didn’t always find it boring, though. Not when Dan and I got locked inside the art school’s launderette overnight and decided to wash everything we owned, including what we were wearing at the time. That night was far from boring, or from being “punishment”.

Oh, God, this splitting-up thing must be catching: now Joel and Izzy have split up, too. He told me about it late last night when he came back from a date with her, and said it was his choice, but then clammed up when I asked him why. I try again this morning, when he finally drags himself out of bed.

“Well, you and Dad are hardly a good advertisement for long-term relationships, are you?” he says. “And anyway, I’m fine with it.”

He may be, but he looks a lot more bleary-eyed than he normally does after a night out drinking.

In fact, he looks so rough that I don’t feel I can ask him to go into the loft to find my painting things, so I end up doing it myself, which is not the world’s most enjoyable experience. First the ladder wobbles alarmingly, and then I have to climb off it into the attic, which is so dark that I can barely see a thing, apart from all the horrible cobwebs near the hatch. I hate spiders – and so does Joel – so I’ve no idea how we’re going to deal with them now Dan’s not here.

“You’ve got no choice, so just man up,” I say to myself. (That’s another thing that happens when your husband’s left you: you start talking to yourself, like a lunatic.)

Luckily, my art stuff is in the box closest to the hatch, so soon I’m back downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table and drawing the viola Pearl gave me from the garden at Abandon Hope. My first few strokes of the pencil are tentative, but after that, my drawing becomes more fluid and the result is surprisingly good, given that I’ve done nothing but draw stupid website icons for the last ten years. The trouble is that, once the flower drawing’s complete, I can’t think of anything else to draw and – after a few minutes spent racking my brains to no avail – I realise I’ve been doodling Dan’s name, over and over, by accident.

I scribble all the doodles out.

“What shall I draw next?” I say to Joel.

“I don’t know,” he says, which is no help whatsoever, but then I recall what I used to do whenever I ran out of ideas at art school: go for a walk in the countryside.

I pack up my sketchbook and drawing materials and then I arrange to go over to Pearl’s. I may as well kill two birds with one stone, I suppose.

* * *

“You look terrible,” says Pearl, as soon as she opens the door to me. “I’m surprised you’ve got the energy to go for a walk. Are you still not sleeping?”

“No,” I say, “I mean, yes, I am. But that’s actually worse – because of the nightmares I’ve been having recently.”

Pearl raises an eyebrow.

“Nightmares?” she asks. “What nightmares?”

She makes me a coffee while I tell her about my recurring dream.

“It starts with me and Joel standing on the deck of the Titanic , while Joel keeps yelling at me that Dan has disappeared,” I say, finding it all too easy to visualise the scene that replays itself in my mind most nights: dark water swirling round our ankles, the captain of the ship conspicuous by his total absence, and the deck tilting more and more alarmingly.

“So what happens then?” asks Pearl.

She actually seems interested, which is unusual, given how boring most of us find listening to other people’s dreams. Esther tells me about hers every morning when we arrive at work, and I’m starting to wish she wouldn’t bother, though I’d never dream of saying so.

“Go on,” says Pearl. “We haven’t got all day, so don’t drag this out.”

“I’ve nearly finished,” I say, “and I was only pausing to take a breath. Anyway, when the ship’s about to capsize, Joel and I spot Dan sitting in a lifeboat in the sea below, so we both breathe a big sigh of relief because we know he won’t let us drown. Then we start jumping up and down, yelling, until he spots us …”

My voice tails off again at that point, as I suddenly get a bit choked up, so I try to cover that by slurping at my coffee, which is still so hot I burn my mouth.

“Ouch,” I say, getting up and heading for Pearl’s kitchen for a swig of cold water.

“Don’t change the subject by leaving the room,” says Pearl, getting up and following me. “Not when I’m still waiting to hear how this blooming dream ends – though I don’t see how you can call it a nightmare, if Dan rescues you.”

“That’s the thing,” I say. “When he finally sees us, he waves … but then he starts to row really fast. Away from us.”

“Ah,” says Pearl, who I’ve never known to be lost for words before.

She remains mute until we reach the wooden viewing seat at the top of the hill that forms the outer edge of the Abandon Hope estate, the same hill that overlooks a lake situated in a public park just outside the boundary. If Pearl thinks the sight of a large body of water is unfortunate in the circumstances, she doesn’t say so, and nor do I. I just avert my eyes.

“I want to give you some advice, Hannah,” she says, after a minute or two has passed. “From experience. When you find yourself on your own after a long time of being half of a couple, solitary hobbies like drawing and painting aren’t enough. You need to get out and meet people. You really do. I know it’s terrifying but you just have to face the fear. Take the opportunity to make new friends, whenever it presents itself, and be friendly to everyone you meet. Even people you don’t like.”

“Why have I got to be friendly to them ?” I say, as I begin to sketch the view below us. (The one that doesn’t involve the lake. I’ve got my back to that.)