Polly James - Would Like to Meet

“Of course not like those ,” says Pearl, chucking the leaflet into the wastepaper basket, “but something more daring than learning to row – though that’s a start. What about internet dating? I’m going to give it a try, seeing as there aren’t any good male prospects here at Abandon Hope. There are lots of men on these websites, though, so you could easily meet someone your own age instead of hanging out with oldies like me.”

She pauses, but she can’t resist. I knew she wouldn’t be able to.

“You can’t keep up with us,” she adds.

* * *

I drive home from Pearl’s thinking about what she said about trying new things and, by the time I get there, I’ve decided I’ll join one of those singles’ supper clubs. That’ll kill two birds with one stone: it’ll get me out of the house and meeting men, and save me the bother of having to cook. Joel can go and eat at Dan’s new place on the nights I’m out if he misses Dan’s cooking as much as he says he does. I miss it, too, though not as much as I miss some of the other things Dan used to do. Like dealing with Joel, when he’s being a pain.

I pause on the front doorstep as I recall the naked girl. If she’s still in the house, I hope she’s put some clothes on now. I’ve seen enough naked people in the course of the last twelve hours to last me a lifetime – which it may have to, if I can’t even get my head around flirting with someone new, let alone seeing them naked. Or them seeing me.

When I open the door and step inside, I can tell immediately that the house is empty. You always can tell, though I don’t know why. It must be something subtle only the lizard part of your brain picks up: a lack of disturbance in the air or something like that. Joel’s probably avoiding me, to give me time to calm down about last night’s shock encounter, though it’s going to take a while for that to happen, when I’m still so cross about it.

The stillness of the house is a bit depressing, so I heat up some more of Joel’s ageing pasta sauce and eat it without spaghetti, but with a spoon. Then I take my sketchbook into the garden to make the most of what little daylight is remaining. I know it’s boring, and solitary, and all that, but for the rest of today I’m going to do something that makes me feel good, and drawing fits the bill.

I spend an hour or so sketching – first the violas, from every angle, and then the dormant lilac tree, though that just looks like a collection of twigs. Now I’m at a bit of a loss to know what to draw next, seeing as most of the garden is still in bleak post-winter mode, much like me.

I stand in the centre of the overgrown lawn and turn around in a circle, looking for inspiration, and then I decide to draw the house. That turns out to be quite testing – getting the perspective right when I’m so out of practice – but when I stop concentrating on how depressed I am, and start concentrating on what I’m looking at, eventually I get my hand in, and the result is pretty good. In fact, the process proves so enjoyable that I feel miles better by the time the light starts to fail and I go back indoors. I haven’t drawn anything for years, apart from stupid website banners and icons, and now I can’t imagine why I ever stopped. Was it something about being with Dan, even though a love of art was the first thing we shared? The whole thing suddenly strikes me as so odd that, if we hadn’t split up, I’d be asking his opinion about it right this minute.

But we have split up, and now I’m miserable again … until I walk upstairs to the bathroom and find a message Joel must have left for me before he went out.

There’s a large piece of paper on the floor of the landing, which looks as if it’s been torn from one of my sketchbooks. On it Joel has drawn a self-portrait in charcoal, showing him wearing a very penitent expression along with an outfit that wouldn’t look out of place on a rap musician. Beneath his feet, which are encased in a pair of extremely elaborate trainers, he’s scrawled, “I’m sorry, Mum”. It’s all a bit smudged due to the charcoal, but the drawing isn’t bad at all, and I’m just wondering whether to suggest Joel reconsider his decision not to go to art school when I hear the front door slam, and then him shouting, “Mum?”

I go downstairs intending to demonstrate that all is forgiven by giving him a hug, but he shrugs off my attempt.

“Have you been annoying Dad?” he says. “Or doing something stupid?”

“No,” I say.

Joel glares at me, then says, “You must have done. Dad says he’s taking that secondment he was going to refuse because he ‘needs some space’. So now he’ll be moving miles away at the end of the week.”

I’m so nonplussed, all I can do is to stand there, my mouth gaping open as if I was a fish, while I rack my brains for why Dan would need more space from me. Maybe he objected to my drunken texts – unless he realised I was hiding behind the bush in his garden the other night? I should’ve killed that bloody dachshund, as soon as the damn thing started to bark.

It’s March the 21st today – the first day of spring – but I can’t say I’m enjoying it, so far. It’s pouring with rain when I wake up, and I seem to be pouring, too. I thought all that unpredictable crying had finally stopped after the apricot tart meltdown in M&S a week ago, but this morning I can’t seem to stop because of this secondment thing. If Dan’s not even living in the same town as me any more, then that must mean he’s really gone for good.

Joel’s still pretty fed up, too, though at least he’s stopped blaming me for Dan’s decision now.

“I know it’s a bit shit about Dad moving away, Mum, but maybe it’s for the best,” he says, as he plonks a cup of tea down on my bedside table. “It isn’t easy, bumping into each other all the time, not when you’ve split up. Izzy walked past my shop yesterday and even that was awkward.”

He doesn’t mention Ruby, so presumably Izzy only counts because she’s Joel’s “official” ex-girlfriend, rather than a random naked person on a landing. I don’t say anything, anyway, as I don’t know what to say. “A bit shit” is the understatement of the year, unless it’s being used to describe this cup of tea. Joel never waits for the kettle to boil.

I sit and sip the lukewarm sludge while tears roll slowly off my nose and into my cup.

“You’re in no fit state to go to work, are you?” Joel says, after a while.

I agree entirely, but I’ve got no choice. The Fembot was off sick on Friday, with some sort of unspecified virus, and if she’s still claiming to be unwell today I’ve got to cover for her at the stupid strategy meeting after lunch.

Joel asks what I mean by “claiming to be unwell”.

“I’m not convinced she was genuinely ill,” I say. “She’d already asked for Friday off to have a long weekend at a spa, but the MD refused because we’re too busy. Then she rang in sick that day.”

“Well, if she’s been faking it, then your problem’s solved,” says Joel, passing me a box of tissues. “That’s the great thing about imaginary illness syndrome. You can just say you’ve caught it from her, and then she can’t prove you’re lying without admitting she was too.”

I admire the genius of Joel’s reasoning but go to work anyway, not only because he didn’t inherit his disregard for authority from me, but also because I need to check whether Esther’s got over the Mr Flobby incident at the club by now.

Her face is no longer blotchy, which is a plus, but she’s still in a foul mood with that horrible man, and with me.

“It comes to something,” she says, “when a man thinks someone decades older than you is more attractive, doesn’t it?”