plan. And Sam really wanted to go; she’d looked like an over-excited puppy with an open back door and a sunny garden in its sights. Plus, she’d come up to London at the drop of a hat yesterday, when I’d asked her. I know she’d had a semi-firm date lined up, with an accountant from East Sheen, which she’d cancelled.
‘Hey, Peony!’
Peony was walking past with a box full of tapes and stuff. She’s all blonde and petite and gorgeous. Super-efficient, too; Max is a lucky man.
‘Hey, Daryl. How you doing? Feeling any better?’
‘Ah, Sam said she’d told you about our little adventure yesterday. Yes, a bit, thanks.’
‘You’re incorrigible, you two.’
I shrugged and grinned. ‘I know. What can you do? So, when are you coming out with us again? It’s been ages.’
‘I know. Sorry, I’ve been so busy with planning the wedding and all that stuff… and Max…’ It was her turn to shrug. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘We’ll be waiting for you. We’re always available for meeting up.’
‘I know you are. And I’m glad you’re back on social track, these days.’ She gave me one of her lovely smiles. ‘We’ll definitely do it soon, I promise. So… I hear the absolute came through.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re feeling okay about it?’
‘Peony, I feel fabulous about it, I really do. A really painful chapter of my life has finally come to an end.’
‘Well, that’s wonderful, Daryl. Really wonderful.’ And she plonked down her box and came and gave me a hug. She always smelled like flowers. Her marriage would work out, I knew it would. Well, mine had, for quite a while. Until Jeff had turned out to be an absolute bastard. But she was marrying Max, who was great. They would last the distance and he wouldn’t go off with any of Peony’s friends – most of us were far too old for him, anyway. ‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘A housewarming, next month some time, after I’ve spruced my new house up a bit. And Sam wants me to go speed dating with her tonight.’
‘Oh, wow! Oh, you should!’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘What’s the worst that could happen?’
I thought about it. I could meet a bunch of absolute idiots. I could meet someone who I thought wasn’t an absolute idiot but then he’d turn out to be one. I could fall in love. That was the worst. I didn’t want to risk my heart ever again; I couldn’t bear it to be trampled on as mercilessly as Jeff had done. Yes, I was okay now. Yes, I had survived and was ready to embrace my future. But there was no way I could put myself through it all again.
My silence and the tragi-comic look on my face must have spoken volumes. Peony laughed. ‘Look, just don’t go expecting to meet the love of your life, you probably won’t.’
‘No, I don’t want that. God, no. The love of my life was almost its ruin.’
She smiled at me sympathetically for a moment and then said, ‘So, go! Go for a laugh, a giggle, a good night out. Don’t take it seriously.’ She gathered up her box. ‘I’ll see you later, Daryl. I’ve got to go and drive the afternoon desk.’
‘Happy driving! Thanks Peony.’
She walked away and I went to twiddle the empty spot on the third finger of my left hand, relieved once again to find my ring wasn’t there any more. Peony was wise. Peony was right. I was divorced now, my wedding ring was off. I was over it. I should be ready to put myself out there, for fun, for a laugh. I could go speed dating, though I would make it clear to Sam there’d be no falling in love with anyone. There wouldn’t even be any kissing of any frogs, and I imagine there’d be a lot of frogs there tonight. I couldn’t see any prince among men turning up to speed dating.
I texted Sam, from across the office.
Okay, I’m up for it. Let’s do it.
I just had the four forty-seven weather bulletin to go. Things had been getting more exciting since my three o’clock. There was the chance of a heavy shower tonight; a new weather pattern was moving in from the north of France. I was looking at all the charts and writing my report. But my thoughts were elsewhere. I’d said ‘yes’ to Sam but as soon as I had, almost at the instant the text had sent, I started getting the wobblies, big time.
She immediately sent me back a text saying ‘Fabulous!’ but I was already panicking I’d made the wrong decision, and felt steadily worse as the afternoon went on. I was going speed dating! I’d been doing so well, making a brand new start by moving into a new house, celebrating my divorce, thinking about plans for my future, but actually dipping my toe into the waters of dating – and meeting real, actual men – was suddenly really scaring me. I’d finally emerged from the storm clouds my ex-husband had thrown me into; did I really want to risk stepping into the swirling, often dangerous mists of romance again, whatever that entailed?
I didn’t know. I felt all weak and pathetic, far from the spirited woman who had chucked her wedding ring in the fountain and declared herself ready for flirting and dating again. I started doubting myself again. Thinking it was me. As I checked and double-checked the satellite picture of the cloud patterns over South West London, my brain dumped me back in the past, a place I really didn’t want to visit any more…
I’d been a good wife. An excellent one. I’d been loving and attentive; there was a dinner on the table for Jeff every night, and not just a warmed-up ready meal thrown onto the kitchen table with the cutlery following it, either. I made a real effort. I put a cloth on the table. I’d sometimes do a starter. I’d sometimes even light bloody candles. I was a pretty fabulous wife, which was actually quite a feat for someone as disorganised as me who wasn’t a natural cook. I worked really hard at the whole wife thing.
In my teens I’d been quite scathing about marriage and had openly scoffed at the mention of it. My mum had said things to me like ‘Make sure you get yourself a good career. You don’t want to spend your life washing someone’s pants!’ and I had totally agreed and laughed along with her – I’d worn ra-ra skirts, electric blue eyeliner and attitude in those days. And I did get myself a good career, straight after university, starting as tea girl and runner at Court FM before working my way up to receptionist and, eventually, weather presenter, believing I’d never be swallowed up into the loathsome role of housewife and drudge. Even after Jeff and I had Freya, and were living together, I resisted that role. Yet, somehow in the late nineties and the early noughties I became seduced by the whole thing: a meringue wedding dress; a sleek kitchen diner with a skylight and sliding glass doors to the garden; Jamie Oliver recipes; a bread maker; and domestic bliss peddled by shows such as Location, Location, Location where well-to-do, loved-up couples rejected gorgeous house after gorgeous house in idyllic villages…
Another text pinged onto my phone. It was Sam again.
Can’t WAIT until tonight!
Me
