foolishly thought he’d eventually forgive me for this one day. After all, I was only being me. Vintage Coreen. He’d always forgiven me before. But as I ran to the doorway that led to the shop floor and hung on to the frame I saw him stride away down the road and realised he never would. I’d taken it too far.
I stood there motionless, hardly breathing, my fingernails folded into my palms. It would have been a good time for the violins to play, to swell around me in melody sweet and sad and sharp enough to make hearts bleed, but I made yet another discovery: there was nothing romantic about moments like this.
Nothing romantic at all.
A limousine arrived to pick me up at seven on Saturday evening. It took me over the river, wove skilfully through the London traffic and deposited me at an exclusive little restaurant in the West End. I was fussed over and shown to a table, where Nicholas was waiting for me.
He rose as I approached and kissed my hand. From anyone other than Nicholas I would have thought it was too smooth to be true, but he really was like that all charm and effortless manners.
‘You look stunning,’ he said as he pulled my chair out for me.
‘Thank you.’
I did look good. I hadn’t worn the red dress, though. I’d chosen an Audrey Hepburn-esque little black dress and put my hair up. Nicholas liked the pared-down minx, after all, and it didn’t go to give a man the impression he had even the tiniest bit of control over what a girl did. The lipstick was crimson, of course, but I’d faltered when it had come to the shoes.
I’d looked at the array of different styles and shades of red in the bottom of my wardrobe, had tried loads on, but discarded them all. I’d ended up nipping over to the shop and borrowing the black suede evening shoes with the bow on the front. But I was so used to wearing nothing but red on my feet that every time I looked down I had the feeling that something was wrong. They pinched my little toes as well, but what the heck?
As you can tell, I reverted to the original plan after Adam left.
Okay, straight after Adam left I stumbled home, ate two pints of Devilish Diva chocolate ice cream, watched three black-and-white movies back-to-back and then sobbed into my pillow until morning. But that had been five whole days ago now, and despite the fact I had repeated the process on the two following nights I had forced myself to get up and move on. Hence the plan.
It had been a good plan, after all.
Adam had been right—I was ready for something more serious than puppy-training. I was ready for a serious relationship. With someone like Nicholas. Someone who thought that girl was funny and sparkly and full of pizzazz. Someone who couldn’t see through the dizzying parade of polka dots, who couldn’t make them transparent with just one look.
Only…
As we ate the exquisite food and chatted in the candlelight I kept looking at my Perfect Man and noticing lots of silly little things.
The fan of creases at the side of his eyes, for one. They didn’t appear often enough, and when they did they didn’t make me feel like melted marshmallow inside. The eyes were all wrong, of course. Too clear. Too blue. No cheeky little glimmers inside that dragged the corners of my mouth up, whether I liked it or not. And I just kept wanting to lean across the table and unto his top button, or muss his hair up a little. Sometimes perfection can be a little too uniform.
I sighed. I was being picky, wasn’t I?
Deep down, I knew why. Deep down, I tried to tell myself all about it. But somewhere nearer the surface I squished it down again—a kind of mental sticking of the fingers in one’s ears and singing ‘la-la-la’, I suppose.
Nicholas topped my glass up with fizz that was a hundred times better than the stuff I usually got at the corner shop.
‘Coreen?’
‘Mm-hm?’
‘Is everything okay?’
I flashed him my Marilyn smile. ‘Absolutely wonderful.’
He glanced over his left shoulder. ‘You seem to be fascinated by something behind me. Is there something wrong with the restaurant? And you keep sighing.’
‘No.’ I shook my head emphatically. ‘The restaurant is lovely. I wasn’t looking at anything in particular…’ Not in these elegant surroundings, anyway. But I was hardly going to own up to the mental slide show that had been distracting me.
Adam’s grin as he stole yet another sweet and sour pork ball.
His face close to mine as he adjusted a pair of hideous tortoiseshell glasses.
The look in his eyes as I sang my mum’s favourite song.
I put those thoughts away and shuffled through the images of the previous weekend, trying to find a nice one of Nicholas—like the time when he’d congratulated me on geeing everybody up, or when he’d asked me to dance—but they were all fuzzy and out of focus.
I let out a breath, long and slow. Nicholas’s eyebrows dipped at the edges. Maybe he’d been taking lessons from Robert. He looked down at his architecturally beautiful dessert and then up at me again.
‘I’m still too late, aren’t I?’
I tried to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. Dissolved by the fizzing bubbles of the vintage champagne, no doubt. Nicholas, gentleman that he was, said nothing further. He was charming and interesting as we finished our meal, attentive and amusing during coffee and on the limo ride home. The kiss he pressed on my cheek as we parted was decidedly platonic.
I stood with my key in the lock and watched the limo pull away into the starlit summer night. Not once did I sigh. I felt like Cinderella in reverse. I’d gone to the ball only to wind up with the pumpkin. No, that wasn’t fair to Nicholas. He was everything I’d imagined him to be.
It was just that he wasn’t my pumpkin, and no amount of wishing would make it otherwise.
I held up fine until I got into the flat and ran to the kitchen, but as I opened the freezer and reached for yet another tub of Devilish Diva I paused and my fingers numbed on its frosty surface. Seemed I was going to bypass the ice cream stage and fall headlong into the sobbing stage. Gluey tears, a waterfall at the back of my nose and some rather unattractive snorting noises to follow.
I pulled the ice cream tub out of the freezer, clutched it to my chest, and then closed the freezer door, turned around and slid down it until I was sitting on the kitchen floor.
Why did it still hurt? Why did it hurt more? I hadn’t made the fatal mistake of following him. I was doing the right thing, wasn’t I?
Suddenly I got really angry. I dropped the ice cream and stumbled to my feet with all the grace of a new-born giraffe, kicking off the uncomfortable black heels as I did so, and ran into the living room to stare at the picture of my mother, back in its proper place on the mantelpiece.
‘It’s all your fault!’ I screamed. ‘You did this to me. This is your legacy and I don’t want it! I don’t want it!’ I picked up the frame and hurled it across the room. It hit the fake zebra skin rug and shattered. I made a horrible gurgling
