Фиона Гибсон – The Woman Who Met Her Match: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you need to read in 2018 (страница 12)
‘I s’pose not,’ Stu says with a shrug, ‘if you really
‘Well, I think he’s gorgeous,’ Cecily adds with a grin
‘He’s all right,’ I say lightly.
‘Oh, come on! Look at those lovely dark eyes, Lorrie. The chiselled cheekbones. Very sexy in that polished professional sort of way …’
‘Puh.’ With a snort, Stu ambles away. He opens the fridge, peers inside and closes it again.
‘Well, that’s enough Antoine for me,’ Cecily adds, jumping up. ‘Better head back before I get overheated.’ She turns towards the kitchen door. ‘Bella darling? We really need to get going …’
And off they go, shortly followed by Stu, who’s called out on another job – emergency unsalted butter required in Crouch End – so, with Amy enjoying one of her customary soaks in the bath, I hunker down at the kitchen table and scroll through yet more of Antoine’s pictures.
More personal insights into his life is what I’m looking for: a wife, a girlfriend, children. A couple of photos I missed earlier were taken at some kind of gathering in a garden, in which he’s wearing a casual shirt and jeans, but there are no couply pictures, and there’s nothing to indicate whether he’s married or not. I examine picture after picture like some rabidly obsessed teenager, and when I check the clock on the cooker I realise over an hour has passed since Stu went out. That’s how long I’ve spent gawping at someone I haven’t seen since I was sixteen years old. What’s wrong with me? I am forty-six, I have a tunic to iron for work tomorrow, there’s a load of saggy old vegetables to dispose of in the fridge.
Allowing myself one final peek, I click on the picture that isn’t of a person or thing, but a phrase – perhaps one of those mottoes for life. Nuala pins them up whenever we’re all gathered together in a hotel for a La Beauté away-day:
Even I can understand the first bit. Google translates the rest:
A message pops up. Antoine!
Remember? Is the man insane? Of course I remember!
Oh, I don’t know – it just keeps moving. On its bicycle probably.
I wait, but nothing more comes. So, how to respond? I rehearse the words in my head:
I glance down at Amy’s dusty red and black basketball boots, dumped in front of the cubbyhole shelves that are meant for wine, but which are stuffed with random items such as gardening gloves, jam jars and obsolete chargers.
Stu saunters in, pulling off his crash helmet. ‘Still in a sweat over your French fancy?’
‘I’m not in a sweat,’ I retort. ‘Just a bit taken aback, that’s all.’
He peers down at my face. ‘Yes you are. You’re all flushed and your pupils are dilated …’
I laugh awkwardly and try to angle my laptop so he can’t see the message. Too late. His eyes light upon the screen.
‘Ooh, he’s messaged you. Are you going to reply?’
‘I might …’
‘What are you going to say?’
Jesus, it’s like having another teenager about the place.
‘Tell him what an amazingly handsome, adorable housemate you have. Go on. Make him regret running off with that French girl, what was her name …’
‘Nicole …’
‘… And realise what a fuck-up he made of things. Make him
For Christ’s sake, is my entire private life to be held up for everyone else’s cheap entertainment? I try to radiate calm – and mentally compose a suitable message – but it’s impossible now with Stu hanging over me.
He extracts a Magnum ice cream from the freezer and rips off its wrapper. ‘You know what you should put? You should say—’
‘Stu,
‘Whoah, I’m only trying to help …’
‘Yes, but you’re sounding exactly like my mum. You know she used to tell me what to put in a thank you letter? “Don’t just say thanks for the sweater, Lorrie. Say
He licks the ice cream slowly. ‘
I stand up and go to touch his arm, but he steps away. ‘Oh, of course you’re not. I just meant—’
‘I was only trying to help,’ he cuts in like a petulant child.
I look at him, embarrassed now for acting like a lunatic over a casual friend request. ‘Look, I know you were. But I really don’t need anyone’s help to message someone …’
‘Yeah, I know.’ He tries for a smile, but it falters. ‘He uses a photo of an orange for a profile picture.’
I chuckle. ‘Yes, he does. Seems like a bit of a jerk.’
Stu drops his Magnum, only half-finished, into the bin. ‘You don’t really mean that,’ he adds, affecting a teasing tone as he saunters out of the kitchen. ‘Anyway, if you’re going to obsess over someone who broke your heart thirty years ago, then
It’s a cool and breezy Wednesday morning and, after Stu’s prickliness, I’m looking forward to throwing myself into a day at the store.
I didn’t bother replying to Antoine’s message last night. Instead, I went straight to bed, finally drifting off to the muffled chatter and laughter of Cam and Mo in Cam’s room. No one had surfaced by the time I got up. I dressed quickly in my La Beauté tunic and the required smart black trousers, and applied my make-up – dark eyes, red lips, my professional face – on autopilot.
As I emerge from the tube station a text pings in from Cecily:
I smile, amused by her line of thinking. The thing is, when you’re single, married friends are especially keen for you to ‘get out there’ and enjoy some dating adventures. Perhaps they miss that flurry of excitement, and want
I stop outside a closing-down Rymans and reply:
*
‘The lovely thing about this day cream,’ I say, spreading a little across my customer’s finely boned face, ‘is that it’s like wearing nothing, but all the time it’s keeping the cells plumped up for at least seven hours, whilst helping to stop moisture evaporating from the surface …’
‘You mean it doesn’t sink in?’ she asks.
‘Well, yes, it does, but a very fine layer sits on top of the skin, acting as a protective barrier.’
‘Do you actually
This takes me aback. I was surprised, actually, that this older woman agreed to come to the counter as I approached her. She’d glided in – tall, perfectly poised with erect posture – just after we opened this morning. I’d expected a brisk ‘no thanks’ and for her to saunter straight past.
‘All our products have taken years to develop,’ I explain, ‘and when something new is launched we all try it over a few weeks. This is the cream I use every day.’
She smiles knowingly. ‘Of course it is, but then, you have to say that.’
‘I’d never recommend anything if I didn’t feel confident that it works.’
She touches her cheek. ‘It does feel rather nice, I have to say.’
I smile. ‘Would you like to try some of our new make-up colours too?’
‘Oh, is there any point at my age?’
I study her for a moment. What a face she has: almost sculpted, with an amazing complexion, her green eyes as striking as a cat’s. In her mid-sixties perhaps, she is a vision of elegance in a simple blue cotton dress and a lace-knit black cardi. Her silvery bob, not a hair out of place, hangs neatly at her pointed chin.
‘I think there’s a point at any age,’ I say, ‘if it makes you feel good about yourself.’
She frowns briefly. ‘Oh, go on then, why not? It’s just, I’ve never been a make-up person, I’ve never actually worn lipstick …’
‘No, well, I can do something very subtle for you.’
‘And I do have something coming up – an important presentation which I’m actually quite nervous about. Silly, I know, at my age …’
‘Not at all,’ I assert.