How to Get a (Love) Life (10 page)

James took the dog gently by the ears and shook his head. ‘Who’s a mean lady? Who’s a mean lady? Yes, boy, you bark at the mean lady.’

I laughed.

James looked at me. ‘I never thought of you as a dog person, Nicola.’

The smile died on my lips. What was that supposed to mean? What was a ‘dog person’ anyway? What, just because I didn’t parade around the office in a T-shirt advertising ‘Pedigree Chum’ or make annual trips to Crufts, didn’t mean I didn’t like dogs.

‘I always pictured you with a cat,’ he said, smiling up at me, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners.

A CAT person! Does he think I sit alone in a bedsit, drinking wine from the bottle and crocheting, with nothing but the TV guide and a fat tabby for company? I mean, fine, I do live in a small flat and yes, some do say that knitting is the poor man’s crochet, but still …

‘He’s lovely,’ James said.

‘Hmmm. We have to get back,’ I announced, nose in the air.

As I walked back down the stairs I heard James ask. ‘What’s up with her?’

I was still quietly seething that evening as I sat on a bench overlooking the Suspension Bridge. The sun had long since set, but the lights looping along the bridge always looked magical and there was no traffic so it was reasonably quiet. The gorge yawned open, the River Avon making slow, silent progress below. Did others see me in the same way as James did? Was I the sad, mad lady with hundreds of cats, a woman with only feline company to look forward to of an evening? Pah. I would show James. I would show myself. I was
not
some desperate case to be pitied. Standing up, I hurried home. I needed my beauty sleep because tomorrow was Date Number Two.

Chapter Fourteen

The start of the weekend and I was standing on the pavement on the corner of Park Street. The Wills Memorial Building, with its sandblasted walls, soared above me. Students walked by in chatty clusters and cars inched past me on the road. Smoothing down my top, I waited.

Following the advice I’d read in one of Caroline’s magazines, I was wearing the most minimal of make-up in an attempt to look like I was wearing none at all. It had taken me an hour to perfect this. I was dressed ‘warmly’ in a big cream polo neck, which was tickling my chin, and some jeans and wool-lined winter boots. I was feeling pretty nervous, but my curiosity had won over and I was feeling excited for the date.

I wondered what Steven had planned. Would we leave the city and spend the day in front of a warm country pub fire? Would we get out into the forest and wander around under the bare trees? Would we … my heart suddenly leapt as I spotted a gorgeous light-silver Aston Martin convertible working its way up Park Street. My tummy jumped. Hadn’t Mark mentioned that Steven had a good job? Good job normally equalled good car and I was already imagining what the cool leather interior was going to smell like, my back eased into a cushioned passenger seat, some Brahms playing quietly through the sound centre, the air conditioning heater warming us as we motored along in style.

I craned my neck to try and make out the driver’s face but he was still too far away and his progress was currently being hampered by some idiot student in a shabby Peugeot 306 which was pottering up the hill with what looked like an enormous canoe balanced precariously on its roof. Aston Martin Man was now travelling at approximately 2 mph in a nervy stop-start way as if waiting for the canoe to break free of its flimsy straps and slide right down to the bottom of the hill, taking any unfortunates in its path with it.

Fortunately, the lights turned green and the cars were on the move again. My face broke into a welcoming smile in case Aston Martin Man was looking for me on the side of the road. Yes. The car was slowing down and my smile widened. I went to lift my hand into a wave and then startled as he leant on his horn. I peered down to look into the car, but there was no man inside. Just a frustrated blonde woman, all pearls and cashmere, yelling expletives in the direction of the Peugeot. The canoe-topped car had stopped and was now blocking the road and, inside it, a rugged-looking scruff was making apologetic gestures at the driver of the Aston Martin. What the hell was going on? The scruff in the canoe car started gesturing at me. Wait … What did I have to do with … Oh God, he was beckoning for me to come over. I looked behind me quickly, in the hope that he was trying to catch the attention of someone else, but—

‘Nicola,’ he shouted.

Great.

I gave him a weak smile and slunk over.

‘Quick!’ he said, flinging the passenger door open.

I manoeuvred in, cringing as I heard the rustle of a discarded crisp packet beneath my bottom. The exact moment I shut the door, we squealed off, car bumping back onto the road so furiously that when I went to grab the seatbelt I was almost catapulted through the windscreen.

‘Sorry about that!’ Steven said, indicating the convertible behind us and its furious blonde driver.

I jammed my seatbelt into the clasp, pulled the crisp packet from under me and dropped it into the footwell.

‘That’s okay,’ I breathed quickly, turning to look at him.

Blue eyes, blonde hair, enormous shoulders. He gave me a wide smile and I began to relax. He had an open face, a little rumpled, but I imagined that was from lugging the gigantic canoe about the place. He looked friendly. Aside from the crisp packet, the car was relatively clean. There
was
a slightly strange smell, like coconut, but otherwise it was bearable.

I had just about gotten over my Aston Martin disappointment when Steven asked, ‘So where’s your flat? I completely forgot to tell you to grab a bikini.’

I looked at him, aghast. ‘My
bikini
?’

It
was
November wasn’t it? It wasn’t just my imagination? It was only thirty six days till Christmas, wasn’t it? He couldn’t possibly mean my bikini, my actual, I-wear-it-in-the-summer-in-the-SUN bikini?

‘Yep.’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s St Georges Street, isn’t it? Mark mentioned you live there,’ Steven said with a smile, oblivious to my rising panic.

‘Are we going swimming?’

‘No,’ he grinned. ‘It’s a surprise.’

‘Right. Er. My … St George, yes, my flat, is on St George’s. Up here on the left,’ I indicated. Ooh, unless we were going to spend the day at a country spa? My hopes lifted momentarily and then plummeted when the massive tip of the massive canoe blocked out the passing sun. Instinct told me no, no spa.

‘Just here,’ I pointed, feeling like I was about to cry. Why was I even doing this? Should I just go up to my flat and never come back out? I jumped out of the car and fumbled for my keys. Cursing myself I rang the doorbell.

‘Mees Nicola,’ Julio said, opening the door with a flourish.

‘Sorry, Julio I can’t find my keys.’ I raced off up the stairs before he could reply.

I let myself into my flat and stood with my back to the door, breathing heavily. The flat had never looked so welcoming. The sofa had never looked so inviting. The television seemed to wink at me, light bouncing off its glossy surface. ‘Come and watch box sets on me, Nicola, come,’ it seemed to say. ‘We could finish season eight of
House
today if we really focused on it.’ Gahhh.

I considered staying put, closing the blinds, never going back outside. My country-pub-fire hopes were a distant memory, my frosty forest walk was crushed. Outside, Steven pipped his car horn. Damn. I couldn’t back out. We’d made plans and I hated to let people down. I sighed, sloped through to my bedroom, grabbed my bikini from the summer section of my wardrobe and ran back down the stairs.

Julio was waiting poised at the door to see me out, occasionally glancing suspiciously in the direction of Steven.

‘Have good day, Mees Nicola.’ He waved.

‘I will,’ I yelled back at him, in case Steven’s window was open and he was listening. I got back into the car. ‘Got it,’ I said, patting my handbag where one of the bikini straps could be seen poking out of the top.

‘Okay then, let’s go!’ He veered wildly off the pavement once more and this time I was thrust backwards into my seat as he simultaneously drove and switched on
The Beach Boys: Greatest Hits
. Christ. ‘Round, round get around I get around …’

At around Weston-Super-Mare I had psyched myself up enough to get chatting.

‘So, go on, what are we doing today, then?’ I asked in what I hoped was a casual way. My knuckles turned white as I gripped my legs. I was a
little
tense about what lay in store. Steven’s manic driving didn’t exactly help matters.

‘Oh, well, of course we’re taking this baby out, aren’t we?’ He nodded his head in the direction of the roof.

I was under no illusions as to what
this baby
was. Oh dear. I gave him a strained smile and he added, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got all the kit you’ll need. You won’t even be aware it’s winter.’

That made me feel marginally better. Up to that point I’d thought he might be under the illusion it was in fact summer. I mean he was wearing shorts, we were listening to the Beach Boys, and we were headed to the West Country. It was basically Bank Holiday. I settled back into my seat and decided to make more effort on the small talk. The CD had moved on to ‘In my Room’, which made for a slightly calmer atmosphere, at least.

‘So, are you quite into The Great Outdoors?’ I asked, gesturing to the patches of passing fields as we whizzed along.

‘I guess you could say that,’ he said with a vague chuckle. The chuckle made me edgy again. I looked back out of the window.

Focus on the horizon, Nicola, we can do this.

‘What about you, Nicola, what kind of hobbies are you into?’ he gave me a quick sideways glance.

‘Oh, I like …’ Hmm. This was a tricky question. All my ‘hobbies’ seemed so dull. Reading, watching films, having a glass of wine, cleaning the house, making photograph collages … ‘Photography,’ I announced suddenly.

‘Interesting,’ he nodded. ‘Did you get to see the Matthew Brady exhibit when it was on at the City Museum?’

Bugger.

‘Oh, er, no. I was … away.’

‘Abroad?’

‘Yep,’ I said quickly, pleased to have avoided the photography faux pas.

‘Where?’

‘Hmm …’ I turned to him. He’d taken his eyes off the road and was looking at me expectantly.

‘Where did you go?’ he repeated.

Oh bollocks.

‘Madrid!’ I said suddenly, my eyes wide. The lies were flowing freely now. The truth was that I hadn’t left the country in five years. And even that had just been Brittany, which really didn’t count as it cost a pound to get there on the ferry and we’d only stayed a few hours before my brother managed to hospitalise himself by clambering onto a statue of Arthur III, losing his grip on his sword and plunging to the ground with a broken ankle.

‘It’s a great city, Madrid,’ Steven said enthusiastically. ‘I spent a year out there with work.’

Curses.

‘That’s great,’ I shouted, hoping to match his enthusiasm. ‘Oh look …’ I pointed out of the window as we sailed past a sign on the M5. ‘Taunton.’

‘Er, indeed,’ Steven said. ‘So, where did you stay in Madrid?’ he asked.

I cringed. ‘Um, just near the centre,’ I said, waving my hand dismissively.

‘Centro or more towards the Arganzuela district?’

Bloody hell, what was up with this guy? Did he write for
Lonely Planet
or something?

‘Um, more Centro,’ I said, trying to mimic his pronunciation. He’d done something funny with an ‘O’. I spat on his dashboard.

‘It’s very lively, isn’t it?’ he grinned, not seeming to notice my spittle. ‘I went out there with the football team I played with. We spent the most awesome night in Bar Salamanca, which is ridiculous because it’s not even in that district,’ he roared with laughter.

I laughed along, a split-second too late, and then trailed off.

‘Did you go?’ he asked.

‘Go?’ I said, lost now.

‘Bar Salamanca, in the centre,’ he repeated.

‘Oh no, we didn’t,’ I said, trying to sound gutted. ‘We, er … walked past it though.’

‘It’s an amazing place. They serve you beers and shisha pipes on low cushions on the floor. I’m off drink, obviously, but the atmosphere is just fantastic.’

‘Off drink?’ I prompted, trying to steer him away from the original topic and risk exposing my theatre of lies.

‘Well, it gets in the way of training, so I tend to avoid it.’

‘Training for what?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘Whatever I happen to be doing at the time. When I was in Madrid I was in training for the football season, but I was also running the Barcelona Marathon that year.’

‘Oh wow. You sound very sporty!’ I said, amazed that someone could have so much stamina. ‘Are you training for anything now?’

‘A competition in four months, actually,’ he replied, manoeuvring the car around a lone caravan, the canoe rattling a little as the speedometer edged up to 80 mph.

I hastily looked away and tried not to think too much about potential canoe-related car crashes. ‘Competing in what exactly?’

‘A mixture of stuff. It’s a triathlon, you see.’ He swerved back into the outside lane.

My triathlon knowledge was about as detailed as my canoe knowledge, but I nodded appreciatively and said, ‘Gosh.’

‘Yeah, it’s the second time I’ve done it. It’s called
The Iron Man
competition. It’s pretty mad actually.’ He gave a low laugh and indicated off the motorway.

‘In Bristol?’ I asked him.

‘America, actually.’

‘America, really?’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘Ooh.’

‘Yep.’

‘So, um, what do you do for it exactly?’

‘Well, you start with an ocean swim, then cycle, then run a marathon to finish,’ he explained.

‘Right … Gosh,’ I said again. That didn’t quite seem to convey enough enthusiasm, so I added a ‘golly’ for good measure. ‘Gosh … Golly.’

‘Hmm.’

‘You’ll probably want to kick back for the rest of the year after all that, I imagine?’ I said in a slightly strangled tone.

‘God, no,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve got to raise money because my friend Tom and I are doing the Himalayan 100 Mile Stage Race in October next year.’ He registered my blank face. ‘It’s a run.’