Chapter Twenty

So, if I dated Lucas—say I met him on a dating site, through work, or via one of my friends—would I want to take it further as the saying goes? Do I know him well enough not to scare him off?

Why did he ask me to stay? Why did I? Because I was hopeful? Now, I’m puzzled.

This morning, I scanned one of the English newspapers online, coming across an article on human attraction. Recent studies were undertaken at the University of York, around first impressions. Apparently, deciding someone’s character takes only one tenth of a second. Eyes indicate attractiveness, while mouth shape is linked to approachability. Masculinity divulges itself via structural features—made me laugh!—or attractive skin, e.g., tanned.

Who knew, huh?

In conclusion, your brain requires a glimpse of one hundred milliseconds, or less, to warn you the pheromones are limbering up. The article went on to quote other studies that proved women seemed attracted to the strongest, and not necessarily the best-looking, males in a random group. Imagine doing research for a job like that? Watching line-up after line-up of strong, handsome men and pondering their attractiveness with regard to procreation. Are bespoke picnics the way forward for mankind, I ask myself? Man-studying seems mighty beneficial to the planet, although I do recycle as much picnic packaging as possible, without being disgusting.

What I’m getting at, the long way around, is: nothing’s happened. I’m living a type of hi-honey-I’m-home life, without the sex. Alice is better, the school term has started, and Lucas is away, seeing a Saudi Arabian client in Dharan about a new rig in the Safaniya oil field. Julie is still sniffy about my non-return to London in her time of need; I need to remember she is the first woman in the world to have a baby, but since she extracted a promise from me to be there or die no later than the end of the first week of December, she’s let up a little. My parents are coming home too, from the Antarctic freeze to the tropical climes of a London winter, already predicted to be one of the coldest since records began as the newsreaders are so fond of saying.

And Holly? Her head’s in the clouds of paradise with Recycling Centre Man, whose name is really Alan, and has no need of proximity to anyone else right now. As for other friends, and far-flung cousins—including busy-busy-busy Lauren in New York—we keep in touch on Facebook. It’s like I’ve never been away.

All that said, and getting back to Lucas, there has been a slight shift in our relationship, though it’s hard to define. It’s different. Like we’re starting over, but from another place. He’s still paying me, which on one hand is weird, but on the other is amazing because I am working for it, that’s what we agreed, and I’m throwing chunks of money at my bank debt and, very soon, I’ll be back in control. It’s a good feeling.

Furthermore, news just in: Seacrest Inn has requested two picnics for later in the week, and one for today, following Beryl’s ecstatic reviews. It seems my picnic has fortified that marriage for the next thirty years at least, and it’s fun to be part of that. Picnics, after all, do matter.

On the way back from the inn, today’s picnic delivered, I’m cruising along in the Jeep on my way into town, minding my own business when a long, low, black car overtakes me on the blind corner. I tread on the brake as he cuts in front of me, missing an oncoming car by inches.

“Ooh!” Alice shouts, from her child seat behind me. “Ooh, very fast. I love fast.”

“That’s too fast, darling,” I tell her, flashing the headlights in anger as the car roars around the next curve. How dare he, when I’ve got Alice in the car! Coming into town, I pass the garage and see the same car, crouching on the forecourt next to one of the fuel pumps.

Pulling up alongside, nose to tail, I roll down the window and observe. He’s a fat man—with a tattoo of barbed wire around one thick wrist and heavy, silver skull-and-crossbones rings—slotting his credit card into his wallet, car full, bill already paid. “I suppose you use a lot of petrol, driving like that,” I say.

He looks up at me, chewing on a huge blob of gum like a moron. “Sure do, lil’ lady.” He grins, showing over-white teeth. As far as structural features go, he scores a neat zero. “We call it gas.”

“People in Lobster Cove don’t drive like that. Besides, I have a child in the car. Please take care.”

He laughs. “You kiddin’ me? You ain’t from this hick town now, are ya, Queenie? Hey. I’m here for a coupla days. Maybe I’ll see ya around!”

I bristle, looking down on him, grateful that the Jeep is higher than the car he’s driving.

“Queenie?” Alice says. “Can we visit Queen—”

Her words are obliterated by Mr. Manners firing up his missile. He revs the engine to screaming point, and then rockets off onto the road, burning a trail of hot rubber on screeching tires.

“What is it?” Alice asks.

“A subhuman creature,” I tell her, smiling at Jay who’s come out of the workshop to see what’s going on.

“One born every minute,” he says. “Ya looking for an egg, Alice?”

We go home to Blue Rocks, Alice holding her egg with customary care and attention. While I’m preparing supper, it occurs to me that somehow, in spite of all the unknowns, in spite of my recent encounter with the King of Rude, I’ve never been this happy in my whole life. It’s a strong happiness; something I can build on.

I’m so happy.

At least until the following day, until Alice and I are playing with her dolls’ house up in her bedroom.