My head feels like it’s about to explode.
That’s it: I am never drinking again. I’m going to do dry January. OK, so it’s a bit late considering we’re a week in, but better late than never, right?
Right?
So, last night the plan was to stay in and attempt to cook my own fancy birthday dinner, only by the time I got home my desire to be a domestic goddess had deserted me. It was all too much effort for one person. Plus, once the buzz of the G&Ts started wearing off, it all felt a bit sad.
So instead I took Arthur out for a walk. I hadn’t yet had a chance to explore my new neighbourhood and we zigzagged through unfamiliar lamp-lit streets. It felt strange to be back in London, though this was nothing like the London I remembered. Before I left for New York I rented a flat above a shop, slap bang in the middle of the city, with traffic, noise and pollution on all sides – but this was a much quieter suburb, with neat rows of flat-fronted cottages and smart Victorian terraces with chequerboard paths.
As I walked past, my gaze brushed over all the different windows, like flicking through a picture book. Inside all the homes I caught snapshots of family life. A mum in an upstairs window brushing her little girl’s hair after her bath; a couple snuggled up together on the sofa watching TV, the screen reflected on their faces; a man with a backpack closing the front door behind him to squeals of ‘Daddy’s home!’
I paused. If ever there was a metaphor for my life, this was it. Me on the outside, looking in on everyone on the inside. All these cosy scenes of domestic bliss. I gave a little shiver and pulled my woolly hat down over my ears. I was, quite literally, out in the cold.
And yet . . .
OK, so in the spirit of full disclosure, I have a confession.
As much as part of me craves all of this, there’s another part of me that fears it. The part of me that swore in her diary she’d never end up like her parents. That read books by torchlight under the bedcovers and dreamed of passionate romances and travel to far-off lands. That was determined to lead a life less ordinary, filled with freedom and excitement and adventure, with something different—
Yanked backwards by Arthur’s retractable lead, I turned to see him squatting on the driveway of a large house, doing a huge dump.
Meanwhile, here I was picking up dog shit.
I tried not to think about any more metaphors, but stuck my gloved hand in the poo bag and started scooping it up. I use the word ‘scoop’ as Arthur’s stomach is always off and it’s never a case of simply picking it up, but having to literally scrape it from the tarmac. I forced myself not to gag as the homeowner appeared in the window and both he and Arthur stood and watched me. I swear there’s something very wrong with this aspect of the man–dog relationship. If aliens ever did land on earth, who would they think was in charge? Not the humans, that’s for sure.
I carried on scraping . . . there, I thought I’d got it all . . . I shone my iPhone torch on the drive to check. See, Mr Owner of the Big Grown-Up House. I might feel like a fuck-up, but I am a very responsible person! I felt a slight sense of triumph.
Followed by a sickening horror as the beam of light swung from the tarmac onto the poo bag.
Oh my God. It had ripped! My fingers had gone through it! It was all over one of the glittery cashmere gloves that I’d got for Christmas! I yanked it off. Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!
I could have cried. Literally lain down and wept. It did actually cross my mind. I could imagine the owner calling through to his wife in the kitchen, ‘Darling, there’s a strange woman lying on our driveway covered in dog poo and weeping hysterically. I can’t quite hear through the double glazing but I think she’s saying something about how it’s her birthday. Perhaps we should call the police. She’s going to scare the children.’
Only, Arthur had other ideas. Spotting a squirrel, he let out a howl and took off, taking me with him as he charged down the pavement while I hung on for dear life. He didn’t catch it, of course. It disappeared up a tree and Arthur stood at the bottom, barking his head off. Poor Arthur, I did feel a bit sorry for him. You’d think he would have learned by now. Then again, how many years did it take for me to learn that when a man disappears by not returning your call, barking my head off by sending him endless texts wasn’t going to work either.
Which is kind of the same thing. Sort of.
We turned to head home, and I was already mentally running the bath and getting into bed with my iPhone to scroll through photos of sunsets and what everyone had eaten for dinner, when I caught a waft of fish and chips coming from a pub on the corner. Well, it was my birthday.
Inside there looked to be a few locals enjoying a quiet drink. I tied Arthur to a table leg in the corner while I went to wash my hands and order a glass of wine and fish and chips at the bar. When I reappeared five minutes later, I half expected him to have dragged the table across the pub. Instead he was sitting there obediently, having his ears scratched by a small boy in a beanie.
‘He likes that,’ I smiled.
The boy looked up, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. ‘Oh, is he your dog?’
I was about to say no, that he belonged to my landlord, when something changed my mind. ‘Yes, he’s my dog.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Arthur.’
The little boy grinned wider, revealing a missing tooth. ‘Like King Arthur?’
‘Exactly.’ I nodded, glancing at Arthur, who was sitting there looking quite regal while having his head stroked. It wasn’t a bad prefix considering who seemed to be in charge around here; it certainly wasn’t me. ‘King Arthur.’
The little boy’s eyes lit up and he buried his hands deep into Arthur’s fur. ‘I want a dog but Mummy won’t let me. She says I can only have a hamster.’
‘Well, hamsters can be fun.’
He looked unconvinced. ‘But it’s not like King Arthur,’ he replied.
‘No, it’s not,’ I admitted.
‘Oliver, there you are!’
A male voice caused us both to look up.
‘I wondered where you’d got to—’
A man appeared from the other side of the pub, looking like he’d just come in from outside. Wearing a down jacket, a thick scarf and gloves, he had short dark hair and was the spitting image of Oliver. So this must be his dad.
Oliver reached for his sleeve excitedly. ‘Guess what his name is! It’s King Arthur. Like in the movie we saw!’
‘He’s not bothering you, is he?’
‘No, no . . . not at all.’
He had really nice eyes. Pale blue, the colour of faded denim.
‘That’s good,’ he smiled, then winked at his son. ‘Come on, we’re late.’
He was attractive, in a dad kind of way.
‘Scratch his ears! He loves it!’
He dutifully squatted down, took off one of his gloves and scratched Arthur’s ears. Arthur was loving the attention. ‘Now, do you think he’ll scratch mine,’ he said with a straight face, tilting his head sideways and sending Oliver into fits of giggles.
‘OK, come on you, we really must go or your mum will kill me. She’s waiting for us at the cinema.’
‘Bye, King Arthur . . . bye.’ Oliver waved to us both.
‘Bye.’ I waved back. ‘Enjoy the movie.’
‘Thanks.’ His dad smiled and took his son’s hand.
I watched them walk out of the pub together, and for a moment I couldn’t help wishing I was the lucky woman waiting at the cinema. Not just because they looked so cute, father and son, hand in hand. But because I couldn’t help noticing how he filled out those jeans—
Whoa, Nell!
It took me by surprise. This was the first man I’d noticed since The American Fiancé, never mind found attractive. Followed by resignation that he was someone’s husband, which sadly did not take me by surprise because at my age all the good ones are taken.
But somewhere, deep inside this wounded soul of mine, it also ignited a little flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t over for me yet.
I’m grateful for: