DAVE
Dave pulled his 2006 Volvo station wagon into a loading zone outside Readings. The car was caked with dried mud from a camping weekend a month ago, and some clown had scratched Wash me! on the rear windscreen—not exactly original, but it had still given Dave a chuckle. He and Nickie were dropping Mrs Hipsley off at the bookshop to meet the other members of her romance readers’ book club. Apparently one of their favourite authors, Charlotte something-or-other was appearing, and judging by the line outside it was generating a lot of excitement.
As Dave alighted from the car he regarded Readings with affection. It was great to know there were still some stores that thrived by selling actual books. Dave had a Kindle and he listened to audio books now and then, but it wasn’t the same. He knew he could never relinquish the evocative smell of paper or the thrill of turning an actual page. And imagine a world without bookcases. It didn’t bear thinking about. But Dave was quietly confident that, for Nickie’s generation, ‘old school’ books would become retro cool in the style of vinyl records. Could be a way off, though. Nickie declined his offer to buy her a book, preferring to stay in the car and check out her friends’ ‘Insta’ stories.
Dave helped Mrs Hipsley out of the Volvo and guided her over to her mates at the end of the line.
‘Rosalie!’ they all twittered, throwing curious looks at him. A younger woman in front of them glanced around briefly, and Dave was struck by her slate-blue eyes and dainty upturned nose.
‘This is my solicitor, David,’ Mrs Hipsley announced. ‘David, this is Myra and Gwen and Joan and Pat.’
‘Oh, David!’
‘David, we’ve heard all about you!’
‘David, hello!’
‘So you’re David?’
‘It would appear so.’
They all giggled appreciatively.
‘Are you a fan of Charlotte Lancaster?’ asked Myra, a plump lady whose pink scalp was peeking out from beneath her thinning hair.
‘Can’t say I’m familiar with her oeuvre.’
The ladies all competed to fill him in, talking over the top of each other. It seemed that Charlotte Lancaster wrote turgid tales about feisty nurses and doctors with jaws like Chesty Bond. As the ladies bickered about their favourite fictional doctors, all of whom sounded like the same ill-conceived cardboard cut-out to Dave, he couldn’t resist teasing: ‘So you like the look of his scalpel, do you?’
Mrs Hipsley’s girlfriends shrieked with laughter and Dave chuckled obligingly. He’d always been a bit of a magnet for postmenopausal women, which was nice, but not quite as gratifying as being a magnet for pre-menopausal ones.
‘Rosalie,’ yelled Myra, ‘David’s teasing us about our stories!’
‘Oh, I don’t think romance is David’s thing,’ Mrs Hipsley said with a twinkle. ‘Is it, David?’
Dave felt that kick in his guts all over again. He wondered how long it would come as a shock to him that he was no longer married. He suddenly found himself back on that horrendous night when Evanthe had returned from her girls’ weekend away and catalogued his failures.
‘I don’t feel treasured or cherished or adored,’ she’d said.
Dave was baffled. ‘But I asked you to marry me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And don’t I always put you first?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And haven’t I’ve always been faithful?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And don’t I try to be a good dad?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And shouldn’t a husband be judged by his actions?’
‘Yes, but …’ Her voice trailed off unexpectedly, and she suddenly looked weary and sad.
Dave was gripped by fear, so he went on the attack. ‘That’s a lot of buts, Evanthe. But what? But my actions aren’t good enough? But you’ve fallen out of love with me?’
A small tic in her cheek betrayed her—she had fallen out of love with him. Dave felt as though she’d punched the air right out of his lungs.
‘I’m sorry, David, but I need romance.’
‘And you got me? Ripped off.’
Back at Readings, Dave pushed thoughts of his romantic deficiencies away and forced himself back to the present. ‘As long as it’s your thing, that’s the important thing,’ he said.
‘I wish you men would give it a chance,’ Myra sighed. ‘Romance is so uplifting.’
‘I’m sure it is, but I’m more uplifted by real-life stories. War crimes, genocide, that kind of stuff.’
The old ladies shrieked again. Cheeky boy. Mrs Hipsley seemed gratified that Dave was such a hit. She gazed up at him with a proprietorial air and wrapped her little fingers around his arm.
Dave gently disentangled himself. ‘Well, Nickie’s waiting, so I’ll be off. Enjoy the reading, Mrs Hipsley.’
‘What was that, David?’
‘I said maybe you should turn your hearing aids on!’ Dave boomed.
Mrs Hipsley obliged.
‘That’s better. Now if a handsome doctor wants to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, at least you’ll hear something.’
The old dears seemed to find that devastatingly witty.
‘And you young ladies enjoy it too,’ he added.
Dave turned to leave, but he’d only taken a couple of steps when something stopped him in his tracks. The woman in front of them with the blue eyes had tucked her dress into her undies. A string of elastic was trailing down her shapely left thigh, and the bottom curve of her bum was exposed. Dave hesitated. Would he look like a perv if he told her? He glanced around for rescue, but no one else appeared to have noticed, and surely she’d rather know sooner than later …
‘Um, excuse me,’ he murmured, but she didn’t hear him. He was forced to tap her on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me?’