“You look very perky, Mum.” Louise had knocked on Nancy’s door the morning after Jim’s gig.
Nancy smiled at her. She didn’t feel “perky” as such, since she’d hardly slept a wink trying to decide when to phone Jim and what she should say to Lindy. “Do I?”
“So the pub was fun?”
“Umm, yes. Lindy’s friend was singing. Country music. The guy from her party.”
“Is he Lindy’s boyfriend?” Louise sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and picked up a stray flake from a croissant Nancy had warmed up for breakfast, popping it into her mouth.
“No, they met when she hired him to do the line dancing. Coffee?” Nancy waved a mug she’d taken from the rack. “Just made it.”
Louise nodded. “Thanks, Mum. I’ve got the morning off—Ross has taken the girls swimming . . . Bloody miracle, although I didn’t give him much choice, to be fair.” She took the cup Nancy offered. “So, tell me about this singer.”
“I don’t know much about him, but Lindy says he’s sort of Willie Nelson meets Kris Kristofferson. He has a beautiful voice.”
Louise frowned. “Ross loves country music. He’s taken me to a couple of festivals over the years. Can be a bit cheesy, no?”
“I’m sure it can. But the good ones seem to sing about what matters . . .” She paused. “You know: love, death, broken hearts.”
“Bit like madrigals, then,” Louise said, straight-faced.
“Oh, God, no!” Nancy laughed. “But I suppose, in fact, there is a vague comparison. The modern-day equivalent, perhaps, but I wouldn’t suggest that to your father. He’d have a fit.” She sat down opposite her daughter and poured two cups of coffee. Bob had come in with Louise, and was now prowling around the kitchen, lapping at the water Nancy always left for her in a bowl by the fridge. “Have you told him yet?”
Louise’s face dropped. “I don’t know how to, Mum. I can hardly ring him and say, ‘I’m not coming to your sodding wedding because I can’t stand your trollop’—as Granny so brilliantly puts it.” The look she gave Nancy was resigned.
“You’re sure it’s not easier just to go?”
“Easier in almost all respects, yes, definitely. And it would get Ross off my back. But I know I’d just puke seeing her and Dad all smug and loved up. It’s so bloody embarrassing the way she paws him all the time. Fathers aren’t supposed to have sex, for God’s sake.” She laughed at herself.
Nancy, clutching the thought of Jim close, didn’t reply as she wondered whether her daughter’s rule extended to mothers too. She was pretty sure it would.
*
“It’s Nancy . . .” Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs that she was sure he must be able to hear it at the other end of the line. She had waited until what she considered a respectable time, just after six, to call.
“Hey . . . Nancy.” His reply was low, cautious, and suddenly she wished she hadn’t bothered. It had taken her the whole of Sunday to pluck up the courage and now it sounded as if he wasn’t keen to speak to her.
“I said I’d give you a call.”
There was the sound of a door closing.
“Yes, yes . . . I didn’t know whether you would or not.”
Still she heard the hesitation in his voice. “Is this a bad time?”
“No . . . no, it’s good. Umm . . . great to hear from you.”
Nancy pulled a face, her gut clenching with disappointment. I’m too bloody old for this, she thought. “You don’t sound like it is.”
He didn’t reply at once. Then he cleared his throat. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear your voice.”
Taken aback, she found herself grinning inanely. “Oh . . . well . . .”
“Are we on for coffee, then?”
“I am, if you are.”
“Tomorrow, Monday? I can do absolutely any time, dawn till dusk and beyond.”
She laughed. “Playing hard to get, eh?”
“Treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen,” Jim replied. And now they were both really laughing, although there was nothing particularly funny in what they’d said.
A minute after she’d hung up her phone rang. She was still buzzing from her conversation with Jim and she answered it without checking the screen, thinking it might be him calling back. “Hello?”
“Hi, Nancy,” Lindy said. “Thought perhaps you weren’t speaking to me after last night.” Her friend’s voice held a rueful note.
Nancy laughed. “Why wouldn’t I be speaking to you?”
“Because I behaved like a brat when you said you were both going home.”
“Oh, that. I understood. Nothing worse than a party-pooper.”
“Yeah, I got it that you wanted to go, but Jim’s a performer, for Christ’s sake. He must hang out into the small hours all the time. I suppose I was pissed off because it meant he wasn’t into me.”
Nancy was just about to reply, when Lindy went on, “But maybe he’s one of those guys who takes a bit of time to warm up. Maybe he’s been burned in the past or something. Because I really got the impression he liked me, the night of my party.”
Tell her, a voice in Nancy’s head insisted. Tell her now. It’ll be much more difficult later.
But Lindy kept talking: “I mean, I didn’t buy it at the time, but he could have been getting up early. And I’m not going to give up on someone that cute without a fight. He seems to do gigs most weeks. Are you up for another? It’d be a bit sad if I went on my own.”
“Umm . . . okay.”
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic!” Lindy laughed. “You enjoyed it last night, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes, I did.”
“Well, then.” Nancy heard the sound of running water. Lindy never just talked on the phone, she was always doing something else at the same time, her phone crunched between her ear and her shoulder. “Listen, I’ll give you a bell when I’ve got some dates.”
Nancy cursed herself for being a wimp. Now she’d have to lie, invent a scenario, say that she bumped into Jim in Brighton, totally out of the blue, and that he’d asked her for a coffee, something like that. But Lindy was pretty robust where men were concerned—she never seemed short of offers—and she would move on quickly, Nancy told herself, as she went to take the macaroni cheese ready-meal out of the oven, smiling at the thought of her son-in-law’s horrified reaction if he saw the culinary depths to which she had sunk.
*
The coffee shop was full, the small space cramped and steamy. People milled about the counter waiting for takeaways, all the tables occupied; a low buzz of conversation filled the air. Nancy spotted Jim in the corner by the window, an empty coffee cup on the red Formica surface in front of him, his ponytailed head bent to a newspaper. It was a shock to see him again, almost as if she hadn’t really believed he would be there, or that she was actually meeting him.
He looked innately cool, whatever he was doing, and Nancy suddenly felt intimidated. As she squeezed between the tables, her stomach began to flutter, making her feel queasy. She had spent a sleepless night torn by a mixture of dread and expectation. It’s a coffee, no more, her rational brain insisted. He’s a man and you fancy him, her heart countered. Whatever the reality, when she had bumped into Louise on the drive earlier, she hadn’t mentioned Jim, as if there were something shameful in meeting up with him.
He looked up as she reached him, his face instantly creasing into a smile as he got to his feet. Nancy held out her hand and he took it, shaking it formally, neither making any attempt at a cheek kiss.
“Hi . . . Great you could make it,” he said, still standing, seeming suddenly tall and awkward. “Sorry it’s a bit clubby in here this morning,” he added, noticing Nancy’s problem: a large man lounging at the table behind, concentrating on his laptop. He moved her chair. “Usually doesn’t fill up till later on a Monday.”
She waited while he went to make their coffee order, trying not to stare at him as he did so. It was clear he was a regular because the girl behind the counter chatted to him, laughing at something he said as if she knew him well, although Nancy couldn’t make out anything of their conversation.
“Did you find it okay?” Jim asked, into the silence that settled over them once he had brought back Nancy’s cappuccino and his own black Americano.
“Yes, but the parking’s a nightmare.”
“That’s Brighton for you.”
Nancy couldn’t think of a single bloody thing to say, so she stirred the chocolate-sprinkled foam into her coffee, head bent, praying for inspiration.
“I’m not used to meeting strange women in coffee shops,” Jim said, eventually, amusement behind his blue eyes, as it had been that first night. “And I’m not great on small talk, I’m afraid.”
“We’re doomed, then,” Nancy said. “I’m rubbish too.”
“So tell me something that isn’t small—about yourself, for instance. That should keep us going for a while.”
Nancy felt flustered at the request and almost too wound up to begin the tale of her life. Jim was very disconcerting, the way he gazed at her. Those eyes of his seemed to know her before she’d said a single word.
“God, where to start? I’m sixty-one, divorced—my ex ran off with a blonde Latvian diva four years ago. Only child, father a dentist, dead twenty years now, mother still going. I live next door to my daughter, son-in-law and two granddaughters, eight and six, no pets, although Bob, my daughter’s cat, almost lives with me. I trained to be a concert pianist but married a musician with an ego instead.” She stopped, shrugged, winced privately at her words, which now seemed terminally dull and slightly bitter. “Your turn.”
“A musician?” He grinned. “I knew it.”
“Knew I was a musician?”
“No, knew you were a kindred spirit.”
“I’m not a performer, like you. I just play for myself and teach a bit.” He seemed to be waiting for her to continue. “But I couldn’t live without it,” she added, almost as if he had pulled the words out of her.
“Me neither. Music is my life.” Jim let out a slow breath. “Hard to imagine how people get by without it.”
Nancy gave a small laugh. “I know what you mean, but my son-in-law, Ross, feels just as passionate about food. Cooking is his life.”
Jim considered this. “More useful than music, I suppose. ’Fraid my skill in that area runs to peeling the cellophane off a cottage pie for one.”
“Or a macaroni cheese.”
“Yeah, that too!”
She watched Jim pick up his cup, cradling it in his palm instead of using the small handle. His hands were tanned, with long, tapering fingers, a small crescent-shaped scar clear beneath the first knuckle of his right hand.
“Your turn now,” she said, tearing her gaze away.
Jim pulled a face, tucked a stray hair behind his ear and sat up straighter. But it was a minute or two before he spoke.
“Right. Well, I’m sixty-four, separated for three years. My ex ran off with a sleazy barman—not quite as upmarket as your diva. One son, Tommy, twenty-four, no grandchildren, no pets. One brother, Stevie, who runs a gîte in the south of France—with his partner, Pascal, until he died nearly two years ago. Parents both gone, father a master brewer. I’m a country singer-songwriter with a band called the Bluebirds. One hit about twenty years ago—no, much longer than that now. Teach guitar to anyone who’ll hire me, and I’ve given up smoking.”
“Which bit?”
“Well, I meant the smoking. Have you really quit?”
Jim gave her a sheepish grin. “Sort of. More of a cutting-down situation, if I’m honest. But I put that in because I want it to be true. I’m sure you hate smoking.”
Nancy didn’t state the obvious. Their conversation felt easy now, and she had the oddest feeling that, although she hardly knew the man, she could tell him anything. But she was also aware of an energy between them, a sort of flighty buzz of anticipation, which made her heart beat faster. Thoughts were flying around her head and she wanted to share them all.
She heard herself say, “My ex is marrying the diva in September.”
Jim’s handsome face creased into a frown. “Are you upset?”
“No, no! I’m fine about it,” she said, but his eyes resting on her seemed to question her response. She sighed. “Okay . . . I’m not really fine. I’d sort of got used to him being with her, but marriage puts it into a whole different league.”
“Had you hoped you might get back together?”
“No. Definitely not. I honestly do not want to be with Christopher anymore.” She gave him a wry smile. “I suppose I’m still miffed that he cheated on me, then dumped me.” She paused. “And she is very young and beautiful . . . Sort of reminds me of my age.” Ridiculously, she felt tears building behind her eyes. She swallowed hard.
“It’s tough, being cheated on, however old you are.”
Nancy heard the pain behind his words. “The insult sort of defies reality, doesn’t it? I mean, I am all right, I’ve got a good life now, but the hurt seems ingrained.”
“Yeah, you know you should move on—everyone tells you to.” Jim gave a short laugh. “And most of the time you feel as if you have. But it comes down to the spike in your gut that refuses to shift. No logic behind it.”
“Is your ex living with the sleazy barman?”
“No . . . Took the creep less than a year to start chasing skirt again.”
“But you didn’t take her back?”
“I couldn’t, Nancy. I just couldn’t. She wanted me to, and maybe I should have been more generous, but every time I looked at her . . .” He shrugged and fell silent.
Neither spoke for a while.
“I reckon it’s a case of ‘One false move and the kid gets it,’” Jim said.
“Don’t understand.”
“It’s like the hurt is controlling us. Every time we try to get free, it holds us to ransom.”
She laughed. “So what are we supposed to do?”
They stared at each other for a very long moment.
“Oh, I don’t know. I expect we’ll work something out,” Jim said, a wicked glint in his eyes that made Nancy feel suddenly very weak.