The following day, Charley did a minimal clear-up and re-stock after closing the shop, then cycled round to Ricky’s, still riddled with embarrassment at having stood him up the previous evening. She let herself in through the side gate to leave her bike in the back garden as she usually did, and found him crouched down, stripping an old bike frame. Carlo lolloped over to give her a warm, whiskery welcome, and she gave his rough grey head a scratch.
‘New find?’ she asked, gently pushing Carlo aside and going over to kiss Ricky warmly. Then she crouched down next to him to watch him work. Most of the bikes he sold he sourced from skips or from the city’s rubbish tips, and then renovated them.
He nodded. ‘It’s a classic. An old Elan racing bike. The tyres are rotten, and it’ll need new brakes, but they’re classy bikes, Elans, lightweight, sturdy and well designed – Italian, of course!’ he finished provocatively.
‘The bike might be classy, but that doesn’t stop you being a skip-rat!’
He rocked back on his heels and grinned at her. ‘Hey, don’t you mock my business model! There’s nothing wrong with rescuing pre-loved stuff, giving it some TLC and a new lease of life.’
‘Pre-loved? Hardly “loved” if it got dumped a skip!’
‘Somebody loved this bike once, Charley, and by the time I’m finished with it someone will love it again. Trust me.’
‘How could they not? It’s Italian!’ She leant over to kiss him again.
Ricky had no qualms about his scavenging business model, arguing that it was good for the environment, and good for his profit margin too. ‘They don’t come any cheaper than free’ was his position – although his labour didn’t come free, he was always swift to assert. Despite that, she reflected, he seemed to need to spend far less time running his shop than Charley did hers and, unlike her, he had nobody to help him – except Carlo, who he affectionately referred to as ‘security’ since the large lurcher could be relied on to guard the shop while Ricky nipped out for a coffee, or a pee, or to grab a sandwich from the deli.
Charley watched him contentedly for a moment, taking a vicarious enjoyment from the evident pleasure he took in his work, and the equally evident easy skill of his hands. She idly wondered how he managed to strip an entire bike without getting covered in oil. Despite kneeling on the ground and wrestling with a dirty old bike, Ricky’s shirt and chinos were still spotless. She remembered watching Josh change the battery in his car, when he’d got absolutely plastered in oil, staining his T-shirt and jeans, smudging his cheek and even smeared in his hair. The memory slipped in, warm and tender, but she pushed it aside, uncomfortable at reminiscing over Josh when she was with Ricky.
‘Hungry?’ he asked, cutting into her thoughts.
‘Very.’
Wiping his hands on a rag, Ricky rose to his feet and she followed him into the flat, Carlo close on their heels.
‘Can I help?’ She knew full well the answer would be ‘no’, but she still liked to offer and, as she expected, he shook his head.
Going through to the bedroom, she chucked her bag on the bed and then went back into the living room. Ricky’s flat was smaller than hers, with just one bedroom, but it was open-plan, so it felt more spacious and she loved the way she could sit on the sofa and talk to him as he prepped supper in the kitchen area. Carlo immediately scrambled onto the sofa and curled up next to her.
‘Push him away if he’s too much,’ said Ricky taking a bottle of Prosecco out of the fridge.
‘He’s fine.’ Charley reached out to give the lurcher a good scratch behind his ears.
Ricky brought her over a glass of fizz and bent to kiss her lightly on the lips.
‘Thank you,’ she said after taking a slurp.
‘For the kiss?’ teased Ricky, going back to the kitchen.
‘For the fizz! Although the kiss was nice too.’
He flicked her a loving look, a smile playing on his mouth, and she melted. She took another sip of her fizz. He always bought her Prosecco, knowing she preferred it to wine, although he always drank red.
‘It’s prawn linguine,’ he reminded her, putting a pan of water onto boil. ‘But don’t panic, I’m putting way less garlic in this time!’
For a while she sat contentedly, relishing her Prosecco, scratching the soft pockets of fur behind Carlo’s ears and watching Ricky in the kitchen until he glanced over to her and said, ‘My mother called last night,’ and she felt herself instantly tense.
‘Oh, yes?’ she said lightly.
‘She wanted to tell me how much everyone loved you,’ he said, holding her gaze and smiling proudly. ‘In fact, she spent the entire phone call telling me how wonderful you are, she didn’t even ask how I was! Apparently my aunt thinks you’re beautiful, my father thinks I’m a lucky man, my sister says she hates you for your hair, and my mother adores you for making the effort to visit my grandmother who, by the way, thinks I don’t deserve you.’
‘She’s right,’ replied Charley with a straight face.
During their time in Tuscany, Charley had warmed to Ricky’s grandmother most in his family, and Ricky seemed closer to her to anyone else, even his parents. Which was perhaps no surprise since, while Ricky’s parents had been occupied with turning their small olive farm into a thriving business, he’d spent most of his childhood with his grandmother. Charley and Ricky had visited his nonna the day before they flew home and, to Charley’s amusement, her house was adorned with photos of Ricky, a good many of him as a little boy. To Ricky’s obvious discomfort, his grandmother, with much gleeful rolling of eyes and dramatic gesticulation, had told Charley stories about his childhood scrapes. Of course they’d both had to rely on Ricky to interpret them and it had begun to strike Charley that Ricky’s versions didn’t seem to warrant, or reflect, the humorous delivery of the old woman’s narrative, and she suspected she was getting some very edited highlights.
Narrowing her eyes at him, she’d said, ‘Are you telling me the whole story?’
‘Yes,’ he’d vowed, with a feigned innocence that had sent Charley reaching for her phone.
‘Mi scusi,’ she’d said politely to his grandmother, and she had looked up the phrase which seemed to recur frequently in all the stories about him. ‘Molto cattivo,’ she’d muttered as she typed. ‘Aha!’ She’d skewered Ricky with a meaningful look. ‘Very naughty.’ He had had the grace to look abashed and Charley, pointing at Ricky, had turned to his grandmother and said, ‘Molto cattivo, sì?’
Her entire face had lit up. ‘Sì!’ she had replied with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye and the two women had gleefully enjoyed the joke.
As they were driving back to his family home he had turned to her and said, ‘Thank you for being so sweet to my grandmother. You were really kind to her.’
‘Not at all. I thought she was lovely,’ Charley had replied truthfully. ‘I enjoyed meeting her. And especially getting the lowdown on you as a child!’
He’d smiled and turned his attention back to the road and Charley had relaxed into her seat, enjoying the warmth of the Tuscan sun and the stunning scenery sliding past the car window.
‘My mother said to be sure to let you know you’d be welcome any time, for a holiday or whatever,’ said Ricky, bringing her back to the present.
Or whatever? Charley wondered what that supposed to imply. ‘How very generous of her,’ she replied carefully. If Ricky detected the caution in her voice he didn’t show it, merely turning back to his chopping board.
Meeting Josh’s family had been altogether different. He hadn’t introduced her to them formally, or en masse at all. She could vividly recall the first time she met Pam – it was a couple of days after she’d moved in with Josh. His mother had come round unexpectedly to drop something off, and had only stayed long enough for a quick coffee, which meant that Charley hadn’t had time to feel nervous, since she hadn’t even known the woman was coming. With hindsight, she realised how canny Pam had been, making that first encounter so casual and brief. She hadn’t asked Charley a thing about herself, only about the holiday she and Josh had just had. When she’d left, all she’d said was, ‘Lovely to meet you, Charley,’ before adding airily, ‘Come for lunch sometime, if you’d like to, when you’ve had time to settle in.’
It had been such a contrast to the ordeal of meeting Ricky’s family, but that wasn’t anyone’s fault, she reminded herself, the circumstances had just been entirely different.
Ricky and Charley spent a chilled evening entwined on the sofa, watching a movie and when the film finished Charley went to fetch her toilet bag from her backpack, only to discover she’d left it at her place. In her mind’s eye she could see it still sitting on the side of the bath in her flat. Dammit!
‘There’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet,’ Ricky told her.
‘Oh, okay, thanks,’ said Charley, going to help herself.
They stood side by side at the bathroom sink, and Ricky squirted a dollop of toothpaste onto his brush and then handed the tube to her before saying, ‘You can leave some spare toiletries here if it makes it easier.’
Without waiting for her response he started brushing his teeth. For no reason, no reason at all, Charley felt her stomach tighten. She told herself it was a perfectly rational, sensible suggestion, and it would undoubtedly be simpler to leave a set of toiletries at Ricky’s flat since she spent so much time there. So why did she feel a wave of disquiet wash over her as if, somehow, it was the first step towards moving in with him?
Later that night, after they’d made love, Ricky fell asleep but Charley lay awake, on edge. Eventually she slid upright, leant back on her pillow and looked at him. He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but he wasn’t bad-looking. But then Josh hadn’t been stunningly handsome either. Ricky’s was a pleasant, gentle face, made lovely because his personality shone through it. His features were more sculpted than Josh’s, and his dark curls lay against the pillow, so different from Josh’s unruly blond mop. His dark lashes seemed so much longer than Josh’s fair ones. Her eyes wandered down over his body. Watching his naked chest rising and falling softly with each breath, she felt a rush of love for him, but then the doubts came crowding in. You are a lovely man, and I do love you. And I love being with you. But is that enough? Am I in love with you? Or am I just trying to convince myself I am?
She didn’t love him the same way she’d loved Josh; that was for sure. With Josh, there had been immediate chemistry. As a matter of fact, Ricky wasn’t really her type. Strictly speaking, the very first time they’d met was when he’d picked her up out of the gutter after she’d tripped over while running for a bus. She’d thanked him, but hadn’t given him a second glance. The first time she’d clapped eyes on Josh, on the other hand, she’d fallen for him instantly, hopelessly, and when he’d noticed her looking at him and had beamed at her, everyone and everything had seemed to disappear and she’d felt like they were the only two people in the entire world. Josh had only to catch her eye in a room full of people, or flash her his trademark broad grin, to make her pulse race and her heart tilt. Her entire, brief, marriage had felt like a honeymoon. She’d craved his company, wanting to spend every single moment of every day with him, clock-watching to see when he’d be home. And she’d known immediately, the moment she met Josh on that beach in Ibiza, that he was The One. The one she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. She’d flown home to Suffolk and dropped everything to move to Bristol, literally the other side of the country, to be with him. Would she do that for Ricky? If she was ruthlessly honest with herself, she didn’t think she would.
‘Pam, you sit there, between David and Theo. Phil, you’re opposite Pam. I want the chair nearest the door… Zee and Mona, just fill in anywhere.’ Toni merrily waved her hand towards the other chairs round the table. Pam’s friends – all couples – casually opted for the nearest available seat. After decades of socialising together, her new singledom had somehow overturned the seating arrangements they used to adopt, where they’d all just piled round the table any old how. Now Pam’s position at the table apparently needed to be ‘managed’. It was meant kindly but only served to reinforce her acute awareness of being the only one on her own, spare and surplus to requirements, and the absent Geoff seemed to occupy the vacant chair, like the elephant in the room. It might have been her imagination, but nowadays the conversation felt stilted and strained. Beforehand, multiple conversations had bounced loudly around the room chaotically, with countless good-humoured interruptions, now they seemed awkward, and she struggled to contribute to them. This Saturday evening, the dinner-table talk kicked off with the subject of holidays, as a hairdresser might, on the grounds that it’s usually safe territory.
‘One guess where we’re going this year,’ said Mona flatly.
‘France!’ chorused everyone.
‘Yes, again!’ Mona groaned in mock despair.
‘There’s no point investing in a timeshare if we’re not going to use the damn thing.’ Her husband laughed, appealing to the group.
‘But you say that every year!’
‘Because it’s true every year!’
‘Well, we’re having a modest staycation this year,’ Toni informed everyone. ‘Scotland.’
‘Oh, how lovely,’ said Pam, forcing herself to join in. ‘It’s beautiful up there.’
‘If you can see it through the rain,’ groaned Toni’s husband.
‘Phil’s a little less keen than I am,’ explained Toni, suppressing a smile. She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder as she stood behind him.
Automatically, unconsciously, Phil’s hand came up to envelop hers. ‘Yes, because you know what they say: The rain in Spain falls mainly in… Scotland!’
‘Oh, ha, ha,’ said Toni, waggling her hand free to give him an affectionate shove.
Pam felt a pang of jealousy, but crushed it, conscious she was seeing things through the skewed prism of her own loneliness. Before she and Geoff had split up, she hadn’t noticed these loving gestures, looks and glances, and the banter and in-jokes between them. Even Zee and Theo – who couldn’t exactly be described as being ‘happily’ married – exchanged the occasional knowing look or shared a wry smile. Now, acutely aware of them, they served to increase Pam’s solitude and isolation.
Toni had turned to Pam and was asking, ‘Have you got anything booked yet?’
‘No, not this year,’ she replied brightly, avoiding pointing out that she didn’t actually have anyone to go with, knowing that her friends would all instantly offer to take her with them on their holidays. But she had underestimated their powers of perception, and perhaps their affection for her, too.
‘Come with us!’ offered Mona. ‘There’s plenty of room in the apartment, isn’t there, David?’
‘Mais oui, bien sûr!’
‘Your French is really coming on,’ Mona told him with a withering glance, and Pam laughed obligingly.
‘Come to Scotland with us,’ urged Toni.
‘You’ll need to bring your wellies, and a sou’wester and a mac,’ Phil warned. ‘And possibly a life jacket and small inflatable boat.’
Pam smiled at them all fondly before lying brazenly, ‘Thanks, but I’m not sure I can get away this year. It’ll be difficult for Charley in the shop on her own so I’d have to check with her.’
It was only the second half of the second sentence which was actually a lie. Pam had no intention of checking with Charley since she had no intention of going on holiday with any of them. It was bad enough feeling like a spare part all evening; she didn’t fancy playing gooseberry for several days on end. Then she admonished herself for being churlish.
‘Phil! Top up Pam’s glass!’ Toni ordered. Pam glanced down at her drink, mildly horrified to find she’d drained it so soon. Dutch courage, she supposed.
‘No! Thank you, but I’m driving.’ She covered her glass with her hand.
‘You might have to hold back on the pud then,’ advised Toni. ‘I put pints of brandy in the syllabub!’
Pam groaned melodramatically, ‘Oh no! I love your syllabub.’
‘I’ll put some in a tub for you to take home.’
‘You should have let us give you a lift, Pam,’ said Zee. ‘In fact, why don’t we drive you home anyway, you can pick up your car in the morning?’
Pam waved away the offer casually. ‘No, I’ll be fine, and anyhow, I think Charley wants me to help in the shop tomorrow morning.’
‘On a Sunday?’ queried Mona.
Pam quickly improvised. ‘Stocktaking.’ It was another downright lie and she was immediately swamped with remorse. But she didn’t want to have to wait until Zee and Theo were ready to leave. She needed to be free to escape when she wanted to. Truth be told, Pam had almost chickened out of coming altogether. Geoff leaving her – and for a younger woman – had dealt her self-confidence such a savage body blow, she was still struggling to recover. She didn’t need to be reminded that she was the only one in their friendship group who had failed at the life skill of marriage, the only one who had failed to keep her husband.
As the evening wore on, improbably slowly it seemed to Pam, she found it increasingly difficult to be jolly, and it was taking a monumental effort to remain focussed. A tension headache had crept from the back of her skull to her temples. As soon as it was polite to do so, she made her excuses and left.
‘Please don’t think me rude, but I don’t like leaving my young students alone at home too late,’ she said, deploying her pre-planned, get-out-of-jail-free card.
There was a flurry of hugs and air-kisses and Toni nipped off to get her the promised portion of syllabub so it was Zee who went to the front door with her.
‘Are you okay?’ her friend asked in a low voice full of concern.
‘Yes! Absolutely!’ But Zee’s face remained unconvinced.
The house was in complete darkness when Pam pulled onto her drive, which wasn’t exactly welcoming. I must remember to leave some lights on if I’m going to get home late. It wasn’t so bad this time, since she knew her student lodgers were at home, but the thought of coming home alone to a dark, empty house in the future was not one she relished. Opening the front door, the complete silence that met her told her the boys had already taken themselves off to bed so she quietly headed into the kitchen. Switching on the lights revealed they’d left her the washing up from the supper she’d cooked them before going out herself. She sighed nostalgically. Half of her thought she ought to have been irritated that they’d left it for her, but they’d piled the dishes neatly on the side of the sink and it was a joy to come home to signs of human habitation, rather than to a pristine kitchen where everything was exactly as she’d left it. But as she put the portion of Toni’s syllabub in the fridge, her sprits suddenly plummeted. Mentally, she’d flipped back fifty or so years, to when she was small, a child coming home from a birthday party with nothing but a slice of cake, and none of the proper prizes for winning any of the games. Oh, pack it in, for crying out loud! she told herself briskly. Don’t be so damned ungrateful, and look on the bright side; at least you’re not missing out on Toni’s syllabub. Helping herself to a spoon, she tore the lid off the tub and tucked in.