Page 83 of Five Things I Love About You

Matt didn’t tell me the exact date he was leaving, but over the next couple of months I keep wondering whether he’s still around or whether he’s halfway across the world by now, starting a brand-new life.

It shouldn’t matter because since that day in the park, Jay and I have grown closer. We’ve begun to build a life together, to spend time at each other’s homes, getting to know each other properly. Over the summer holidays when I didn’t have any work, we enjoyed long walks in the park with Alan, we went out for dinner and shared each other’s food; I gave Jay a musical education, and he made me try skydiving again (which petrified me slightly less the second time around even though I still swear I’ll never do it again). We went for bikes rides round the park, and I met his friends who all seem perfectly nice but much more lad-like than the people I hang out with. Every day that passes, our lives have become more entwined, and the time I spent with Matt has become more of a distant memory.

And yet I still think about him, and Gladys, and it makes my heart ache.

When Jay and I walk Alan in the park where Matt and I walked with Gladys, I think about them. When we go for dinner, I remember the meals Matt and I shared. And when we head to the coast for a day trip Matt is right at the front of my mind and it’s an effort not to stare at the lighthouse and remember the moment we had up there all those weeks ago.

Jay makes me happy. Being with him isn’t exactly the way it felt in my dreams – I don’t feel swoony, or weak at the knees; my heart doesn’t soar with love every time I see him, and the butterflies in my stomach aren’t as strong as I’d imagined them to be – but with each day and week that passes I feel happier, more confident that we’re meant to be together. We may not have much in common, but he’s kind and gentle and funny, and I’m glad I found him in real life – because let’s face it, being with a real life man has got to be better than spending time with a man who only exists in your mind.

It’s September now, and I’ve been in Newcastle for five months. Although it doesn’t feel like home exactly – I still miss London and my friends – I feel more settled here than I’d ever expected to. I’m still a supply teacher but I’ve been in chats with the head of one school about becoming a permanent member of staff there, and I’ve found a new tenant for my house in London for a few more months. Life is good, and moving on.

Today, Jay is taking me for a day out, and I’ve been feeling worried about it for some time. We’re going to the golf course where he’s a member because he wants to teach me how to play, and then there’s a dinner-dance afterwards that I’ve agreed to be his date for. Golf isn’t my thing at all – I can’t stand the forced formality, the slow pace of the game nor, often, the types of people who choose it as a sport. I know that sounds awful and snobby, and it is. I am awful, and I’m tarring everyone with the same brush. And yet I can’t help it that when he suggested it my first instinct was to shout ‘no fucking way!’

I didn’t, of course, and now he’s about to come and pick me up. I stand at the window and watch as Jay’s new car pulls up outside. He finally got insurance money through from his old car and has bought himself a brand-new electric BMW. Cars aren’t my thing, but even I’m impressed as it glides to the kerb outside my flat. When Jay spots me at the window he gives me a wave and I wave back, pick up my bag, and hurry down the stairs to meet him.

‘Hey,’ he says, as I close the door behind me. He’s standing on the pavement and holding the passenger door open for me, and gives me a hug as I approach. When I step back he appraises me.

‘Suitable attire for the golf club?’ I say, doing a twirl.

He must notice an edge to my voice because his face grimaces momentarily before clearing. ‘Perfect attire,’ he says.

I try not to notice his polo shirt with the club crest on the left-hand pocket, and the mid-blue chinos that are the sort of thing my dad would wear to go for dinner. I haven’t seen him dressed like this before, and it’s only for today. Which means it doesn’t matter if it’s one of the least attractive outfits I’ve ever seen him wear.

I climb into the car, he closes the door behind me, gets into the driver’s side and we pull off slowly into the traffic. The golf club Jay plays at is just north of Gosforth and it doesn’t take us long to get there.

‘Ready?’ Jay says, squeezing my fingers, and I force a smile and nod. This means a lot to him, so I just need to get on with it.

The course is busy this morning, so Jay takes me to the driving range first.

‘It’s a good place to warm up your balls,’ he says, waggling his eyebrows, and I burst out laughing, which earns me a strange look from a man passing by.

‘Come on then, let’s get them warmed up,’ I say, picking up the golf clubs he’s passed me and grasping his hand with my other one.

I’m useless, of course. Every time I swing the club I swipe aimlessly at the air, then almost topple over as it makes zero contact with anything. The ball just sits there, perfectly still, taunting me.

‘Keep your head down,’ Jay says patiently, and I try, I really do. But after what feels like at least eight thousand missed shots even he’s beginning to lose patience.

‘I need a rest,’ I say, propping the club against the wall. ‘You show me how it’s done.’

He doesn’t argue, and steps forward to hit a few shots. He’s good – at least, to a complete beginner he looks good – and is soon smashing ball after ball, sending them soaring into the air and landing at some impossible-looking distance away.

I watch for a while, first admiring his biceps as he hits the ball, then wondering whether I should be paying more attention so I actually pick up some tips on how to hit a bloody golf ball. After a while though I start to get bored, and I wonder whether it would be rude to get my phone out and scroll through Instagram and Facebook, or check my WhatsApp messages. But before I can decide, there’s a shout from behind me and when I turn I see a group of four or five men approaching, all wearing similar outfits to Jay but with varying degrees of trouser/shorts length and varying degrees of hair thinning.

They don’t pay any attention to me and walk straight up to Jay and start greeting each other in that back-slapping way men like to do, taking the piss out of the way he hit that last ball, and wondering if he fancies a pint. I watch on in amusement, wondering at what point he’s going to introduce me. To his credit it only takes a few seconds for him to explain, somewhat sheepishly, that he’s here with me.

‘This is Miranda,’ he says, and, as one, the flock of them turn to face me.

The first to step forward and proffer his hand is a slightly chunky man about my age with greying-blonde hair and a sunburned face. He’s not bad-looking but the pink polo shirt he’s wearing makes his skin look even pinker, giving him a slightly porcine look.

‘Hello, Miranda, lovely to meet you. Sorry, we didn’t know James was here with someone. I’m Simon.’James, hey? Is he trying to impress me or are they not on close enough terms for him to know him as Jay?

‘It’s fine, lovely to meet you too,’ I say, taking his damp hand and shaking it.

One by one they all introduce themselves and, while they all seem perfectly nice, there’s something about them as a group that makes me feel wary. Stop it, Miranda. They’re Jay’s friends, so they must be nice.

‘We’re off to play nine holes, do you want to join us?’ says the bald man who introduced himself as Rich.

‘I don’t actually play, Jay was teaching me the basics,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

---