Page 11 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
‘Is double denim back then?’
‘Who knows? There’s a girl in the creative media office opposite who wears a tiara,’ he says.
‘What shoes?’
‘Metallic brogues. She’s also a known pen thief.’
‘Bitch.’
There’s a pause. We do this every day at lunch, our own ritual of trying to stay connected.
‘When is it a good time to tell you I’m going to be late again?’ he asks.
I don’t know how to react to this anymore. It’s been this way since Joe was about a month old; Will took on a new job with an architecture firm in Shoreditch that apparently pays more money but the commute and sheer volume of work means we see him less. I can’t be angry about it but it compounds on my loneliness.
‘Will you need dinner?’ I ask.
‘I’ll grab something at Waterloo. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s cool. Love you.’
‘Yes, lemons.’
I smile. Will didn’t want to be to the uncool person in the office saying ‘I love you’ out loud so we’ve come up with a code word. ‘Lemons’ is an acceptable alternative that can be repeated within the confines of his ultra-trendy hot desking office where it seems everyone stands up and just hangs around in communal spaces talking aboutFleabagand non-dairy alternatives.
‘Idiot.’
‘And don’t forget your dinner date,’ he tells me.
I freeze on the spot.Shit.‘That’s tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Balls. Big giant balls.’
That shop assistant who was tutting before gives me an evil look, I guess because I’m holding an infant. I could be talking about any balls: tennis balls, beach balls, disco balls. I’ll have to get on a bus. What are the queues at the tills like? Seriously,balls.
‘Good luck,’ Will whispers before hanging up.
By the time I get home, I am bang on time but sweaty and the colour of beetroot from fighting my way onto a bus with the pram, shopping stuffed into the lower basket. I clamber into our block of flats and struggle to navigate the buggy through the corridor. The front door opposite ours opens, and our neighbour emerges looking slightly perturbed at my levels of sweatiness.
‘Was your marathon today then?’
Paddy. I would laugh if I had the breath. He opens his door fully, and I see he’s standing there in a blazer with a buttonhole. I smile. Oh my. He’s dressed up and I’m wearing cut-offs and a yellow stripy T-shirt. I feel awful but he smiles broadly. I don’t suppose he’s too surprised. Paddy is our garden flat floor neighbour and we share a corridor in our block, home to his wonderful ferns, our buggy, an old Christmas tree base and a few pairs of really old stinky trainers. Every day since Joe was about a month old, he knocks on our door so we can have a cup of tea. I won’t lie, it’s become a highlight. He’s even sometimes done the washing up and helps me fold clothes. It gives me some routine in an otherwise unstructured day – and company. I also feel indebted to him as some of the noise Joe has created over the past months or so will have travelled, no doubt. However, today is different. No tea. We are out to dinner and I am super grateful for Will’s reminder. Paddy fiddles with the handkerchief in his top pocket.
‘You forgot, didn’t you? You’re such a dopey mare.’
This is also why I keep Paddy in our lives. For all his gallantry, he also is good comedy value.
‘I didn’t forget. I’m just running behind.’ I forgot.
He shakes his head at me and rolls his eyes mockingly. ‘Come on, you go sort yourself and I’ll take the young ’un.’ He holds his hands out and Joe goes over willingly, as Joe does. The lad isn’t picky which makes me worry he’s the sort who’s likely to be kidnapped easily. He likes a cuddle and the variety of a new face that isn’t mine. I try and feign enthusiasm with Paddy, hoping it may mask my guilt. You see, today would have been Paddy’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. His wife, Betty passed a few years ago and he’s been on his own ever since. I’ve never heard a man speak so affectionately of a woman. So affectionately that every time her name is mentioned or he shares an anecdote with me, I usually burst into tears (that’ll be the hormones and lack of sleep). Once he told me about the time he proposed outside a bookshop, the one where their eyes first met over their shared love of Graham Greene, and I actually lactated. I didn’t want him to be alone on today of all days so I suggested we go out for dinner. Nothing fancy (Betty would have hated that) but she liked fish and chips and a half of shandy to wash it down. So the pub it is – and we’ll raise a toast to his love. Except I’m a dopey mare and I bloody forgot.
‘Come on through.’
He wears a light slack and a smart navy blazer. I want to hug him but I don’t given I’m slightly balmy. I may need to have a quick refresh with the baby wipes.
‘Excuse the mess as always.’
