Page 12 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
I do a quick scan as he enters. Paddy has seen all sorts lying around, from bags of nappies to bras drying on the radiator but he always seems to turn a blind eye, once telling me he’d seen worse in the war which made me feel marginally better.
‘And how are you? How’s little man?’ he asks.
I kick a box of pantyliners behind a sofa.
‘As usual. Sleep is kind of getting better, I think.’ My haggard face probably tells a different story.
‘Well, you’re doing a sterling job,’ he says, eyes glancing over at the kitchen where last night’s chicken pie sits there on the counter, a fork in the dish where I’ve been picking away at its cold carcass over the course of lunchtime. Paddy always says this without even a hint of sarcasm. We all know different but it’s like he’s telling me to keep on keeping on.
‘How was that new bridge thing? Did you go this morning?’ I ask.
‘I did. They were a bunch of old arse hats though. It’s the same faces you see all the time; allotments, woodcraft, all those classes they put on in the community centre. I’m just sick of seeing the same mugs. And turns out the bridge is all recreational too, no playing for money. Not sure why you’d bother? I can play poker online.’
‘But it’s the social side of things, no?’ I ask.
‘Maybe. But that’s why I have tea with you.’ He puts a hand to my shoulder. ‘How long do you think you’ll be?’
He scans the puffy outline of my mousey blonde hair. I try to think if I own any hats.
‘Ten minutes. I promise.’
He gives me a look. What stands before him would take a makeover show at least three days and some industrial threading action. But I’ve done it in less. That time I forgot a health visitor was coming round, I managed to brush my teeth, put on a hoodie and deodorant myself in a single thirty second action. I smile as he makes Joe laugh by turning his hand into a bird. I spy a wedding ring and smile broadly.
‘You look really nice by the way,’ I tell him.
‘You hitting on me? Is Will not doing it for you these days?’
‘It’s the blazer, I’m a sucker for a blazer.’
‘If I’d known, I would’ve worn it more often. Did my house slippers not give you the fanny flutters?’
I laugh, loudly. ‘It’s the tartan, makes you look well old.’
He turns to my infant son. ‘Joe, your mum’s a bloody cow, did I ever tell you that?’
My son seems to laugh in agreement and I shake my head at the two of them.
‘Well, Joe and I will make ourselves useful while you get ready,’ he says. ‘It’s recycling day tomorrow.’ He gestures over to my recycling bin which is a Jenga-style configuration of tins, card and junk mail that we pile in the corner. I shuffle over in my shame to assist.
‘Did you see that new muppet in flat five?’ Paddy asks. ‘He keeps putting takeaway boxes in the recycling. No foil, I told him, and he called me an old nosey git.’
I wince. ‘Really? Is it worth the fight?’
‘It is. More like that and next time, I’ll steal his sweet and sour pork balls.’
‘Paddy!’
‘We’re a family in this block, we look out for each other. You play by the rules. Have you seen his cat too? Miserable looking sod, just like his owner.’
As I tie a bin liner full, Paddy looks around the mismatched cupboards and counters that line my messy galley kitchen.
‘I’m sorry about—’
‘— the mess, I know,’ he replies, laughing cheekily. ‘Come on, little lad, let’s do a quick sweep in here for your mum. You looking forward to your first pint in a bit?’ he says to Joe.
He opens all my cupboards to put dry washing up away and looks confused by all the mismatched mugs and biscuits. Many biscuits. He chats to Joe like some old mucker he’s met down the pub and I smile. Is it terrible that I think Paddy may be my current best friend? Aren’t I supposed to have a mum friend whom I meet at baby tai chi lessons once a week? Her name should be Laura and she should wear Joules. Instead I have a septuagenarian standing in my kitchen, wondering why someone would use their oven to store their entire collection of saucepans. He turns to me.
‘I love you, Beth, Joe does too. But we’re not going to the pub with you looking like a fricking tramp. Get a wriggle on.’
