Page 54 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
This Saturday, at 4 p.m., for tea. The Jane Austen Centre. RSVP.
Then his phone number is written below. I show the card to Jess in amazement.
“He’s really run with the low-tech, old-fashioned brief,” I say.
“I told you he’d be good,” Jess says with a satisfied grin. There is something delightful about being sent a handwritten invitation. It certainly feels more special than a Tinder DM saying, “Wanna hang?” As I’m turning the card over in my hand, Jess’s phone pings. She gets it out of her pocket, but her face falls when she reads the message.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her, and she looks up as though she’s surprised to see me there.
“Nothing, some homework I forgot about. I’ll do it now.”
I watch her drag her feet slowly up the stairs, her shoulders drooped. I feel sorry for her. When I was at school, if you forgot your homework, you didn’t know about it until you got to class. Maybe it was better that way.
Once the children are in bed, I lie awake thinking about “Daniel” and Sylvie’s decor. Is that beige, gray palette his taste or hers? What was “our taste”? This house ended up being a series of compromises. We couldn’t agree whether to paint the kitchen cabinets dark green (my preference) or white (his), so we compromised on a wishy-washy light blue. He wanted a white leather sofa, I wanted a blue velvet one, so we ended up getting something that neither of us loved but that both of us could live with. How many nights did we sit scrolling through Netflix, unable to find something we both wanted to watch? My preference would be for a period drama or reality TV, while he’d always opt for a sports documentary. We’d compromise with a crime drama. Hours of my life wasted watching TV I never really wanted to watch. I don’t have to compromise like that now, and the thought makes me feel better about this evening.
It’s good that Dan is settled and happy; it’s better for the children. Though I’m not quite ready to feel it, I also know that deep down, I am glad he is happier. He has obviously found whatever it was he was looking for. On autopilot, I pick up my phone and open Instagram. It’s what I reach for when I’m feeling anxious or upset. But today, peering through these windows into other people’s lives doesn’t bring me the satisfaction it usually does.
Closing the app, I open my e-mail and send a message to Johnny the handyman, asking when he might be available to come and repaint my kitchen cabinets. No more compromise. Then I pull up a paint website and search for the exact shade of dark green paint I have always coveted. This Cinderella might not have a prince, but she shall go to the Farrow & Ball.
Google searches:
Books to get you out of a reading slump
Kitchen inspiration, dark green cabinets
Farrow & Ball, but cheaper
Where can I watch Poldark, season one?
Chapter 17
“I have a package foryou,” Noah calls over the fence as I’m leaving home the next morning. “It was left on your doorstep, but you were out. I took it in for safekeeping.”
“Oh, thank you,” I call back. “You didn’t need to do that.” Our street isn’t exactly rife with package-stealing criminals.
“Wait there,” Noah tells me, then disappears into his shed and comes back with a box the size of a barbecue. “It’s heavy, you want me to carry it in?”
“That would be great,” I say, opening the garage door in the hall. “Thank you.” Once he’s put the package down on the floor, Noah stands up and pulls a leaflet from his back pocket.
“I got you this,” he says. As he hands me the piece of paper, his eyes shift to the floor.
It’s a printed form. Across the top it says, “Bath and North East Somerset, Complaint Form—High Hedge.”
“What is this?” I ask him.
“If you want to take issue with the hedge height you should do it through the proper channels. It’s two hundred pounds forthe council to mediate our dispute. I’m willing to split the cost of it with you.”
“I’m not paying the council a hundred pounds, Noah. I haven’t touched your hedge since we last spoke about it.” I let out a sigh. If purgatory exists, I imagine it’s paved with council complaint forms.
“I want to be assured that you’re not going to destroy my property when my back is turned. Please just fill out the form,” Noah says, pulling his beanie hat down over his ears, then marching back toward the door. Is this why he took my package in, so he could harass me about the hedge?
Once Noah’s gone, I rip up the form he gave me, then pull my jumper over my face, screaming into the wool to try to expel the rage. It helps. Then, kneeling on the floor, I rip open the huge package. Inside, I find a giant block of sculpting clay and a small case of sculpting instruments. There’s a note printed on the delivery receipt.
It isn’t indulgent. Will.
As soon as I read it, I feel an overwhelming surge of emotion. I cover my mouth with a hand, to stop a sob that isn’t there. What a thoughtful gift. But then my gratitude is replaced by suspicion. What does this mean? Is this apology clay, pity clay? Sorry Your Cat Died clay? Whatever the motive, it is a lovely gesture. And as I press my hands against the sides of the box, I feel my fingers tingle with anticipation.
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