Pear Shaped. Stella Newman
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‘Ah well, it’s early days, isn’t it. Let’s see what happens when he gets back.’
After I put the phone down, I ignore the washing up and go back to lie on my bed. The pillow still smells strongly of James. I should wash this pillowcase today, and these sheets, or I’ll lie here later and miss him.
I’ll miss his body, his strong arms, his broad shoulders. The weight of him. I’ll miss his mouth. Those confident hands. His head coming to rest in the curve of my neck. His heartbeat finally slowing under my palm….
Who am I kidding – Persil Bio on a 60 isn’t going to wash away those memories. I force myself to get up and make a cup of tea and wash up the pans. The sheets can wait.
It’s nearly 4pm now, so I pop round to the florist in Maida Vale to buy my grandma a bunch of orange tulips, then drive round to her flat in Highgate. I park in the courtyard next to the communal garden. My grandma lived here with my grandpa for thirty-eight of their fifty-five years together. There’s a beautiful teak bench at the back of the garden under an apple tree, bought for them on their ruby wedding anniversary by the residents in the block. The inscription is from The Bible, The Song of Songs: ‘I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine’. My grandparents would sit together on this bench on balmy summer nights, one or both of them dozing off against each other’s shoulder.
I do love coming to my grandma’s flat. It reminds me of Saturday afternoons spent with my brother, riding up and down in the lift with its old-fashioned sliding cage door. Of being chased along the red-carpeted corridors by my dad till my grandma would poke her head out of her door, and announce in a deeply serious tone that if we wanted any of her world famous spaghetti with tomato sauce and meatballs, we’d better come quick before my grandpa ate the last mouthful.
I ring the bell and Evie, my grandma’s part-time carer, buzzes me in. ‘She didn’t sleep well,’ she says, opening the door and greeting me with a kiss. Evie is the longest-serving carer my granny has had. My grandma has despatched various Eastern European carers over the last decade for looking miserable or talking too much or too little (‘the stumers’). Evie is perpetually cheery, talks just the right amount and paints my granny’s impressive fingernails purple and jangly like a west London rude-girl.
My grandma is ninety-seven. Her legs don’t work and her boredom has morphed into depression, but her brain and her tongue are razor sharp.
She is sitting in her pale blue wing back chair, staring out of the window towards the Heath, but her face lights up when I walk in.
‘For you,’ I say, handing her the tulips.
‘My favourite!’ she says. ‘Evie! A vase please? Now sit. Have a biscuit,’ she says, pointing at a dozen star-shaped, sugar-dusted biscuits arranged neatly on a red and white Delft plate. I nibble a lemon shortbread even though I hate lemon with sweet things. ‘What’s new then, Sophola? How was that pistachio lamb?’
We’d discussed that dish more than a month ago.
‘Needed longer on a lower heat,’ I say.
‘Always the lowest heat,’ she says, shaking her head.
My foodie genes come from my grandma, who is my dad’s mother, and my mum. My grandma was an excellent cook before she tired of food in her dotage. Now all she eats is boiling hot soup, stale lemon biscuits and coffee ice cream, washed down with a small whisky of an evening. I inherited her habit of always trying something new, and my mother’s habit of always ordering three times too much of it.
‘So your brother’s making me feel old – a great-grandmother indeed!’
‘It’s so exciting, I can’t wait!’
‘I’m not sure I’ll still be here when the baby arrives.’
‘Oh, stop it. Of course you will.’
‘This is my last winter, I can feel it,’ she shakes her head.
‘Nonsense, you say that every year!’
‘I’m ready to go,’ she says, her shoulders rising and falling slowly. ‘And you? When are you going to stop flitting about?’
‘I’m not ready for all that baby stuff yet.’
‘Of course not, you need to find a decent man first. Is there no one nice at work?’
Raymond Cowell-Trousers in accounts? ‘Not at work, no. But I have met someone who I think you might approve of.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘He’s … he’s very bright. And handsome. Nice and tall.’ I won’t mention his age; I don’t think she’d approve of that.
‘What does he do?’
‘He runs his own company, he sells socks.’
‘Jewish?’ she says, a faint trace of hope in her voice.
‘I think his grandfather was.’ We both know this doesn’t count. ‘East End, furrier.’
‘Your grandfather knew some people in the schmutter trade. What’s this creature’s name?’
‘Stephens. James Stephens, in fact!’
‘Oh dear!’ she raises her hands to her face in mock horror. ‘Don’t be too nice to him! You know how that poem ends …’
Chance would be a fine thing. He’s now been in Portugal for four days and hasn’t even texted me. Still, he’s busy working. And he’s forty-five. Do 45-year-olds really text? Isn’t that a bit teenage? I hate texts anyway, so avoidant, I’d much rather talk. He’s due back tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll call then.
Three days later he phones from Lisbon airport.
‘I was starting to think I’d imagined you,’ I say. And I’m starting to think Laura’s right and there is another woman.
‘Is that a dig?’ he says, with good humour.
‘Have you been terribly busy with work?’
‘It’s not been too bad, actually. A bit of work, a bit of fun.’
‘Are you just one of those people who compartmentalises their life?’
‘No, not really.’
‘So you stayed a few days longer than planned?’
‘Yeah, the Bonders own a place down the coast, they invited me for some golf.’
‘The Bonders?’
‘The venture capital guys.’
‘Are they Portuguese?’
‘Swiss, but they’ve got houses all over the place.’
I daren’t go for a sixth question, the only one I want the answer to, which is: why didn’t you call? Because he is calling. And I know I’d sound needy and weird. Besides, he’s forty-five. He’s been on a business trip. It’s very early days. We’ve only had three dates. Three great dates and some good sex. Still, you aren’t allowed to expect too much attention at this stage, so Pete tells me, and I should stop being paranoid.
‘So, when are you free to see me, woman?’
I pause. I am genuinely busy this week, plus I want to spend more than just an evening and a morning with him. ‘At the weekend?’
‘What are you doing in the week?’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Friday night?’
‘Busy … I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, so I made other plans.’ And if you’d called me sooner then I wouldn’t have had to …
‘I’m not surprised you’re so popular, a girl with your qualities. Okay, Sunday afternoon, let’s see a movie – all these dinners with you