The Summer of Second Chances: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Maddie Please
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to finish it, but I treated it much as an astronaut might approach a freeze-dried meal, as a way of consuming calories to sustain me through the morning. And then I went down the garden and had a cigarette, wondering whether I should give them up now that I needed to be a lot more careful with money.
I rolled up my sleeves, scrubbed the scum off the draining board and ran a sinkful of hot water laced with a generous slosh of disinfectant. I then spent an industrious hour emptying and washing the kitchen cupboards before organising my equipment and crockery into them. There didn’t seem to be much room. The trouble was I was used to a vast space in which to cook, with a six-burner stove, a double oven and a large American fridge-freezer. Here there was a fairly straightforward collection of units and appliances around a small table and four chairs. This would also serve as my dining room. I was going to be seriously short of space and there was still Greg’s van full of my other stuff to fit in at some point.
I thought back with tears prickling my eyes to the huge extending oak table and ten leather chairs that had filled the dining room at home and then reminded myself that wasn’t my home any longer and it never had been. I had given the table to the women’s refuge; they needed it and I certainly didn’t. I was being pretty pathetic. This would do just as well if it were clean. I carried on scrubbing. To my surprise I discovered it’s hard to feel sorry for yourself when you are concentrating on unidentifiable grime. There was a strange pleasure to be had from finding what colour the worktops really were.
After a while the kitchen began to look a great deal better and I rewarded myself with a cup of instant coffee.
I had scrubbed the four kitchen chairs and put them outside the back door to dry so I took my coffee upstairs while I had a good look around. Jess had said it needed cleaning and it certainly did, but it needed more than that. It needed some TLC. And also, courtesy of someone’s careless cigarette habit and chewing gum disposal, new carpets. The bedroom I regarded as mine for the time being was potentially lovely with a whitewashed ceiling, old roof beams diving down into the floor in a way that suggested the cottage was far older than I had originally thought. There were painted built-in cupboards and two leaded windows that framed a fabulous view down the valley. I opened the window, making several woodlice homeless in the process. In the distance I could see the river sparkling in the sunshine, and the wind was cold but somehow exciting, as though it was bringing me a fresh start and new energy. Under the trees snowdrops were beginning their optimistic journey, bringing hope for the spring and the first potential of another new year.
Completely unexpectedly I began to cry. Why was I here? Why had Ian rushed off that night? I was frightened without him, that was the truth. I was used to him being there, used to his energy, his drive, the sheer noise of him. His crazy enthusiasm, his irritated muttering about customers as he worked his way through his correspondence.
When he was at home he usually had some paperwork to check or emails to read at his end of the kitchen table. Sometimes he would read me snippets from women who couldn’t decide what they wanted.
Should I have worktops made of black granite or white Corian? Shaker-style doors or high gloss? Cream or Faded Cashmere?
Tell me what you think, Mr Lovell? Which do you think would suit me best?
‘It’s your money,’ he would shout at the screen, exasperated, ‘it’s your fucking kitchen, it’s not that difficult, just make your bloody mind up!’
And then he would look up and catch my eye and grin.
I wiped away my tears and sipped my coffee. The other bedroom was wallpapered in a leafy William Morris print and looked out over the lane. The vandalised wardrobe was probably Victorian mahogany and too large for the room, but, inside, it was fitted out with named compartments, each with a little engraved brass plate. Gloves, socks, ties, collars, braces. Just gorgeous. The wood was glossy and patinated with age. Why would someone stick pictures all over it with lumps of Blu-Tack? Who knew.
In the bathroom I had cleared away the worst of the debris, sprayed limescale cleaner over the scummy shower screen and the toilet and left it to work. The floor was dirty and covered in dried mud but the little leaded window opened onto the garden and there was the promise of a rose that had climbed around it, ready to blossom later in the year.
I went back down the claustrophobic stairwell, my feet careful on the narrow treads. Ian would have hated this more than anything. He couldn’t bear enclosed spaces, low ceilings, dark rooms.
I wondered if I had the energy to finish emptying my car. I was hungry again and I knew there was a box of food in there somewhere, it was just a pity I hadn’t thought to put it somewhere accessible.
Sod it! I suddenly remembered a box of fish fingers going in, which would undoubtedly have defrosted by now. I pulled off my rubber gloves and found the car keys.
Outside it was warmer than it had been for days. The sun was brilliant, the sky cloudless. Of course that meant that the inside of the car was getting warm too. I pulled a couple of bags and boxes out from the back seat of the car and dumped them on the drive, hoping to find the box of provisions. I didn’t realise until that moment how disorganised I could be. It also struck me for the first time that a box of spoiled food was a complete waste of money.
‘Need a hand?’ said a familiar voice.
I turned to see Bryn, standing in his front garden. I think he might have been weeding. Possibly he was planting something or he could have been putting down rat poison. I think he was wearing a pair of ripped and filthy jeans but I know for a fact he didn’t have a shirt on. And I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
I stood open mouthed for several seconds, a slow blush developing. I could feel it spreading from the backs of my knees right to the top of my head it was that bad. I must have been puce. It was quite possible that my hair was blushing too.
I babbled something unintelligible and Bryn walked towards me, stepping carefully over his newly planted borders. I’d heard about six-packs but I’d never been that close to one in my life. He pulled on a black T-shirt that he had draped over the front gate. I felt a pang of disappointment but realised it was probably just as well. He was wearing serious-looking CAT boots, something I have always had a weakness for, so that didn’t help. They were quite large too, which made me think of various rather rude comments.
‘I said, do you need a hand?’ he said.
‘Um,’ I turned away and looked in the car, ‘yes please, if you don’t mind. There’s a lot of heavy stuff here.’
I grabbed the first thing I saw; a small overnight bag that a six-year-old child could have safely wheeled to the door and he took it and stood waiting for me to find him something else.
I kept my gaze steadfastly fixed in the boot. Don’t look at him. Keep calm. Don’t look at him.
I spotted the cardboard box that I had filled with food from the freezer and then forgotten about.
‘I could take that in, if you like?’ Bryn said, his voice unnervingly close behind me.
The embarrassment of having to admit my ineptitude was too much.
‘No, no, that’s OK. I’ll manage,’ I said, wishing he would go away.
I tugged at a few over-stuffed black bin liners and managed to spill a pair of my (joke Christmas present from Karen) days-of-the-week knickers onto the driveway. The pair with Magic Monday stared up at us. And of course it was actually Monday.
‘I hope you haven’t got Thursday on,’ Bryn said, straight-faced, ‘that would never do.’
I gave a weak laugh and stuffed them into my pocket, then reapplied myself to the cardboard box of frozen food. As I dragged it from the car the bottom, soggy with thawed ice, dropped out and my stash of fish fingers and potato waffles (secret vice for when Ian was away) scattered all over the ground.
‘Mmm, delicious,’ he said.
‘Oh God,’ I groaned.
To his credit Bryn