Would Like to Meet. Polly James
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but the howling of the wind obliterates most of each word, so I’m still none the wiser until we eventually reach the pub. I’m not that much wiser then, to be honest.
“I said, ‘Isabel Marant’,” says the woman, as we stand together at the bar.
“Nice to meet you, Isabel,” I say, which proves to be an error on a par with joining this ludicrous walking group, at least as far as my companion is concerned.
“Not me,” she says, looking appalled. “Isabel Marant’s a designer, though I’m not sure these trainers are her most practical creation.”
“Ah,” I say.
Maybe Joel will have heard of this Ms Marant. I certainly feel I should have done.
“I’m Hannah,” I say, for want of a more sophisticated topic of conversation. “Hannah Pinkman.”
“Eva Fraser,” says the woman, as she puts out her hand.
She pulls it back in again when she realises it’s covered in mud, which she wipes off on the bar towel in front of us. The barman notices but doesn’t object, which I can only put down to how glamorous Eva looks in her fur-trimmed parka, immaculately cut jeans and fancy Isabel Whatsit trainers. Even her hair looks good – as if it was intended to look windswept – while I resemble an ageing Afghan hound that’s spent the last hour in a wind tunnel experiment.
I do my best to smooth my hair down while Eva establishes that the bar doesn’t serve coffee, and orders double gins for both of us. We dispose of these with indecent haste, re-order and take our refilled glasses over to a table by the window, where we make ourselves comfortable. I may feel a bit of an idiot for not knowing much about designer footwear, but this is miles better than being outside on that bloody ridge. The weather’s got a whole lot worse over the last twenty minutes, too.
“So, Hannah,” says Eva. “Tell me about yourself.”
Oh, I hate that question. What on earth am I supposed to say? I have a job I hate, an adult son who’s never going to leave home, but a husband who already has? The whole thing makes me sound like a walking disaster. Talking of which, I’ve just spotted one of the trainspotters outside the entrance to the pub, shaking himself off like a dripping dog. He’s purple in the face, and looks even less attractive than he did earlier, when I almost knocked him off the ridge.
“Shit!” says Eva. “It’s the bore to end all bores. Duck – quick – before he sees us!”
We crash heads as we both dive under the table, and by the time we’ve stopped apologising to each other, the trainspotter has chosen the lounge bar, leaving us safe in the snug.
Eva clinks her glass against mine in celebration, then takes a large swig of gin before she begins telling me about herself. Apparently, she’s in the process of moving back to the UK, having spent years working in the USA as the editor of a glossy magazine! It’s a good job I didn’t tell her what I do for a living. Designing icons for a question-and-answer site isn’t going to sound too impressive to the newly appointed editor of the British edition of Viva Vintage, though after a few more drinks I don’t care. Eva’s much easier to get along with than she looks, and not quite as confident either, which is good news as far as I’m concerned. Over-confident people have a tendency to suck all the confidence out of me – the Fembot does it every day.
“I’m not worried about the new job at all,” says Eva, “as it’s not going to be much different from my old one in the States, but I have been worried about making new friends. It’s not so easy when you’re our age, and you’re busy all the time, is it, Hannah?”
“No, it isn’t,” I say, “especially when you’ve let all your old friends slip away. That’s what I seem to have done.”
Eva clinks her glass against mine for the second time.
“Well, in that case,” she says, “why don’t we be friends? Anyone who hates walking-for-singles as much as I do has to be a kindred spirit. Let’s arrange to meet up, as soon as poss. We can go clubbing together and see how many men we can pull.”
I suspect Eva’s score will outstrip mine by quite some margin, but maybe I can pick up the odd cast-off here and there. Things might be starting to look up.
* * *
Esther says that Eva sounds “intimidating”, when I tell her how the walking-for-singles went, but I don’t let that put me off. When I get home from work this evening, I find the business card Eva gave me and then dial her number straight away, before she can change her mind about being friends with someone as unglamorous as me.
“I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” she says, “so I can’t go clubbing tonight, but I’d love a coffee and a chat instead, if that’s any good for you?”
“It’s even better,” I say. “I’ve made cupcakes.”
I haven’t, but I don’t want to make Eva think I’m even less competent than I am. The Fembot let me have the ones she made for today’s cupcake photos in return for a generous donation to the charity box.
“Great,” says Eva. “I can’t cook to save my life.”
* * *
Her new house turns out to be only five minutes away from mine, so she turns up at the door before I’ve finished instructing Joel to be on his best behaviour, and not to mention that I design stupid icons for a living. She kisses both of us enthusiastically, which I have a feeling makes Joel blush, though it’s hard to be sure due to most of his face being covered in beard. Then I make coffee while Eva pumps him for information about when he thinks the hipster beard craze will finally peak, and which vintage sneakers he considers the most desirable.
He’s still holding forth about that by the time I join him and Eva in the living room, bearing the box of cakes in front of me like a prize. I put it down on the coffee table and open it with a flourish, only to find it contains four cupcakes, two of which are iced to look like breasts in frilly half-cup bras and the other two to resemble Kim Kardashian’s naked bum.
Eva raises her eyebrows when she sees them, as does Joel, so then I have no choice but to ’fess up that I lied. That passes off surprisingly well.
“Always fake it, if you can’t make it,” says Eva. “I know I do.”
She takes an enormous bite of Kim’s bottom and starts to chew. Then she tells me some more about herself, like the fact that she was christened Enid, but changed her name by deed poll as soon as she left home. She’s also been divorced for years. Quite happily.
Everyone’s divorced these days, aren’t they? Apart from Theo and Claire, though if it could happen to me and Dan, it could easily happen to them – or to anyone. Not that we’re divorced, of course. Not yet …
Joel looks incredulous when I tell him I’m going clubbing with Eva tonight, so I decide to go out straight from work, rather than risk going home to get ready and having to endure his probably even-more-incredulous expression when he sees me dressed up to the nines. If I am dressed up to the nines, that is.
I have no idea what people my age wear to go clubbing and Esther wasn’t much help when I asked her advice yesterday, so I just grab my newest dress from the wardrobe, the one I bought myself one lunchtime last week, to make up for bursting into tears in the food section of M&S. (I’d just put Dan’s favourite apricot tart into my basket, by mistake.)
I shove the dress into one of his old suit bags, pick up my most impractical pair of shoes, and leave for work. Then I hang the suit bag in the staff room, hoping the creases will drop out of my dress before I finish work, and hurl my shoes under my desk.
That was a mistake, as – before you know it – the Fembot looks