The Love Island: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you have to read this summer. Kerry Fisher
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Who’d petitioned her MP about cuts in funding for the arts. Whose letters to The Times were legendary. Scott had worn her down over the years until she wouldn’t recognise her own opinion if it took a chunk out of her arse. But maybe I was turning into Scott, haranguing her until she agreed with me, whether she thought I was right or not.
I was working out how to do a quick backpedal so she didn’t feel the whole world was against her, when Jonathan came through. He looked amazed to see Roberta, even though he’d only been on the other side of the hatch. His face always took on a wary look when Roberta appeared, in case she might suddenly come and stay again for another ten days.
‘Hiya. How are you? Things falling into place a bit better now?’
Roberta shrugged. ‘We’re fine, thanks.’
Jonathan glanced at me. ‘Flat working out okay?’
Roberta nodded and his shoulders relaxed.
That was enough to convince Jonathan that no further investigation was needed. ‘Is it nearly dinnertime? I’m looking forward to my birthday steak.’
Roberta gasped. ‘Oh God, is it your birthday? Sorry. I’d better go.’
‘You’re all right. I can make myself a sandwich if you want to stay a bit longer.’
I was caught between not wanting to chuck Roberta out and feeling that for once, Jonathan did deserve to come top of the pile. He only managed to fight his way past the kids, and even the dog, about once a year.
Roberta took the hint when Jonathan fetched out a kilo of bargain-bucket margarine and started making an enormous doorstep, hoovering up a whole pack of ham. It took all my birthday goodwill not to start nagging. Instead of birthday sex, it would be birthday row if he sat down to my steak and declared he wasn’t hungry.
I showed her out and we stood chatting on the threshold. Jonathan never understood how we saw each other so often, yet never ran out of things to say. I sucked her into a big hug. Her shoulder blades were so bony, she was in danger of slicing through my arteries.
‘Maybe you need to think about finding a distraction yourself?’ I said.
‘Such as?’
Sometimes the woman was so slow. I laughed. ‘How about a new man?’
‘Oh God. I couldn’t bear it. How would I meet anyone anyway?’
‘The internet. At least you can see what they look like first, so you don’t end up with some warthog.’
Roberta pulled a face. ‘I can’t think of anything worse. Can you imagine if I actually had to have sex with someone new? All that fumbling and getting in a tangle with your underwear.’
‘Don’t be silly. The men you’ll meet will have worked out the whole bra thing by now. I’d be more worried about whether they can still get it up. We could look on a website – what about that one they’re always advertising on the radio – Just Clicked? You don’t actually have to go out with anyone. We can just have a nosey and see what’s available. Go on, it’ll be a laugh.’
‘Oh yes, an absolute hoot, for you, maybe.’ But she didn’t sound dead set against it.
Given that she was dithering over Scott again, there was no time to lose. ‘Right. I’m going to come over tomorrow evening and we’ll crack on with your new life. We can always give you a false name.’
‘You can come over but I’m not going to let you matchmake.’
‘We’ll see.’
As she headed to her car, her step had lightened slightly.
When Octavia had an idea in her head, she was impossible to resist. Before she came over the following evening, I was determined that I wasn’t going to let her bamboozle me into looking for a man online, but she breezed into my apartment with a bottle of fizz ‘to celebrate a new beginning’.
Before I knew it, we were sitting at the tiny breakfast bar, poring over the pictures on the Just Clicked website. Octavia was drawn to the skinny guys, whereas I could never envisage going out with a man who could fit into my jeans. I preferred men who looked like they could take on a bear and win if the need ever arose. She liked dark, broody men, even though she’d ended up with Jonathan, who was gingerish. I leaned towards men at the Scandinavian end of the spectrum.
Octavia pointed to a man who epitomised the word ‘ordinary’. ‘He looks nice. Friendly eyes. Shirt’s quite trendy.’
‘Trendy? He looks like he buys his clothes from Topman. Bet he reads Angling Weekly. How about this one? He’s rather attractive.’
‘No. Too serial killer. Look how pale he is. Looks like he’s been living in a cupboard under the stairs.’ Octavia scrolled down. ‘What about this one?’
‘I’m not that desperate. Forehead like a skating rink. Too thin.’ As we dismissed whole chunks of the male population on their hairline alone, I dreaded to think what they would say about me if I ever dared to put my picture out there into the brutal world of internet dating.
I trailed my finger down the page. ‘Bet he’s called Quentin.’
‘Cuthbert.’ Octavia laughed into her champagne.
‘Cuthbert’ was the name we used to give to any boy we didn’t want to dance with at the school disco. ‘Nick’ was for the ones we liked. For a moment, it was like being fifteen again, judging a man on his haircut and shirt. If I’d messed up the first time around when I was approaching life optimistically and open-minded, I didn’t rate my chances with bitter baggage, teenage daughter and a ring-fenced heart in tow. But Scott appeared to be getting on with his life, so I’d have to do the same. It might even do me good to meet someone new, someone I could be myself with, the self I was now. Not the self I was when I was twenty.
Octavia picked out a guy who looked Slavic, with high cheekbones and slightly protruding eyes.
‘A bit amphibian-looking. Like his jacket though. And he’s got attractive hands. OK, let’s put him on the possibles list. He can be my middle-aged Nick,’ I said.
‘OK, let’s choose one more, then we’ll set up your profile.’ Octavia filled our glasses again. ‘What about him? He looks a bit Mediterranean. He’s got gorgeous hair. Reminds me a bit of Xavi.’
‘Everyone reminds you of Xavi. About time you blew out that ancient torch for him. Never let it be said that Octavia Shelton is fickle. I wonder where he ended up. Maybe he finally came back to Cocciu after all that travelling, married a girl in the village and is now a staid old man, out on his fishing boat at weekends.’
‘Doubt it. I can’t imagine a tiny island containing him for the rest of his life.’ Octavia’s hard edges still softened when she talked about him.
‘Do you ever think about contacting him? You must have Googled him at least?’
‘Nope. It just seems so disloyal and a bit slippery-slopey. Even if I found him, what would I do? I’ve got the life I’ve got now. Anyway, I’m probably a distant shag he can barely remember.’
‘Don’t be stupid. You broke his heart. He absolutely adored you. If your dad hadn’t died, you’d have gone travelling the world with him.’
Octavia threw up her hands. ‘Can you imagine Mum if I’d have dropped out of university and gone tazzing off to New Zealand with Xavi? Mind you, might have learnt more there than wasting my time finishing off a stupid French degree. Not essential for running a nursery and teaching two-year-olds Humpty Dumpty. Anyway, do you want to include this bloke or not?’ She drained her glass.
‘Go on then, I’ll have the Xavi lookalike