‘And you left it at that?’
‘Yes. He didn’t suggest meeting again or anything. It’s like he was saying he had a great time and drawing a line under it.’
‘Oh, darling.’
‘What?’
‘What am I going to do with you? How long is it since he sent this text?’
‘Two days.’
‘TWO DAYS? And he sent it at night, at the end of the date? OK. Hang on. Put this.’
Text pinged up from Talitha.
<I’ve finally recovered from my embarrassment at vomiting on our first date. I had a wonderful time too. And it was a great kiss. What are you up to?>
‘It’s really good – but “What are you up to?” Isn’t that a bit . . .?’
‘Don’t overthink it. Just send it. Frankly, I won’t blame him if he takes three days to reply out of pique.’
I sent it. Then regretted it at once and headed for the fridge.
Just as I’d taken out a bag of grated cheese and the wine bottle the text pinged.
<Jonesey! I was worried you’d choked on your own sick. I’m in the Holiday Inn, Wigan. Have meeting with the District Council recycling department. What are you up to? Looking for your glasses?>
<Roxster, that’s just silly. If I was looking for my glasses I wouldn’t be able to read the text.>
<You might have had someone from Help the Aged round to help you. Busy weekend lined up, Jonesey?>
Roxster is fantastic. I don’t even need to text Talitha or check Dating Rules to see if that’s an invitation. It is! It definitely is! Oh no, but it’s St Oswald’s House Hard-Hats-Offing this weekend. And I can’t tell Roxster my mum’s in a retirement community because his mum might be the same age as me.
<Yars, yars, incredibly busy and glamorous. *Sheepish* I’m going to see my mum on the outskirts of Kettering.>
Then, remembering I had to make it easy for him to create a date, I added:
<However, I am around next week and it is imperative that you be punished for your impertinence.>
There was a worrying pause.
<How about next Friday night? But I am going to put a book down my pants.>
<Will it be a dating self-help book?>
<50 Shades of Widening Your Circle. Is Friday good?>
<Friday is perfect.>
<Good. Night-night, Jonesey. I have to get my beauty sleep ready for Wigan Council.>
<Night-night, Roxster.>
HARD-HATS-OFFING!
Saturday 26 January 2013
134lb (worrying slide back into obesity to be blamed on Mum), texts from Roxster 42, minutes spent imagining date with Roxster 242, babysitters to enable self to have date with Roxster 0.
10.30 a.m. The day of the St Oswald’s House Hard-Hats-Offing is upon us. The phone rang just as I was struggling to persuade Mabel out of the glittery T-shirt and purple leggings she’d somehow put on when I was upstairs (Mabel refuses to accept that leggings are more in the tights department than the trousers department and really need something else on top) and into the dress-and-cardi set Mum had sent for her, straight out of the 1950s, white, covered in red hearts with a sticky-out skirt and a big red sash tied in a bow at the back.
‘Bridget, you’re not going to be late, are you? It’s just that Philip Hollobine and Nick Bowering are speaking on the dot of one, so we can still have lunch.’
‘Who are Philip Hollobine and Nick Bowering?’ I said, marvelling at my mother’s ability to airily bandy about names-one-has-never-heard-of, as if name-dropping top Hollywood celebrities.
‘You know Philip, darling. Philip? The MP for Kettering! He’s ever so good with the St Oswald’s events, though Una says it’s just because he knows he’ll get his face in the paper because Nick’s in with the Kettering Examiner.’