My granny annexe is great too. Honestly. I can have it all decorated from one end to the other with a super-size can of magnolia and a free weekend. At least in theory. I have, of course, yet to put this to the test. It’s not exactly Princess Sparkle Palace yet – but, believe me, when it’s all nice and freshly decorated it will be both sparkly and palatial.
Cleaning? An hour tops. My kind of housework. I still need some bookshelves putting up and my wall art from Next is still stacked behind the sofa awaiting attention, but I’m pretty much settled in now. Sadly, the thing I miss most about Simon is his ability with power tools. I can tell you now that’s not a euphemism for anything. It might have taken months of cajoling, but when he set his mind to it he was a demon with a Bosch hammer drill. And that’s, essentially, the hardest thing about being single. You have no one else to do … well … anything. You fly solo with finances, decisions, outings, holidays. All of it. The grind of being the only one is relentless. I have to think about everything. Sometimes I think my brain will go into overload with all it’s got to hold in there. Yet it’s infinitely better than being with someone who thinks having a sparkly noo-noo is more important than a sense of humour or integrity. I must remember that.
Anyway, I’d better get a move on or I won’t have my shiny new job to go to. I grab my bag and jump into the car which only requires three f-words before firing into life. Maybe it needs a new battery or alternator or something else under the bonnet which may not be quite right. Another thing that guys are very useful for. I’m perfectly capable of doing it, but when you’re a couple you kind of automatically fall into Blue Jobs and Pink Jobs, right? I’m already sorted with putting out the bins myself and if I had any grass, I’d be perfectly fine about cutting it. I’m just going to have to get used to googling car maintenance stuff.
I’m on the late shift at work today which means I go in for four o’clock and am lucky if I’m home at midnight. The plus side is that I get most of the day to myself to chill out, read, watch telly and put off the hour’s housework for as long as I can. You win some, you lose some.
The pub is called the Butcher’s Arms and is one of a chain of five similar pubs in the area owned by a small, family-run company. It’s set in the lovely village of Great Blossomville, about a ten-minute drive out of Milton Keynes’ city limits and into the leafy Buckinghamshire countryside. It has a thatched roof, overlooks the village green and usually has about three hundred top-of-the-range cars parked outside it – making our relationship with the long-suffering residents of Great Blossomville somewhat tetchy. Inside, it’s all stripped wooden floors, chalk blackboards and artfully arranged things made out of hopsack.
The drive is lovely and I take the time to turn up my music, letting Kylie soothe me, and enjoy the countryside around me – while fully maintaining my concentration on the road at all times, obvs. It’s spring and the hedges are coming shyly into bud. The sun’s out in force today and the worst of the winter feels long behind us. Everyone feels better in spring, don’t they? It’s all that new life, new hope shtick. I’m happy to buy into it, though. It makes your heart soar just a little bit, doesn’t it? I won’t be downtrodden and disillusioned. I’m going to be bright and filled with optimism. You heard it here first!
This year, for me, is onwards and upwards.
Chapter Four
Parking in one of the spaces reserved for staff right next to the bins, I hurry inside. We’re not busy at this time of day although we always have our regular retirees who drop in for an early-evening pint. As well as catering for vegans, gluten-avoiders and lactose-intolerant customers, we are also dog-friendly. Canine companions are allowed in the bar area, so a few of the older guys who live in the village pretend they’re taking their pooches for a walk and come straight here for a swift hand-pulled craft beer instead. A couple of them queue up at the door for opening time at twelve. We serve afternoon teas too and the last of the ladies enjoying those are just getting ready to leave. I drop my bag and jacket into my locker in the staffroom and tie on my apron. My hair gets a bit of a fluff and I whip round with some fresh lippy. Gotta look the part.
When I head out into the restaurant, Charlie Clarke is at the desk, taking a phone booking.
‘Hi,’ I say, when she hangs up. ‘Cut it a bit fine today. Sorry.’
She shrugs. ‘Lunch was a bit manic, but we haven’t exactly been rushed off our feet since.’
Charlie has been a great friend since I started here. You know some people you just bond with instantly and become firm friends for life? Well, Charlie is one of those. She’s the same age as me – thirty-eight pretending to be thirty-two or less – and we have the same silly sense of humour.
Despite my bravado, I can confess to you that I felt so low when Simon left that I didn’t know what to do with myself. In fact, I barely recognised the person I became. Despite the fancy haircut, the new job, the new apartment, I’d completely lost my confidence. I think I have a lot to offer in a relationship, yet my husband’s head was turned by a sparkly noo-noo. That’s got to hurt. Charlie has been such a tonic though. We’ve shared so many laughs together that she’s helped me through some dark hours. Mostly because she’s as jaded with life as I am. We are both bruised and a little bit broken.
Charlie’s small and curvy. She’d be the first to tell you that. Our mutual muffin tops are a constant topic of conversation. She has a cheeky face and there’s always a beaming smile on it, even if she’s feeling rubbish inside. Her hair is her pride and joy and I can’t tell you how much or how long she spends on it. It’s long, dark and lustrous. She straightens it within an inch of its life and has one of those flash hairdryers which cost a few hundred quid. For a hairdryer. Makes my twenty-quid Babyliss look a bit pants. For work she has to tie it back in a ponytail which she resents with every fibre of her being. She’s not married. Never has been. Charlie is resolutely single, but that’s not to say she isn’t hopelessly in love. Hopeless being the operative word.