The Woman Who Met Her Match: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you need to read in 2018. Fiona GibsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
of baking on offer. ‘A piece of carrot cake please,’ I tell the girl behind the counter before turning to Ralph. ‘Would you like something?’
‘No, no, you go ahead, though,’ he says.
We install ourselves at a table at the waterside. It’s a picturesque stretch of canal, with a row of brightly painted narrowboats moored on the opposite bank. A mallard duck bobs along on the water, and a young couple stroll hand-in-hand along the towpath.
‘Well, that was interesting,’ I remark.
‘Glad you thought so,’ he says with a smile.
Silence descends, and I focus instead on sampling the carrot cake which, I have to say, is perhaps the best I have ever tasted.
‘I’ve really enjoyed this afternoon,’ Ralph adds.
‘Oh, me too,’ I say through a mouthful of delicately spiced sponge and creamy icing. I swallow it down, soothed now by the delicious cake and the slight breeze, and decide Ralph’s not that bad really. This has become my marker of dating success: he’s not that bad really. I glance at him as he observes the bobbing boats. ‘I hope you don’t mind …’ I venture cautiously, poking at my cake with my fork. ‘I mean, I sort of need to ask you this really, but, of course, I completely understand if you don’t want to talk about it …’
He raises a brow. ‘Yes?’
‘Um, you know the painting with the big yellow sun? The one you said Belinda liked?’
‘Oh, yes, it’s called “Orb”.’ He sips his coffee.
I clear my throat. ‘Look, I hope this isn’t intrusive, but you said, “My wife”. So I’m sort of assuming – well, you know, otherwise you’d have said my ex …’ Hotness spreads up my cheeks. ‘Is she … I mean … what happened to—’
‘Oh, it was all very amicable. We married very young, silly mistake really. In fact, we’re still married—’
‘You’re married?’ I dump my fork on my plate.
‘Well, yes, technically, I suppose …’
‘Which means yes!’
‘No – we’re separated, split up over a year ago. Sorry, I really must stop saying my wife. I realise how confusing that sounds …’
‘No, no, it’s fine. So, where is she now?’
He shrugs. ‘Moved north, to Halifax.’
‘Oh, right!’ I glance towards the canal, wondering whether or not to feel relieved. A narrowboat is chugging by, a man with a white beard at the helm, an elderly woman in jeans and a faded rugby top primping a tub of Michaelmas daisies on the deck. They both wave, and I wave back, then glance down at my cake which, although I’ve made inroads, now seems huge and unwieldy. It’s not that I’m trying to appear feminine and dainty. It’s just, my appetite seems to have withered away. ‘Er, would you like some of this, Ralph? I’m not sure I can manage it all.’
‘Oh, no thanks, I stopped off for a sandwich before we met.’ His mouth flickers into a smile as he adds, ‘You tuck in, Lorrie. I can see you’re a girl who very much enjoys her cake.’
I blink at him. Well, that’s flipping charming, isn’t it? Fatty, is what he means. Porky lady, cramming in the carbs and cheesy topping. ‘I am actually,’ I say with a terseness he doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Well, that’s good,’ he says with a smirk. ‘A healthy appetite, that’s what I like to see in a lady. Not your picking-at-a-lettuce-leaf type!’
‘Okay, thank you, Ralph …’
He leans forward. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’
‘No, it’s fine, really.’ That’s it. I have to get out of here. I edge my plate aside and pull my phone from my bag, frowning as if something urgent might have happened at home. ‘Sorry, but I’d better be going …’ I slip my phone back into my bag and get up from my seat.
His face falls. ‘So soon? That’s a pity …’
‘Yes, um, I’ve enjoyed the gallery, it’s been a lovely afternoon but I really must dash …’ Then I’m off, turning briefly to wave goodbye as I leave the cafe by its wooden gate, and striding towards the tube station, feeling leaden inside, and not due to the Nutmeg Gallery’s home baking.
Like a burglar, I creep into my house and dart upstairs before Stu and the kids can accost me. They know I’m back, of course. Stu has already called out ‘hi’, and I can sense them all waiting downstairs, keen to hear all about my date. That’s what my personal life amounts to these days: cheap entertainment for my lodger and kids.
In the bathroom now, I start to cleanse my face. Primer, base, blush, tawny lips. Eye shadow – three shades – plus liner and mascara: what a fat waste of make-up. Lovely make-up at that; La Beauté is a premium brand. ‘That just means expensive, Mum,’ Amy observed. ‘Why don’t they just admit it?’ She was right, and our gorgeous products are worth every penny – although of course, I would say that. I am La Beauté’s counter manager in a beautiful, old-fashioned department store – a little like Goldings in Bradford, to which I would accompany Mum as a child, fascinated as she had her face done by one of the scarily made-up ladies who worked there. While there are La Beauté counters in stores all over the country, ours was the UK’s first and remains the favourite among customers. Somehow, despite being a global brand, the company still retains a cosy, family feel, and I can’t imagine working for anyone else.
Plus, I adore cosmetics and the magical things they can do. Just as when Nicole taught me the ways of make-up in France, I still love the way it can change how a woman feels about herself: with confidence all buffed up, as if given a brisk shimmy with a chamois leather cloth. That’s how I felt as I put on my face before setting out to meet Ralph. Now, though, I realise it was all wrong for a casual date at a gallery on a Sunday afternoon (and I’m supposed to be an expert on make-up!). I’m not a shined-up version of myself. I’m just a tired-looking middle-aged woman who’s too fond of her cake.
Laughter drifts up from the kitchen, where Stu and the kids are bantering away. I sniff my cardigan sleeve. It pongs of that arse-smelling tweed jacket. I whip it off and change into a T-shirt and jeans, tie back my shoulder-length dark brown hair – hair that I not only blow-dried but deep conditioned for my date – and head downstairs to greet my public.
‘So?’ Stu grins at me.
I shrug and start to make coffee. ‘Not good.’
‘What happened?’ Amy asks, still in her basketball kit from training this morning. ‘Was he weird?’
Was Ralph weird, or is it me? I tell them about the un-dead wife, Ralph’s arty pretensions (‘juxtaposed!’) and the fact that the photo he’d used was decades old. ‘It’s so much easier for men,’ I grumble. ‘They just come onto the site and write their own profiles, thinking they have the pick of all us desperate single mums …’
‘No one thinks you’re desperate,’ Stu says with an unconvincing smirk.
‘So what else happened?’ Amy asks eagerly, folding her slender arms. I describe the lobster pots and the outsized jacket while they all stare, agog, as if enjoying a thrillingly diabolical Eurovision performance.
‘What a twat,’ Cam exclaims, chuckling.
‘And he said,’ I add, indignation bubbling up in me again, ‘“You’re obviously a girl who very much enjoys her cake.”’
‘Girl?’ my son sniggers, missing the cake significance entirely.
‘Never