Ed

It’s book-club night and I reapply my lipstick in the ladies before heading to the table to join them. I’ve been determined to keep coming no matter how busy I get; true I haven’t read each book they’ve discussed, but I go along and nod intelligently. It’s a moment of peace with a glass of wine included.

Each of us can make a suggestion of what we read next but I haven’t volunteered anything yet because it’s quite a revealing thing to do, recommending a book for others. Do you pick something safe like a classic or a Booker prizewinner or do you try to say something about yourself with an edgy contemporary author? Then you have to choose something that would appeal to male and female. I’ll never forget the month that Caroline had to feign interest as the guys extolled the virtues of a zombie novel. She says she always picks something that no one will own so they have to buy it from her; I can learn much from her.

Ed is in the hot seat this month and he’s picked a thriller, Remember Me This Way. This is definitely up my street; I adore trying to guess the twist (that inevitably happens) at the end.

‘In some ways,’ I say, ‘I hate these books because I cannot put them down until I know the heroine is safe.’

‘I know what you mean,’ continues Ed. ‘Did you think he was still alive, stalking her?’

‘He had to be,’ I reply.

Our passionate discourse about thrillers continues after the formal session. We discuss whether the twist made sense, whether the film versions were any good, which books should make it on to the screen but haven’t, and who you’d want to investigate your murder if it happened, Dalgliesh or Scarpetta?

I haven’t lost myself in a conversation like this for aeons and I’m surprised it’s happening with Ed. I don’t think I’ve even looked at him properly and try to do so now without being too obvious. The opportunity comes when he heads off to the bar to buy us a refill: taller than Alan with strong looking arms. He probably doesn’t sit behind a desk any more. He wouldn’t be my usual type; I’m a sucker for the pretty boys, the Pierce Brosnans or Richard Geres of the world. Ed is more of a Liam Neeson or Tommy Lee Jones. He’s quiet and craggy with a hint of danger. OK, I made that last bit up but we are discussing thrillers and I’m trying to imagine how I’ll describe him to Patty.

We don’t really know anything about each other so move on from books.

‘I’m doing the rounds at the moment, presenting the idea to societies and groups. That seems to work well for us; members tend to spur each other on and we get multiple bookings.’

‘You should come and present to us,’ he suggests.

I can’t imagine what group he might be part of, perhaps university lecturers or the P D James Fan Club. I nod politely.

‘We love a good party,’ he adds.

This mild-mannered man then goes on to tell me he rides a Harley-Davidson and runs a club – they’re called ‘Chapters’. They’re part of the golden generation who have private pensions to blow on fun and frivolity. Ed also does restorations and repairs; that would explain the arms, then.

Patty will explode.

‘I tell you what,’ he says, ‘come out with us this weekend and meet a few of the gang.’

I hesitate and don’t know how to start this next conversation. I twiddle nervously with my empty ring finger; he spots it.

‘Don’t worry,’ he guesses. ‘It’s just a friendly invitation. I think I’ve forgotten how to date properly.’

He laughs and we both relax, I know exactly what he means.

So with nothing to lose and maybe some bookings to gain, I borrow a leather jacket from Josie.

‘It doesn’t matter how sunny it looks now,’ she warns me, ‘you’ll be glad you have this when you’re tearing up the motorway.’

I hope I look the part. I’m waiting for a motorbike to come roaring up the road and if this doesn’t have the curtains twitching then nothing will.

It does. I climb on to the back of the bike and cling to Ed as if my life depends on it.

‘I’m on a motorbike,’ I squeal inwardly.

We ride into Cheshire with eight other members of The Chapter and after a wonderful tour of the countryside, stop at a dainty tea room in Tarporley.

‘We have to call ahead,’ says one of the bikers, ‘or they have a fit when they see us drive up.’

I can believe that. I still find this whole scenario extremely funny; my image of the leather-clad biker (and I know I won’t be alone in this) is of a rebel, a wild child with arm-to-arm tattoos. They rev up to some sleazy joint and neck tequilas or bourbon before having a fight with a pool cue over some woman. If they’re really unlucky, a Terminator from the future will turn up and demand their boots and jacket before nicking said bike.

What they don’t do is make sure that they have enough thermals on under the leathers, roll up to a tea shop and have a selection of scones. But that’s exactly what they do.

‘Could you pass the jam?’ asks one.

I hand the glass preserve pot to the man on my left in the Motörhead T-shirt.

‘You’re bemused, I can tell,’ says Ed. I nod.

‘Most of us loved bikes when we were younger,’ he explains, ‘but you know how it is. You give them up for family estates in your twenties. Now the nest is empty and you go back to what you’ve always loved.’

I certainly understand that. So this group are reliving their youths while meeting new people, but of course they can’t drink on a ride out so they visit the quaintest of English villages dressed like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

I swear I will never look at bikers in quite the same way.

So from wondering what on earth Mercury would have to offer this group of renegades, I’m reassured that I won’t crash and burn when I present the travel club.

After a lovely day out, I wave goodbye and peel off the extremely sweaty outfit. A shower is definitely needed but it has barely warmed up when Patty calls. I wrap myself in a towel and lie on the bed to talk to her.

‘So where have you been, Bo?’ she probes.

All of a sudden, I feel a little coy. Despite the tameness of the group, there is no way I can tell her that I was out with a group of bikers without getting the third degree.

‘Erm, just meeting some people who might be interested in the travel club,’ I say and that’s the truth after all.

‘Some friends of Ed,’ I add, going for nonchalant, but it doesn’t work.

‘Him from the book club?’ she asks, ‘that’s moved on a bit hasn’t it?’

‘He’s just a friend.’

‘Good. I don’t want you nabbing a man before I do,’ warns Patty.

‘That’s hardly likely,’ I say.

She rings off satisfied with my answer.

I had a bloody good laugh today and rolling up into towns riding pillion was quite exciting, better than just getting out of the passenger seat of a hatchback anyway. It would be nice to think things could stay like this; we’d be friends without any expectations of benefits. When I try to picture any relationship developing, I’m comfortable with the dinner and moonlight strolls but I can’t envisage the bedroom scene at all. What do second-timers our age do? Would he undress me or would I disappear into the bathroom to slip into something more comfortable? And do I have to tell him what I like? What do people like these days?

I feel comfortable making that promise to Patty because when you play the scene through, I really don’t want to go there.

I’m jolted from my thoughts by a noise in the front garden and a car door slamming. I sit very still for a few moments to make sure that I can’t hear anything inside the house. I mentally run through arriving back home: did I lock the door? I’m sure I did, I always do.

It’s times like this when you wish you still lived with a man; I would always have sent Alan to investigate noises in the night. Instead, I have to walk assertively down the stairs showing that I am mistress of my own abode and will take no crap from anyone. Sneaking down on tiptoes probably doesn’t say that but it’s all I can manage. If I were in a movie right now, a cat would jump out and screech. I pray that doesn’t happen or I’m head over heels down these stairs, squashing it on the way.

I get to the (locked) front door without mishap and open it cautiously. The noise seems to have been caused by a beautifully planted terracotta pot, which was obviously very heavy to manoeuvre into place. I look up and down the street but there is no one in sight and no one sneaking a peek from any window. It appears I’m being stalked by Monty Don.

I kick the spilled soil into the garden and notice that Gnorman is holding something. Someone has attached a little plant stick and an empty seed packet to him so it looks as if he’s carrying a little protest placard.

I bend down to pick it up; it’s a packet of forget-me-nots.

It can’t be – can it? Alan?