We Have to Talk about Alan

As I open my door and leave for work, the terracotta planter reminds me that there is an issue I’m avoiding – my stalker.

It has to be Alan, who else can it be? A gardener who doesn’t want me to forget them? He gave Gnorman a partner; he tidied up after the storm. I’m sure he must know where I live, after all.

Why is he messing with my emotions now? When the house sale is practically complete? When I’ve thrown out his fishing gear and insulted his new woman? When I’m finally starting to feel like a person in my own right and not just one half, the insignificant half, of a couple?

I don’t know what to do. Patty would kill me if I took him back but there are other things to consider besides her needs. Zoe would have her family back together again; we’d hold on to our home; none of us would be living in rented boxes; and the investment in the Mercury Club would feel more secure if someone were earning an income. It would be like turning the clocks back (as Cleo predicted) but with a new, improved version. I’d put my foot down about having a life of my own and keep up all the new things I’ve done like the book club and the nights out with Patty; I’d probably have to stop the friendship with Ed, though.

It could work but am I sure that I want it to?

Or am I even considering this for a very different, very shallow reason?

You know the one I mean.

The sweet taste of victory when I look into Amanda’s eyes as I saunter past with Alan.

‘In the end, you and your cakes just weren’t good enough. I won.’

Despite mentally practising the scenario many times over, I haven’t acted on my suspicions. Like many others, I find the mantra ‘if in doubt do nowt’ to be fairly solid advice. To me it means, sleep on it and force the issue to start resolving itself. This is very important because the last thing I ever want Alan to be able to say is that I ‘begged him to come back’.

I find that men have a knack at doing this; even in school I remember Martyn Jackson moping around until I asked him out. Then when he decided to move on to someone else he started moping again and I was the one who had to ask him if we’d split up.

Not this time. If this is him and he does want me back, then he has to do a bit more than leave the gnomes to do the talking. A lot more.

Anyway, I don’t have time to worry about him. I’m very busy trying to persuade people to take a holiday; at least Patty’s cruise is selling well if nothing else is. Come closing time I have to go online to find some innovative cake recipes, buy the ingredients and get ready to compete with my daughter on Sunday. Again I find myself wondering how on earth I managed to volunteer for this. I don’t want to win even if it were a vague possibility.

The internet does me proud and I plan a Limoncello Drizzle Cake, a Chocolate Black Russian and a Gin & Tonic Cake. Yes, all of these delights actually exist. Who knew?

I must look like a complete health hazard as I whizz around the supermarket shelves adding only unusual spirits, sugar and butter to my basket. And then I remember that I need lemons, thank goodness for that; they must count as one of your five-a-day. I imagine I probably have enough gin in the house but perhaps if I have a little tipple first it’ll help me to get into the swing of things. I best buy another bottle. After all, I mustn’t run out of gin before I get to the cake.

* * *

The billing is more impressive than the entrant – at least in my case.

‘Why have you made three trifles?’

The room giggles at the innocence of Peter’s question; he doesn’t know about my childhood.

Zoe and I have set up our tableau in the dining room while our ‘judges’ enjoy a Pimm’s in the garden.

We don’t have to bake live at the competition, so we’ve created a display of the cakes we’d planned to make. It’s true to say that my cakes have turned out like every other sponge I ever make – flat. However, I know that the skill in these competitions is in the presentation, so I have excelled here, or so I believe.

Using my full creative genius I have taken some very stylish cocktail glasses, broken up the sponge, added a bit of whipped cream for luck et voilà.

I scatter little umbrellas around, add glass charms and twizzle sticks then put a shaker in the background. In my mind, I have created an artful and innovative selection worthy of the Trendsetter category.

Following Peter’s comments, however, I see my effort more clearly and indeed it does look more like three trifles let loose on a bar crawl.

Zoe on the other hand has surpassed herself. Her herb garden display is both rustic and contemporary with fresh green herbs and glowing nasturtiums surrounding four beautiful creations presented in little flower pots and trendy tin gardening mugs.

She’s made Apricot and Basil Tart presented as a beautiful sunflower, Lemon and Thyme Cake, Chocolate and Chilli Mousse and some very sweet Rosemary Cookies. They look so delightful it seems a shame to eat them, but of course we have to and they taste as good as they look. I do not know how Zoe has either inherited or cultivated this skill.

‘The question isn’t “Can Zoe beat her Mum” because we all could.’ My mother is giving me another vote of confidence.

‘But are her herb recipes more likely to win than cocktail recipes?’

There follows a debate about whether cocktails have peaked or not. We decide that cocktails in jam jars have definitely peaked, alongside food served on slate. Peter sticks to the point and looks at the list of judges.

‘You have an RHS winner as chair of the panel,’ he declares, ‘go with the herbs.’

This man has so much local insider knowledge that he could probably find a category I could win, perhaps the one with the local lush as chair. Or maybe that’s a stretch too far.

Having decided the culinary direction, Patty tries to steer the conversation on to Ed.

‘Have you seen Knight Rider recently?’ she asks.

Everyone seems to stop mid-morsel and raise their eyebrows towards me; you’d think all my family and friends had suddenly had Botox injections. Given that I haven’t even mentioned him today, I can only assume Patty has been divulging my private life to everyone while I slaved away.

‘He’s just a friend,’ I protest, ‘I’m trying to get business, nothing more.’

‘Good.’

Zoe says so much with just the one word; I know she’s hoping that I’ll get back together with her dad, so now is not the time to tell them about the gnomes and my suspicions. In the cold light of day, it seems rather far-fetched.

There’s a short awkward silence until Charlie gets Patty warmed up.

‘So how are rehearsals going, Granny Lauper?’ he asks.

‘Would you believe, the girls wanted to discuss dropping Cyndi from the set list?’ she replies.

And so this mid-summer eve will always be remembered for drinking cocktails at Mum’s, eating cake and debating whether Cyndi or Madonna was the real Queen of Eighties Pop.

There are worse ways to spend the longest day of the year.