IT’S A FULL WEEK from the moment the angels came down from heaven to bring me the most perfect man on earth, and I’m not entirely sure yet if my feet have touched the ground.
We carried on talking into the night, and he kissed me on the cheek when I decided it was time to make a dignified exit.
Theo and I swapped numbers, and as we did, he joked that I’d better be waiting by the phone for him to call. I laughed, but instantly knew that’s exactly what I’d be doing. I don’t think I’ve spent more than eighty-five seconds away from my phone all week, and as sure as perfection is perfection, he did call.
An actual phone call. Who does that these days? Usually you’re lucky to get a text message. Having spent the last few weeks logging in to various dating apps to check for inbox notifications, a phone call feels like a true luxury. A real-life, grown-up, lovely telephone call.
Not only did he ring me, he asked me out. Gentlemanly. ‘I’d like to take you to dinner, Robin, what day suits you?’ When I explained that I don’t live in London and have a daughter, so couldn’t really nip out for dinner, I thought it might be all over, but no: Theo the Perfect continued on the path to being the Greatest Man Ever and said, ‘Well then, come and make a day of it! Let me show you the sights.’
Yes please, Theo Salazan.
I was almost hyperventilating and weeing at the same time (I wasn’t even on a trampoline or sneezing), so I said it.
Yes.
And then I made up an excuse about having a ‘business call’ to take. I thought that sounded better than ‘Gotta go, Lyla’s Alphabites are burning’.
Every day there have been sweet texts, friendly texts, pictures and ‘how are yous’ and it’s been bliss. I’ve even deleted most of the dating apps. I feel like I’m a better person for it.
EASTER WEEKEND IS COMING and among the other six million things I need to do today – including blocking all the men who keep sending me dick pics on the one app I have left; sorting through the laundry to find something half-decent to wear on the school run tomorrow; dealing with the angry, pink council tax letter; and drafting out a casual, breezy message to Theo – I absolutely have to call my mum.
She trilled to me months ago, at Christmas, in fact: ‘We’ll see you again at Easter, I’m sure.’ The thought of going there for Easter, driving five hours just to be reminded over and over again how wonderful Mum thinks Simon is and what a mistake I’m (still) making – with Simon, with Lyla, with my life, with my choice of paint in the downstairs loo – is too much to bear. I’d rather spend the day cleaning my brushes and watching overstimulating kids’ cartoons than sit at her dining table smiling politely and secretly wishing she’d choke on her pork. Well, that’s probably a bit much. I don’t mean choke to death. Obviously. Just enough so she coughs and splutters and feels silly.
Anyway, as Mrs Wate taught me in Year Seven after I broke the sewing machine and hid it in the resources cupboard, ‘Honesty is always the best policy’, the best thing to do is just call her and tell her. I’m a grown woman and I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to or that will make me feel bad. Self-care, Robin. That’s what it’s all about. You’re worth it! No quibbles, no fuss: I’m not going.
She’ll be upset, of course, but perhaps I can placate her with the offer of a visit in Lyla’s summer holidays, and maybe I’ll send her a little goody bag of make-up treats. She’s been wearing the same frosted pink lipstick from Avon since 1989, and I bet she’d love a creamy nude. Oo-er.
I’m not worried about this. I’m just going to make the call, handle her disappointment and get on with my day.
Deep breath – it’s ringing.
‘Seven-four-eight-three-two-zero!’ she answers in her high-pitched phone voice. Why does that generation do this? I know what number I’ve dialled. Why do I need a recital of it as my greeting?
‘Hi Mum, it’s me.’
‘Robin?’ I’m an only child. How many other people ring, calling her ‘Mum’? Unless she and Dad are into some sick role play these days.
‘Er, yes, Robin. Your only daughter.’
‘Ohh, hello, sweetie. I was just on the phone to Barbara, telling her you never call, but here you are, calling me! How lovely of you.’
‘You could call me, you know.’
‘Oh, you never answer.’
I always answer!
‘Anyway, you know how it is with the Rotary. I’m always there, slaving away for them.’ She’s not slaving away. She bloody loves the Rotary Club. Jillian is the head and Mum is her sidekick, so she’s always dashing about doing something with more gusto than I manage for anything.
‘Well, anyway, how are you, Mum?’
‘Very well, actually, sweetie. The antibiotics have worked their magic and I’m back on my feet again.’ I didn’t actually know she was ever ill – another reason to feel guilty – but I let her carry on. ‘Dad’s been working tirelessly on the village beds. We’re putting in for Best Village Flora and Fauna this year, so it’s quite a challenge to keep everything as it should be – though I’m really not sure about those gladioli; I mean, it’s a really risky strategy, and Jillian has taken on more than ever at the Club. We’re organising one of those musical festivals in the village this summer for the young people to come along to and raise money for the Reservoir Wildfowl Association, so as you’d imagine, we’re up the wall with all that!’
‘Oh. Wow. A music festival. That sounds … good.’
‘Yes, sweetie. And how are you? Plodding on?’
I love how much faith she has in me.
‘Yep, working hard with Natalie. Lyla’s doing really well. She’s started swimming lesso—’
‘And Simon? How’s he?’
‘Um, yeah, good, I think.’
‘Bless him.’
‘Mmmmm. Anyway, before we get sidetracked,’ i.e., before I have to hear any more about Mum’s bottomless well of love for Simon, ‘I need to talk to you about Easter.’
‘Oh yes?’ Oh no, she sounds almost hopeful.
‘Yes. The thing is, Lacey is really feeling a bit low at the moment—’
‘Poor girl. What’s wrong? Isn’t she pregnant yet?’
‘Well, no, I think that’s why she’s a bit low, Mum.’
‘She needs to hurry up! She’s pushing thirty now, isn’t she?’ So, so glad Lacey can’t actually hear how insensitive my mother is being.
‘Yes, she is, Mum. She’s actually having quite the battle with it all, and it’s weighing her down, so I think Lyla and I are going to spend some time with her over Easter, maybe cheer her up a bit.’
‘So you won’t be coming to us?’ I can’t gauge her tone, but I’m bracing myself for the inevitable distress. I take a breath and reply.
‘No. Sorry. No.’
‘All right, then! Not to worry! Dad and I have booked a table at the club and the Rotary ladies will be there, anyway.’ Wait a minute. She sounds sort of glad I’m not coming. This is not what I expected. Why is she glad about this? Am I not good enough for the Rotary ladies?
‘Oh good, well, I won’t be missed then, obviously.’
‘No need to be petulant, sweetie. You’ve got your life and we’ve got ours.’ How warm and charming my mother is.
‘Yep, absolutely. Oh, I think I can hear Lyla shouting for me, I’d best go!’
We say our goodbyes and I ring off, feeling a bit stung. I know I didn’t want to go, but I at least wanted her to want me to go. It’s bad enough that they never visit or phone, and Mum, at least, is much cooler towards me since Simon and I separated – Mum secretly believes I drove him away, I know it – but now I’m not even good enough for the Rotary ladies. How lovely.