I nod and look to Paul for assistance, but he sips his beer quietly, clearly still considering the flowerpot/honeypot debate.
In the end I’m saved by the waitress who brings our starters. I dip a chicken skewer into satay sauce and try not to spear my mouth on the end of the stick.
“He’s fit,” Miranda says once again. “He’s nice. He’s moving here. Declare undying love for this man immediately and snare him quickly. Quickly,” she reiterates.
I decide she’s mad or she’s already had too much to drink. But I still love her, despite her overeager nature. Obviously I’m not going to do any of what she’s suggested. I barely know Davey. Although that now feels slightly less true since we’ve spent hours talking so easily.
I look to Paul, who leans forward as if he’s preparing to say something insightful. He opens his mouth and looks right at me. “I’m sure she means flowerpot.”
—
I can’t believe you made me wait all week to tell me what’s happened with you and Geoff,I message Joan as I’m pulling on my dressing gown on Sunday. I dig out my battered Ugg boots from where I’vehastily thrown them at the back door last week, and tuck my pajama bottoms into them, which flare out like harem pants. The effect is less Kate Moss at Glastonbury and more MC Hammer.I’m ready!I text and I lay out this week’s selection of biscuits—Hobnobs—and make my way into the garden.
“Good morning,” a male voice says over the fence. I stop and stare at this man in Joan’s garden. He’s late sixties/early seventies, and he’s smiling kindly at me. “I’m Geoff,” he says with a little wave.
My mouth drops open. Geoff is hot, for an older chap, and he’s clearly been at Joan’s for what Joan and I sometimes describe as an adult sleepover. “Hi…Geoff.” I make my way over and offer a biscuit. “I’m Hannah.”
“Nice to meet you, finally. I’ve heard lots of lovely things.”
“Likewise,” I offer, but actually I could really have done with hearing more.
“Joan says I have to tell you it’s Esperanza de Colombia this morning. If that means anything to you?”
I laugh. “Not yet. But I’m sure there’ll be a leaflet.”
Geoff laughs. “Yes, she’s fumbling around for it now.”
I immediately like Geoff. And I try to stop a wide smile spreading over my face. I’m so happy for Joan. After all these years, romance at last. But it does mean I can’t get the gossip about him, with him standing right there.
Joan arrives, clutching a tray of mugs, and we make small talk about the cold weather and how much colder it’s going to get. “Snow, apparently,” says Geoff, which I’m always happy to hear. Christmas is only two weeks away. Then we get on to the coffee chat while we give it our star rating out of five. Geoff is kinder about it than we are, but asks why we aren’t rating out of ten. Joan and I look at each other as if that’s an incomprehensible suggestion and then he excuses himself, to get ready.
I give Joan a look and she laughs.
“Joan! You naughty girl.”
“It’s not only you young people getting all the fun,” she declares, eyeing the plate of biscuits I’ve put down by my feet.
I lift them up and hand her back my empty coffee cup as she selects a biscuit. “I’m not getting any fun at all actually,” I sigh.
She asks about my recent escapades and I tell her about my non-date with George. Then I tell her about Davey and her eyes glisten. She practically explodes with questions, which seems to happen with anyone I tell about Davey, and I’m forced to show her his picture. She takes an audible breath.
“You wouldn’t kick him out of bed on a Monday, would you?”
Which is a phrase I don’t quite understand, but I think I get the point. “I suppose not, no.”
“I do love that he telephones you. When are you talking to him next?”
“I’m not sure—it’s all very easy and fluid.” I don’t worry about when he’ll call next because I know he will. “Every few days, usually.”
“You lucky sausage,” Joan says.
“I think we’re just friends, really.”
“Do you miss not speaking to him on the days when he doesn’t call?” she asks.
“Yes and no,” I say, working it out as I talk. “I kind of live off the conversations for a little while—does that make sense? And when that well empties out a bit, he calls again or he messages me and it kind of…”
“Lifts you up?” Joan volunteers.
