In the light of this, by continuing to tell him to back off, I’m starting to feel like some sort of egomaniac, as if in my swollen head he’s pursuing me like I’m his fair maiden, resisting his advances.
The reality is that they’re not advances at all – not for anything other than friendship anyway.
So I click on the button marked ‘Send Friend Request’ . . . and only then register something near the top of his profile. He was tagged at a restaurant last night by an attractive brunette, next to the words: ‘Fourth date!’
I realise my eyes are wide open. Not because I’m surprised he’s been dating, but I am mildly taken aback that it’s the done thing these days to publicise such things on Facebook after only four dates. Still, she looks nice, I can’t deny it: pretty, with hazel eyes and a creamy complexion. I bite my lip.
Obviously, I hope it goes somewhere. I want him to be happy and if it’s not going to be with me, then—
What the HELL am I thinking?
Of course it’s not going to be with me! Why on earth would it be with me, when I’m settled and about to buy a house with the most gorgeous and wonderful man I’ve ever met? Unquestionably.
I’m really starting to think there’s something wrong with me.
Belinda is being interviewed by a journalist from the super-chic, super-stylish Italian version of
Tatler
.
I make this discovery while carrying a Tesco bag full of dirty laundry to the utility room, dressed in ten-year-old sweatpants with an arse so saggy you could bungee jump off a suspension bridge with it.
‘I’m a family-orientated woman, as long as you don’t consider the nuclear family to be the only relevant institution,’ Belinda purrs. The journalist has glossy black hair, razor-sharp lip-liner and a stomach that’s been honed to the consistency of an acrylic tennis court. At first glance, I put her at twenty-five, then add another two decades when I get closer.
‘Let’s move onto your style secrets,’ she says.
‘Well, I work out every day,’ Belinda replies. ‘I eat plenty of fresh, wholesome food – cooked by myself – and wash my hair in Stella Artois at least once a month.’ She looks up and spots me. ‘Here’s my daughter-in-law! This is Gemma. We’re very close.’ She stands and thrusts her arm around my waist.
The journalist’s eyes light up. ‘Perhaps you’d like to take part in the photoshoot?’
‘Oh, no. No, that’s not a good idea.’ I haven’t washed my hair since the day before yesterday and there are only so many miracles dry shampoo can perform before it feels as though there’s cement in your roots.
‘Oh, go on!’ Belinda hoots.
‘I couldn’t.’
She looks down and sees my bag of laundry. ‘What’s that?’
I clutch the bag tighter. ‘I was putting a quick wash on.’
She places her hands on her hips and says reproachfully, ‘You know I’m happy to do that for you both. You’re too busy with your jobs.’
‘No, honestly, Belinda, it’s fine. In fact, I’d prefer it.’
‘You’re just saying that.’ She grabs the edge of my bag.
‘I’m not!’ I squawk, as she grips on and tugs. I tug back.
‘Gemma!’ she scolds me. ‘This is ridiculo—’
The bag splits entirely open and its contents are catapulted skywards, dirty pants flying around as if a bomb’s gone off in a pervert’s desk drawer. It all seems to happen in slow motion: confetti of M&S thongs cascading down in a breathtaking radius . . . until a sock lands on the head of the lady from Italian
Tatler
.
She sits, blinking in disbelief and distaste. I can hardly blame her, although when I spot the knickers hanging precariously from the spout of the kettle, I can’t help thinking she got off lightly.
An hour later, somehow, I am reclining by the swimming pool, dressed in a kaftan patterned with miniature pineapples and make-up so heavy I feel as if my face is melting.
‘I really don’t think I should be photographed like this,’ I whinge. ‘I haven’t shaved my legs or done a pedicure for ages. I was planning to do one today.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Belinda says dismissively. ‘They’ll Photoshop your nail polish on. That’s right, isn’t it?’ She turns to the photographer. ‘Photoshop?’
He nods.
‘Becoming quite the techy these days, aren’t I?’ she grins.
Belinda is positioned on a recliner, while I am shunted above and instructed to pretend to give her a motherly shoulder massage. It all feels quite, quite wrong – and that’s before Dan appears at the door and pulls a face like he’s walked in on an orgy.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I didn’t realise you were home!’ Belinda exclaims, delighted. ‘Let’s have a family shot.’ She beckons him towards us.
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Mum,’ Dan says softly, as terror blazes in his eyes. ‘I’d love to, but I don’t have time. Gemma . . . we’re going to be late.’
I spot my opportunity and make my excuses.
I throw off the kaftan as soon as I get upstairs, leap in the shower and afterwards attempt to find something more suitable to wear. I’m not entirely sure what that is. I’ve never met a boyfriend’s semi-absent father so am unclear about the etiquette.
I do know, however, that lunch is at the River restaurant in the Lowry Hotel in Manchester after his secretary phoned and asked us to move the venue to fit in with his meetings. Equally, I know that this is posh.
I’ve never been, but I peeked at the menu online while she was on the phone and had to quell my palpitations at the prices. His secretary could sense my unease and said she was sure Mr Bushnell would foot the bill. I can’t pretend I’m not mightily relieved about that.
The important thing though is that it’s finally happening – I’m getting to meet him. And, after a bit of persuading, I can tell Dan’s excited about the prospect.
‘You look really gorgeous,’ I say, tingling with nerves.
‘Just fancied wearing a proper shirt for a change.’ He’s always feigned nonchalance badly.
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him on the lips. ‘Are you okay about this?’ I ask.
He hesitates. ‘I’m not worried about what he’ll think of
you
. Only about what you’ll think of
him
.’ He begins tying a knot in his tie. ‘I just hope he doesn’t try and flirt with you. I may have to stab him with a dessert fork.’
‘I’m intrigued about what I’ll make of him after hearing all the stories.’
‘It’s possible what you’ve heard will have a converse effect. You’ll get there and think: this guy’s not a monster, he’s good fun! Which he is. Despite everything, you’ll find him entertaining. If he turns up.’
‘His secretary said he wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
When we’re dressed and ready, we make our way downstairs and meet Belinda emerging from the pool room. ‘I’d have sent a gift along, but Sainsbury’s were all out of arsenic,’ she says.
I laugh nervously. ‘See you later, Belinda.’
‘Bye, Mum,’ Dan says, then he turns back and gives her a big, reassuring hug.
We arrive at the car park of the Lowry a minute after 1 p.m. and pull in between a Ferrari and a BMW. I’m relieved that the Fanny Magnet is still being held at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. The hotel is of the large, glitzy variety, with a vast marble lobby that sweeps up a curved staircase onto a mezzanine area. Dan clutches my hand as we head up the steps into the bar and are greeted by an affable, softly spoken maître d’.
‘Good afternoon, madam, sir.’ He nods at us both. ‘Do you have a reservation?’
‘We’re booked in under the name of Scott Bushnell,’ I reply. ‘He might already be here.’
The maître d’s eyes flick over his file. ‘Mr Bushnell isn’t here yet, but I can take your coats and show you to your table. You can wait for him there, if you’d like?’
I glance at the door, hoping he arrives soon just to put Dan out of his misery.
The restaurant is bright and elegant, with pale stems of agapanthus in oversized crystal vases, tables dressed with lush white linen. We are seated in the best booth, at the pinnacle of the room. I convince myself I’m entirely at home until I glance at the menu and am reminded that I should really be in the back washing dishes.
We order drinks and make enough small talk to distract us from the wait. Yet, as time ticks on and there’s no sign of Dan’s dad, my stomach begins to churn. I gave him my mobile number to text in case there was a hold-up, but it’s remained resolutely silent.
A waiter appears to offer us something to eat and replenish our drinks. Twenty-five minutes pass and Dan is starting to get exasperated. He steps outside to try and call his dad, but returns a minute later saying his phone went straight to voicemail.
‘Maybe I should try his office in New York,’ I suggest, checking my phone again.
‘There’s no point – his PA won’t be there on a Saturday.’
I release a long breath and refuse to say the words out loud, to acknowledge what I’m already suspecting: he’s stood us up.
‘Mr Blackwood.’ Dan looks up as the maître d’ addresses him. ‘Your father has phoned to send his apologies. He’s running late but is on his way. He’s suggested that you order lunch and he’ll join you as soon as he gets here. He added that he’d be picking up the bill.’
We exchange glances. ‘Thanks,’ Dan says, clearly relieved.
‘Why didn’t he just phone one of us?’ I ask.
Dan looks at his phone. ‘I’ve got a missed call. He clearly tried to. The reception’s not great so he obviously didn’t get through.’
We order a luscious lunch: hand-dived scallops and Parma ham & viejo goat’s cheese, venison with chicory marmalade and Goosnargh duck breast.
‘This could be the best-case scenario,’ Dan says. ‘We eat like kings and only have to put up with my dad for ten minutes at the end.’
‘Sorry, but I’m looking forward to meeting him now,’ I grin.
‘I can’t deny it – I’m looking forward to it too.’
We devour the first course, then the second and before we know it, the waiter is offering us dessert. My waves of unease return with a crash.
‘This is getting ridiculous,’ Dan mutters.
‘Look, the fact that he’s told the hotel that he’s on his way must mean he’ll be here sooner or later.’
A text pings on my phone. I take it out of my bag – two and a half hours after we got here. And I know that Dan can tell from my face what it says.
‘He’s not coming, is he?’
I swallow, barely able to believe how casually he conveyed the message:
Gemma, sincere apologies, but something came up and we’ll have to adjourn our meeting until another time. Kind regards, Scott.
‘I don’t believe it.’ Dan throws his napkin on the table.
‘Neither do I,’ I mumble. ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted what you said about him.’
‘And
I
shouldn’t have thought for a second this would’ve turned out any other way.’
We stand up to leave and ask the maître d’ for our coats. ‘Certainly, sir. I will bring over the bill.’
We exchange glances. ‘We thought Mr Bushnell was picking that up,’ Dan says.
The maître d’ looks embarrassed. ‘He said to pass on the message to you that he would do so when he arrived. But given that he
hasn’t
arrived – well, there is still the issue of the bill. I’m sorry, sir.’ He’s clearly sympathetic, but someone needs to pay.
‘It’s okay,’ Dan sighs, taking out his wallet to cough up for the most expensive, delicious and disappointing lunch of our lives.
Outside, Dan is utterly deflated. And I feel terrible.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ I tell Dan, as we head to the car. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing. I should’ve kept out of it. It’s all my fault.’
He takes a moment to respond to the last sentence. ‘Gemma, this is not
your
fault. It’s his.’ He puts the keys in the ignition and starts the engine. ‘He’s spent a lifetime making me feel like that,’ he says, putting the car in reverse. ‘I couldn’t bear it if he succeeded in doing it to you too.’
‘I insist on paying you back for that lunch.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’m not. The most frustrating thing is that he’s sent you to this really expensive restaurant knowing you’d never be able to afford it. Did he do that on purpose?’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t calculated. He just can’t remember what it’s like to be broke.’
‘Still, I insist on paying. You can’t afford this.’
His jaw tenses. ‘I can,’ he replies, driving out of the car park.
‘I know how much you earn, Dan,’ I say, trying to be tactful. ‘I also know that we’re buying a house that’s going to stretch you so far beyond your means it’ll make your ears bleed. I’ll put the cash in your account this afternoon.’
‘The money will be fine,’ he says shiftily. I realise that there’s more to this than he’s telling me.
‘Have you robbed a bank or something?’ I enquire.
He briefly catches my eye as we pull up at a set of lights. ‘No. But I have got a new job.’
My mouth makes a shape as if I’m trying to swallow a doughnut whole. ‘When were you going to tell me this?’
‘I only found out yesterday.’
‘Then why didn’t you tell me yesterday?’
‘I didn’t have a chance.’
I shake my head incredulously. ‘Well, what is it?’
‘It’s working for Emerson Lisbon.’
‘Your
old
job?’
‘It’s a step up from that. I’d be starting on more than three times the salary I earn at the Chapterhouse Centre.’
I sit back and take in this information. It makes me catch my breath. ‘Wow.’
‘It’s an amazing job. I’m lucky to have the opportunity, especially since I walked away once.’ For some reason, I can’t bring myself to answer. ‘So the lunch is no big deal. In fact, the house will be no big deal. It’s all affordable now.’
All I can feel is strangely, weirdly numb. ‘The question is though, Dan: do you really
want
this job? You love it at the Chapterhouse Centre.’
‘I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t a difficult decision, Gemma. But I’ve made up my mind.’
Sometimes, when Dan says something, you just don’t want to argue with him. So I don’t. I shut up. And I sit silently, reminding myself that Belinda’s donation and this new, if surprising news together mark the end of any doubt about whether we can afford Pebble Cottage.