Hannah chewed her lip and tried out possible conversation openers. Hi. Rotten night out there. To which he’d reply, ‘Yes.’ And then there’d be a horrible silence. I hate this record, don’t you? she’d add with a strained laugh. And he’d say, ‘Do you?’ Because by this time, ‘Eye of the Tiger’ would have stopped, and it’d be something like Marvin Gaye singing ‘What’s Going On?’, and she’d have to bluster that it was the last one she hated. ‘What was the last one?’ he’d ask, backing away from her and looking for the quickest exit route.
What on earth was wrong with her? She was single. She was thirty-three years old. Why couldn’t she act like a normal woman? It wasn’t that she lacked confidence. At work, she’d been recently promoted and was often expected to present to terrifying panels of suits. Whiteboards, PowerPoint, coming up with concepts for new ranges: she was fine with all of that. Yet she couldn’t figure out how to talk to a handsome man in a bar, even though he’d glanced at her on several occasions and, crucially, wasn’t giving the impression that he thought she was completely hideous.
Then he turned to her and said, ‘Hi.’
God, his smile was nice – sweet, warm and genuine.
‘Hi,’ Hannah said.
‘Horrible night out there.’
‘Yes, it is.’
Small pause. Hannah took a gulp of her drink.
‘Waiting for someone?’ the man asked.
‘Um, I was, but she’s just called to say she can’t make it.’ Hannah smiled broadly. ‘So I guess I’ll just finish this drink and go home.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t look like the person I’m meeting is going to show up either.’
‘Really? Who’s that?’
He grinned and paused, as if wondering how much information to divulge. ‘Er … I don’t really know,’ he said, blushing slightly. ‘I mean, I’ve never met her. We’ve just emailed a couple of times.’
‘Blind date?’
The man nodded, raising his eyebrows ominously. ‘Guardian Soulmates. I know it sounds a bit …’
‘No, not at all, it sounds fine…’ It really did. It meant he was single, read the Guardian, and was looking to meet someone. Which immediately made him a more attractive prospect than someone who showed up at 3 am, awash with tears and snot, and peed on her favourite T-shirt.
‘I’m not even sure it’s the best way to go about things,’ he added. ‘In fact, Guardian Soul-destroyers would be more apt.’ He laughed and pushed back his light brown hair self-consciously.
‘Had a few bad experiences then?’ Hannah asked with a smile.
He shrugged. ‘Let’s just say it’s been a bit of a non-event so far. Anyway, I’m Ryan …’
‘Hannah …’ And that was that. They talked, not about whatever godawful song was on the jukebox, but about their lives. By 10.30, in a cosy Italian restaurant, Hannah found herself telling Ryan about the T-shirt drawer incident while he confessed to hiding his eight-year-old daughter’s favourite story book after he calculated that he must have read it 150 times. Hannah learnt that, while Ryan’s job as an advertising copywriter sounded glamorous, his latest campaigns had been for mould-repelling tile grout and a toilet deodorisering brick that came in six different scents inspired by the wild herbs of the Corsican Maquis. ‘Seriously?’ She exploded with laughter.
‘Unfortunately, yes – we’re talking thyme, lavender, sage … the range is called “The Scented Isle”.’
‘So you can have your own Scented Isle in your toilet? I never knew that.’
‘Er, yes, if you really want one. They’re only a couple of quid …’
‘Cheaper than a package holiday,’ she suggested, noticing how Ryan’s eyes crinkled when he laughed.
‘You know,’ he added, ‘we might use that line.’
Thank God your date didn’t turn up, Hannah thought a little while later as they stepped out into the wet night and hailed a cab together. She didn’t know Ryan – not really. But she knew about his ex-wife and children and more about toilet brick fragrances than she’d ever thought possible. As he dropped her off at her flat, after they’d swapped numbers and he’d kissed her briefly but incredibly sweetly on the lips, she’d decided that she wouldn’t bother to pretend she was too busy to see him for at least a week. She’d be calling him the very next day, to hell with it.
What Hannah hadn’t realised then was how swiftly and deeply she’d fall in love, and that eighteen months after meeting, Ryan would ask her to move into the house he shared with his children at London Fields, and marry him, and that she’d want to very much.
And now, as she chains up her bike in the small courtyard at Catfish, Hannah feels a sharp twinge of guilt. All the stuff about church weddings and veils and their beautiful mother – of course, none of it is their fault. They’re just kids, she reminds herself. Even Josh still needs constant reminders from Ryan to clean his teeth and not wear the same boxers three days running.
No, it’s up to her to make things work. And she will, Hannah decides, greeting Adele at reception and entering the light, airy space of the design studio. She’ll start with Daisy, because surely it’s easier to befriend a ten-year-old girl than a boy of fourteen. She’ll suggest something simple, like a shopping trip. As Hannah says hi to her colleagues, and pours herself a strong black coffee, she feels a surge of optimism. She and Daisy will have a whole day together – a girlie day – to try on clothes and stop off at cafés where they’ll giggle and chat. It’s a great idea, she realises now. Why didn’t she think of it before?
NINE
At Let’s Bounce, ‘York’s Premier Soft Play Experience’, Lou plucks a small object from the ballpool and holds it gingerly between her forefinger and thumb. It’s dark brown and sticky and it occurs to her that, just a few months ago, she’d have retched if she’d had to pick up such a thing with her bare hands. Now, though, it seems like a normal part of her day.
Lou works six shifts a week at Let’s Bounce. Although she was grateful for the job when three shops which stocked her jewellery closed down, she vows that, if she ever has children – and with Spike, it seems increasingly unlikely – she’ll insist that they play on grass and in rivers and never in putrid places like this. Lou knows that parents need somewhere to take their children, especially on rainy days, but she never thinks the adults look happy or even faintly relieved to be here. They slump over plastic plates of chips and baked potatoes and horrible yellowy stuff called coronation chicken, whatever the heck that is, looking as if their lives are teetering on the brink of collapse.
Wrapping the brown squidgy thing in a paper napkin, Lou carries it to the ladies’ loo. While the main play zone is dimly lit – to conceal the decaying food lurking amongst the equipment, Lou suspects – the fluorescent strip in the ladies’ is so unforgiving, she’ll be able to get a proper look at the thing. If it’s poo, or something equally gross, she plans to present it to Dave, her boss, which will hopefully make him do something about the state of the place.
Lou places the paper parcel on the Formica top beside the washbasins and peels it open.
‘Ew, what’s that?’ Steph, Lou’s friend and fellow staff member, has emerged from a cubicle and is eyeing the parcel from a safe distance.
‘Don’t know,’ Lou replies, ‘but I think it might be