‘What I really want is to be a landscape gardener. When I told my parents, you’d have thought I wanted to run away and join the circus. Or the Democrats.’
By the time we arrived in Nottingham, Jason was babbling on about the joy he gets from growing flowers and vegetables in containers on his balcony. I’d learned about the correct time of year to set out poppies, plant onion sets, and seed sweet peas. Also about a bumper crop of strawberries, fit to grace Wimbledon. And then there was Jason’s relentless fight against super-slugs the size of a prizefighter’s fist. It was almost like having a conversation with Gloria, whose latest project involved making a wildflower meadow in a dustbin lid.
Once we’d arrived at our destination, the paperwork for transferring the hearse to our branch took about twenty minutes.
Back in the car park, Jason watched me get into the hearse and adjust the vehicle’s seat and mirrors. I wound down the window and said, ‘I’ll race you back to London!’
Jason produced the keys to his Porsche. ‘Okay.’ A grin. Then, ‘Tell you what. We’re almost into the rush hour so the M1’s going to be really busy. I know a nice little place just off the motorway. Follow me there and we’ll grab a bite to eat.’
‘Okay,’ I said. Driving in the slow lane surrounded by packs of impatient lorries and white van fleets isn’t my idea of fun, so I was super happy to agree to divert myself with food until the traffic thinned out.
Twenty-five minutes later, I was beginning to wonder if Jason had changed his mind. I had no idea where we were – maybe he’d decided to take the scenic route back to London – but just as I heard my stomach rumble, he pulled over into a little red brick development that boasted both a Little Chef and a Travelodge.
I got out of the hearse and said, ‘You certainly know how to spoil a girl.’
‘Sorry.’ Jason was flustered. ‘The place I was looking for seems to have disappeared.’
He obviously wasn’t about to tell me he couldn’t find it.
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘I’m starving. Let’s see what the Little Chef has to offer.’
It turned out the Little Chef was able to come up with a decent glass of wine, which washed down quite well alongside our meal. I’d meant to have mushroom soup, but when the waitress arrived to take our order, the words that came out of my mouth were, ‘I’ll have the foot-long hot dog with a side of beef chilli and as many chips as you can fit on the plate.’ Jason opted for a more sedate plate of ham, eggs and chips.
By the time we’d finished eating, it was dark outside. Jason excused himself from the table and I thought he was settling the bill, but then our waitress arrived with another glass of wine. Five minutes passed … ten. Had Jason done a runner? No, there he was outside, talking intently on his phone. Ah well. I had nothing on that evening, so I might as well relax.
I sat there thinking about my plans for the weekend – a trip to the cinema and Sunday lunch with Mum and Dad in Southampton – until Jason returned, accompanied by a pancake stack fighting for space on the plate with a giant dollop of vanilla ice cream.
‘Really sorry,’ he said. ‘Office stuff. I thought you’d be able to manage dessert, though. What’s that you were singing to yourself?’ he added. ‘Ah, got it! Mary Poppins! My mum loves that movie!’
After we’d finished, we made our way back to the car park. ‘I’ve had a good day,’ Jason said. ‘Much better than being stuck in the office. See you tomorrow.’ He stood and watched me get into the hearse.
But when I turned the ignition, nothing happened.
‘Must be the battery,’ Jason said. ‘Let’s take a look.’ A minute or so later he confessed, ‘I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing. We’re going to need a garage.’
And that was how – once we’d discovered the hearse needed a new alternator that couldn’t be located until the morning – we came to spend the night at the Travelodge.
One thing I liked about Jason was that he seemed unruffled by the fact our simple errand was not turning out as planned. He took charge of the situation, booked us a couple of rooms and invited me to join him in the bar.
Three drinks later, I was bold enough to say, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t tell me to sleep in the hearse while you drove back to London. Maybe I’ve misjudged you.’
‘Oh, I’m probably as bad as you think. Although not entirely without manners.’ Jason topped up our glasses. ‘But Nottingham can pay for the repair bill and the cost of our accommodation. And our dinner. I’m damned if it’s coming off my bottom line.’ This sounded much more like the Jason Chung I knew and was obliged to tolerate for forty hours a week. ‘But let’s not talk about work. Tell me about you, Nina. I know nothing about you.’
As someone who’s much more comfortable operating a spotlight than basking in its glow, I hate it when I’m invited to talk about myself. But more than that … if I’m honest, my personal life has been a wilderness for longer than I care to confess.
I’m an only child. I gave up line-dancing when it became evident I have two left feet. Apart from Gloria, I have a few close friends I met at uni – people I can call at four in the morning and know they’ll be there for me – but unfortunately none live in London. The pancakes I rustle up on a Sunday morning are infinitely superior to those of Little Chef. And the nearest thing I do have to a personal life, by which I mean a romantic life, is listening to Gloria’s ill-advised adventures with Thrice-Wed Fred.
My continuing silence was becoming uncomfortable for us both.
‘Okaaaay,’ I finally began. ‘I live in Kentish Town …’ And within five minutes, I was telling a story about Gloria’s plan to infiltrate the Regent’s Park Garden Festival with a pop-up edible hedge that involves bareroot blackberries, cherry plums, crab apples and wild pears, all the while hoping Jason had forgotten he asked about me.
Sure enough, it worked. Soon, he was jabbering about the ins and outs of sweetcorn, and I was beginning to think he might even shape up into a suitable replacement for Thrice-Wed Fred.
But Jason had other ideas.
And I had no inkling, until he walked me to the door of my room, took me in his arms and kissed me. Rather well.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that for hours,’ he murmured. ‘Mysterious Nina. Beautiful Nina.’ Then he kissed me again.
It wasn’t the right time to tell my boss I hadn’t had sex for five years.
Ever since …
An image of my husband’s funeral. Ryan. His coffin, draped in the regimental colours, danced in front of my eyes. Was I really going to spend the rest of my life as a born-again virgin?
Apparently not.
Work 101: Never sleep with the boss.
Never.
Ever.
(Not that we got much sleep.)
When I woke the next morning, I felt …
More than anything else, I felt reassured to know my body hadn’t seized up through lack of use. But I was under no illusion. The night before had been about opportunity and circumstance rather than any genuine emotional connection.
And that suited me just fine.
I know Gloria thinks it’s time I moved on with my life, even though she’s never put it quite that way. Mum and Dad, for their part, would be thrilled if I turned up with a new man, although they know better than to say so. We had that particular discussion the Christmas before last and it ended with me sobbing that unless I could be sure of a relationship as strong and long-lasting as theirs, I’d far rather spend the rest of my life