Million Love Songs(20)

I’m glad he added the word ‘company’ to the end of that sentence.

‘I have to put my kids first though,’ he says. ‘Above everything.’

‘I know. It’s what dads do.’

‘I’d like us to be friends.’

‘We are, aren’t we?’ What on earth is he on about? Then the penny drops and, once again, it sounds as if he’s trying to warn me off. WTF? Well, there’s really no need. ‘I like you, Joe. But I’m only recently divorced myself and I’m not looking for commitment. I’m not looking at all,’ I stress. ‘If I were, I’d want someone with more freedom.’ And fewer children, but I don’t think I need to spell that out. We both know exactly what I mean.

‘I just didn’t want you thinking there could be more.’

‘You should be so lucky,’ I quip and we both force a laugh. But, in truth, that stings. We hardly know each other. I don’t feel that there’s any need to put a stake in the ground so soon. He’s the one who asked me to go to the pub, the one who invited me to the dive day. I’ve done nothing to indicate that I’m interested in him.

‘I should go.’ I jump out of the car before this conversation can become any more embarrassing.

‘See you, Ruby,’ he shouts after me, but I don’t reply.

I climb the staircase to my granny annexe, fiddling with the keys, as Joe sits there for a second too long before he turns round and drives off. I don’t even watch him go which I hope shows him how very unconcerned I am.

Then, with the rest of the evening to myself and the world at my feet, I dump my stuff, pour myself a big glass of wine and fall into the sofa. I watch Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway and while the perky duo do their best to be hilariously entertaining, I lie and wonder whether I’ll actually go to my dive lesson this week. I’m never going to be able to afford the Caribbean and I certainly don’t want to go and play among the pike in a gravel pit every weekend.

I don’t think that diving is really me after all. Probably best if I try another kind of hobby. Wonder if I’d be any good at cake baking?





Chapter Eighteen





The downside of divorce is that you have to do your own DIY. All of it. I have had very little experience of power tools in my life, but I’m having to get to grips with them now. Thank you for that too, Simon the Knob. Today is putting up shelves. I gave up last time I attempted it and drank gin instead. I wish my dad was one of those dads who comes round to decorate for his daughter, but he’s not. My dad, though I love him dearly, hasn’t a practical bone in his body. If my mum wants any little jobs done round the house she has to ‘get a man in’. I want to try to avoid going down that route. Women can do anything these days and that includes putting up shelves.

This morning I’ve been onto YouTube and watched many, many videos of people putting up shelves – only getting slightly distracted by videos of Take That and cute cats doing foolish things. Anyway, on the shelf-putting-up videos, they make it look easy. I can do this. I am woman. Hear me roar.

First, I’ll have some more toast.

I’m feeling quite flat this morning and I don’t know why. I had a lovely weekend, spent time with nice friends, ogled Gary Barlow and Co., and hung out with a lot of guys in neoprene. What’s not to love? So why do I feel like a deflated balloon inside? I’m on my third coffee and still I’m not getting that lift I need. I add two chocolate digestives to the mix and wait. Still nothing. Then extra-extra toast does nothing either. This is serious.

Maybe Joe warning me off has left a weird taste in my mouth. It was a real sideswipe. We hadn’t even got into full-on flirting. I don’t want to get involved with someone like him, anyway. Why does he even think that? He might be handsome, he might be nice, but he’s not exactly without complications, is he? Two of them in particular. Perhaps it would be different if I had my own children and was looking to form a blended family, but I’m not so why should I be in a hurry to take on someone else’s offspring? And there are other handsome, nice men out there. I’m sure there are. Also, I really do want to embrace this whole single thing. I’ve been a serial monogamist since the age of fifteen and I want time finding out who I am when I’m not in a couple. Plus, I’m not getting any younger and this might be my last time to play the field. Don’t they say that women over forty become invisible to the opposite sex? That means I’ve got, at best, a few years to have some unfettered fun. Actually, that’s quite depressing.

I should look for something else to do besides diving. Something with less testosterone. I pull my iPad towards me – and two more chocolate digestives for good measure – and Google ‘hobbies for women in their thirties’. This is the list. In alphabetical order. I kid you not.

Acting. I’d get hives if I even thought about going on stage.

Biking. Mountain or road. Me and Lycra are not a good mix. At least in dive gear I’m under water where no one can see me.

Birdwatching. Seriously? Apparently, 85 million Americans enjoy this particular hobby. I didn’t even realise there were that many Americans.

Blogging. I have no life, ergo nothing to blog about.

Bowling. Described as a ‘fun group activity’. I’d rather eat my own face.