Million Love Songs(21)

Calligraphy. Camping.

Canning. I have no idea what that even is. Oh. ‘The preserving of leftover fruit and veg.’ Not on your nelly. Surely no one can get their kicks from that?

Cards. And not even poker. Bridge is what they suggest. I didn’t think you could play bridge until you were over seventy.

Chess. Chess! ‘Wonderful for staving off Alzheimer’s to which women are particularly vulnerable.’ Oh, joy.

I skip through dancing, embroidery, floral arranging, gardening and geneology.

I dip back in at quilting. And straight out again. Did I accidentally Google ‘hobbies for women in their nineties’?

They suggest spending time with family and children. Is that even a hobby? That’s just life, no? A hobby is what you do when you need to take yourself out of your life. Or find friends. Or give yourself a thrill with something that isn’t out of an Ann Summers shop.

W is wine tasting. Now you’re talking! This is the most interesting one so far. Though solo wine tasting every night seems not to be recommended. It stresses, rather heavily, ‘occasional and social drinking’. I don’t know about you, but I’m always much more sociable when I’m drinking.

Y equals yoga. Strictly for vegetarians and people who wear Crocs without shame.

Nothing for Z. No zoology, zorbing or ziplining. Not even Zumba, which I have already tried and at which I failed.

What is a lady in her thirties to do? Even the so-called expert hobby bloggers have written us off.

Now I’m really fed up. I can’t even face putting up my shelves. For the four hundredth time. Still, I’d better do it soon or my landlord might change his mind and rent this place out to a DIY whizz. I finish the last of the choccy biccies and set to. As I’ve seen on YouTube, I mark with a pencil where I want the holes for the screws. So far, so good. People do this day in, day out all around the world. How hard can it be? I get out my fancy new drill and switch it on. God it terrifies me. Still, if I don’t do this no one will. I lean in and drill two holes in the wall. Not bad, if I say so myself. I blow the dust out of them and am surprised to see that I have a lovely view of my bedroom through them. Looks like I’ve drilled into the wall and straight out the other side. Bollocky bum. Didn’t see that on YouTube. There must be a special and different way of tackling paper-thin walls. I put the drill away. I’m clearly not an independent and capable woman with power tools. I’m a stereotypical DIY disaster zone. Damn. I should do what my mum does and ‘get a man in’.

I call Charlie. She’ll cheer me up. We organise to have a coffee before we both head into work. I’ll fix the holes in the wall later. Or tomorrow. Or somehow turn them into a feature.





Chapter Nineteen





Charlie makes me laugh and she’s feeling all loved-up as she’s still basking in the Gary Barlow afterglow. By the time I start my shift, I’m feeling better again too. More or less. We’re busy, as always, and the evening flies by. We finally start quietening down at about ten o’clock and that’s when Mason rocks up.

Nudging me in the ribs, Charlie says, ‘Shagger’s here.’

This, I already know. We have fancy cars galore that turn up here, but my ear seems to have very quickly become attuned to Mason’s motor. Knowing Charlie, she probably calls it the shagmobile or something.

‘Is he?’ I try to sound disinterested. My heart says otherwise. It’s doing the heart equivalent of running round waving its pants above its head.

Mason swings through the door and, when he sees me, holds up a hand in greeting. He looks great, as he always does. He’s wearing a light blue shirt, open at the neck, and dark jeans, but they’re designer stuff, well cut. ‘Nicely turned out’ as my nana always says. My stomach, stupid thing that it is, flips a bit. I know that I shouldn’t be pleased to see him, that he’s an out-and-out smoothie, but clearly the message is not getting through to my vital organs. To teach them a lesson, I walk off in the opposite direction to clear a few tables. When they do manage to make me follow Mason – minutes later – I take a tray of empties through to the bar. Mason is talking to Jay, the manager, and I squeeze past them both to find a home for the tray.

When I turn to go back out into the restaurant, Mason steps in front of me. ‘Hello, Ruby. How are things with you?’

‘Cool,’ I say. ‘We’ve been mad busy all night. I’ll be glad to sit down for five minutes.’

He lowers his voice. ‘Stay for a drink,’ he says. ‘When everyone else has gone home.’

I’m assuming by that he means Charlie too. I’m about to make an excuse not to when I think ‘sod it’. Why shouldn’t I have a drink with him? Just the one won’t hurt. Surely? Probably best if I don’t tell Charlie though. She’ll have a fit with her foot in the air. Or she’ll want to stay too. Then I wonder why I don’t want her to – which is hardly fair of me as she includes me in everything she does. I should go home. That’s what I should do.

When I finish, I head to the staffroom. Charlie already has her coat on. ‘I’ve got to swing into the Tesco Extra before they close,’ she says. ‘No loo roll. No coffee. No bread. One of those things I can’t manage without.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Ha, ha. Very funny. Catch you tomoz?’