Million Love Songs(54)

Now all I want to do is leave as I feel a bit stupid.

Perhaps sensing the change of mood, Joe says, ‘Let’s go and get you those flowers.’

I follow him back towards the young lads who are snipping away. One of them hands me a big bunch of the orange flowers, some greenery which is very pretty and the whole thing is set off with a sprinkling of dandelions.

‘Well done, Richie.’

He blushes as he hands them over to me.

‘Thank you. They’re lovely.’

‘Thanks for the cakes.’ He pulls on his gardening gloves and picks up his fork. He hesitates before he gives me a peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you around, Ruby. Good luck with the diving.’

‘Yes, sure. I’ll let you know if I ever make it to open water.’

Then I walk back to my car muttering ‘Damn-damn-damn,’ under my breath. And I know in my heart that both my interest in diving and my chances with Joe have just died.





Chapter Forty-Four





So, it was all over with Joe before it had even begun. Dust yourself off, Ruby Brown, paint on a smile, move right along, nothing to see here. I don’t go back to my diving lessons and I don’t miss them. I only miss my instructor and you can gather here that I’m not talking about Bob.

Two weeks have gone by and my life is a wilderness filled only with disappointment and shifts at the Butcher’s Arms. Eat, sleep, work. That’s all I do. Dramatic, I know, but I do feel down and that’s not really like me. Even cardboard cut-out Gary is failing to cheer me up. I know that he’s all Charlie needs to be happy, but I am finding him wanting in the boyfriend and companion stakes.

‘What do you think, Gary?’ I ask him.

No answer. Then I realise that I’m talking out loud to a cardboard cut-out and wonder what has become of my life.

So I decide to take a bit of action. I have a few hours before work, so I’m going to get out in the world and give it all I’ve got. Exercise is the way forward! I can expend all my excess energy – not that I have any of it – and while away a pleasant few hours to boot.

I swipe my boldest red lipstick on as I pout at the mirror. Then I remember that I’ve just decided to go running and think about swiping it off again. I don’t want to be one of those women running round the lake in full war paint. Actually, I don’t want to be one of those women running full stop. I don’t like the feeling of everything jiggling around. Yoga sounds more appealing, as you get to sit down a lot. But all my money has been blown on stupid scuba-diving lessons which means I can’t afford classes and running is free. So running it is. Where I live I can literally run out of my door and be right on the path around the lake. That has to be some kind of incentive. Plus exercise releases endorphins and I am desperately in need of a few of those.

So here I am in my ratty old jogging bottoms – I’m sure they weren’t this tight when I last wore them – and a vest top that’s seen better days. But I’m only going to get all hot and sweaty so who cares what I look like. I scrape my hair into a scrunchie and am all good to go. When I come back I’ll have to wash my hair and put on my slap ready for work. It would be nice if all the walking I do while waiting tables kept on top of my calorie consumption, but it doesn’t. So needs must. I can’t slide into middle age without at least trying to make a valiant effort. Basically, I’m running out of time to get this relationship shit together. No pressure at all.

There’s been no contact from either Joe or Mason. Not even a measly phone call. I am back wandering round the eternal desert of dating. I’m even considering Tinder – that’s how desperate I am. I’m not sure anyone on Tinder would swipe left because I don’t have toned thighs. Many of the men on there seem to set their criteria quite low.

‘What do you think of Tinder, Gary?’ I ask The Barlow. ‘Shall I give it a go?’

As usual, he keeps his counsel.

In the absence of any useful relationship advice from my cardboard friend, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and head out to the lake. It’s a glorious summer Saturday morning. The sun is already high in the sky and it’s a day for barbecuing or something like that. Everything looks better with a bit of sunshine on it. That’s probably why I’ve got this ridiculous urge to run. The circular path around the lake is already busy with folk enjoying the weather. Dotted around the edge of the sparkling water are fishermen with their tents and paraphernalia already set up for the day, families out for a stroll and the ubiquitous Lycra-clad cyclists.

I pop in my headphones, flick the iPod to ‘Running Music’ – though I think the Trade Descriptions Act might have occasion to rebuke me for calling what I actually do ‘running’ – and set off at a sedate lumber around the lake. Within seconds I’m gasping for breath. I can’t remember last when I did this, but I’m sure it wasn’t quite so painful or pitiful. I stagger past the kids on Star Wars scooters and pink bikes with stabilisers and sparkly streamers from the handlebars. I dodge the dog walkers and the daydreaming dawdlers, all the time puffing like an old train. No one should need to humiliate themselves thus. Why can’t you get fit by lying on the sofa with a good glass of Pinot and a box set of Breaking Bad? It seems to me that, as a species, we have some very basic design flaws.

By the time I reach the opposite side of the lake to my granny annexe – the point of no return – my face is the shade of a ripe tomato, there’s a fire in my lungs and I think I might actually expire on the spot. I stand doubled over, trying to catch what very well might be the last breath in my body. I’ve got a stitch under my ribs, calves that are threatening to cramp and thighs that are wobbling like jellies. Oh, the indignity of it all.