The Switch(65)

‘Hello, Eileen, dear,’ Betsy says. I frown. I am familiar enough with the tones of Betsy’s false cheerfulness to spot the signs of a bad day. I feel worse than ever for forgetting to check on her.

‘Are you well?’ I ask carefully.

‘Oh, bearing up!’ she says. ‘I’m calling because my grandson is down in London today!’

‘That’s lovely!’

Betsy’s grandson is an inventor, always dreaming up ridiculous unnecessary contraptions, but he’s the one member of her family who stays in regular contact with her, so that puts him high up in my estimation. If she knows his whereabouts, he’s called her recently – that’s good. Now he just needs to get his mother to do the same.

‘And this is the grandson who invented the … the …’ Oh, why did I start this sentence?

Betsy leaves me to stew.

‘The hummus scoop,’ she says, with great dignity. ‘Yes. He’s down in London for a meeting, he says, and I thought, gosh, what a happy coincidence, our Eileen is in London, too! You two must meet for lunch.’

I purse my lips. I have a feeling Betsy may have forgotten that London covers more than six-hundred square miles and houses more than eight million people.

‘I’ve already told him to call you and set it up. I thought you might be lonely there, and it would be nice to have someone to talk to.’

I don’t have the heart to tell her that I’m far from lonely. I was at the start, of course, but now I hardly have a moment alone, what with seeing Tod, planning the Silver Shoreditchers’ Club, gossiping with Letitia …

‘He’s dating, too, you know,’ Betsy says. ‘He might be able to give you some tips in that department.’

I pause. ‘He’s dating?’

‘Yes! That’s what he calls it, anyway. He’s using all these funny things on his mobile phone,’ Betsy says. ‘Perhaps he could tell you about them.’

‘Yes,’ I say slowly, ‘yes, that would be marvellous. Remind me, Betsy … what’s he like, this grandson of yours? Relationship history? Hopes and dreams? Political views? Is he tall?’

‘Oh, well,’ Betsy says. She sounds rather taken aback, but then the grandmother in her kicks in, and she can’t resist the opportunity. She talks nonstop for twenty-five minutes. It’s perfect. Exactly the sort of intelligence I’m after. And, even better: he sounds very promising indeed.

‘What a lovely man! How wonderful, Betsy,’ I say, as she eventually runs out of breath. ‘And he’s going to call me?’

‘He is!’ There’s a muffled sound behind Betsy. ‘I must go,’ she says, and I hear her voice tighten. ‘Speak soon, Eileen! Do try and ring me soon, won’t you?’

‘I will,’ I promise. ‘Take care.’

Once I’ve ended the call, I open WhatsApp. I’m much better at using this phone now, thanks to Fitz’s tutelage; he peers approvingly over my shoulder as I navigate the screen. There’s a message waiting from someone I don’t know. Fitz leans across and shows me how to accept him to my contacts.

Hi, Mrs Cotton, it’s Betsy’s grandson here. I think she’s warned you about lunch! How is Nopi, one o’clock tomorrow? All the best, Mike.



I choose Bee’s name before I reply to his message.

Hello Bee. Would you be free for lunch tomorrow? Nopi, one fifteen? Love, Eileen xx



*

Mike is not only very tall but also encouragingly handsome, though he has Betsy’s nose – but he can’t help that. He’s got thick-rimmed glasses and brown hair that curls a little, and he’s dressed in a grey suit, as though he’s just come from a terribly important meeting. I try not to get too excited as we’re seated at a perfect table: big enough to squeeze on another diner and in full view of the road so I can see Bee when she … Yes! There she is. Marvellous.

‘Eileen?’ she says, looking puzzled as she approaches the table.

She looks at Mike. The penny drops. Her eyes narrow.

‘Bee!’ I say, before she can start complaining. ‘Oh, Mike, I hope you don’t mind, I was supposed to meet my friend Bee for lunch today, so I invited her to join us.’

Mike takes this with the calm demeanour of a man who is used to surprises. ‘Hello, I’m Mike,’ he says, holding out his hand.

‘Bee,’ Bee says, in her driest, flattest, most off-putting tone.

‘Well!’ I say. ‘Isn’t this lovely? Mike, why don’t you start by telling Bee all about your education?’

Mike looks rather perplexed. ‘Let me go and ask for another chair, first,’ he says, gallantly standing and offering Bee his.

‘Thank you,’ Bee says, and then, as soon as she’s seated, she hisses, ‘Eileen! You have no shame! You cornered that poor man into blind-dating me!’

‘Oh, nonsense, he doesn’t mind,’ I say, scanning the menu.

‘Oh? And how’d you figure that one?’

I glance up. ‘He’s fixing his hair in the mirror behind the bar,’ I tell her. ‘He wants you to like the look of him.’

She swivels, then tilts her head to the side. ‘He does have a nice bum,’ she says begrudgingly.

‘Bee!’