On Friday I sent Andrew an email. It said: “Trying to work but appear to be distracted. Only pretending to be working. If you are similar, message back and we’ll play truant together. A walk by the river? A bike ride? A glass of fine ale? Here’s my mobile number.” No response.
I had a clairvoyant vision of Andrew in a panic, saying “Jesus, what have I done, giving this woman my email address?” Andrew drew in his horns. He went into emotional lockdown. On Saturday morning he came into the cafe at a purposeful stride, got his coffee and went to the soft chairs where I used to sit, down by the window. I was up in what was now our usual corner, at a table getting varicose veins. He sat in an armchair with his back to me, drank his coffee and left.
An email pinged into my phone 25 minutes later. It said “Sorry – missed this yesterday – just seen it, far too late. Hope you had a lovely walk and beer.” Ah yes, I thought, the somehow-managed-to-overlook-your-message gambit. I know that one. It was a shame because I’d gone out and bought a new bicycle. It sat forlornly in the apartment block hall, looking shiny. I’d spent three hours trying to teach myself salsa in my sitting room. I’d gone swimming, hoping to see him. I’d looked at fitness classes at the gym he goes to. I’d started sitting on hard chairs that I hated at the coffee shop.
The next day he turned up, looking solemn, and sat typing away at his laptop a while. Then, rucksack already in place on his back, he came and chatted to me, standing at my table. He’d just bought a book about working fewer, more efficient hours. He’d just read another one on how to stave off ageing, how to live a long time. “Course, it’s not always worth living a long time,” he added, laughing. “I think the key thing for me will be to leave the country and start again,” he said.
The following day he came into the cafe while I was sitting reading and – for once – not actually looking out for him. He was wearing a dark suit and looked tall and dashing. He also looked rather melancholy. He came over. “How’s it going with you?” he asked unenthusiastically.
I told him I was having trouble; my mind kept wandering from the book. I asked him how his day was going. “Ask me later,” he said.
He took his coffee and laptop bag to the other end of the room. I had to stop what I was doing and breathe deeply. I was having the usual physical reaction. My heart bumped and raced. My cheeks grew hot. Either I’m deeply infatuated, I thought, or else I’m allergic to him. The idea took hold that I could probably make myself allergic. All I needed to do was to push him into showing less friendly colours. What I needed, I decided, wasn’t to avoid him, but to crowd him a little, in the hopes of panic and disdain. I needed to find the trigger to my own disdain. I needed to puncture the whole illusory bubble.
I stopped to speak to him on the way out. His laptop was still closed on the table and he was reading a paper. I had a pretext for my visit – news. My friends had sold the house in France he’d asked about, at a knockdown price. Apparently, the market is flat, I told him, there are serious bargains out there if you’re still interested in France. He nodded and we conversed in a stilted fashion for a few minutes. He made little eye contact and looked absolutely miserable. Finally he uttered the immortal words, “Well, I must get back to my newspaper.”
The message wasn’t a subtle one.
I went home, rebuffed, and found I had a dating site message from someone called Bill.
Bill was pictured on the site with his spaniel, and they had a similar kind of a look – wild auburn hair, soulful brown eyes. “I know I’m not obviously a catch,” Bill wrote. “But I like the look and sound of you and I’d like to have a conversation. You will note that I live 200 miles away, but distance is probably all in the mind. No, I know, it isn’t when train timetables are involved, but let’s have a conversation at least.”
• Stella Grey is a pseudonym
