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Chapter Two

Monday

Oh god. I was on the ground again, wasn’t I? A very cold ground, that was also very wet and quite stony. A ground that was far too close to my face. And I wasn’t sitting on my bottom this time. No, that would have been respectable and acceptable, especially if I’d still been in Trafalgar Square. People often sit around the tourist bits of London, eating stuff, chatting and taking photos; it’s expected, they do it all the time. What nobody does is lie on their fronts, with their coat twisted all round them like a straitjacket and one boot off, face down on the drive they share with their next door neighbour in a quiet residential street in Wimbledon. In the middle of the night.

Yes, the hunky neighbour. Yes, the neighbour who’d given me my divorce papers yesterday morning. Yes, the neighbour who was currently standing over me and looking concerned.

Oh god. My mind flashed through how I got here. London. Trafalgar Square. Drinking cocktails with Sam. Dancing on the table in that Vietnamese restaurant which inexplicably turned into a disco at ten o’clock. Squealing home on the District Line. Inviting Sam in for vodka and cranberry and one hopeless, spilt-all-over-the-kitchen-worktop coffee – a vain attempt to sober us up before I sent her home in a taxi. Trotting out to put a bulging black sack in the bin – mostly full of empty bottles I couldn’t be bothered to recycle – and tripping coming back up the drive… Oh bloody god. I grimaced, as far as I could grimace with my face planted on the drive… Giggling and thinking it was really funny and that I’d just lie here for a while and have a little sleep…

‘Are you all right down there?’

‘Yes, thank you, I’m okay.’ I was a hundred percent sure I was not a pretty sight, but I wasn’t hurt – booze and my curves meant I had bounced, probably, like a baby, before landing in my prone and highly compromising position. ‘I’ve been up to London,’ I said, like a female, inebriated Dick Whittington. ‘I’ve had a few too many. Sorry. I’m on your half of the drive.’

‘That’s okay. Do you need a hand up?’

‘Yes, please. That would be really kind.’ Oh, the English politeness. It never fails, even at moments of extreme humiliation. Will held out his arms and heaved me up; no mean feat, considering I was carrying approximately four litres of booze and a Burger King Whopper meal about my person. When he was assured I could stand without collapsing to the ground again, he bent down and retrieved the lost half of my footwear.

‘Your boot,’ he said, holding it out.

‘Right. Thanks.’

He stood smiling at me; I stood, trying not to fall over.

‘Have you got work in the morning? Rather, this morning?

‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

‘And have you got your keys?’

‘I think so.’ My keys had been in the pocket of my thick, padded coat, out for duty early this year as it had been a very chilly October. I rummaged in both pockets. When my left hand (without wedding ring – it felt weird) located them, on their fluffy pink, feathery, glittery key-chain thingy, I pulled them out and shook them in the air to prove I’d really got them.

‘There you go,’ he smiled. ‘Fantastic.’

He saw me to the door, which must have banged shut in the night, and watched me open it and step inside.

‘Thanks, Will,’ I said.

‘Any time, although I don’t mean any time. I don’t know you very well, but I presume you won’t be doing this too often…’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said meekly. ‘As it is rather embarrassing.’

He smiled again. ‘Good night, Daryl.’

‘Good night, Will. Thank you so much.’

I staggered upstairs. The horror. Oh, the absolute horror. I couldn’t bear to think about it. I decided I couldn’t think about it. Not now. I could be mortified and apologetic in the morning. Now, I had to sleep.

I woke up feeling like death warmed up in a petri dish. The radio alarm, set to Eighties FM, woke me at seven and I was furious at it. How dare Madonna and her ‘Material Girl’ aspirations interrupt my comatose slumber? I needed eight hours more sleep. I needed carbs and painkillers. I needed a new liver… I staggered to the bathroom and was horrified by what I saw. Blonde, short hair sticking up all over the place – all pretence of perky Marilyn Monroe coquettishness gone. A pasty face with make-up smears down it. And panda eyes that wouldn’t look out of place at London Zoo. Gone were the days when a hangover made me look dishevelled-ly pretty and enigmatic; I just looked a wreck.

I flopped back into bed. Just fifteen more minutes. Just to get my brain in gear. Oh god. I remembered everything. But mostly waking up on the drive and Will discovering me lying there. What on earth must he think of me? He already thought I was a bit of a nut job. I’d moved in just over a week ago, last Saturday to be exact, and he’d already caught me admiring his bum, taking a giant stuffed whale out to someone’s skip and stuffing lemon drizzle cake in my face at two a.m.

He’d made the lemon drizzle. Well, I presume he had; I’d have to ask him. The morning I’d moved in, laden with boxes and giant Ikea shopping bags packed with all my stuff, he’d knocked at my new front door offering a smile and a polka dot cake tin.

‘Hello,’ he’d said. ‘I’m Will Hamilton. I live next door. Did you know your doorbell doesn’t work?’

‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘I need to get that sorted. I’m Daryl Williams.’

‘It’s very nice to meet you, Daryl Williams. I’ve brought you a cake.’

‘A cake? Wow!’ I’d replied. ‘That’s a lovely thing to do. I didn’t think neighbours did that stuff any more. I thought it was all lawnmowers at dawn and curt nods on the driveway.’ He laughed. He was nice; I could see that immediately. He had a dark-brown-with-grey-bits quiff that had collapsed and was flopping in his eyes, a wide smile and brown eyes. He looked about the same age as me – mid-forties, perhaps late forties? Very, very good looking. The sort of face you wouldn’t mind peeking over the top of a newspaper at, at the breakfast table, for years and years. Not that I was in the market for that ever again. I was over marriage. I was over my marriage. I didn’t need another hero; they just let you down and went off with your best friend.

‘Come in,’ I said and he’d stepped into my hall. He was wearing dark, almost black, blue jeans and a brushed cotton checked shirt. Plus grey desert boots – I hadn’t seen those since my days at Brighton Poly – in 1991. ‘Excuse the décor.’

I’d bought a mid-street house in a Victorian strip of smallish semis in Wimbledon, not far from the station. My new house looked lovely from the outside, matching all the others with their red bricks and white porches; it even had a nicely tended patch of garden at the front which I already feared for – I was not known for my gardening prowess. Inside, the other semis were probably the height of character period charm coupled with sleek modernity; mine was not. It was extremely dated. Think striped wallpaper below yellowing dado rail; sponge paint affect circa Changing Rooms 1998 above… Swagged yellow curtains with tie backs – the previous owner clearly couldn’t be bothered to take them down and I don’t blame her; I wouldn’t have dragged such mustard monstrosities to my new house either… Artexed ceilings… A bath with carpet up the side… Will had laughed when I’d showed him that and so had I. He didn’t look like a serial killer so I’d showed him round the whole house.

‘It’s not exactly Homes and Gardens, is it?’ he said after we’d done the tour and were back in the hall. ‘Needs a little bit of work.’

‘A lot of work,’ I quantified, again thinking how good looking he was. ‘I know.’ It was in pretty bad shape, my new house. That’s how I’d managed to knock ten grand off the price, giving me a bit of money to play with. I’d already got a decent amount, from my ‘proceeds of marriage’ or whatever they called it (blood money? Tears money?), but the extra cash would come in handy for renovations. I was really lucky. I hadn’t wanted to leave Wimbledon – it had been my home since my twenties – and I hadn’t had to.

‘I’m quite handy, with a paint brush, you know,’ said Will, as I was seeing him out. ‘Just give me a shout if you need any help.’

‘I might take you up on that,’ I said, then hoped I hadn’t said it in a flirty manner. The plan was to flirt and have fun with men from now on – now I was over the horror of my break-up and divorce – but that couldn’t include any neighbours. I wanted to be happy living here, in my new start, not getting tangled in potentially mortifying situations with anyone I shared bin men with.

‘Actually, can I help you bring any boxes in?’

We were both looking towards my car, on the drive. The boot was open. There was a large box sitting in it that I’d foolishly packed in situ and now I didn’t think I could pick it up. His words were music to my ears.

‘Well, there’s only the one box. The removal firm’s bringing up the big stuff tomorrow. It’s just me and a few bits and bobs today. My friend was supposed to be helping me, but she’s on an emergency date. She’s coming later, hopefully, as long as the date doesn’t go too well, for chips and dips. Low carb and low cal, of course. And I’ll have to hide the chocolate. She’s one of those who counts everything. Her body is a temple.’

Too much random information? Probably.

He looked at me. Amused, I guessed. Or maybe horrified – that a mad, rambling lady had moved in next door.

‘No, I don’t mind at all. Happy to.’

We walked over to the car. There was the box, loosely masking-taped at the top, as well as loads of carrier bags and paper bags and a few plastic baskets. I was not the most organised, but I was going to try and be, from here on in. He heaved up the box and carried it in through the front door. I trooped behind him.

‘Where’s it going?’ he called over his shoulder.

‘Upstairs?’ I ventured. ‘Sorry, is that okay?’

‘That’s fine. I could do with losing a few pounds.’

That was so not true. He had a lovely body. I had a good look at it as it was going up the stairs.

‘Be careful,’ I shouted. The staircase was quite narrow and I wasn’t sure how secure that box was. It had been a bit damp when I’d found it at the back of my old garage, under Jeff’s golf clubs. He hadn’t bothered taking them when he’d moved to Gabby’s – he probably wouldn’t have time to play, what with all the shagging.

Will had to take very slow, measured steps. Goodness, he had a nice bum, I thought. He was wearing 501’s, I could tell, by the label, and his bottom was very round and very firm. Probably one of the nicest I’d seen. Jeff’s was always a bit scrawny.

Will had two more steps to go. He huffed the box to the top step, then turned his head to look at me a little quicker than I was expecting, as I was still checking out his lovely bottom. I was caught red-handed, wasn’t I? I flicked my eyes back up to his face. He knew exactly what I’d been looking at.

‘Where do you want it?’

‘Oh,’ I said, squirming. ‘Just leave it on the landing. I’ll unpack it from there.’

‘Okay.’ He came back down, smiling. I made sure my eyes stayed on his face. I didn’t want them wandering downwards again. Especially as he was now facing me. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? He was hardly going to come down the stairs backwards on his hands and knees – although it wasn’t a disagreeable image… Oh dear. I was becoming a bit of a nuisance in my own brain. I appeared to be a slightly pervy, out of control divorcee and I hadn’t even received my absolute yet…

‘Well, nice to meet you, Daryl,’ he’d said, on the doorstep, and shook my hand.

‘You too, Will.’ His handshake was warm and firm. He really was very good looking. Was I blushing slightly? God, I hoped not. I watched him as he disappeared into his front door, giving a cheery wave to the back of his head in case he turned round, like the nutter that I was.

So. It was an auspicious start. Friendly neighbour helps new neighbour move in while new neighbour pervs at friendly neighbour’s bum. Fabulous. Then he’d seen me illegally disposing of Freya’s stuffed, cuddly whale. I’d moved it with me, just in case, but she’d told me by text ‘just to get rid of the enormous, embarrassing thing’ and I couldn’t face going to the tip with all those jolly people that go there for fun, at the weekends. So, last Sunday morning, I sought opportunity in the form of a skip that had appeared over the road for someone’s building work and went and chucked it in there, before running back home, feeling a mixture of pleased-with-myself and terrified. Unfortunately Will had spotted me darting back across the road looking left and right like a fugitive and had waved at me jauntily from his kitchen window. He’d seen everything, hadn’t he? I knew he had because last Wednesday a poster temporarily appeared in the window of his front porch saying ‘Save the Whale.’

‘Very funny,’ I’d told him, on the Thursday, when I’d popped over to return the polka dot cake tin.

‘Couldn’t resist it,’ he said. ‘I had that old poster in my summerhouse.’

‘Very good,’ I’d replied drily, ‘as was the lemon drizzle.’ (Which was so not dry.)

I raised my eyebrows at him. He raised his back.

He’d spotted me eating it. Last Tuesday night, really late. In fact it was about two a.m., as I’d been up till then attempting to unload boxes, in between dancing to songs on my new digital radio. I’d been happily stuffing my face with lemon drizzle in front of the telly in a very unladylike fashion, whilst watching old repeats of Sex and the City, when he’d clocked me. Both our houses have a ‘side return’ and my sitting room is in mine; I’d taken down the tragic curtains from the window in there and hadn’t yet made plans to replace them. God knows what he was doing up at that time, but he’d seen me at it. I’d caught a very brief glimpse of his face at his window before he quickly pulled the blind down.

Oh dear. The secret middle-of-the-night cake eater foiled again.

‘I’m really sorry about that,’ confessed Will. ‘I’m really not a stalker or anything. I was awake and just having a potter around. It was only a split second.’ A split second, but he’d seen enough; me being an absolute pig. I needed to invest in a blind for that window, pronto.

So he was a bit of a joker, an insomniac, a very nice, helpful guy and extremely good looking. This is what I knew about Will. And he knew that I was a glutton, a secret bottom-watcher and someone who dumps things in other people’s skips.

And now he’d seen me face down, drunk on our drive.

Oh dear bloody god.

I felt absolutely terrible but I had to go into work. There’s never anyone to cover for me. Well, there’s Elaine, on reception, but her voice is a bit whiny and she always takes a huge breath at the end of every line, which I think puts listeners off. I work in local radio. I’m a weather presenter. Seven times a day I read the weather at Court FM, in the centre of Wimbledon, and I have done for eighteen years. I don’t mean to show off, but I am really good at it. I’ve got a nice voice (it’s cheery, not too soft, not at all abrasive), I know my stuff and I can ad lib a bit, too. This means if a presenter wants to chat to me a bit after my weather bulletin, I can hold my own. I can sometimes be quite funny. Last week, when I was in the studio with Rob Wright, morning presenter (specialist subjects: local town planning and tennis – he’s ever so good when Wimbledon is on… he can talk about retractable roofs and pitch quality for hours), there was a lovely guy in there with a guide dog, waiting to be interviewed about current funding and footpaths. I finished my report with ‘… So expect light rain, spells of sunshine and the odd thundery shower and there’s a dog currently licking my knee, which is lovely.’ The listeners love that sort of thing. They text in and say so.

It’s a big, buzzy office buzzing with lots of dynamic (with a couple of exceptions), happy people. Who wouldn’t want to work in radio? It’s great! I met Sam there: she’s a broadcast assistant and researcher. She finds people for interviews, writes the questions for the presenters, explores all the subjects that need exploring and generally keeps the content of all our daytime programming ticking. The station broadcasts from Wimbledon (fairly near the All England Club, actually) to all surrounding areas: Richmond, Wandsworth, Southfields, Putney – apparently you can pick us up in Kensington, if the wind’s in the right direction. I love my job, and to be honest, apart from my friends (although they both work here anyway), it has saved me from falling apart since my marriage break-up. I have to sound perky so I’ve had to fake perky. What’s the expression: fake it, till you make it? That’s me. I faked it for a long time, but now I’ve made it and am pretty damn perky for real. I’m quite proud of myself, really. I made it through the dark days of my husband leaving me for my best friend and out the other side, into sunnier times.

My other friend, who also works here, is Peony. She’s a broadcast technician – responsible for all unfathomable techie things at Court FM – and she was in reception when I walked in, chatting to Elaine. I always just feel better when I go into work and this morning was no exception. My hangover lifted just stepping foot in that office. Peony said ‘All right, my love?’ and gave me a wink (Sam had obviously filled her in on last night’s antics). Elaine, clad in lace and ruffles as always, behind the front desk, beamed at me and handed me today’s staff newsletter. Rob Wright, striding across the news area ruffling some papers looked friendly and full of the joys. And even Sam, who should have been as hungover as I was, was smiling and looking great. In fact, she was laughing. I went over to her desk and plomped my big, hungover bottom on a spare chair.

‘Oh my god, Daryl!’ giggled Sam, spinning on her spinny seat. ‘What a day! What a night! Did you go straight to bed after I left?’

‘No,’ I replied, with a slow smile. ‘I thought I’d take some rubbish out to the bin and then lie down on my drive for a bit of a kip and be discovered by my next door neighbour.’

‘What!’

‘Yep.’

‘Will, your hunky next door neighbour?’ When Sam had come over, on my moving day (after her emergency date turned into a false alarm), I’d told her all about Will, and how good looking he was. She’d spent twenty minutes at my kitchen window, snacking on chopped-up green pepper and trying to catch a glimpse of him, but he didn’t make an appearance. She was ever so disappointed. ‘Oh Daryl, you didn’t!’

‘I certainly did. Oh, Sam, the shame of it!’

‘What on earth did he say?’

‘Not a lot. He just helped me into the house. I didn’t see him this morning but I must pop round and thank him. Good god, Sam, we were absolutely hammered!’

‘We were,’ she nodded, then grinned. ‘Good day though.’

‘Very good day.’

‘I’ve told Peony all about it.’

I looked into Studio One and waved at Peony, who was now behind the big console with all the knobs on doing all that technical stuff I don’t understand. Peony is younger than us. She’s only thirty-two. She’s engaged to Max, who’s also a broadcast technician; she’s been in love with him ever since he first walked into Court FM with his goatee and his man bag, and they’re getting married next summer. They’re really in love and do a lot of face-stroking and talking about the wedding at the moment, but she’s a great girl; one of the best.

‘What are you eating?’ I asked Sam, who was dipping a spoon in a pot of something. ‘Surely you have to forego the diet when you’ve got a stonking hangover?’

‘I’ve told you, it’s not a diet. It’s a healthy eating plan. For life. And it’s zero percent fat Greek yoghurt with a drizzle of Manuka honey and a sprinkle of sunflower seeds…’

‘Sounds delicious,’ I said sarcastically.

‘It is!’

‘I’m more in the line for a big old bacon butty with lots of ketchup.’

‘Ha, good luck. I think they’re all gone.’ Max usually brought them in for everyone but I looked over to the table where they were usually piled up in paper bags, and yes, they’d all gone. ‘Can I tempt you with some of this?’

‘No thanks, I’d rather eat my own foot.’

‘Oh, yuck!’

Sam needs to know exactly what she’s eating. She’s a forty-something trim, toned-body freak who’s permanently on her phone entering data into the My Fitness Pal app. She adds up and enters in the calories of every single thing she’s eaten, even if it’s only a Polo mint or a banana (apparently bananas have a whole 110 calories. Who knew?) and makes sure she doesn’t exceed her daily allowance. It’s quite a science. Thankfully for Sam, who does actually love food, there is exercise, which can be offset against anything she eats. She goes to the gym before work every morning (one hour’s cardio burns 405 calories. That happily cancels out beans on toast, or two portions of porridge, apparently) and does loads of exercise DVDs at home. She’s completely bonkers and obsessed and ridiculously focused, but she does look amazing.

‘Surely you didn’t go to the gym this morning?’ I asked.

‘I did,’ she replied. ‘Just an hour’s gentle cardio. It sweated out all the booze nicely.’ Factoring wine into Sam’s daily calorie allowance was quite a feat, although she always managed it.

‘Oh, you’re so good.’

‘Halo polished,’ she said, rubbing the top of her head.

I admire my meticulous friend. I have the willpower of a slug. The only way I lose weight (if I wanted to, which I don’t) is by taking off a bit of (sometimes quite heavy) diamante. I’m quite partial to a bit of bling. I like a brooch, a necklace, a hair clip, earrings. There’s nothing in life a bit of sparkle can’t cure. I’ve discovered that. Today, I was livening up my hangover with a blingy, slightly glittery hair band which also covered up some of my horrible hair.

‘Uh oh,’ said Sam, polishing off her last mouthful. ‘Bob’s been stocking up.’

Bob Sullivan, the station’s editor, was walking into the office clutching a Boots bag.

‘All right, ladies?’ he enquired, like he always did, thumping the bag down on his desk. Bob never expects an answer to his ‘All right, ladies?’ It’s rhetorical. He’s an antiquated old fart, the only dark cloud in an office full of sunny dispositions. He is thirty-seven going on seventy and the proud possessor of old school, sexist charm. Smarmed back hair. A pseudo posh accent (he hails from Staines.) And a nightmare tendency to get frequent colds.

He proceeded to unpack the contents of his Boots bag onto his desk. A chicken sandwich, a packet of cheese and onion crisps, a Diet Coke, a huge bottle of Night Nurse, a box of Strepsils and a box of blackcurrant Lemsip. He has a stinker of a cold at least every couple of months. He never tires of them, he’s an absolute martyr to them and – along with the copious sniffing, the noisy nose-blowing and the indulgent hand-to-forehead plaintive despairing – Bob likes to employ a highly theatrical cough. When enjoying a cold, he coughs all the time. He coughs if you ask, ‘How’s the cough?’ An enquiry to how he is, is answered with a cough. And if you even say the word ‘cough’ he coughs. He announces his presence in the morning with a cough and his departure in the evening with a cough. It’s his unique, germ-ridden calling card.

‘All right, Bob?’ called out Sam. She’s the cheeky one, in our office.

Bob coughed. ‘Yes, thank you, Samantha. I’ve just got a light cold, darling. How’s the interview with the mayor coming along?’

‘Swimmingly,’ said Sam. ‘She’s squeezing us in between appointments on Thursday. Coming into the studio to do it live. Are you still happy with the expenses angle?’

‘Yes, just make sure we cover it subtly; we don’t want a diplomatic row – no duck houses or anything. Rob will do a great job with it, I’m sure.’

‘Okay, Bob. No prob.’

She winked at me. Bob arranged his new purchases amongst his old: cough linctus, a bottle of eucalyptus, a jiffy bag of echinacea capsules and a man-sized box of tissues. His hands tend to flicker between all these miracle medicines like he’s the pinball wizard. But there is no twist. Bob with cold is just unbearable.

I settled at my desk and attempted to tidy it. I was in a rush when I left on Friday night and had left it in a bit of a state. It was less cluttered than it used to be, though; I used to have photos of me and Jeff everywhere, even a photo of me and Jeff and that cow, which had obviously been ceremoniously burnt (not really, but I had chucked it in the big black bin round the back of the studio). Now there were just three gorgeous photos of Freya, from babyhood to today, the most recent of her on her first day at Smith College London. My girl. I was so bloody proud of her. I logged onto my computer and tried to get my head round checking the rolling information for today’s forecast. It was going to be a long day.

My first bulletin was at twenty past nine. It’s always a bit of a rush to get that one written but it went well. It wasn’t a particularly complex weather story today. Grey skies all day – but no rain. A light north-westerly breeze and temperatures averaging ten degrees. Cold for the early autumn but not unheard of. My task for the day, really, after gathering all the information from the satellite and radar pictures, was to think of seven different ways to say the same thing. Easy: I just enjoyed talking about the weather. Rob Wright was very cheery this morning and we had a little bit of banter after my bulletin about pet reptiles, one of his featured topics this morning. I made him laugh by drily saying ‘I’m more of a cat person,’ and he cut to the beginning of a record, grinning.

‘Lovely job, Daryl. See you for the next.’

‘Thanks, Rob.’

When I arrived back at my desk from the studio, Sam was waiting there, waggling two sachets of green tea.

‘Ugh, I don’t want that,’ I said. ‘I want cake and hot chocolate and cheesy mashed potato, preferably all at once.’

‘Aw, please come and make a hot drink with me? There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘As it’s you.’

I trotted after her to the radio station’s kitchen. It has hideous saloon type doors which ricochet off each other about twenty times after someone has pushed through them. They were still going after the kettle had boiled.

‘Only twenty-five calories per cup,’ she said to me, as she poured boiling water into mugs.

‘Yummy.’

‘Hey, remember that forecast thing we did yesterday?’

‘Oh, yeah! I’d forgotten all about that.’ I had actually. I hadn’t forgotten chucking my wedding ring in the fountain though. I kept going to twist it round my finger, like I always used to, and it was still odd it wasn’t there any more. It was good, though. It was all good.

‘What was my forecast again? A ninety percent chance of falling on my face, sorry, falling in love by Friday.’

‘Ninety-nine percent.’

‘Oh, yes, pardon me. What a load of hooey,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘And I certainly won’t fall in love this Friday. It’ll be the last thing on my mind. I’ve got Freya’s graduation and Jeff’s going to be there.’ I pulled a face. The nearer it got, the more I was starting to dread it.

‘You’ll be okay,’ said Sam. ‘You’re strong now. Anyway, it says by Friday. So it could be before. I think we should at least give it a chance.’

‘But I told you yesterday,’ I said. ‘I think I did, anyway – it’s all a bit hazy. I don’t want to fall in love. Love hurts, cheats and fails. It leads to no good. I just wouldn’t mind a few dates, here and there, that’s all. Though I really don’t know where I’m going to find any. And please don’t say online dating again,’ I added, quickly. ‘No way am I doing that! Don’t even think about it!’

‘Okay,’ said Sam, stirring the teas before lifting out the squashed tea bags and lobbing them in the bin. ‘No online dating. But I think you should try and date as many men as you can this week. Starting tonight.’

‘Tonight. Right. A Monday night. What do you want me to do, just go and grab someone off the street? See if Bob Sullivan’s free?’ Bob had been single for years – who would have him, with that nose? ‘I really don’t fancy spending the evening listening to him coughing over a tin of Fisherman’s Friends.’

‘No! Not Bob, and not someone off the street.’ She paused, sucked the end of her spoon, then paused again. ‘Speed dating.’

‘Speed dating!’

‘Yep.’

‘Do they still do that? Wasn’t that a noughties thing?’

‘Well, yeah, it was. But they still do it. It’s evolved.’

‘Into what? You now go round the tables on a Segway?’ I sighed. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse, Sam. A bunch of unattractive singles moving from table to table like a sad carousel.’ I attempted a sip of the green tea then put it down on the side again. ‘Isn’t it for losers who’ve looked for love in all the right places and come up with nothing?’

‘What a delightful picture you paint! And I’m not a loser, and neither are you!’

‘I’m not going!’

‘Listen, there’s one in Wimbledon tonight, at the Old Brewery, and I think we should go. Think how many men will be there – all under one roof!’

‘That’s what’s putting me off!’ I countered. ‘I said I fancied a few dates, not to have to face a roomful of gagging-for-it men. I’m not sure, Sam, I’m all hungover and… I don’t feel I’m ready!’

‘Of course you’re ready, you’ve said so! And if you’re not, I am! Some of them might be quite nice. Please come with me.’

‘Ah, right, so this is all about you!’ I put a teasing arm round her waist. ‘Talk about emotional blackmail!’ She put a return arm round me and gave me a pleading look. We resembled a pair of same-sex figure skaters. ‘Okay, I’ll think about it.’

‘Great!’

‘I’m going back to my desk now. Thanks for the tea. You know I’m not going to drink it, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I know.’

My next bulletin was at three minutes past eleven, straight after the news. I had time to think about Sam’s proposition. Even actually in the noughties, when speed dating first came out, I would have said ‘no’. That I’d rather stick pins in my eyes. Lie down in a pit of snakes and take my chances. But I had said I wanted to date again. That I was up for fun, flirting and frivolity. It had been one part of my four-point plan. And Sam really wanted to go; she’d looked like an over-excited puppy with an open back door and a sunny garden in its sights. Plus, she’d come up to London at the drop of a hat yesterday, when I’d asked her. I know she’d had a semi-firm date lined up, with an accountant from East Sheen, which she’d cancelled.

‘Hey, Peony!’

Peony was walking past with a box full of tapes and stuff. She’s all blonde and petite and gorgeous. Super-efficient, too; Max is a lucky man.

‘Hey, Daryl. How you doing? Feeling any better?’

‘Ah, Sam said she’d told you about our little adventure yesterday. Yes, a bit, thanks.’

‘You’re incorrigible, you two.’

I shrugged and grinned. ‘I know. What can you do? So, when are you coming out with us again? It’s been ages.’

‘I know. Sorry, I’ve been so busy with planning the wedding and all that stuff… and Max…’ It was her turn to shrug. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘We’ll be waiting for you. We’re always available for meeting up.’

‘I know you are. And I’m glad you’re back on social track, these days.’ She gave me one of her lovely smiles. ‘We’ll definitely do it soon, I promise. So… I hear the absolute came through.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re feeling okay about it?’

‘Peony, I feel fabulous about it, I really do. A really painful chapter of my life has finally come to an end.’

‘Well, that’s wonderful, Daryl. Really wonderful.’ And she plonked down her box and came and gave me a hug. She always smelled like flowers. Her marriage would work out, I knew it would. Well, mine had, for quite a while. Until Jeff had turned out to be an absolute bastard. But she was marrying Max, who was great. They would last the distance and he wouldn’t go off with any of Peony’s friends – most of us were far too old for him, anyway. ‘So what are you going to do now?’

‘A housewarming, next month some time, after I’ve spruced my new house up a bit. And Sam wants me to go speed dating with her tonight.’

‘Oh, wow! Oh, you should!’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

I thought about it. I could meet a bunch of absolute idiots. I could meet someone who I thought wasn’t an absolute idiot but then he’d turn out to be one. I could fall in love. That was the worst. I didn’t want to risk my heart ever again; I couldn’t bear it to be trampled on as mercilessly as Jeff had done. Yes, I was okay now. Yes, I had survived and was ready to embrace my future. But there was no way I could put myself through it all again.

My silence and the tragi-comic look on my face must have spoken volumes. Peony laughed. ‘Look, just don’t go expecting to meet the love of your life, you probably won’t.’

‘No, I don’t want that. God, no. The love of my life was almost its ruin.’

She smiled at me sympathetically for a moment and then said, ‘So, go! Go for a laugh, a giggle, a good night out. Don’t take it seriously.’ She gathered up her box. ‘I’ll see you later, Daryl. I’ve got to go and drive the afternoon desk.’

‘Happy driving! Thanks Peony.’

She walked away and I went to twiddle the empty spot on the third finger of my left hand, relieved once again to find my ring wasn’t there any more. Peony was wise. Peony was right. I was divorced now, my wedding ring was off. I was over it. I should be ready to put myself out there, for fun, for a laugh. I could go speed dating, though I would make it clear to Sam there’d be no falling in love with anyone. There wouldn’t even be any kissing of any frogs, and I imagine there’d be a lot of frogs there tonight. I couldn’t see any prince among men turning up to speed dating.

I texted Sam, from across the office.

Okay, I’m up for it. Let’s do it.