don’t hurt me – the nasty card is now in there, the lid firmly closed.
With all that safely tucked away, my thoughts are now free to wander to dinner tonight at mine. What will Alex think about my basic furniture, my cheap bed linen, my mismatched crockery? It’s never mattered to me before. Until Alex, I was too consumed with work to consider what mug I drank from, let alone think up a whole colour scheme for the flat. But spending time at his place has made me realise that these things can enhance your life, and soften the hard edges at the end of the working day. They also project an image about the person whose home it is, and I worry now what impression my cluttered, messy, disorganised space will give Alex of me.
Entering the village of Pershore, I spot a pottery shop with beautiful handmade plates in the window and, feeling spontaneous, I wonder if I could afford two of them for tonight’s dinner? I’m still early for my meeting with Chloe and her mother, so I park the car in the little town-centre car park to go and investigate.
Once inside the shop, I’m soon accosted by a well-lipsticked shop assistant, who informs me that not only are the plates handmade, but they’re from Italy.
‘Made in Tuscany, hewn from local clay, don’t you just adore that flickering amber shade?’ she asks, opening her eyes wide, fake soot-black eyelashes fluttering.
I nod enthusiastically, knowing Alex will love them as much as she does.
‘Would you like to look more closely?’ She carefully hands me one of the large dinner plates as if it’s Ming porcelain. I accept it with equal reverence, holding it with both hands, imagining Alex and me by candlelight, sitting at my rickety little table, crockery thrown by Italian hands, dinner made by M&S, and microwaved by me. I know these plates won’t make my flat into a palace, but they’ll add a touch of class and effort and show Alex there’s more to me than just a tired sofa and chipped crockery.
Even when she tells me the price – a whopping thirty pounds each – I don’t drop the plate in shock or say I need to think about it. I picture Alex and say, ‘I’ll take two please.’ I feel like a millionaire.
I’m leaving the shop with a carrier bag full of profanely priced plates, excited about tonight, when I suddenly see Alex. He’s coming out of a pub across the street, which doesn’t make sense because earlier when I called him, he said he’d be in court all day. Perhaps it’s been adjourned? He must have rushed over here quickly – the court’s in Worcester and it’s at least fifteen minutes away.
All these thoughts are thrumming through my mind as I wave at him, trying to catch his eye between the passing cars. My heart is doing a little dance. After this morning’s argument with Jas, I want to run over and fall into his arms. I just hope I don’t burst into tears, because despite my surface calm, I’m all wound up inside.
I’m trying to dash across the road to him, but the cars keep coming and a couple of times I step out and have to jump back. Suddenly, there’s a gap, and I’m about to cross over when I see that he seems to be talking to someone. A woman. I stop myself from calling to him as he walks on with her, deep in conversation. I’ve missed my opportunity to cross now the traffic is moving back and forth, so I just have to watch on. I can only see them from behind as they continue down the road. Then, to my dismay, she puts her arm through his.
They walk on, and I’m puzzled, shaken really. Why is he here? Who is she? Why did he say he was in court all day, when clearly he isn’t? Further down the road, she rests her head on his shoulder. I don’t know what’s happening. Is this real?
I stand on the pavement feeling faint, and a woman asks me if I’m okay, and I nod, automatically, without even looking at her. But she’s pointing at something on the ground and when I look at my feet, I see the carrier bag with my lovely plates. My brand-new crockery – hewn from Tuscan rock, painstakingly crafted by Italian hands – has smashed into a million pieces.