that he’d lose his deposit on the hotel room if he no-showed. As they are both out of town I’ll spend the weekend without human contact.
I am hopeful, expectant. I’m looking forward to being alone with my face pack, fridge and remote control. I sit down with a highlighter pen, the television section of the Observer and a bottle of gin. I circle my TV viewing for the night. Coronation Street, a documentary on Brooklyn Beckham (that’s our show), Brookside, Friends, and then I’ll switch to cable for a movie. I catch sight of the date and automatically calculate that it’s one month, three weeks, five days and eight hours since I last saw Darren.
Only quarter of an hour before Corrie starts.
Thirteen minutes.
Another nine minutes to go.
Still quite some time yet. I think I’ll ring Mum.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Oh, hello Jocasta, dear, how are you? I was just talking about you to Bob.’
‘Who?’
‘Bob, you know—’
‘Your neighbour.’
‘Exactly!’
‘What were you saying?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What were you saying to Bob?’ I’m beginning to regret the call.
‘I was just saying I wonder how Jocasta is.’
‘Well, I’m fine.’
‘Pleased to hear it.’
‘And how are you?’
‘Oh, I’m fine, except for the old problem.’ I have no idea what the ‘old problem’ is, although doubtless she’s told me on countless occasions; nor do I have any desire to find out. I move the conversation on.
‘I called to ask if you fancy going shopping tomorrow. Unaccountably it’s a Saturday and I haven’t got a wedding to go to.’ I hadn’t realized that I’d called to ask this; the fifteen minutes alone before my viewing started have obviously weighed in heavily. I wait for her gushing thanks that I’ve decided to offer up an entire Saturday, even though it’s not her birthday or anywhere near Christmas. Instead she surprises me.
‘I expect people are a little nervous about inviting you to their weddings, what with your show and everything. Well, dear, I’d love to go shopping with you, but Bob and I are going to a craft fair and it’s been in the diary for some time. I can’t let him down – I know he’d be most disappointed and I’m looking forward to it too.’
I don’t ask what kind of man enjoys a craft fair; nor do I commit myself when she adds hopefully, ‘How about next week?’
I put the phone down and turn the volume up.
Whilst it’s been a constructive weekend (I’ve filed my nails, both fingers and toes, I’ve tidied my cutlery drawer and I’ve descaled the kettle and the showerhead), by Sunday afternoon I’m beginning to wish I’d accepted the invite to lunch. I’ve read the Sunday papers, including the small ads for the removal of unwanted lines, fat and hair, as well as those for the addition to breasts and penises. I’ve watched a backlog of recorded programmes and all the soap omnibuses. In fact, most of my entertainment and all my food have been generated from radioactive boxes. Although I have ample time on my hands, I can’t be arsed to drag myself to Tesco’s or even Cullen’s. There really is no point in buying fresh herbs and vegetables, chopping and sautéing for one. Instead I search my cupboards for inspiration. I don’t find it. I can’t think of a recipe that happily combines peanut butter, Carr’s water biscuits and All Bran. The contents of my fridge are neither useful nor ornamental. There’s a mouldering jar of capers and another of anchovies (bought for a dinner party), Tabasco, Yakult and Red Bull. Of course, there’s the foundation bottle of champagne, but even I don’t like drinking Veuve Clicquot alone. Instead I defrost things unsavoury. Cardboard food from cardboard boxes – singleton’s food.
I can hear some kids playing in the nearby park. As far as I can tell the objective of the game is to see who can produce the most piercing scream. Very entertaining, if you’re eight. I wonder what Charlotte and Lucy are up to? An aeroplane passes overhead. In the mid-distance I can hear the intermittent hum of an articulated truck whizz from factory to storage warehouse. I’m depressed. I must be. The truck seems poignant. I look around for a vessel to use as an ashtray. All the ashtrays, saucers, teacups, plant pots that are in spitting distance of my sofa are full to overflowing with ash already.
Whilst me-time is all very educative, the most overwhelming lesson appears to be that I’m pretty miserable company. Even the fact that Saturday’s show was a corker, and the scheduling