The Switch - Beth O'Leary Page 0,53

list of rules?’ I say.

‘Absolutely,’ Bee says. ‘Please do.’

‘I think it sounds like a recipe for spinsterhood.’

She bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, please,’ she says. ‘My list is totally achievable. As a society we have painfully low standards of men, do you know that?’

I think of Wade. I so rarely asked anything of him, especially once Marian was grown. All I expected was fidelity, though even that was giving him too much credit, as it turns out. And Carla and Leena’s father, what did Marian ask of him? He used to sit around all day in jogging bottoms, watching obscure sports on strange channels, and even then she bent over backwards to keep him. When he finally left, he never looked back – he saw the girls once a year at best, and now he and Leena aren’t even in touch.

Perhaps Bee has a point. But …

‘While I’m all for a good list, I think you might be going about this the wrong way. You need to stop thinking and start doing.’

I finish off my coffee and stand up, chair rasping on the bare concrete floor. This café feels like a neon-painted war bunker. It’s making me uncomfortable.

‘Start doing what? Where are we going?’ Bee asks as I get my bags together.

‘To find you a different sort of man,’ I say grandly, leading her out of the coffee shop.

*

‘The library?’ Bee looks around, bemused. ‘I didn’t even know there was a library in Shoreditch.’

‘You ought to become a member,’ I say sternly. ‘Libraries are dying out and it’s a travesty.’

Bee looks rather chastened. ‘Right,’ she says, peering at the nearest shelf, which happens to be paperback romance novels. She perks up. ‘Ooh, I’ll take that man,’ she says, pointing to a shirtless gentleman on a Mills & Boon cover.

I take her by the arms and steer her towards the crime and thriller section. She’s unlikely to find a man if she’s dawdling next to the romances; the only other person in sight is a shifty-looking lady who has clearly given her husband the slip for a couple of minutes and plans to make the most. Ah yes: there’s a blond-haired gent in jeans and a shirt browsing the John Grishams. Well, he’s certainly a contender to look at him.

‘What do you think?’ I whisper, retreating behind some cookery books and gesturing for Bee to take a look.

She leans past to look at the blond gentleman. ‘Ooh,’ she says, cocking her head in thought. ‘Yeah, maybe! Oh, no, wait, those shoes … Boat shoes are a shorthand for preppy Oxbridge boy,’ she tells me in a regretful whisper. ‘I predict a six-figure salary and a toxic inferiority complex instilled by helicopter parents.’

‘Be open-minded,’ I remind her. ‘Do you trust me, Bee?’

‘Oh, I … Yeah, I do, actually.’

I straighten my sleeves. ‘In that case,’ I say, ‘I’m going in.’

*

‘Do you believe a woman should take a man’s name when she marries?’

‘Oh, err, well actually I think that’s a very personal choice, so—’

‘What about helping out around the house? Good at Hoovering, are you?’

‘I’m … proficient, I’d say? Sorry, can I ask what it is you’re—’

‘Would you say you’re a romantic?’

‘Yeah, I reckon so, if you—’

‘And your last relationship, dear. How did it end?’

The young man stares at me with his mouth slightly open. I look back at him expectantly.

You can get away with an awful lot when you’re an old lady.

‘She just … fell out of love with me, really.’

‘Oh, gosh, how sad,’ I say, patting him on the arm.

‘Sorry, how did we …’ He looks baffled. ‘We were talking about John Grisham novels, and then you were … asking questions … and now … those questions have become … extremely personal …’

I hesitate as I try to remember the word. Fitz mentioned it at tea the other night. ‘I’m wingmanning,’ I say.

‘You’re …’

‘For my friend, Bee. Bee!’

She appears around the shelves, shushing me. ‘Eileen! Oh, my God, I’m so sorry, this is so embarrassing,’ she tells the gentleman. ‘Come on, Eileen, let’s just go, we’ve taken enough of this man’s time …’

She flashes him a muted version of her disarming smile. The blond man’s eyes widen and the book he’s holding drops a few inches, as though he’s forgotten he’s meant to be holding it up.

‘No worries,’ he says. ‘Umm.’

‘Bee, this young man would like to take you for coffee in that lovely café over the road,’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t you, dear?’

‘Actually,’ the blond man says, beginning to blush rather fetchingly, ‘I