Cloudy with a Chance of Love Page 3

  ‘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.

  Chapter Three

  I just had the four forty-seven weather bulletin to go. Things had been getting more exciting since my three o’clock. There was the chance of a heavy shower tonight; a new weather pattern was moving in from the north of France. I was looking at all the charts and writing my report. But my thoughts were elsewhere. I’d said ‘yes’ to Sam but as soon as I had, almost at the instant the text had sent, I started getting the wobblies, big time.

  She immediately sent me back a text saying ‘Fabulous!’ but I was already panicking I’d made the wrong decision, and felt steadily worse as the afternoon went on. I was going speed dating! I’d been doing so well, making a brand new start by moving into a new house, celebrating my divorce, thinking about plans for my future, but actually dipping my toe into the waters of dating – and meeting real, actual men – was suddenly really scaring me. I’d finally emerged from the storm clouds my ex-husband had thrown me into; did I really want to risk stepping into the swirling, often dangerous mists of romance again, whatever that entailed?

  I didn’t know. I felt all weak and pathetic, far from the spirited woman who had chucked her wedding ring in the fountain and declared herself ready for flirting and dating again. I started doubting myself again. Thinking it was me. As I checked and double-checked the satellite picture of the cloud patterns over South West London, my brain dumped me back in the past, a place I really didn’t want to visit any more…

  I’d been a good wife. An excellent one. I’d been loving and attentive; there was a dinner on the table for Jeff every night, and not just a warmed-up ready meal thrown onto the kitchen table with the cutlery f
ollowing it, either. I made a real effort. I put a cloth on the table. I’d sometimes do a starter. I’d sometimes even light bloody candles. I was a pretty fabulous wife, which was actually quite a feat for someone as disorganised as me who wasn’t a natural cook. I worked really hard at the whole wife thing.

  In my teens I’d been quite scathing about marriage and had openly scoffed at the mention of it. My mum had said things to me like ‘Make sure you get yourself a good career. You don’t want to spend your life washing someone’s pants!’ and I had totally agreed and laughed along with her – I’d worn ra-ra skirts, electric blue eyeliner and attitude in those days. And I did get myself a good career, straight after university, starting as tea girl and runner at Court FM before working my way up to receptionist and, eventually, weather presenter, believing I’d never be swallowed up into the loathsome role of housewife and drudge. Even after Jeff and I had Freya, and were living together, I resisted that role. Yet, somehow in the late nineties and the early noughties I became seduced by the whole thing: a meringue wedding dress; a sleek kitchen diner with a skylight and sliding glass doors to the garden; Jamie Oliver recipes; a bread maker; and domestic bliss peddled by shows such as Location, Location, Location where well-to-do, loved-up couples rejected gorgeous house after gorgeous house in idyllic villages…

  Another text pinged onto my phone. It was Sam again.

  Can’t WAIT until tonight!

  Me too, I replied, but I wasn’t feeling it. I didn’t dare look up as I knew she’d be grinning over at me from her desk. I stayed with my head down, at my own desk, wallowing in my horrible history.

  Jeff and I got married. At work I was still pretty brilliant, but at home I became everything I’d scoffed at. It was strange how it happened, really. Once we were married we suddenly weren’t equal partners any more. He was husband; I was housewife. He gradually stopped helping me with chores; my job became less of a career and more of an inconvenience, to him. I began doing everything for Jeff. Far too much. I was also too adoring, too grateful – grateful little wifey. I’d thankfully take Jeff’s odd, token attempts at romance – flowers, a bottle of perfume on my birthday, a new bra from Debenhams, which he thought the height of class even though he always bought the wrong size – as a sign of a happy bigger picture which turned out to be totally false. He wasn’t happy at all. He wasn’t happy until he’d dealt me the cruellest blow by going off with my best friend.