Page 27 of Broken Heart Syndrome
After dragging me out of the hospital, Tom had taken me to his old, beat-up van. This was not, in my experience, a typical vehicle for a male cardiologist. Due to the inflated egos and high levels of testosterone, their cars were more often than not penis-extension types. Tom’s van was anything but. It looked at least ten years old and the outside was filthy.
Once I had cautiously sat down on the passenger seat (after Tom had swept away an assortment of sandwich packets and Hula Hoop bags), I realized that the inside wasn’t much better: change was spilling over the dashboard, and there were old receipts and a variety of travel mugs all over the footwell, together with huge amounts of other food packaging detritus.
Sitting there taking in the chaos, I had the inexplicable desire to clean it for him. I imagined what it would be like if he was actually mine and I had the right to clean out his van, maybe iron a few of his shirts. How bizarre was that? Fantasizing about cleaning and ironing. I was officially losing my mind.
‘This is an unusual vehicle choice,’ I said, still a bit stunned.
‘Not for a windsurfer,’ he told me. ‘All my kit just lives in the back. Saves time unloading.’
‘I see,’ I replied, although I really didn’t see. I mean, I wasn’t a fan of windsurfing, but even if it was the love of my life I doubted I could be convinced to drive a rusty old van to support it. Then again, I didn’t even drive a normal car, so that wasn’t surprising.
‘Do you cycle every day?’ he asked after the sat nav had calculated the distance to my flat. ‘Seems a bit of a trek on a bike.’
This was true. I frequently cursed my hatred of driving and lack of funds when faced with Welsh weather.
‘Lou gives me a lift some days, but I have to get in earlier than her and she’s not great in the morning,’ I explained.
‘What about your car?’ he asked, and I shifted on my seat.
‘I don’t have a car.’
‘Why not?’ His brows were drawn together in confusion.
‘I don’t like driving.’ This was an understatement; I loathed driving. I had failed my test six times before finally passing when I managed to book one in the most rural area possible with not another car in sight. It was just another area of my life where I lacked confidence and was an abject failure.
But that wasn’t the only reason. I had more outgoings every month than a normal young professional, and even with the extra income from my cake business I couldn’t afford a car.
Not wanting to reveal the full extent of my pathetic cowardice or financial situation, I made a stab at changing the subject.
‘Your van is … um, well, it could do with a bit of a clear-out,’ I informed him, looking around in horror. I had always been a neat freak.
‘No shit,’ he said dryly. ‘You offering?’ I felt my face heating up.
‘Of course not,’ I snapped, sinking down into my seat. ‘Maybe Cassie could help you.’ He’d started the van and was backing out. At the mention of Cassie, he looked momentarily confused, then seemed to register my meaning.
‘I think she’s got better things to do than clean my van,’ he said, smiling. Of course she did. Busy eating my millionaires’ shortbread and having wild monkey sex with Tom no doubt. No wonder his van was a state. I spent the rest of the short journey staring dejectedly out of the window, contemplating my lonely, ferret-filled (yet likely clean and tidy) future.
When we arrived at the flat I tried to block his entry, telling him I’d be fine and that Lou and Dylan would be back any minute. But he was having none of it and practically forced his way in. Short of physically ejecting him (which would have been tricky considering he had about a hundred pounds on me), I didn’t have much choice but to be grudgingly hospitable.
Tea in hand and two of my brownies consumed, he started surveying his surroundings. I loved our flat even though the furnishing was a battle between Ikea and shabby chic. Lou was Ikea-obsessed but I had forced her to accept some of my stuff, even though I could tell she was dying to smarten it up with a good lick of paint.
‘What’s this?’ he asked as he moved over to the counter where my latest creation was sitting on a cake-stand. It was a birthday cake for a police sergeant who was also a keen cyclist. I’d sculpted an exact replica of her handbag with an iPhone, truncheon and speedometer spilling out. Her husband had commissioned it and given me a photo to work from.
‘Um … it’s a cake.’
‘Really?’ he reached to touch the iPhone, and then withdrew his hand. ‘Did you buy it for someone?’
‘I made it.’
He looked startled and swung round to face me. ‘You made it?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Jesus. It’s so realistic. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, ducking my head in embarrassment. ‘Practice, I guess.’
‘You make a lot of these?’ he asked, surprised.
