Page 1 of My Lemon Grove Summer
Chapter One
‘Ghosted? Really? Again?!’ I say out loud. I look at the screen of my ancient phone, hoping that Mr Right, from Thursday night’s third date, will suddenly appear on there. Like I’m waiting for the genie from the lamp to appear in a puff of blue and green smoke and show me the face of my ideal partner. The one who, on paper, was perfect and delightful when we dated. I thought he might just be the one. But this time, instead of Cinderella running out on Prince Charming, looks like Prince Charming has done the running out on me . . . again.
I seem to have a habit of picking Mr Perfect on the dating app, only for him to think I’m not Miss Perfect once we’ve met a few times. I’m worn out by it. I’m nearly forty, for heaven’s sake. Shouldn’t I be settled, with a husband and kids, a home and a rescue dog by now? Isn’t that what life promises us all?
‘Ghosted?’ Lennie repeats. ‘Again?’
I nod and double-check my phone. Then once more for luck before finally admitting defeat.
‘Yup, ghosted . . . again!’ The words ring in my ears and I take a big swig of the warm, slightly sweet rosé wine. ‘Ew, Zinfandel.’ I grimace and look around at the small makeshift bar for other drink options. But it was either this, warm Chardonnay or Shiraz. All of them guaranteed to give me a banging headache. The little function room we’re in isn’t even a room; it’s a curtained-off corner of another function room, with a big window looking out over the bay and the city. Next door, a wedding party is in full swing, their disco lights illuminating the curtain that separates us, lighting up the barren, bleak space we’re standing in.
‘Honestly, Zeld, I can’t believe people can be so rude! How many times have you been ghosted now?’
I sigh. It seems to be the way of the world these days. Swiping left or right. Ghosting. All of us looking for the same thing and barely any of us finding it. But I do seem to have a habit of picking the wrong ones. One, two, three dates at the most, and then when I think we might have something going on, I’m dropped, ignored, without a word. It hurts. Never knowing what I did wrong, why I thought it was going in the right direction and they didn’t, never understanding the mistakes I’ve made; just knowing that I have, again.
‘What about you?’ I take a sip of foul wine. ‘How are you and Bridget from House of Dreams getting on? Isn’t there some kind of rule about not dating colleagues from the agency?’
‘No, Bridget and me were never getting together.’
‘Anyone else on the scene?’
He looks uncomfortable and shakes his head.
‘Now that Marcus, your boss, he’s a catch, but I bet he’s taken.’
‘Just broken up with someone, I think. Don’t imagine it was anything serious. He doesn’t seem to be the settling-down type.’ Lennie takes a swig of his wine. He looks strangely uneasy, and I have no idea why. There’s something on his mind, that’s for sure, but I can’t work out what and I can’t ask him over the loud music; I can barely hear myself think!
I follow his gaze till we’re both looking around the nearly empty function room, Lennie’s face pink in the flashing light from next door. The buffet table is groaning, as though expecting to feed hundreds of partygoers. Instead there’s just a handful of us, including a few bored children playing chase amongst the chairs.
‘We said we’d only stay an hour,’ Lennie says loudly into my right ear, looking bored and desperate.
‘But there’s hardly anyone here. We can’t just leave; she’ll notice.’ I lean back and nod towards Lydia, our old college friend. I say friend; we were more like a group gathering around the same table in the canteen every lunchtime just over twenty years ago. But Lydia is an enthusiastic and dedicated Facebook ‘friend’, even though we haven’t seen each other in years, nor do we have anything in common.
I look around at the other guests here to celebrate Lydia’s fortieth. There are a couple of colleagues from the school where Lydia teaches, with their children. And one of her sisters is here with her young family; the other sister couldn’t make it this weekend. Then there are her college friends – that’s me and Lennie. I have this overwhelming feeling of impending doom. Is this it? Is this what the future holds for me? A half-empty room, an expectant buffet table and a load of no-shows?
I glance at my phone one more time, just in case Mr Engineering Company Owner is really Mr Right and he’s going to tell me it’s been a nightmare of a day, his phone’s been out of charge and he’s had a flat on the Audi on the way to meet me. But no. Nothing. Just a silence that tells me everything I need to know. I let out a long, slow sigh.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ says Lennie.
‘We can’t. If we go, there’ll be hardly anyone left. We promised we’d come.’
‘And we have. We’ve shown face. Now let’s go and find something half decent to drink.’ He nods at my glass. ‘You hate Zinfandel! And I bet your feet are killing you in those shoes. I know you love a bargain, but just because they were one doesn’t mean you should buy them if they don’t fit properly.’
He makes me laugh. He knows me too well. My toes are dying to be released from my bargain-buy vintage red polkadot T-bar heels. I always try to wear heels. It helps make up for my lack of height. Lennie towers over me, making me feel even shorter than I am. Lennie is tall and slim, with dark hair that he loves to keep waxed, to match his sharp work suits; and if he doesn’t, it always seems to look like bed hair. He’s recently given up on contact lenses and taken up dark-rimmed designer glasses, making him look like a young Jeff Goldblum, with a wide smile that never fails to make me smile back. Whereas I have bright red dyed hair, with lipstick to match, and what you might call the fuller figure; or as Lennie describes me when he knows I need cheering up, curvaceous. But I think I’m more hour-and-a-half than hour glass.
‘We can’t leave,’ I repeat. ‘Besides, I can’t afford to go anywhere else. Not on the wages I’m earning now I’m a failed businesswoman.’ I’m working as an assistant in the clothing department of a big store. It’s all rules and clocking in and clocking off, dress codes and company policies. My worst nightmare, in fact, with the wages to match.
‘You miss the shop, don’t you?’ He tilts his head at me.
‘I loved it.’ I try not to let the crack in my voice show. ‘It was my dream.’ But I’m no good at hiding emotion. If I’m happy, everyone knows it, and if I’m not . . . well, I’m not great at hiding that either.
‘I know,’ Lennie says kindly. And he does. We’ve been friends ever since college, where we met Lydia. He did graphics and design and technology, with the hope of becoming an architect. I did drama and photography. But Lennie didn’t become an architect. He went on to uni, partied hard and lost all interest in his studies. He eventually became an estate agent; staying in the housing game, he would say, but I know it isn’t really for him. He likes working out how houses can be changed and redesigned to improve them. Dealing with valuations and time-wasters isn’t really his thing. But the job does come with a smart car and requires him to wear a suit every day, which his mum, Valerie, is very proud about.
I flitted around between wanting to do set design in theatre and television, stage make-up, or maybe camera work. I think it was all to feed my obsession with fifties black-and-white movies. Really I just wanted to be Audrey Hepburn inRoman Holiday. So glamorous! But I couldn’t make anything pay. Eventually, after ending up waitressing in an American-style diner in a cheap nylon uniform, waiting for opportunity to knock, I gave up on the dream of working in film.
But when I got the chance to bring Lennie’s idea for a vintage clothing shop to life, I grabbed it. There was a pet shop on the high street. The owner was retiring. Lennie was sent to photograph the premises and advertise the lease.
The day I picked up the keys and started sweeping up the stale sawdust was probably the happiest of my life. This was going to be my own glamorous Hollywood-inspired vintage clothing and collectibles shop. I was going to be living my Audrey Hepburn dream in real life.
