Page 2 of My Lemon Grove Summer
Lennie and I had spent nights watching and rewatchingRoman Holidayin our late teens and early twenties, when I was living with him after his mum scooped me up and put my life back on track. We also watchedRebel Without a Causeand anything with Marilyn Monroe in. I’d like to say I look like Marilyn Monroe, but I don’t. Not really. Though I do love wearing full skirts and wide belts, which I have been pulled up on at work on numerous occasions for not conforming to regulation uniform dress. Honestly, I’m nearly forty! It’s like being back at school. I also like to wear a scarf around my hair, which is almost a disciplinary offence. I take it off when I get to work and put it on again as soon as I’ve finished, imagining I’m walking out on the arm of my very own Gregory Peck.
Ah, the romance of it all! But maybe that’s my problem. I’m an old romantic, and perhaps what I’m looking for only exists in films. I’ve been hoping to star in the feature-film version of my life and seem to have ended up on the cutting-room floor.
‘Superspecs are moving into where the old greengrocer’s used to be on the high street,’ says Lennie, flicking through his phone now out of boredom. ‘And Buster’s Burgers are coming too.’
‘Well, there’s no room for independent businesses any more now that the rates have gone up. It’s mostly all chains,’ I say, feeling my hackles rise. I grip my glass and give an involuntary shudder of fury, and some of the wine slops over the rim. I wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like this.
‘You’ll get a shop again one day,’ says Lennie, glancing up from his screen with a sympathetic expression.
‘I’m just so angry.’ I can feel my cheeks burning. ‘I mean, business was good. I was scraping a living, and with the online side as well . . .’
Lennie looks at me softly. It’s not like he hasn’t heard this a million times since I had to give up the lease and hand back the keys two years ago. Two years! Time is flying! And if getting the keys was the best day of my life, giving them back was the worst. Having that shop was everything I’d dreamed of. Well, a start, anyway. I imagined it getting bigger and more successful; larger premises for the collectible furniture I’d started to branch into.
‘You feel bullied out,’ Lennie finishes for me, smiling, though I have no idea what he’s finding to smile about. I look down into my vivid pink wine and nod, hoping that one day the upset will ease. My dream, my future was stolen from me. That’s how I actually feel.
I take a deep breath and steady myself, and then look around the room at the party. It does nothing to brighten my mood. Who would be at my party if I had one? I have no kids or extended family. It’s just me . . . and Lennie and Valerie. I’m not in contact with my mum; we parted company years ago. Her life was chaotic, to say the least. I did meet up with her again some years later, but we didn’t really find much in common. We stayed in touch for a bit after that, but it fizzled out. I didn’t have any real urge to meet up again. Her world was still chaotic and I wanted mine to be different.
It was Valerie who gave me the stability I craved. She had been our school bus driver when I was at secondary school and we’d always got on. I’d sit up front in the minibus and take control of the radio or the CD player. She knew when I’d had a bad day, and if I wasn’t on the bus, she’d check to see if I was in detention. There was always an emergency chocolate bar in the glove compartment for those days when I’d got told off for not doing homework, losing something, not paying attention, or when I lost my rag and had to be sent to sit outside the headmaster’s office to cool down. I never really fitted in, but Valerie was always there.
After I left school, with the certainty that I wasn’t going to get any GCSEs, I fell in with the wrong crowd. My life started to go off the rails, and when I hit rock bottom, it was Valerie I phoned. She came and found me sitting on a bench in town, bundled me into her car and moved me in with her. To begin with, Lennie and I were a little wary of each other, but we soon bonded over starting at the further education college together, and a love of tea and toast in Valerie’s little kitchen, and became the closest of friends.
Eventually I felt I should move out and into a flat share, and have been living this way ever since. Property prices have soared in our area and I’m not sure I’ll ever get on the ladder now. Even Lennie ended up moving back home to try and save money.
So I really don’t have anything or anyone to show for my life to date. I mean, you get to your twenties and think you’ve got it all to come. You party hard, certain that life will come together in your thirties. You get to your thirties and expect it all to fall into place – career, home, partner and kids. How has it never happened for me, like it never really happened for my mum? I’m thirty-nine, for goodness’ sake – nearly forty! – and I live in rented accommodation with Maureen, my landlady, a list of rules as long as your arm and a cat called Henry who wees in my wardrobe if I leave my bedroom door open.
I mean, there was Nathan for a couple of years of my thirties, when I thought life was finally panning out. But that all finished after a disastrous weekend in west Wales when I found him in bed with the pub barmaid. My thirties seem to have been a constant quest for this happiness we feel is part of life’s natural cycle. I’ve been constantly searching for Mr Right, for the right job, the right house. I thought I’d nearly got it in the shop, with my flat above and the little balcony that I’d filled with geraniums overlooking the high street. All I needed was for the perfect partner to turn up and I was on the way to having it all. And then it was gone.
I don’t want to be like my mother. I want my life to be fulfilling, successful. I want a big family to celebrate with when I turn forty, close friends and loyal customers; instead, I know I’ll be lucky to have even a few work colleagues, and some college friends I barely know.
‘Urgh!’ I say out loud. ‘It’s so depressing!’
‘What is?’ Lennie says distractedly, checking his phone again.
‘This! Life! Well, lack of it . . .’ I sigh, my bosom in its V-neck sweater rising and falling. ‘If my fortieth is like this . . .’
‘Doesn’t have to be.’ He grins widely. ‘We could have it all, be the ones who made it work . . .’
‘What do you mean?’ I frown. I can’t see any way of my life suddenly lining itself up in a neat, orderly queue before I reach my milestone – or should that be millstone? – birthday.
‘I mean . . .’ He’s having to shout to make himself heard. The music has kicked up a gear; clearly Lydia is trying to get the party going. ‘The pact!’
‘The what?’
‘At college? Remember?’
I shake my head and move in closer to him, feeling comforted that I have such a good friend to share the rubbish hand life has dealt me.
‘What I mean is, no more ghosting! No more chasing around looking for Mr Perfect!’
I’m still confused. I look towards the door, hoping that he means my date has turned up and he can tell he’s the one. In fact, some of the guests are leaving. I’m cross with myself for thinking for even a second that Mr Right had finally arrived to sweep me off my feet. I’m nearly forty! It’s time I stopped this nonsense. It’s time to stop believing that there is love at first sight out there for me. It’s a myth, peddled by smug married people to make others think they’ve found the holy grail when really their lives are just as mundane as everyone else’s.
‘What are you talking about, Lennie? Please God, don’t tell me you’re going to set me up with someone. Although maybe arranged marriages aren’t the worst idea in the world. I mean, I bet if you went out to find me my perfect partner, you’d get it a lot more right than I have.’ I manage a smile.
‘Exactly!’ Lennie beams.
‘What? You’re not serious!’ The smile drops from my face.
‘I’m not suggesting we find each other dates, no.’
