We try to coincide our visits as much as possible, grabbing a quick juice or a coffee after our workouts. Even so, we probably only manage it once a week, and these days, as I’m a single parent, even less. I weave my way through the tables. I bend down to give Cassie a quick peck on the cheek.
‘You look chirpy.’ She raises her eyebrows at me.
‘Any chance you could be with the kids on either Saturday or Sunday?’ I feel bad about asking, as Cassie has been helping out so much recently. Initially, she refused to accept payment, insisting that she was only doing what friends do. But now we’ve come to an agreement. I do an online payment so that no actual cash is exchanging hands between friends. Cassie’s proud, and I get it. She glances at the calendar on her phone. ‘Sunday is good.’
‘I’ve got a date, and I have a really good feeling about this one!’
‘That’s so exciting! Show me his profile.’
As I’m digging my phone out of my bag, Cassie waves at someone.
‘Fiona’s over there.’ I look up and beckon Fiona over.
‘Hey, girls, how are you both doing? Lydia, you haven’t got a drink. What would you like? I’ll get you one.’
‘A mint tea would be great. Thanks, Fiona.’
She strides back towards the counter. Her hair is tied back harshly from her wide forehead, her well-toned muscles rippling through her Lycra leggings and fitted top. I wouldn’t describe Fiona as pretty; she’s more statuesque, tall and imposing. A strong woman with an indescribable magnetic quality. Perhaps she has an inner self-confidence that Cassie and I both lack.
And now she’s back, dragging a chair over to sit between Cassie and me. Although she’s several years younger than us, she doesn’t seem it. Maybe it’s because she wears heavy foundation, or perhaps it’s because she holds herself with that self-contained gravitas. There is something strangely compelling about her; it strikes me every time we get together. Or perhaps it’s because she doesn’t have kids, and her sole focus is work.
‘How was the date with the solicitor?’ Fiona asks.
‘Dreadful. Well, not totally dreadful,’ I say, feeling guilty. ‘He was nice enough, just not my type.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, patting my hand.
The three of us have spent hours sharing our dreams of the perfect man. More often than not, I feel as if we’re acting like teenagers rather than mature women. Tragic.
‘Show us his profile,’ Cassie urges.
I hand my phone to her. Fiona leans over to take a look.
They both screech. A couple of women at the adjacent table look up and frown at us.
‘He’s gorgeous!’ Cassie says. ‘How come you got to see him first?’
‘Lydia deserves it. She’s had such an awful year,’ Fiona says. ‘When are you meeting him?’
I blink repeatedly and swallow a sip of too-hot tea.
‘Sunday.’ I grin.
When I pull back the heavy cream curtains in my bedroom, I smile. It’s a beautiful autumnal day, and rays of sun bathe me in light, little motes dancing and glistening in the air. For the first time in years, I feel hopeful. I pull on a pair of smart jeans, a white shirt and a baggy, pale grey cashmere jumper.
I try to read the Sunday papers whilst drinking my morning coffee, but I can’t concentrate on the words. I switch on the television and watch BBC News 24, but I can’t even concentrate on that. The next two hours pass painfully slowly.
When Cassie arrives at 10.30 a.m., I am togged up and ready to go.
‘The kids are still asleep,’ I say as she gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ve left food for you in the fridge. Wake them if they’re not up by midday.’
‘Go,’ she says, giving me a little push. ‘Have a fab time and message me. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!’
I laugh. That allows me free rein to do things I would never dream of.
I plug Patrick’s instructions into my satnav and, with my sunglasses on, drive south. There are plenty of cars in the car park, unsurprising on this glorious day. I pull into a space at the far end, check my face in the sun visor mirror, running my fingers through my shoulder-length dark blonde hair and wiping my tongue over my front teeth. Taking a deep breath, I get out of the car. I glance around, wondering if he’s already here and which his car might be. Not seeing any sign of life, I open the tailgate and take out my wellington boots.
‘Lydia?’
‘Yes!’ I jump. I turn around and it’s him. Patrick looks exactly like his photograph. Better, in fact. He is tall, slender, clean-shaven and he has a dimple in his right cheek. Wearing a dark blue waxed jacket over an open-necked checkered blue-and-white shirt and faded jeans, he leans towards me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. The scent of his aftershave is sublime. For a moment, I am dumbstruck, so I turn away quickly, fiddle with my wellington boots, then stand up straight and lock the car. If he wonders about my expensive motor, it doesn’t show on his face.
My eyes are drawn to his face, but I don’t want to stare. His eyes are a clear pale blue outlined with long dark eyelashes. His hair is somewhat unruly, thick and curly. With features that are not exactly symmetrical, craggy almost, I can’t put my finger on why he is so gorgeous.
‘You chose a beautiful day for a walk on the Downs.’ He grins. ‘Are you ready?’
I nod.
We walk for a while in silence, our feet crunching on the chalky gravel.
‘I haven’t been here in years,’ he says. ‘I used to come up to Chanctonbury Ring when I was a kid. There were more trees in those days. How about you? Have you always lived in Sussex?’
‘No. I was brought up in Cheshire. Mum moved to Worthing after Dad died. I went to college in Brighton. My hus… Adam was from here. How about you?’
‘I’m from all over. A bit of a nomad. But I like Sussex. Look, forgive me, but I did a Google search on you, Lydia, and I know what happened. I’m really sorry. Just wanted to get that out of the way.’
‘Oh.’ I stop walking. He also comes to a halt. Should I admit I did a search on him too and I found nothing? Or, at least, I couldn’t discern which of the four hundred Patrick Grants on LinkedIn he might be. And obviously he isn’t the famous fashionwear designer of the same name.
‘You must have had a dreadful year.’
‘Yes. Not the best. What the papers won’t tell you is that Adam and I had decided to divorce. Our marriage had been over for a few years.’
‘Nevertheless.’ He gazes towards the sea.
‘The kids are devastated, obviously. Do you have any children?’
He shakes his head and I sense a hint of regret. ‘Nope. Divorced a number of years ago. My wife cheated on me and turned me into a sworn monogamist.’
I don’t want to talk about Adam or Patrick’s ex-wife, so I change the subject and ask about his hobbies, but I don’t get a straight answer. Instead, he asks me lots of questions. I tell him about my crafting addiction and, out of habit, wince as I’m explaining it, remembering how Adam used to tease me and tell me I was old before my time. But Patrick’s smile doesn’t falter. He simply says how he’s looking forward to seeing what I make, and that knitting and crocheting remind him of his beloved grandmother.