Would Like to Meet

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Polly James 2016

Polly James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007548552

Ebook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780007548569

Version 2016-05-13

Dedication

For Mark, Daisy and Jack, as always – and for Becky Thomas, without whom there would be no book.

“There is no disguise which can hide love for long where it exists, or simulate it where it does not.”

François de la Rochefoucauld, 1613–1680

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Twenty-Seven Years Later…

Winter

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Spring

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Summer

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Autumn

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Winter

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Dan lets go of both oars and searches the front pockets of his jeans, looking more anxious by the second.

“Shit,” he says. “Where’ve I put it?”

I take no notice, as I’m too busy lounging in the stern of the dinghy and trailing my fingers in the water. The sky is intensely blue and I’m as happy as I’ve ever been. (I’m about to get even happier, though I don’t know that yet.)

“A-ha!” says Dan. “I’ve found it. Thank God for that.”

I’m still not looking at him, because now I’m friend-spotting amongst the groups of art school students celebrating the end of finals on the banks of the Serpentine in Hyde Park. The sun’s so bright, I can’t see properly without the sunglasses I dropped overboard the last time Dan kissed me, so I just wave vaguely in the direction of the crowds.

Someone shouts something unintelligible across the water, at the same time as a duck squawks and Dan says something equally unintelligible.

“What?” I say. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Hannah,” says Dan, his dark eyes fixed on mine. “Pay attention, will you? I’m trying to do something important here.”

The boat bobs gently up and down as he adds, “I asked you if you’ll marry me.”

I stare at him, wondering if I’ve misheard due to that infuriating still-squawking duck, and then he tries again.

“I love you, Han. Marry me?”

“Oh, my God, yes,” I say, “Yes, please.”

I jump up and hurl myself towards Dan, just as he tries to pass me the small blue ring box that he’s holding, but then the boat rocks and tips me headfirst into the lake.

Thirty seconds later, Dan has already dived in to rescue me from the weeds in which I’m now entangled, and has lost my engagement ring in the process – as well as the boat, which is drifting away.

Fifteen minutes after that, we’ve swum to the bank and are outside the cafe, wrapped in blankets and toasting each other with mugs of hot chocolate, while being lectured on why you should never stand up carelessly in a dinghy by the owner of the one we allowed to drift away. That’s the exact moment at which an off-duty press photographer takes our photograph, the one that appears in the local paper the following day, under the headline: Loved-Up Art Students Make a Splash.

Chapter 1

It’s all the fault of the half-naked teenagers, or most of it, anyway. They’re staggering about drunkenly on the TV screen, and Dan is staring at them as if his life depended on it.

“What the hell are you watching?” I say, as I come into the room bearing two mugs of extra-strong coffee to help prevent the hangover we’ll otherwise be doomed to have.

It’s 12:30am, and we’ve been drinking geriatric drinks all night: Aunt Pearl’s way of thanking us for moving her belongings into her new retirement flat during the day. I don’t think port and lemon agrees with me, and it certainly doesn’t agree with Dan. It’s given him short-term memory loss, judging by the fact that he completely forgot to wish me a happy New Year when we heard Big Ben strike twelve on the radio, in the taxi that was bringing us home.

Once we arrived, Dan got out of the car, unlocked the front door, and then headed straight for the sofa like a homing pigeon. One with opposable claws for operating remote controls, and a tendency to go deaf whenever wives ask awkward questions.

I try again.

“What is this programme, Dan?” I say.

“God knows,” he says, taking the mug I pass him without moving his eyes away from the screen. “Brits in Ibiza, or something like that.”

He must be able to sense my expression, as then he adds, “Probably the channel Joel was watching before he went out tonight.”

It’s so useful having a supposedly adult son still living at home whenever you need to pass the buck. I doubt Joel would be caught dead watching this idiotic programme, not when he can view similar scenes any night of the week when he’s out clubbing – and in the flesh, as it were. God, there’s a lot of that on this TV show.

I shift about in my seat, suddenly uncomfortably aware of what I’m now wearing: mismatched pyjamas, to go with my rather less mismatched face and arse. They say either your arse can look good after the age of forty, or your face, but never both. When you get as close to fifty as I now am, both are past their sell-by date.

“I can’t see the appeal of half-naked teenagers, myself – not since I stopped being one,” I say. “Especially not when they’re vomiting everywhere like this lot will be in a minute. Isn’t there anything better on?”

Dan doesn’t reply. You’d swear he’d been watching this programme for at least the last two hours and it was about to reach a thrilling climax, given how hard he’s concentrating. I repeat what I’ve just said, and then I wave at him across the room, but he doesn’t react, and then I feign a coughing fit. Still no response whatsoever – none – so I pull off one of my slipper socks and throw it at him.

My aim’s a bit off, but I do finally succeed in getting Dan’s attention. In fact, he almost jumps out of his skin.

“What the fuck, Hannah?” he says, fishing the sock out of his coffee, and making a face. “Why did you do that?”

“You were ignoring me,” I say. “Too busy ogling those girls with their boobs and arses hanging out.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” says Dan, who suddenly looks quite angry. Very angry, actually. I’m not used to seeing him like that, even during the stupid arguments we’ve been having recently. He did get a bit cross when I complained about him and Joel never putting toilet-roll inners into the bathroom bin the other day, but nothing like as cross as this. Now he looks as if he can’t stand the sight of me.

“I was joking, Dan,” I say, quickly. It’s only half a lie, but he spots it, anyway.

“Like hell you were.”

Dan glares at me, and then he adds, “All I wanted was to chill out in front of the TV, after a bloody long day dealing with Pearl, and it didn’t matter what I was watching, as far as I was concerned. But if I had picked this programme on purpose, then who could blame me? The only flesh I get to see these days is on TV.”

Dan seems almost as shocked by what he’s just said as I am, and there’s silence for a moment, as we both let his words sink in. Then I swallow, and say very slowly and clearly, “You mean that’s the type of flesh you prefer. You make that pretty obvious.”

Did I really say that out loud? I laugh, to lessen the sting, but Dan has lost his temper now.

“You can’t say something like you just did, and then laugh as if you didn’t mean it, Hannah,” he says. “And how exactly do I make my ‘preference’ so obvious?”

I wish I’d never started this conversation now. It’s one thing to feel inadequate, but ten times more humiliating to admit to it, and then to explain why you do.

“I just meant,” I say, keeping my head down and staring intently at a piece of fluff on the carpet, “that you make it clear that you don’t fancy me any more. I know I don’t look like the woman you married these days, but –”

“You don’t act like her, either,” says Dan. “In fact, you’re nothing like her. You want me to be as miserable as you are, and God forbid that either of us should have any fun. So I don’t quite get what I’m supposed to fancy about someone who’s more interested in Joel and Pearl than in me, as well as in their stupid job, and who’s so obsessed with losing their looks that they walk around with a face like a wet weekend the whole damn time. That’s really bloody attractive.”

I’m so stunned I don’t know what to say, or where to start, so I just sit there, twisting my hands in my lap, and trying to ignore the tear that’s rolling down the side of my nose and heading towards my mouth. Dan spots it and it seems to annoy him even more.

“I don’t know why you’re crying, Hannah,” he says. “You started this, and normally you’d be the one with the killer line to finish it. So why don’t we just get it over with? I know you’re unhappy with yourself, but now you’re blaming me for it, and making me feel like a useless husband, too. I’m sick and tired of you trying to push me into saying I don’t fancy you, so here you are: I don’t. Feel better now?”

I think it’s safe to say I don’t, and I feel even worse when Dan and I end up agreeing to separate. Happy New Year, Hannah Pinkman. Nicely done.

Chapter 2

Huh. Dan’s still sleeping in the spare room and doing that “no-talking” thing the rest of the time, even though New Year’s Eve was days ago. How can you have a row so bad that you decide to separate, then fail to mention it ever again? That’s just bloody typical. He obviously didn’t mean a word he said, which is really annoying, as I haven’t slept a wink for the last three nights.

I’m like a sleepwalking zombie when I go back to work this morning, which doesn’t escape the notice of my boss, the Apprentice wannabe better known as the Fembot. At lunchtime, she writes my stats on the whiteboard in much larger writing than she uses for anyone else’s.

“Hannah’s having trouble keeping up with us young ones today,” she announces to anyone who’s listening, at the same time as rising up on her toes and twirling around to show her arse off to its best advantage. What sort of dingbat wears hot pants to work, for goodness’ sake?

“I’m sorry,” I say, when it becomes apparent that eye-rolling is insufficient, and some sort of verbal response is required. “I’m not feeling well. I’ve got a bit of a stomach upset, to tell the truth.”

“I see,” says the Fembot, in the tone of voice that means, I don’t believe a word of it.

I go to the loo four times in the next forty-five minutes, just to prove her wrong. Then, when she leans over the back of my chair to ask if I realise that I’ve been “spotted leaving my desk four times in the last forty-five minutes”, I tell her that there’s a highly-contagious bug going around.

“Joel’s been ill with it for days,” I say. “He looks like shit. I hope none of you will catch it.”

It’s only a small lie, given that Joel has had a three-day hangover since he overdid the drinking on New Year’s Eve, but it serves its purpose very nicely: the Fembot moves away as if she’s been electrocuted. She’s got a date tonight.

“Go home, Hannah,” she says. “Right this minute.”

“Are you sure?” I say, standing up and following her across the room, getting as close as I can and breathing heavily down her neck. I cough a couple of times, for good measure. Now she’s put the idea in my head, I really fancy an afternoon off – preferably spent sound asleep.

“Yes, I’m positive,” says the Fembot, glaring at me. “You can work from home instead.”

I hate modern jobs. In the olden days, when you were too ill to go into your place of work, no one expected you to work at all. Now you do everything on a computer or a mobile phone, you’d have to be dead and buried before you could get away with claiming to be unfit to work.

I particularly hate my modern job.

It isn’t the type of thing I thought I’d be spending my working life doing when I met Dan at art school all those years ago. Then we both thought we were headed for fame and fortune, or for something creative, anyway. Instead, Dan got such a boring job at the Council that he can’t even be bothered to explain to people what it is, and I ended up as a graphic designer for HOO, a question-and-answer site. (Officially, HOO stands for Helpful Opinions Online, but staff know it better as Halfwits’ Opinions Online, or Halfwits for short.)

“Ahem,” says the Fembot, who’s obviously noticed that I’m no longer listening to whatever it is she’s going on about. “As I was saying, Hannah, you can email me that artwork from home tonight, but don’t forget it’s very urgent.”

Only the Fembot would use the word “urgent” to describe a stupid “thumbs-up, happy face” icon. It’s not half as urgent as dealing with a husband who does his wife’s head in by saying something terrible that he doesn’t mean, then taking a vow of silence afterwards. I’m going to make Dan talk to me tonight, as soon as he gets home, and sod the Fembot’s bloody icon.

* * *

Oh, my God. Dan says he meant what he said the other night. He really did. Twenty-seven years of marriage down the drain, just like that.

He comes home just as I’m waking from my nap, but doesn’t say a word until Joel goes out to meet his girlfriend. Then he takes a deep breath and hits me with it. (Not the breath, obviously.)

“So,” he says, turning off Netflix and putting the remote control out of reach. “I guess we should talk about what we’re going to do. I’m assuming you haven’t told Joel yet?”

“Told him what?” I say, annoyed at missing the last five minutes of Breaking Bad.

“That we’re splitting up,” says Dan, as if it should be obvious. “I haven’t said anything about it so far, as I didn’t see the point in stressing him out until we’d got it organised.”

Oh, brilliant. Dan’s worried about stressing Joel out – Joel, who’s oblivious to almost everything once he’s smoked a joint to celebrate finishing work for the day. And what about my stress levels? I could have a heart attack at any second, at my age.

I think I might be, actually. Having a heart attack, I mean. My breathing’s gone all funny and now I feel genuinely sick. I’ve got pins and needles in both my arms as well, though I suppose that could be because my fists have suddenly clenched so tight.

Dan doesn’t seem to notice there’s something wrong with me. He’s too busy looking down at his hands, which he’s fiddling with in his lap.

“If we’re getting on each other’s nerves so much,” he says, inspecting his fingers as if his life depends on it, “then it seems the only sensible thing to do. Doesn’t it?”

Well, if that’s how he feels, it obviously does.

“Yes,” I say.

Then I run upstairs to the bathroom, and am sick. I never believed it when people in films threw up after they’d had a shock. Now I know it happens in real life too.

When I finally come back downstairs, still shaking and clammy, Dan glances up at me, then says,

“You okay? You don’t look good.”

I forgot that was the explanation, or rather, I must have blanked it out. Dan said he doesn’t fancy me any more the other night, didn’t he? And you can’t make someone fancy you again, once they’ve stopped. At least, I don’t think you can … and what’s the point in being married to someone who doesn’t want to be married to you, anyway?

I reach for the remote, and turn the TV back on.

“I’m fine,” I say, staring back at Dan without blinking, so he’ll believe I’m telling the truth.

I’m not going to cry. I am not. Not when the only thing left to salvage is my dignity.

* * *

Well, my no-crying resolution didn’t last long. I’m standing by the coffee machine this morning, when the Fembot starts holding forth about her date last night.

“I don’t usually fancy older men,” she says, “but I think I’ve been missing out on something. They really know what they’re doing in bed, and they appreciate younger women, too. Probably because the ones their own age are so bloody hideous. They give up bothering about how they look, once they’ve been married for a while.”

She means women like me, doesn’t she? And men like Dan. I hadn’t thought of that. Now Dan’s probably going to start dating a hot-panted child, while I’ll be stuck on my own, consigned to the scrapheap just in time for my fiftieth birthday.

“I think your coffee’s ready,” says someone behind me, so I make a grab for the cup, catch it against the top of the machine, and then drop the damn thing on the floor, narrowly missing the Fembot’s feet – which is a tragedy when she’s wearing her favourite pair of Louboutins.

My legs are covered in hot coffee, though I’m not too worried about that. I’m more concerned about the funny noise that’s just started escaping from my chest. It sounds like the beginning of what could easily end up being a full-blown sob, if I don’t choke it off. I bite my tongue, hard, which seems to do the trick, though the Fembot’s already noticed that something’s up.

“All except you, Hannah,” she says, looking a bit shocked. “I didn’t mean you, even though you are a lot more mature than the rest of us. Like Taste the Difference cheddar, you know.”

Cheddar? Now I’m like cheese? I can’t speak, in case another one of those funny noises makes its presence felt. Luckily, I don’t have to: the person behind me intercedes on my behalf.

“Hannah’s fine,” she says. “Though she may have scalded her legs a bit. I’ll go with her while she puts cold water on them.”

Then she takes me firmly by the arm and shepherds me out of the office.

“Thanks, er … um,” I say, as we make our way along the corridor towards the ladies’ loos. Who is this Good Samaritan?

“Esther,” she says. “We met when I came for my interview, a couple of weeks ago.”

I must have been on another planet at the time as I don’t recall ever meeting this girl before, even though I can see her more clearly now my eyes have finally stopped being so inexplicably watery. Girl is a bit of a misnomer, actually, as Esther is definitely a lot older than the Fembot, at first glance. On second thoughts, though, maybe she isn’t. I think it’s just her clothes and hair which give that impression: she’s probably only about thirty-five.

“Nice to meet you, Esther,” I say, shaking her hand. “And thanks for coming to the rescue, too. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Listening to your boss, I should think,” says Esther, pretty much hitting the nail on the head. “All the other staff seem nice, but does she really despise anyone older than her as much as she just sounded as if she did?”