Page 3 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

The Ronettes

BE MY BABY

I was a gin and tonic into the early evening and dancing around the living room with Fred. He was a patient dog. Part Jack Russell and part who-only-knows. David and I rescued him some three years ago and to this day, we haven’t been able to determine his age. Based on his mood swings, though, I thought he was likely of a similar age to us: dancing around the living room with me one minute; moaning about the loud puppies that lived next door the next. He was a picture of middle-age. Though David and I had picked him out together, Fred had always been more mine than he was my husband’s. Which was why, at the end of a long day, I could get away with putting on a classic swinger’s song or two, scooping him up into a ball, and waltzing around the sofa, armchair, and coffee table with him, making an assault course of the living room. Meanwhile, Fred would rest his head on my shoulder, as though content with enjoying the closeness.

‘You love that dog more than you love me.’

David came in with a bowl in each hand, and Lucy winding her way between his legs.

‘Shift, shift, you feline.’

Lucy meowed in answer to him. She was gorgeous: black all over with a single spot of white just above the parting between her eyes, and I’d come to think of her fondly as a little cow-bag. She and I didn’t get along, but we had found common ground in our love of David. Because of that, we tolerated each other’s existence. I’d sometimes wondered whether it was a woman-to-woman competitive streak that we both harboured. That, or whether she was David’s mother reincarnated, which would also explain a thing or two.

‘It’s not that I love him more.’ I kissed Fred underneath his drooping ear before setting him gently into his bed; one of three that were dotted around the flat.

‘Is there more to that sentence?’

I rested my hands on my hips and stared at the dog for a minute. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

David laughed. ‘Peaches and cream?’ He gestured with both bowls.

‘Ooh.’ I bunched my shoulders up and forced a pleased expression. ‘Am I in hospital?’

‘Don’t be ungrateful, Patricia. Did you eat that banana I left out for you this morning?’

David had taken to “subtly” leaving healthy things around the flat for me to eat – like we were living in a dreadfully disappointing children’s story, and my scrummy sourdough breadcrumbs had been replaced with low fat granola. I had taken the banana he’d left out – with a flask of what turned out to be herbal tea, too – but I had also donated it to the homeless man outside of Tesco Express. He seemed about as grateful for it as I’d been. I understood David’s reasoning for the (anti)treats, though. There was something to be said for having someone in your life who loved you so much that they were actively trying to make you live longer.

I took one of the bowls from him and plonked myself in my armchair. ‘It was delicious.’ I rested David’s version of dessert on the arm of the chair as I reached into the side-table drawer next to me.

‘What are you doing?’

A harsh snap came in answer. ‘I’m breaking up four squares of Dairy Milk into this.’

David tutted as he landed on the sofa. ‘Patti–’

‘Oh, don’t, David. We’ve had such a lovely evening.’

‘Fine.’ He spoke around a mouthful of peach. ‘But someday, tell your doctor that I tried.’

‘I will, my darling. I’ll request that it be put into my notes and everything: I have a very trying husband.’ I ran my spoon around the bowl to get a clump of chocolate, peach and cream in one and then shoehorned it into my mouth. David watched me with a cocked eyebrow. ‘In sickness and health.’

‘That’s not what that vow was written for.’

I watched as David dipped a finger into his bowl and lifted it out again, tipped with cream. He made come hither noises at Lucy, who looked at him like he was trying to poison her.

‘Ungrateful cow.’ He licked his finger clean. ‘What are we doing this weekend?’

‘I’m working on Saturday and–’

‘Patti, my violin is being re-strung and you work by choice.’

I cleared my throat. ‘I’m working on Saturday, and probably collecting the world’s smallest violin for you, so you can play me a sweet tune of sympathy on it when I arrive home, exhausted from my excursions. Then Ella and Nora are coming for dinner on Saturday evening. We don’t have anything for Sunday.’ I licked my spoon clean and waited.

‘Ella and Nora?’

‘They’re a couple, David.’

‘But both of them in a single sitting?’