The Secret to Falling in Love Read online

  She gathered her belongings and staggered to her feet. ‘Get out there and live your life. You only get one of them, after all.’ She patted my hand. ‘And thank you for the champagne. You really have made my day today.’ With that, she picked up her bag and shuffled towards the escalator. What a lovely lady she was, I thought, sipping the last of my champagne.

  I needed to solve the problem of immediate communication. How did I do it in the eighties? I racked my brains. Well, mainly we used disposable cups tied together with string, which was a great way of communicating if you were within twenty feet of your recipient and had the ability to politely await your turn to speak – neither of which applied to me or my gaggle. We did used to write notes and leave them in secret places for the other person to collect – sometimes they were even coded!

  I used to write letters to my pen pal in Ireland; we’d met at a holiday camp, and the anticipation of receiving a letter in the post was extremely exciting. I reckoned that letters could work for the short term, though I’d missed today’s post, and that meant it would be at least Wednesday before anyone even knew I’d gone dark. I’d have to physically hand-deliver them.

  Since I was technically already out shopping, I decided to treat myself to a few necessities. I picked up a pretty spotty grey Radley notebook that would come in handy for notes. I went for a sleek silver Cross ballpoint pen too. If I’m doing this, then I’m doing it properly. There was a very tempting Swarovski Crystalline option, but it doubled as a USB stick, and something told me that wouldn’t have been around in the 1980s.

  ***

  I marched briskly through the dark, crisp evening air towards Gemma’s apartment in Ancoats, taking in the city lights and riled expressions of the busy commuters as I did. It occurred to me that it would soon be spring, and there would be food festivals, Pimm’s and summery window displays to ogle and tempt me on my walk home from work; it was something I hadn’t thought about before, and the idea made me smile.

  The walk passed quickly courtesy of the many distractions of the city, and I soon found myself punching in Gemma’s flat number on the intercom. She didn’t answer, and my spirits were dampened by the realisation that I wouldn’t even be able to get into the building to leave a note.

  As I stood waiting, wondering what to do next, a young man approached the exit to the building and – being a polite, gentlemanly type – held the door open, allowing me to slip in and access the mailboxes. I grabbed my notebook and pen and scribbled a brief note to Gemma:

  Hi Gemma,

  I have no access to the internet and no phone. It’s a long story but it’s for a work project. If you need me you’ll have to pop round or write me a letter – I will be offline for about a month. Definitely don’t leave it that long – I’ll get withdrawal symptoms!

  Mel

  X

  PS: Please can you let everyone else know, including my mum. (You know she will worry if I don’t answer.) xx

  I looked around, not wanting anyone to see me; a stranger tampering with mailboxes on a Friday evening might well have looked suspicious. Nobody was about, so, feeling a little like a Russian spy, I quickly crammed the note in Gemma’s mailbox and slipped back out into the night.

  Chapter Seven

  Normally I would be more than content to sit around in my PJs all day, messing about on social media and playing annoyingly addictive games on my phone. But without my technological distractions, I was feeling rather bored, especially since I’d had an earlier night than usual – a positive result of not being compelled to answer group chat conversations. Pull yourself together and do something, my brain whined.

  I contemplated several ideas: a solo picnic in the park, which would have been different but very chilly; a shopping trip; or I could have caught a matinée show. Pulling on my jeans and a sweater, I decided to do something I hadn’t done in ages: visit my sister and her brood.

  I practically skipped down to Piccadilly station to catch a train. It was a beautiful and crisp February day, the sun was shining and the sky clear and blue. I caught the eyes of several passers-by and was greeted by ‘Morning, love’ or ‘All right?’ from a few of the friendly Mancunian folk.

  It astounded me that I’d never looked up and taken any notice of the city centre before, or at least not enough to appreciate how old and beautiful some of the buildings were, nor the juxtaposition of random uber-trendy office blocks with the regenerated historical mills. It was like I was seeing the city for the first time.

  Piccadilly Gardens was bustling with brave children taunting their parents, threatening to dart into the water feature without a moment’s notice. Bars had already opened and punters dared to sit outside, lured by the rare sunshine and the warmth of the patio heaters, to enjoy a late-morning latte. The sun appeared to have lifted everyone’s spirits, mine included.

  I arrived at the train station to find a train to Altrincham already waiting. I took a seat, still smiling about how lovely my morning had been so far. A waft of aftershave snapped me out of my own little world; I instantly recognised the scent of Hugo Boss. I wasn’t sure which aftershave it was, but it didn’t matter. They all had the same magnetic draw, to me at least.

  I was compelled to try and find the face of the person diffusing this amazing scent around the carriage of the train. He seemed to be sitting in front of me, so a sneaky glance was out of the question, and the bright glare of daylight wasn’t granting me much of a reflection in the window. If I rested my head against the glass, I could just see the side of his head . . . but unfortunately, judging by his haircut and hooded top I guessed he wasn’t a day over fifteen.

  I slumped back into the comfort of my seat. That was the annoying thing about the months following Christmas – even children had bloody aftershave. I sighed heavily and returned to gazing out of the window.

  ***

  When I arrived at my sister’s detached house, her mum-mobile sat proudly on the driveway, so thankfully my journey hadn’t been a waste of time. I didn’t think I’d ever just turned up out of the blue before and suddenly felt a little nervous. Knowing the chaos that was usually contained within the four walls before me, I knocked loudly on the door.

  After a few moments I heard Lizzie shout something about needing to find a key. A minute or so passed and eventually the door clicked open. ‘Mel! Goodness, I wasn’t expecting you.’ She looked rather flustered, and I couldn’t tell if she was pleased to see me or not.

  ‘Sorry, Lizzie. I would have called but . . .’ I began.

  ‘No, no, don’t be silly. I’m just surprised, that’s all. Nobody but salesmen ever knock on the door these days. Come in.’ She beckoned me into the house.

  ‘Aunteeee Mel!’ A high-pitched chorus travelled down the hallway, followed by three overexcited toddlers.

  ‘Hello, you gorgeous little guys. How are you?’ I gathered them all into a group hug, ruffling their hair one at a time. I felt a pang of guilt that I couldn’t even tell the boys apart. Fortunately for me, they were dressed differently, so once I’d figured it out I’d be fine. I felt like such a bad aunty. ‘So, Lilly, what have you been doing today?’ I asked.

  ‘I played colouring but George coloured on the walls,’ she said sternly. Lilly took her role as the eldest very seriously.

  ‘I did NOT,’ shouted George. Bingo – at least I knew George was in the red T-shirt.

  ‘Oh, dear, you shouldn’t colour on the walls,’ I said softly, using my serious-aunty face.

  ‘I did NOT!’ George yelled again, adding a foot stomp for effect. I realised that maybe I shouldn’t have taken Lilly’s word as gospel.

  ‘Okay, well whoever it was, I hope they don’t do it again.’ I winked at Lizzie and turned to my other nephew, who was wearing a green T-shirt. ‘What have you done today, Alby?’

  ‘I played with my doggy,’ he declared, holding up a rather whiffy but very cute soft toy that did ever-so-slightly resemble a ‘doggy’.

  �
��Okay, let Aunty Mel come and sit down. She’s come a long way.’ Lizzie gestured towards the lounge, and I followed, carefully navigating the gauntlet of toys that littered the floor. Once we were safely seated, Lizzie asked, ‘So, what is going on with you these days? I can’t remember the last time we had a proper chat, never mind the last time you just popped in for a visit.’

  ‘Gosh, well, lots and nothing really.’ I sighed. I proceeded to fill Lizzie in on my disastrous dates, my article and my current technology-free lifestyle. She found the story of my most recent date hilarious, and couldn’t believe my article was mentioned on TV.

  ‘You, go without your phone for a month?’ She giggled, shaking her head. ‘Maybe Dee should have gone easy on you and asked you to chop your right arm off instead.’

  ‘I can do it! I have done . . . about twenty-four hours already,’ I said triumphantly, looking at my watch. ‘Anyway, enough about me. How are you? Tell me about life in the Kernwell household.’

  ‘Things are chaos as usual around here. Ben has been working a lot recently but bringing in some good money. We’re hoping to have a family holiday this year, somewhere warm and sunny, near a beach.’ She smiled.

  ‘That’s great, Lizzie. The kids would love that.’ I looked at my sister. She did look worn out, but I wasn’t surprised, what with three toddlers causing havoc on a daily basis. As if on cue, a loud scream echoed from the hallway. Lizzie and I jumped up and ran into the hall to find Alby screaming, his face all red and tears pouring from his little eyes. Lilly stood close by, looking sheepish.

  Lizzie scooped Alby up and tried to calm him down whilst simultaneously lifting his limbs and checking for signs of injury. The screams soon simmered down to sobs, and eventually Alby could communicate. ‘Lill-Lill pushed me.’ The corners of his mouth pulled down into the saddest face I thought I’d ever witnessed.

  Neither Lizzie nor I needed to be Miss Marple to have already worked out that Lilly was involved. Poor Alby was distraught, sobbing so hard his cheeks had gone red. Snot poured from his nose, diluted by tears. He still looked cute though. I plodded back into the lounge, leaving Lizzie to console Alby and reprimand Lilly.

  I wandered over to the windowsill, which was adorned with photographs, professional shots of the five of them. A beautiful wedding picture framed in delicate silver sat at the centre. In it, Lizzie and Ben looked so stunning, so happy. They’d met at college. Lizzie had never really had a boyfriend before Ben; falling in love had been so easy for them, and back then, I just assumed it would be like that for me. Not that I wanted to settle down that young, as I was too busy having fun.

  A collage of the children as babies stood next to the wedding photo, each pink bundle a picture of perfection, held proudly by Lizzie and Ben. My shoulders hunched as I felt a pang of envy. It was a childish thought, but I wondered why I couldn’t have that life too. Surely the bags under the eyes, the un-styled blonde hair with inch-long black roots were worth it to have your own little bundle of joy. Bundle in the singular form, as the three-toddler thing that Lizzie was showcasing looked pretty hard.

  But despite the chaos, Lizzie and Ben seemed sickeningly happy together. On their wedding day, the way he looked at her so affectionately when they said their vows had sent shivers down my spine. I took a moment to smile at the image of their perfect happy family, trying to push away that niggling envious feeling. I’m truly happy for Lizzie; I am.

  ‘Grrr, never have kids!’ Lizzie stormed back in, shattering my mental image of family bliss. ‘Seriously. See this jumper? It has snot and spaghetti hoops on it, and just look at my hair.’ She tugged at her hair and jumper simultaneously.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your hair,’ I lied.

  ‘You are kidding? Have you seen these roots?’ She lifted up a chunk of hair for emphasis.

  ‘I thought you’d gone for ombré colour. That’s in these days.’ I could tell I was failing to make her feel better, so I pulled out an ace card. ‘Maybe you and I should have a spa day?’ I ventured, remembering my birthday gift from Mum and Dad.

  ‘Mel, that would be amazing, but I never have the time nor a babysitter, or one that I trust, at least.’ She smiled momentarily before jumping into her next thought. ‘Anyway, I’ve been dying to tell you something.’ Lizzie perched herself on the arm of the sofa opposite me.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked cautiously, visions of child number four filling my brain.

  ‘Well, Mum was round a few days ago, and she was talking about how her neighbour Jean has this son who’s newly single, divorced, I think, or in the process of. Anyway, she and Jean have apparently been discussing pairing you off!’ she said, laughing.

  ‘What?’ I fumed, causing Lizzie to snicker more. ‘Mum mentioned Jean’s son on my birthday when we had “the talk” again, but I told her no. I thought she’d dropped it!’

  ‘Oh, don’t get mad. It’s sweet how they both care. And anyway, they both came to the conclusion that you weren’t right for each other and decided to abort their devious plan.’ Lizzie waved her hand as if to brush off the whole matter.

  ‘Not right for each other?’ I asked, suddenly feeling the urge to find out more, in particular why I wasn’t right for Jean’s son.

  ‘It’s quite funny really . . . they drew up a list.’

  ‘A list?’ I blurted out, shocked.

  ‘Yes, over tea. They had a list of why you should . . . now how did Mum put it? Oh yes, a list of why you should or shouldn’t “start courting”.’ At this point she was laughing so hard she was struggling to breathe.

  ‘Courting?’ Exasperated, I’d lost the ability to construct a sentence. How could two people sit drinking tea and discussing the future romances of their fully grown children? I was a dumbfounded to say the least.

  ‘Yes.’ Lizzie cleared her throat to stifle yet another chuckle, obviously in response to my aggrieved expression.

  The more intriguing part of the conversation came back to me. ‘The list, what did it say? Why exactly are the stars not aligning for me and Jean’s son?’

  ‘Well, let’s start with the positive stuff, because I’m a good-news-first kinda gal. You’re both single, both attractive and both in your mid-thirties, give or take.’

  ‘Positive, pah. I’m not looking forward to the negatives then. Of the three positive points there, two are “old” and “single”. Great.’ I realised I sounded like a stroppy teen, but seriously, if they were going to talk behind my back and arrange my marriage then they could have at least written some real positives on their list. Like hardworking, fit, independent, sophisticated . . . okay, scratch that last point.

  ‘Calm down. It’s positives for the love-match, not your positive personal traits. Jeez, did the North Koreans design your self-defence system? Anyway, may I continue?’

  ‘Yes.’ I folded my arms and shuffled in my seat.

  ‘Okay, the negatives. You’re a city girl and he’s a suburban, borderline rural guy. Ha, that sounds like it could be a Journey song.’ She paused to laugh at her own joke. ‘He lives in the same village as Mum and Dad, and Jean, obviously. You’re outgoing and popular, and “always fiddling with your phone” as Mum put it. He has a few friends and the occasional trip to the local pub, but mainly he reads and walks his dog. You’re messy, or “scatty”, which is what was actually written, and he’s neat and organised. You’re a little materialistic, and he isn’t. They really put a lot of thought into the two of you.’

  ‘They certainly did. I come off sounding awful – I’d rule me out too! So was that it then?’

  ‘Yes, apparently tea was cut short because Barbara from over the road had just returned from hospital after an eye operation, which Mum and Jean actually suspected of being an eye lift, so they went to see if she “needed any help around the house”.’ Her eyes glinted with amusement.

  ‘I don’t know why the thought of two interfering retired ladies is grating on me, but it is. I don’t even know the name of Jean’
s son, so why is it bugging me that we’re not destined to be?’

  ‘Because you like a challenge, and you hate being told you can’t have something?’

  ‘The question was rhetorical, Lizzie.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘God, can you even imagine what type of bloke he is if Mum thought he was a catch?’ I smirked.

  Lizzie chuckled. ‘I reckon some recluse in a tweed jacket who combs greasy hair over his bald patch in an attempt to hide it.’ She burst into hysterics at her own joke, so I threw a cushion at her.

  ‘I don’t think even Mum’s taste is quite that bad. It’s likely he has a tweed jacket and no personality though. She is pretty desperate to attend my wedding.’

  I spent the rest of the afternoon helping out around the house. I sent Lizzie off to have a mini spa day in her bath with a gift set that I found in the cupboard, and prepared for some quality time with my favourite munchkins. Play-Doh, painting and Lego dominated our afternoon, then we snuggled down to watch Toy Story. ‘Goodness, have you drugged them?’ Lizzie walked in, towel-drying her hair.

  ‘No, it’s just my magic aunty powers doing their finest.’ I smiled.

  ‘Well, you can come again,’ she said, grinning.

  As I walked back to the train station, I realised that I couldn’t remember how long it had been since I last went over to see Lizzie and the kids. Of course I’d seen them at our parents’ house over Christmas, and we talked on Skype, but I couldn’t remember if I’d ever just popped in before. Poor Lizzie definitely welcomed the break. I made a mental note to make a greater effort to see them all more often.

  Instinctively, I reached into my pocket for my phone. ‘Damn,’ I snapped, earning me a sideways glance from a well-dressed middle-aged lady across the street. I could have done with losing myself to some music right about then, but since the sky was still clear and beautiful and the sun was setting, I decided to just enjoy the outdoors once more.