It’s a bright April day, spring at its best. There is a sense that the world is creeping back to life after a long, dull winter. Daffodils and crocuses are bravely sprouting on the grass verges. The little artisan shops have their doors wedged open, welcoming in customers. Dog-walkers slow down for a chat, giving me a moment to pet their dogs. We buy hand-made fudge from one shop, get excited about chilli and orange marmalade in another, and enjoy a glass of local cider in a tiny café. All morning, I get the feeling eyes are on us. We draw smiles and nods from strangers. I guess people like to see others walking hand in hand, laughing, chatting.
My favourite shop in Lyndhurst is an enormous antique shop that spreads over three floors. It’s not the sort of place that sells elegant eighteenth-century Italian furniture; it offers a mishmash of clutter: stamps, jewellery, lamps, chinaware and musical instruments. Some would think the place is full of junk, but I believe in the adage ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.’ I am gratified when I lead Matthew into the shop that he stops dramatically in the doorway, looks around and smiles appreciatively at the curious and varied offerings in this dusty paradise. He inhales deeply, taking in the particular smell of grimy books and maps, the shadow of something lingering in objects that have been handled, worn, loved, lost. His eyes bounce around the store before he heads upstairs to where the antique maps and books are housed. I like to start in the basement. It’s cold and draughty down there, a little dank, and as a result people rarely linger. That’s where traditionally I have uncovered something special, something overlooked. I head to the treasure cave.
The shop is almost empty, as is often the way with antique shops. Ambling about dusty rooms looking at things that are obsolete, the original owners long dead, doesn’t appeal to everyone. Personally, I like the peace. When I’m in an upmarket antique shop, I sometimes spot things that remind me of being in my grandparents’ home. It wasn’t somewhere I felt especially happy or loved, but I knew I was safe and that counted for something. They had beautiful furniture: a George III flame mahogany secretaire, Japanese silk screens from the eighteenth century, and a number of Regency long clocks with enamel faces that counted out my lonely minutes. When they died, I couldn’t see the financial or emotional value in the pieces. I let the executers of the will sell off everything in a hurry; Tom was once again in rehab and I had enough on my plate. All the beautiful things vanished. I find myself keeping an eye out and occasionally buying the odd small piece that reminds me of something they owned that I think might fit in my home. I’m not exactly sure why.
Today I get lucky. In among the chinaware, glass decanters and rather run-of-the-mill watercolours, I discover a pair of splendid Victorian hand-blown glass taxidermy domes. My grandparents had a similar pair that housed a collection of bright blue butterflies. The butterflies were suspended as though in flight in a way that as a child I thought was magical. I feel a shiver of mounting excitement in response to a thrilling find. The glass is bright and shiny and free from cracks; there are the usual tiny nibbles to the edge, but they are only detectable to touch, not to the eye. The handsome domes are about sixty centimetres tall and just less than thirty in diameter. The little cardboard label dates them circa 1880, which I think is accurate. They are sitting on black ebonised bases lined with the original claret velvet. The cloth is slightly sun-worn, but that only adds to their appeal as far as I’m concerned. I like things that are weathered and have endured. My heart lifts a little. This is the reason I enjoy antiquing; you never know what you are going to unearth.
It’s silly of me, but I feel a swell of competitive spirit. Once I spot something I want, I always fear that there is someone else in the shop who at the very same moment might see the charm and value in the pieces I’ve earmarked. Statistically this is unlikely, but still, I don’t like the thought of being so close to the domes and then missing out. It’s tradition to play a little bartering game with the vendor when making a purchase. However, as I’m always concerned that someone else might swoop in and steal the item from under my nose, I’m generally a fast negotiator. Today, whilst the shop is almost empty, I cannot shake the feeling that I’m being watched. I look about and realise I am – by the woman rearranging the merchandise downstairs, who is obviously keeping an eye out for light-fingered types desperate to nab a Wade Whimsy ceramic turtle.
‘I want these,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t carry them both up the stairs at once. If I take one up, will you keep an eye on the other one for me, please?’ She nods but doesn’t appear especially interested in my purchase and doesn’t offer to help me carry them, which would have been useful. Some traders are like this; they seem almost reluctant to make a sale. I guess they get used to seeing their pieces around the store and become unreasonably attached.
I slowly carry the first dome upstairs, and place it on the counter at the front of the shop with care.
‘What have you found?’ Matthew asks when he notices I’ve reappeared.
I beam at him. ‘This. Isn’t it fabulous. There are two of them. It’s rare to find a pair in such great condition.’ He nods, but doesn’t come to the till for a closer look. His eyes are trained on a leather casket that is about half the size of a shoebox. It’s adorned with gilded embossing, with a knotted carry handle and brass escutcheons. I move towards him to take a closer look. It’s a decent piece, complete with original ornate working key. The lid opens on a spring to reveal two dainty glass ink bottles, each housed in its own blue velvet section.
‘It’s really beautiful,’ I assert. I’m happy to be encouraging after dismissing his previous choices.
‘Yes. It is.’
‘Let me buy it for you,’ I say impulsively.
‘No, no, that’s OK.’ He shakes his head, practically backing away from the casket.
‘Honestly, I’d like to. A little souvenir of the day.’
‘It’s expensive,’ he protests. I haven’t checked the price tag. My guess is it will be between £200 and £300.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I pick it up and take it to the till point.
‘No, really, don’t. I don’t want it.’
‘But you couldn’t take your eyes off it,’ I say with a smile. I roll my eyes playfully at the man behind the till, who is waiting patiently to see what we are purchasing. He is in his sixties, balding, pleasantly plump. There is evidence of his breakfast on his tie. Fried egg. He looks at me over his glasses with a conspiratorial grin. I’m aware that I’m performing for him a little. I want this small, delightful domestic scene to be witnessed and appreciated. A generous girlfriend indulging her partner.
But then Matthew says, ‘It caught my eye because Becky collected inkwells. I know she would have loved this.’
‘Oh.’ I feel instantly deflated. As though someone has doused me in freezing water.
‘Not me, I don’t love it especially,’ he clarifies. He seems embarrassed, but not as embarrassed as I am. I nod, feeling foolish. If I buy this, I’m effectively buying a gift for his dead wife. My face burns. I quickly put the casket back on the shelf.
‘I’ll go and get the other dome,’ I mutter.
I’m not sure exactly how it happens. I guess I’m flustered about the inkwell misunderstanding and therefore rushing. I do urgently want to get out of the shop and away from the vendor who witnessed the embarrassing rejection. That’s how it feels. Like a rejection. Or worse, a testament to how little I know Matthew. I want to leave the scene behind me. I hastily grab the second dome and turn back towards the stairs. I think my bag, which is hoisted over my shoulder, must have knocked against something. Suddenly there is an almighty clatter as several items fall to the floor and smash. Shards of glass and pottery skitter across the tiles. I feel a splinter bounce on my leg. The woman who was keeping an eye on the dome for me says nothing, but casts me a withering glance.
She leaves the room; I presume to fetch a dustpan to clear up. I am embarrassed and unsure what to do, so just continue back upstairs. It’s only when I get to the till that I notice I’m bleeding. A thin line of blood tracks down from my calf to my ankle. I apologise profusely for the chaos I’ve caused and offer to pay for everything I’ve broken. Matthew and the male shopkeeper go back down into the basement to assess the damage and ascertain how much I owe. There’s not much room down there, evidently, and so I don’t join them. I wait, my cheeks burning.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ says Matthew cheerfully when he comes back upstairs. ‘A glass decanter, a couple of teacups, a little art deco clock. We’ve settled on a price tag.’ He winces. ‘Does three hundred and fifty sound fair to you?’
It sounds a lot to me for what he’s just described, but I’m far too mortified to argue my case. I pay for the damage and for my domes; it seems to take an inordinate amount of time to wrap them. We leave the shop as quickly as possible; I hold my shoulder bag close to my body, trying to avoid another accident.
11
The romcom blueprint also demands that there are successful meet-ups with quirky friends and loving family members who are all utterly delighted that the lead has finally met the One. They demonstrate their approval by sharing knowing grins and nods. We haven’t done this yet. Matthew’s family lives in New Zealand, nearly all of mine are dead, and whilst Tom is currently not in a drying-out clinic, he’s not in the country either. My brother yo-yos from one extreme to another, and at the moment he is on a year-long spiritual retreat in the Himalayas. He’s vegan, makes clay pots in the mornings and practises yoga in the afternoons. Apparently he can now do the side crow and is working towards a headstand. I don’t know when he’ll meet Matthew. However, I am excited to introduce Matthew to my chosen family: Heidi and Gina and their clans. Heidi has asked us all to hers for Sunday lunch, something I do regularly, although admittedly not as regularly since I met Matthew.
We ring the doorbell and listen to their dog, Bella, barking excitedly and the kids yelling at one another.
‘You answer it.’
‘No. I’m busy, you go.’
As heavy footsteps thump towards us, I identify Leon’s broad, muscular shape through the frosted glass on the door. There is perspiration on Matthew’s upper lip. He looks pale. ‘You OK?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Yeah, of course. It’s just meeting them en masse. You know. It’s a lot.’
‘It’s like pulling off an Elastoplast. Better to do it quickly,’ I say, kissing him briefly on the lips. Breaking away, I grin and add, ‘Honestly, they are like family. They love me, so they’ll—’
‘Grill me,’ he cuts in. I laugh. He’s funny and I like that. Humour demands confidence, and I appreciate confidence.
I’m still smiling when Leon flings open the door. ‘So this is the man,’ he says, pumping Matthew’s hand up and down before pulling me into a hug. ‘I have a brief questionnaire that I’d like you to fill out so we can assess your suitability,’ he jokes.
Matthew looks momentarily horrified, then his face breaks into a wide grin as I laugh and say, ‘Ignore him.’
I’ve had countless Sunday lunches here over the years, and I have always enjoyed them, even when the kids were young and threw tantrums or threw up – tummy bugs or just too much ice cream. They’re always fun, a joy. I slip into the family’s stride; no one puts on their best manners for me. It is authentically welcoming. I’m barely a guest, I’m just part of it all. Usually we eat and drink a little more than we should and laugh more than most people get to in a week. So the bar is set high. Despite all this, as I chase the final gravy-smeared roast spud around my plate, I take a moment to acknowledge that this Sunday lunch is the best by far. The experience feels fuller, more complete. I can’t really explain why I think this, as I’ve never believed anything was missing before. My gaze drifts towards Matthew. I feel emotionally replete. I want to say to people, ‘Thank you. This is sufficient.’
Matthew makes me feel so proud. Of course I have introduced other men to my friends and some of them have been perfectly fine. That’s how Heidi has described them, fine. Damning them in a syllable. I used to want to be angry with her, yet I know she is discerning and was in fact simply articulating what I felt but was reluctant to say. Sweetly, she’s always insisted that she’s just picky because ‘It’s going to be hard for me to think anyone deserves you.’ I watch her watching Matthew. Surely she can’t fail to see that he is the undoubted star of the show today, clearly far above fine.
Throughout lunch, he’s shown interest in all the kids, and they appear to be interested in him in return. Heidi’s three have entered animated conversations, above and beyond the expected monosyllabic responses that they usually throw out just to avoid their mother ticking them off for being impolite, and Lottie is practically zipped to his side; she is desperate to tell him about her Pokémon card collection, which she’s holding in her hot little hand. He’s flattered Heidi and Gina by not challenging their position of importance in my life, the way more territorial men might, instead deftly deferring to their superior knowledge when matters of my taste or history crop up. He jokes with the husbands. He’s chatty and entertaining, he asks questions of everyone and provides a few anecdotes of his own, but he isn’t overbearing. He’s talked with pride about my work and the hours I’m putting in dealing with the restructure, proving he’s interested in my days in the office. He’s a textbook boyfriend.
