Page 43 of The Pieces of Us

The last date I went on was four years ago.

Pete set me up with a man who was indeed as sweet and generous as our well-meaning matchmaker promised he would be – just far too sweet and generous for me, I told Pete apologetically the next morning.

That sweet, generous guy, whose name I can’t remember, got engaged six months later to someone he met online.

I wasn’t ready then, and I don’t know if I’m ready now, but I do know that there’s something about the glint in Asim’s eye when he sees me that makes me smile.

He’s already at a table, a pint and an open packet of crisps in front of him.

He’s made an effort with his slim-fit jeans and cornflower-blue polo shirt that looks perfect against his skin.

He’s nervous; I can tell. I feel the weight of his anticipation and for a split second wonder if I can get away with doing a one-eighty and retracing my steps back to Pete’s.

But along with that glint in his eye is that easy relaxed grin, and it’s enough to reassure me that right now I might just be in the right place at the right time.

‘Hey. I’ll get you a drink.’ He jumps to his feet and we take part in an awkward exchange that starts with a half-hug and ends with his chin skimming across my cheek.

I laugh. ‘Sparkling water, please.’

While he’s at the bar, I flip the camera on my phone to front-facing and use it to check I don’t have mascara smudges under my eyes, that my hair is looking OK.

It was a long, busy shift in the shop, but I did what I could in ten minutes with concealer and wavy hair oil that promises to banish frizz.

Asim has seen me in far more dishevelled states, but I wanted to make a bit of an effort.

I own two lipsticks – both ancient, one in a supposedly trendy ‘nude’ colour that makes me look like I have no lips.

The other one is fire-engine red. At the last minute, I wiped dust off the front of the mirror in the bathroom at work with the inside of my T-shirt and carefully created red lips that make me look not bad but not quite myself.

I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

One drink , I tell myself. It’s just one drink, then I’ll have to leave anyway. I’ve already put my escape clause out there, and it’s rock solid. Nothing trumps a parent with dementia who can’t be left alone in case she sets the flat on fire.

Asim sits down and takes a sip of his pint. ‘Tell me about your day. What’s big on the flower scene right now?’

‘Hmmm. Well, clashing colours are having a moment, especially pink and orange. And brides are going crazy for lily of the valley. But if you want to know about big flowers, let me tell you about the Rafflesia arnoldii. ’

‘Ooh. Please do.’

‘It’s the single largest individual flower in the world. I prefer its unofficial name: the corpse flower. When it blooms, it stinks . Like rotten meat apparently. Heaven for flies and beetles and other wee beasties.’ I take a drink. ‘Google it. It’s fascinating.’

‘Cat McAllister, you never fail to surprise me. Between your pasta skills and your knowledge of giant stinky flowers … I mean, you’re something else.’

I pull a face at him.

He winks at me, then his expression becomes serious. ‘All joking aside, I’m glad I met you.’

‘I’m glad I met you too,’ I tell him. ‘If I hadn’t, Minnie’s house might not have sold so quickly.’ It’s my turn to wink, but his face is still thoughtful.

‘Penny for them,’ I murmur, making myself maintain eye contact despite my lurking self-consciousness.

‘I want to kiss you again,’ he says.

‘Rancid flowers turn you on, huh?’

‘Nope. But you do. You look gorgeous.’

I shake my head at him. ‘What on earth do you see in me?’

‘Cat McAllister, are you fishing for compliments?’

‘The opposite,’ I insist. ‘I’m giving you a reality check. I’m a single mum of a teenage daughter, caring for a mother with Alzheimer’s. I don’t have enough hours in the day and never enough money in the bank.’

‘Give me a second.’ He picks up his jacket and starts patting the pockets.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking for my tiny violin.’

‘Oh, ha ha. I’m not asking for sympathy.’

‘Really? Then stop moaning. You’re not the only one with a complicated life. It’s not a competition, Cat. We’ve all got stuff. Baggage. Turn-offs. Deal-breakers. Red flags. Whatever you want to call it. Want to know some of mine?’

‘Sure.’

‘OK. You already know about Jeedo and his dementia. A few things I haven’t told you …

my cousin killed himself last year. Nobody knows why, but I suspect it’s because he was a gay boy raised in a traditional Muslim family who became a gay man expected to enter into an arranged marriage.

There’s now a rift in the family and my dad doesn’t speak to his brother.

Me … I’m forty-one, never been engaged or married, no kids, one long-term relationship that ended before I turned thirty.

My brief foray into dating apps proved that my relationship history is just as much of a red flag as you think yours is.

Anything else? Oh …’ He lifts his hair off his forehead, showing me a scar just below his hairline.

‘Some guy rammed a broken beer bottle into the side of my head when I walked past him on my way home from the gym. It happened late at night twenty-three years ago. I haven’t walked down the same street since. ’

‘It’s not a competition, Asim,’ I say softly. ‘Not a close one, anyway.’

He laughs. It’s infectious, rewarding.

‘There’s more,’ I tell him. ‘I found out recently that I was adopted. By Minnie and my dad, who died when I was young.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Yep. But I’m not finished.’

He stares at me. ‘Go on.’

‘Ruby is pregnant.’

‘ Wow . OK. You win.’

I shrug, watching him. Daring him to still like me.

He looks back at me for a few seconds. ‘I have a thousand questions. But before all that … if you’re trying to put me off, it hasn’t worked.’

I don’t know who leans across the table first. Maybe we do it at the same time. Or maybe, against all odds, it’s me who smiles and tilts my head, just so, a minuscule movement that tells him – this man who is looking at me so intently – that I want to kiss him too.

And so we do, over the top of his pint and salt and vinegar crisps.

I show Asim the engraved baby bangle, which has been tucked into the inside pocket of my bag.

It looks even tinier between his fingers; he handles it as if it’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

I tell him about my birth certificate, and Minnie’s mentions of Beth, and the note I found in the tiny nesting doll. I’ve committed every word to memory.

He’s deep in thought, staring at the bangle before slipping it back into my hand.

He runs his own hand through his hair just long enough for me to see the scar again, a reminder that most of us are living complex, difficult lives.

We could be a good match. His half-full glass would top up mine, as long as I didn’t knock it over and spill every last drop.

‘I hope you find her, Cat,’ he says.

‘Me too,’ I tell him.

When I can’t stay any longer, we leave the pub together. ‘My car’s parked at the shop,’ I say, gesturing up the street. ‘I’d give you a lift but I need to get home and …’

‘Oh, I’ll jump on the bus.’ He jerks his head in the opposite direction.

‘A straight line to my flat practically. It was lovely to spend time with you, Cat. It always is.’ He stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and there’s a beat of silence.

When we’re not kissing in kitchens or over pub tables, we’re still trying to figure out how to behave around each other.

‘See you soon? I don’t want to put more pressure on you. But … I’m here. For you.’ He leans forward and kisses my cheek.

‘Thank you,’ I say, and then just as he’s pulling away, I grab the front of his jacket and draw him back towards me.

‘I’m going to be a grandmother .’

‘Well, I love babies,’ he says, and I kiss him, hard, with nothing on my mind except how good it feels because it does – better than it felt in my kitchen, better than it felt in the pub over the salt and vinegar crisps.

‘You’ve just reminded me how much I like complicated women,’ he says with a grin.

I reach for his top lip and gently remove the trace of my red lipstick. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ I tell him.

He winks. ‘You’d better.’

We walk away in opposite directions. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to turn back and look at him.

‘You’re in a good mood,’ Lena says knowingly.

‘I’ve had a good day,’ I tell her.

‘Oh, Cat.’ She throws her arms in the air. ‘That is wonderful. And the sun shines for once.’

I laugh. ‘How’s Minnie?’

‘She had a good day also. Although she made a bit of a mess in her room.’

We say goodbye and I follow the waft of Marc Jacobs Daisy into the living room, where Ruby and Minnie are eating tiny kids’ yoghurts and looking at the scan photos.

‘We’re trying to work out if the baby is a boy or a girl,’ Ruby says. ‘We think girl.’

‘Well, we don’t know any different,’ I say. ‘I’m just going to tidy Minnie’s room.’

It doesn’t take me long to hang up her clothes and neaten the stacks of catalogues.

I put her jewellery in the box and carefully fit the nesting dolls back together, marvelling again at how beautifully they’re painted, wondering how this Irish souvenir ended up with Minnie and why she chose the smallest doll as the hiding place for the note from B .

Suddenly something begins to take shape in the back of my mind, a memory from weeks ago.

I lean in to it until the connection clicks.