The Jacket

The Jacket

B EFORE

I ’VE EVEN

opened my Twiglets, Bella sits down beside me on the bench.

‘A customer just tried to spit at me,’ she says, sipping from a water bottle with shaking hands.

‘Are you okay?’

‘He missed and then fell over. My manager called the police. They sent a PCSO to take a statement. He was so drunk he couldn’t stand.’

‘The officer?’

‘The spitter. He called me an ugly bitch.’

She swallows. ‘I hate this job. My manager is four years younger than me,’ she says. ‘He’s basically a foetus. He invited me out for his twentieth at Snobs.’

‘Did you go?’

‘Did I fuck. I’m not going to a children’s birthday party.’

‘Do you want a Twiglet?’ I ask. It seems a paltry offering considering how Bella’s day is going. She shakes her head, staring into the distance.

‘It’s turned to anger,’ she says quietly.

‘What has?’

‘The grief,’ she says. ‘It’s all I feel now.’

‘That’s understandable, dear.’

‘Is it?’

‘Of course. It’s easier to be angry than to be sad. My grandmother used to say that anger is the jacket that fear wears to keep from shaking.’

‘I—’ She stops herself and says, ‘I’m glad I met you, Eddie.’

‘Me too.’

She looks ever so sad.

‘I haven’t cried since Jake died,’ she says.

‘You haven’t?’

‘No.’ She looks as though she has just confessed to a crime. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Bella,’ I say. ‘Nothing wrong at all.’

She sniffs and nods. But I haven’t solved her problem. I wouldn’t even know how.

I take a deep breath.

‘All right, then, what’s the first step?’ I ask her. ‘How do we find her?’

‘Who?’

‘Whoever my first kiss will be.’

Bella’s eyes light up. ‘Really?’ she asks.

‘Really,’ I reply. ‘Let’s do this.’

I’m back in the charity shop, sorting through a sinister bin bag of Encarta ’95 disks and naked troll dolls when my phone pings.

Welcome to Platinum Singles, Eddie! The number-one dating site for singles over 70! Did you know that someone

finds love with Platinum Singles every second fortnight? Get ready to meet the love of the rest of your life …

Click here to view and update your profile.

Excited to see the profile Bella has set up for me, I click on the link. There at the top of my profile is the photo of me she took in the park, my packet of Twiglets rolled up and tucked out of sight; below are my statistics.

Name:

Eddie W.

Age:

90 years young

(The years young

is part of the website design and can’t be deleted.)

City:

Birmingham

Romantic Status:

Single

Star Sign:

Aquarius (I’m not an Aquarius. I imagine Bella took a guess here.)

The bio, short and sweet, reads:

Hello, everyone, my name is Eddie. I work in the charity sector and I have a pet guinea pig. I would like to meet someone kind and intelligent who will make me laugh.

And there we have it – Eddie Winston is looking for love.

Now I am presented with a button.

Browse

, it says to me. Go on, Eddie. Start browsing

. But the word ‘browse’ seems wrong. I don’t mind browsing the crisp selection at the supermarket, but I don’t feel comfortable browsing for people’s hearts. But there they are, all the ladies and gentlemen who are looking for love. There’s

Gladys E., who is looking for someone who will share her love of gardening; there’s Dennis P., who collects miniature alcohol bottles; there’s Katherine G., who writes, I’m not sure what I’m doing here, but I’d love to meet someone who loves the theatre as much as I do!

followed by a laughing-face emoji.

I keep scrolling. So many people all smiling at me. So much hope, it’s hard to look at. All these people picked the best photograph they had of themselves, probably spent a lot of time on their hair, thought carefully about what to write about the heart they have to offer. It is so fragile, the notion that there might be someone out there for everyone.

I close the tab. Perhaps later. Perhaps never. Marjie rattles through the bead curtain, ‘That’s far too many troll dolls,’ she says, looking at them lying on the back-room carpet, their neon hair sticking up as though they’ve all been electrocuted.

‘Monster Munch?’ she asks me, opening a big bag and holding them out.

‘I’ll probably wash my hands first.’