Page 12 of Stella is Starting Over

Are you an electric or a manual staple gun fan?

I’m sure it’s entirely accidental, but this is actually a fantastic question, because just before Rose was born, I caved and bought an electric staple gun so that I could upholster a chair for her bedroom, and it was possibly the most life-changing thing I’ve ever purchased. Electric, I reply. Obviously, no contest.

Okay, he replies. But are we talking mains or battery-powered?

Mains, I reply.

Oh, he says. I’m hand-held only.

That’s a shame, I write, smiling down at the screen. I’m not sure I can do a mixed-faith marriage.

He doesn’t start typing and for a moment I worry that the word ‘marriage’ might have spooked him, but then I rationalise that any man who is freaked out by an obvious joke about marriage is probably a bit unhinged, and then he’s typing again.

No, come on, he says. It’s 2025, we can do this. There might be prejudice, but I believe in us.

I laugh again. Maybe, I reply.

Let me buy you the dirtiest martini in London and then we’ll see where we are, he replies.

I am not going on dates. This dating-app thing is a distraction. It’s a Steri-Strip, a gauze, a way to keep the wound clean while it heals; it is not a plan or an intention and I am absolutely not going to go for a drink with a complete stranger.

But still. A resolution is a resolution. Chats, not dates.

Fine, I type, as Rose opens her eyes and reaches up for the pram canopy, batting at the plush whale I hung there to amuse her. It had better be a filthy martini though.

Stella

I am going on a date. A first date. My first ‘first date’ in ten years. Actually, if we’re being totally realistic, my first ‘first date’ ever. Gavin and I met because I was a temp at the office where he worked. He spent the first two weeks of my working there gearing up to ask me out, and then failed to do so. We both went to ‘team drinks’ (ballsy from me who was very much not a member of the team) around the time they realised that I was absolutely unforgivably bad at spreadsheets and replaced me with someone competent. I hung on until everyone else left, then bought myself another large glass of wine, Gavin got himself a beer and we stood outside, me smoking and him trying to act like he wasn’t cold. I told him how I wanted to be an interior designer but it turned out you have to have loads of rich friends who’ll pay you to do their house to do that. He told me how he wanted to do basically anything other than be a forensic accountant, which was unfortunate because he’d spent a lot of years being a forensic accountant. And then we just sort of kept hanging out. No Italian restaurant with a candle in a bottle, no cinema where he yawned and put his arms around my shoulder, just a gentle slide into being Stella-and-Gav instead of Stella and Gav.

I was living off the charity of a friend with rich parents who had a spare room, and when that good luck ran out because her dad realised she wasn’t charging me rent, Gav offered to let me move in. He owned his own flat because he’d chosen a sensible job in a sensible industry. So in I went. I sand-blasted his IKEA furniture on the balcony, reupholstered his hideous chairs, made cushion covers on my sewing machine and turned what looked like a brothel-inspired Airbnb into our home. So when other people talked about first dates, and the magic of falling for someone, and the delicious agony of not knowing if they’ll message you back, I thought, yeah, that sounds fun but this weekend we went to the farmers’ market and I baked focaccia, and that was honestly equally diverting.

The downside of having been an accidental tradwife in my twenties was that I have literally no idea how this date is supposed to work. Worst of all I don’t know what to wear. The sensible option is to message Louella and have her tell me what to wear. But then she’ll know that I’m going on a date, and she’ll make me tell her where and when, and then she’ll make me describe it all afterwards and, for some reason, despite having told Louella everything always, I don’t want that. If it’s a hideous, embarrassing, awkward mess then I want to be able to take that to my grave.

After pulling everything out of my wardrobe and even, in real desperation, looking at the clothes in the spare-room wardrobe that Gavin left behind (thankfully, even I realised that wearing one of his blazers for an androgynous look would be more likely to read as suburban head teacher), I come to the conclusion that I need to go shopping. And that’s fine, because Gavin is coming to take Rose at 4.30 p.m., and the shops are open until, like, 6.30 p.m. and I can go straight to the date from the shops.

Predictably, this doesn’t work out.

At 4.30 p.m., Gavin messages me: So sorry, stuck on the train, there asap. This means that I can’t start getting ready because he’s known me for ten years – he’ll notice that I’m dolled up, and he’ll ask where I’m going, and I’ll go bright red and he’ll know I’m going on a date. So I don’t get ready. I build a tower with Rose, do a puppet show for Rose, read Rose the same book seven times, make her dinner, and then eventually he arrives at 5.50 p.m. He can tell from my expression that I’m furious.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, standing on the doorstep, not out of breath and not looking like he’d done any rushing from the Tube at all. ‘I was working,’ he explains, as if that makes this absolutely fine.

‘Gavin, you literally don’t have a job,’ I say, giving in to the rage, sort of excited by how angry I feel. ‘How can you be nearly two hours late because you were “working” when you don’t have a job?’

‘Okay, well, it’s an hour and twenty minutes – which isn’t two hours – and it was literally for a gig. I had to go up to Stevenage for a lunch slot at a club and—’

‘Sorry, you were performing at lunchtime on a Thursday in Stevenage?’

He has the gall to look genuinely affronted. ‘That’s how people get their starts, Stella. It’s not like, day one, Live at the Apollo.’

‘Okay, but who’s watching comedy at lunchtime on a Thursday?’ I reply. Then I catch sight of the time on my phone. ‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘I’ve packed up all her things – is there any progress on getting some baby stuff at your house?’

Gavin makes a sad face and I wish I could push him down a manhole.

‘I’m keeping an eye on Marketplace and stuff, but baby gear is expensive and she’s not going to need this stuff for much longer so it’s a waste to buy loads,’ he says, in a pseudo-gentle tone.

Rather than slamming the door on his fingers, I hold Rose for a long cuddle, smelling her hair and studying her face. There’s a slight scratch on her cheek where she caught herself last night and I feel bad for not filing her nails better. Also probably best to make a mental note that she had the scratch when I handed her over so I don’t accuse him of damaging her when she comes home, a bit like when you take pictures of any previous damage on a rental car. I tell Rose how much I love her and then buckle her into her car seat.

By the time she’s gone and I’ve shed a few tears (fewer than last time, personal growth) it’s 6.15 p.m. and I’ve got to be at this date in half an hour. I shove myself into a clean top that I had remembered as being really lovely and flattering and nice but now transpires, outside of the changing room where I tried it on, to show me for what I really am, a slightly tubby thirty-year-old woman who looks like shit and doesn’t deserve to have a nice time. I run upstairs, throw open the wardrobe doors and yank things out, trying on different tops until my hair is static. Then I decide that maybe the trousers are the problem, so I take them off and put tights on.