Sunshine on a Rainy Day: A funny, feel-good romantic comedy

‘Mmm. Can we keep the espresso machine, though? Didn’t we want one of those?’ Jack looked at me pleadingly.

‘Hell yes. We’ll claim it as compensation for our missing gifts.’

While Jack made us a barrel of coffee each, I started on the sandwiches: bacon, avocado and feta, slathered with hot pepper chutney. My sore head and tiredness got the better of my manners, and I’d almost finished mine by the time Jack brought the coffees to the sofa.

‘That coffee machine was literally harder to set up than an actual spaceship.’

‘Literally.’

‘Having flown many, I’m confident in that comparison.’ We peered into our mugs, staring at the black speckles scattered through the frothed milk. ‘I might not have entirely mastered it quite yet.’

‘Tea?’

‘Tea.’

I swallowed my last bite of sandwich, headed into the kitchen and boiled the kettle. Hungover-peckish, I opened the fridge.

‘Oh my god!’

Jack leant in through the hatch. ‘What? What’s wrong?’

‘Look!’

Inside the fridge was the whole top half of our wedding cake, in all its creamy, buttery, sugary glory – one of my sisters must have dropped it off this morning, before we’d got home. Jack gulped down the sandwich he was holding, pulled out the cake, and said, ‘Right, you keep doing the teas, and I’ll get the forks. Do we need plates?’

I shook my head at him with mock horror. ‘Plates? Please, who are we, the Queen?’ Within five minutes we were back on the sofa, giant mugs of tea in our hands, forking wodges of cake from the platter. As we lazily watched The Antiques Roadshow, I cuddled up under Jack’s arm.

This was better. This was the married life Jack had promised me.

He started laughing.

‘What?’

His eyes creased up with how funny this genius thought was, and soon he was barely able to get the words out.

‘I bet you’re thinking … how if this is married life … it really suits you!’

‘That’s it? That’s your searing insight of the day? How much I like lying on the sofa, eating cake and watching TV with you? Well done for having registered the basic facts of my life preferences.’

‘Is this how you always saw yourself when you were grown up?’

‘Unlike every other normal child, I didn’t spend my youth fantasising about the chosen decor and potential TV habits of my adult self. I was too busy getting skinned knees and crushing on the local lifeguard.’

‘I hope you’ll give me his name so I can send him a note letting him know he lost his chance.’

‘Romance, thy name is Jack. I think he was gay, anyway.’

‘Wow, he really did miss his chance.’

‘Listen, much as all this talk of the homosexual lifeguards of my childhood is turning me on, shouldn’t we be consummating our marriage or something?’

‘Is that an invitation?’

I responded by stripping off as quickly as possible, despite my sore, sugar-rushing head.

‘Do you remember when we used to worry about sophisticated chat-up lines?’

‘Jack, I said “I do”. What more do you need?’ I started trying to pull his trainers off.

‘You’re such a femme fatale.’

‘I’ll give you femme fatale.’

‘Ooh, will you?’ Jack’s face lit up.

‘If you mean will I put on red lipstick, then yes, I’m willing to do that. If you mean literally anything else, then no, unless you do it too.’

‘I knew married life was going to change you.’

I stopped trying to pull his other trainer off.

‘Yeah, you’ve got me. Now, are you going to get this kit off or am I going to have to go and visit my local pool for any heterosexual leftovers from my teenage years?’

Jack pulled his top off. ‘You had me at heterosexual leftovers.’

We couldn’t afford a honeymoon. Dad had said, Dad-like, that he’d never even been out of the country until he was in his thirties, which made Mum narrow her eyes at him until he’d offered us another cup of tea and a biscuit. Friends and family sent hampers and vouchers, and the three days after the wedding were spent mostly wrapped around each other in our flat, occasionally moving upright to get more smoked salmon or chocolate eclairs or boar pâté down us, or to tighten the curtains against the cold January winds. But just as I started worrying I might be coming down with either gout or scurvy, the honeymoon was over, and we were due back at work the next day.

It was a cold Monday morning as Jack handed over my packed lunch, kissing me goodbye outside our front door. ‘Back to school. Have a good day, wife.’ I was still uncomfortable with that. I’d swallow it down, though, just like that second tier of wedding cake.

‘Have a good day, dearest husband of mine.’

We both made mock-vomiting faces, kissed again, then went in our separate directions: me a bus ride away to Walker High School, the secondary where I’d been teaching Science for the last four years, and Jack to the shoe shop he owns and designs for, all slick white spaces and open brickwork and handmade shoes strewn artfully around.

When I got into the Science office, I immediately set eyes on a tray of bubbling prosecco laid out on a table piled high with cards and gifts, with balloons sellotaped to each corner. No one was about. I walked around to the small kitchenette, where everyone was clustered around something on the other side of the room.

‘Happy New Year. Is it someone’s birthday?’ I asked, making everyone scream in surprise. Our lab assistant, Miks, yelped and knocked the cake they’d all been huddled around off the counter. We all stared at the mush of icing and crumbs on the floor, the candles still somehow burning as they lay at odd angles from the side of the pile.

‘You’re early! You’re never early, darling!’ wailed Benni. ‘These guys just wanted to do something to mark your wedding—’

‘Since not all of us made the exclusive guest list,’ Miks interjected, eyes rolling cartoonishly.

‘And I said, Oh, don’t worry, Zoe’s never early, we’ve got plenty of time, and now …’

We all stared at the pile on the floor again.

‘I solemnly swear never to be early to work again.’

‘Better,’ said Benni. ‘Darling, you know I find it immensely unnerving when you get all Motivated Teacher. Or is this Jack’s magical influence? Has marriage finally uncovered your work ethic?’

‘If my work ethic involves eating wedding cake from unlikely places – not like that, Miks – then you might just be right. If you mean am I likely to be willing to stay until 9 p.m. to attend a four-hour school performance of Annie for you, then no, I’m afraid my marriage certificate has not yet altered the fact that I still prefer home to school. Just. Much as you’re the best boss in the world, Benni.’

Benni, head of Science, smiled at me, then gave me a hug. ‘Don’t tell the Head about the prosecco. Anyway, I’ve given them a blow-by-blow of the actual wedding, so everyone can pretend they were actually there. I told them about the ceremony, your outfit, how drunk the priest got, how you punched a barman, how that fire spread so fast—’

‘I’m sorry you guys couldn’t all be there,’ I laughed.

‘You didn’t invite us!’ called Miks.

‘But that’s it now. We eat this cake, we open these gifts – thank you, by the way – and then all of life is as before. Ok?’

A look passed between Benni, Miks and the dozen other Science teachers and technicians.

‘What? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing’s happened,’ soothed Benni. ‘But, darling, we’d all just like to take a moment to remind you what a great sport you are.’

‘Oh god.’

She led me back around to my space in the Science office, where the computer screen, keyboard, back and top of my desk were papered with ‘Mrs Bestwick’ signs, in a hundred different fonts and colours. I wanted to cry and set the desk alight immediately, but I threw my hands up and shrieked, laughing and shaking my fist at them. I left most of it there for the rest of the day.

I managed to escape comment throughout the day, but in my Year 11 class after lunch, my most promising and least delivering student put her hand up and said, ‘Miss Lewis! Miss Lewis! I heard you got married, Miss.’ At least my students didn’t think it was funny to call me by Jack’s surname, even if he did.

There was a buzz around the classroom: teachers aren’t supposed to have lives, eat meals and go shopping, let alone get married, which is so inextricably linked with sex. The thought of your teacher doing it with someone is enough to start a riot.

‘I did, Michaela.’

‘Why, Miss?’

Of all the questions, this was the last one I was expecting. I’d expected a barrage of Did I take a helicopter? Did I go in a carriage? Did I have a bridezilla meltdown? Was there a fight? But this …

‘That’s enough, Michaela. This is a Physics lesson, not a Facebook status update.’ The class hissed its approval.

‘Ooh, you got burnt by Miss …’

And that was the only mention I got all day. I felt like I had somehow got away with something.

By six o’clock, everyone had gone except me and Benni. She came over and perched at the edge of my desk, fingering the tattered ‘Mrs Bestwick’ print-outs.

‘You did well.’

‘Did I leave them up too long?’ I asked, indicating the celebratory remnants strewed around my desk. ‘Should I have taken them off sooner?’

‘No, that would have been too obvious. If I had medals to give, you’d be next in line, darling. After my mother, obviously, and possibly after my poor sons, but you’d certainly be on the shortlist.’

‘If I open my mouth can you tell me if I’ve any teeth left at all, or just stumps?’

‘It’s fine. People just like to make assumptions, particularly after something as black and white as a wedding. Give it another week and they’ll all be expecting the patter of tiny feet.’

‘And “oh my god, your babies would be beautiful” …’

‘I know, I know, we had the same. But with added, “And which one of you would be the mum?”’ She took my hand. ‘And yes, I know you haven’t changed your name. It was just Miks’s little joke. Ok?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Now, are you coming for a Monday night cocktail or do you need to ask your hubby for permission?’

‘You might have been my “mentor” – your words, not mine, I might add – since I started teaching, but—’

‘If you don’t know I’m joking then I’m going to have to put you up for a very long and boring disciplinary procedure.’

‘Drinks are on you then.’

‘Drinks are on me, darling.’

It was half ten before Benni and I had finished at the bar – departmental stuff had come up that required intense discussions over many glasses of melon daiquiri – and my entry into the flat was noisier than I’d intended. Smash! The front door. Crash! A low bookcase falling over. Crunch! The pile of recycling I was going to lie on for juuust a second.

‘Shhh,’ I recommended.

‘Zo, is that you?’ Jack called from the sofa.

If I stay quiet, he won’t know it’s me, I thought.

‘Zo, if that’s not you, it’s a woefully clumsy burglar and I’ll need to actually get up and do something about it.’

Shhh, I thought again.

Suddenly, Jack was standing over me.

‘Come on, you, let’s get you to bed.’

‘Bossy,’ I muttered, as he pulled me up and half walked, half carried me to bed. He removed my clothes, but as he tried to tuck me in I wrapped my arms around him, suddenly amorous.

‘Stay with me,’ I groaned.

‘I’ll get you a pint of water, then I’m coming to bed, ok?’

‘I don’t want a pint of water, I want you.’

‘You’ll want a pint of water when you wake up in three hours’ time, Zo.’

‘Yes, but I want you now,’ I said, closing my eyes to give them a rest.

When I woke up again at 2 a.m., my mouth tasted like the sole of my shoe, and Jack was snoring next to me. There was a time, even a month ago, when he would have been with me tonight. He’d have been out, I’d have been out, we’d have eventually met up on our routes and we’d only just be getting in now. There might even have been dancing, Monday night be damned.

I wanted to wake him up and ask him why that hadn’t happened tonight, but when I rolled over into a sitting position I realised I wanted to die instead, and any heart to hearts would just have to wait until I was able to sit up without vomiting, or had actually died, whichever came first. In my Magic 8-Ball brain, I thought about work tomorrow and came up with ‘OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD’. I’d email Benni and see if she’d mind telling the Head I’d passed on.

At 7 a.m., Jack was shaking me, shouting and shining a torch into my eyes like a friendly interrogator. I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head, but he kept on. Eventually his words translated, and I heard, ‘Zo, wake up, you’re going to be late. I’ve made you a coffee and toast. Do you want me to turn the shower on?’

‘What the ever-loving fuck is this?’ I groaned again, trying to turn away without having to move my body. ‘What are you doing?’

Jack lifted the pillow off. ‘Zo, time to get up. You’ve only been back a day. You can’t call in sick.’

‘I was out with Benni, she’ll be the same.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Come on, once you’re up you’ll feel much better.’

I pulled the pillow over my head again. Jack pulled it off again, and tried to lift me up.

‘Jack, just piss off, alright?’

There was a shocked moment of silence, then Jack lowered me down and put both his hands up. ‘Fine. Fine. I’m off to work, you do what you want.’ I caterpillared under the duvet and heard him pack up and slam the front door. I’d made one discovery already that morning: if there was ever a hangover tip to make you feel even worse, it was being a total bastard to your boyfriend. Husband.

I knew he was right though, and after a minute or two of checking my limbs were still attached, I crawled on all fours to the bathroom, threw up for a while, then got into the shower. I found a coffee and banana under the mirror when I got out again, once the water was running completely cold.

In the kitchen, Jack’s toast for me was also cold in the toaster. I mashed the banana on top with a little cinnamon, and sat chewing thoughtfully until the shakes had subsided. This was a bad one. I’d already sent a text to Benni to warn her of the state I was in (I’d just got a Ugh. Me too in response), but I needed something more than just a text for Jack. Looking at the scattered remains of my breakfast, I realised that this was why I loved him – his thoughtfulness, his commitment, his kindness. But this morning I had a killer hangover and I just wanted to lie in bed and suffer. Why couldn’t he just leave me be, if only for five more minutes?

I’d overreacted, but I couldn’t bear being treated like a wayward child by someone insisting on what was best for me.

Staggering through the school gates as the bell rang, I was sure we could fix it.

TWO

Seven years earlier

Zoe sat at the bar and picked at her nail polish, something both Ava and her mum told her not to do whenever they caught her. She flaked off big chunks of deep blue onto the napkin on the copper-topped bar, then folded the napkin over to keep them from scattering. She took another swig of her salt-rimmed margarita and checked the clock on the wall. He wasn’t coming.

She’d had to be convinced about this date in the first place, by the Chemistry course-mate who had set her up with this guy at a recent party – yes, he was good-looking, but she hadn’t got a good vibe from him. Not at all. When they’d been introduced, he’d given her the kind of smile that made her feel like a mirror, that he was just looking at her to get a tab on how great he looked that day. And when he’d nodded a casual Yeah, sure to her course-mate’s suggestion that he and Zoe should get a drink some time, she’d wanted to back away from the whole thing, hitting undo.

She might only be twenty-two, but she knew enough to listen to her gut on things like this. Glancing round the empty bar, she realised she’d just learned that the hard way. But she hadn’t been on a date in ages, and if nothing else, she was reasonably sure he’d have put out at the end of the night. She sighed, and drained the final dregs from the glass.

The barman took the glass and the folded paper napkin, and wiped down the counter. ‘Another?’

Zoe realised she felt slightly giddy from her margarita.

‘What do you recommend?’ She folded her chipped fingernails inside her fists and rested them on the bar.

‘Maybe a better date, from the look of things? Otherwise, I make a mean Bloody Mary.’

She speared three olives in the little dish by the napkins, and ate them, one by one.

‘I feel pretty bloody. Go on then. Please.’

He didn’t talk while he was making her drink, but once he’d served it he stayed at her end of the bar and chatted to her, in between serving other people. It was a quiet Tuesday in October, and there weren’t that many people to serve, so they were mostly talking. He was a student too, doing a design degree. He was into shoes, he said, planning to make a break from behind this bar at some point to actually start his own shoe shop, shoes that he’d designed and created himself. She asked him if he’d make his escape tonight. He said he was now considering hanging around for a better offer. She said she was considering making one.

The next morning, Zoe woke up to a strange and empty bed. Fair enough. She’d only had one more drink after the Bloody Mary and could remember everything well enough to know she’d be disappointed that this was only a one-night thing, but it was a pity he hadn’t even hung around long enough for a little small talk, perhaps a brief replay of last night. She stretched, got up, dressed – debated leaving a note, but thought there was little point. She found her handbag and shoes – one under the bed, one balanced on the dripping tap in the corner sink – attempted to shape her hair into something presentable, and headed out, pulling the door until it locked, heading down the corridor that looked just like every college hall corridor in the country, and out into the street. Her bus arrived almost immediately and she headed back to her student house to take a long bath and have a good long think about what she’d done. In fact, what they’d both done.

Five minutes later, there was a soft knock-knocking at the bedroom she’d so recently vacated. A key in the door, and the barman opened it from outside, juggling two coffees and two bags of pastries.

‘I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got one of—’

He stopped, saw the empty bed, the vanished shoes and bag.

‘Bugger.’

Two weeks later, Zoe stood waiting outside a workshop at the design college with a tote bag over one arm. After a quarter of an hour, the doors opened and the students streamed out.

‘Hey!’ she called. Half the class looked around. ‘Barman!’

He joined the half of the class who were looking, and smiled. ‘It’s Jack, actually,’ he called back.

She nodded. ‘Jack. Ok. Bit out there, but I can work with it.’

He walked over, stood in front of her. ‘Zoe.’

‘You remembered.’

‘I did.’ He smiled a little more. ‘I remembered where you were at uni, too, and your course, and I was actually going to come and find you there, but I thought how would I actually find you—’

‘There are literally three black students on my whole course.’

‘And I didn’t know if it would be a bit weird, me just pitching up at your lectures—’

‘In front of my whole class? Like this?’

‘Yeah – oh, no, I mean – this is different. It’s charming when you do it. But it’s a bit weird if this barman you just had a one-night stand with turns up, even if he’s brought flowers—’

‘You were going to buy me flowers?’

‘Yeah, of course. I mean, I had such a great time with you. And then you’d bolted, and I didn’t really know how to find you.’

‘Again. Literally three black students on my whole course.’

‘But here you are!’

‘Ruining our romantic reunion.’

Jack laughed. ‘A little bit. And I don’t even have your flowers.’

Zoe opened her tote bag. ‘But I have shoes. Can you fix them, please?’

He took the bag and offered his arm. ‘But first. A drink?’

That second date was as good as their first, if that bar conversation could be counted as their first. For their second date, they made an effort: Jack wore a new jacket, Zoe wore the heels Jack had fixed for her, and the pair of them left their film early. They never made it to their restaurant booking, but later found one of the few obliging pizza delivery places still willing to deliver to university halls.

The third date was with Jack’s parents.

On the morning after their pizza-in-bed date, Jack had waved Zoe off at the bus stop and headed back to his room to get ready for his day. Zoe, rummaging in her bag on the top deck of the bus, found that she’d picked up his student ID by mistake. She looked at her watch. Dammit, she didn’t have time to return it now, but she’d swing by and drop it off later.

By the time she was free, it was early evening. She knew she could get buzzed in by anyone, and she’d just slip it under his door if he wasn’t about. Outside his room, however, she could hear muffled voices. She knocked. Jack opened the door in nothing but a towel and face mask, and he stared at her for a moment before he gave a small scream.

‘What are you doing here?’

She held out his ID. ‘Sorry. I picked this up this morning. Good to see you too, Jack.’ Zoe raised an eyebrow.

‘Who’s that, Jack?’ A woman’s voice came from behind the door.

Zoe crossed her arms in front of her and took a deep breath.

‘Jack?’ The same voice, more insistent.

Jack had jammed his foot on the inside of the door, and it was shaking with the effort of the person behind it trying to open it wider. ‘Look, can you just – stop being so silly – can you—’

Zoe switched to her other hip and re-crossed her arms. The door was finally yanked open.

A middle-aged couple stood in Jack’s room, the man stretched out on Jack’s bed reading the Telegraph, the woman, slight and well-dressed, with glossy brown hair, her hand still on the inside door handle.

‘Well, Jack,’ the woman said. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

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