Breakfast In Bed (Fully English Sequel)

Chapter 8

 Reece and Wren are having some daddy-daughter time.

That's my excuse when Prudence sees me strolling over to the car alone and enquires about my family. Family. It's a weird word to say and hear now that I have my own but it still confuses deeply. Nestled in the front passenger seat, Prudence turns on the radio and we jibe over womanly and human topics: our new looks, our relationships, our careers, our minds.

"I'm in a good place," Prudence exasperates.

It's clear this job offer has dispensed weight from her shoulders because she is visibly spent. As put together as she looks, the backseat of her car still houses her laptop, files, folders and some clothes. It's like she has been living out of it but she explains rather that she has just come from a seminar on corporate law and Brexit. Despite the fact it's barely gone 12, she has managed to travel to the city, write 2 hours of notes, return home, shower and pick me up so we could go about our day. As calm as she appears, I suddenly feel guilty for even arranging to catch up at such an inconvenient time. Even with her highlighted features and matte face, I know exhaustion lies beyond.

"We need to celebrate your good news," I attempt to liven her up. "Where should we go?"

"A coffee first."

We stop at a small local coffee parlour – the gentrified type with extortionate prices and dig in. Sipping over our steaming mugs, I watch Prudence's eyes flick to her phone a couple of times before I reach over to grab her hand.

"So, tell me how you have been."

Her lamentations on life unravel quicker than I first thought, spinning and spinning like thread that has come loose. She takes me in circles about the many corners of her life: from career to faith to future. And then comes the nittiest – love. I watch her look forlornly into her mug as she contemplates her lack of it.

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong." Her face grows wan as she stirs, her hand positioned on her cheek with her elbow on the table. "It starts off great, we chatter, make plans. And then things fizzle. Never a crack or pop."

I pat her fingers before taking my mug of hot chocolate in both hands and slurping. It's been a few months since I'd had such a beverage on account of my dieting so the sugar kick is stinging.

"Well what kind of guys are they?"

"God-fearing of course," she explains. "Sometimes I meet them at church or a Christian event."

"Have you tried other settings?"

She shakes her head vehemently and sips from her spoon. "Absolutely not."

"I mean it doesn't have to be a club or anything."

Unconvinced, she continues to shake her head. Settings of debauchery or secularism were never her scene. In her mind was the picture perfect romance – a man, bowed at the pew, married at the altar; a child, born in wedlock to a stable home, two loving parents with incredible jobs, amazing house and blindly bright futures. It was absurdly brilliant. But easier said than done.

"Okay then, where though? Because besides work and Sunday service and prayer meetings during the week I am hardly out of the house. Not to mention my volunteering at the care home and legal aid clinics."

Her tendency to be feverish returns and her eyes skit me.

"Your time will come."

"I'm praying I'll have what you have someday."

Neither of us had even reached our mid-twenties yet our lives were already so different. At one point we'd shared similarities but now it seemed they'd all disappeared and we'd become remote.