PsoML Part 6

Blowsy

Ronnie had always imagined Hazel would turn out blowsy. Part of that was because he couldn’t imagine her blonde hair worn in anything other than the kind of Farrah Fawcett flickback style that she had in the late 70s. Standing dumbstruck on her doorstep, trying to force words into his mouth and motion into his limbs, Ronnie realised he wasn’t prepared for this at all. His mind had been focused on seeing Lucy again; he hadn’t thought about anything else.

But Hazel had, in fact, been on his list, the list of girls he loved. There was Sally Sage, tall and striking, whom he obsessed over; there was Lucy, Love Triangle Girl, the girl he wanted to steal away from his best friend; and there was Hazel, with her dirty blonde hair, as it says in the song. He stepped into the darkened hallway of the old house and sized up her silhouette as his eyes adjusted. At the end of the hallway, he could see part of a long kitchen table, behind it a French window, with sunlight, now he was no longer driving out there, just beginning to stream through.

Hazel was looking good.

A long time before, before he’d unforgiveably blown her out of his life, Lucy had said she once walked into a newsagents in Brighton and Hazel was working there, behind the counter. That was the last news Ronnie had, more than 20 years before. He’d imagined she stayed beautiful for a few years, but that her kind of build, her kind of looks, would end up going a certain way, the blowsy way. A blowsy blonde who stays blonder with the bottle, wears a fake tan, and has put on a little too much weight.

But as Ronnie walked slowly towards the warm and crowded kitchen of Hazel’s house that afternoon, he didn't see any such thing. The silhouette resolved and his eyes took in a complete stranger: a small, intelligent-looking woman, wearing rimless glasses and with hair kept short, neat, and stylish.

"You've grown smaller and I’m all bigger, or something," he said. She looked back over her shoulder. There was laughter and affection in her eyes.

"Yeah, you look like you've put on about two stone,” she said. "All these years I've been thinking you were skinny as a rake with sprayed on jeans. I am actually two inches shorter than I used to be."

"Really?"
“No.”
She smiled again, stepped into the kitchen and announced him. “Everybody, it’s Ronnie!”
“Ronnie!” A chorus of shouts.

Ronnie vaguely waved a hand. He counted the heads, looked at each face in turn. A big (obviously) French man: presumably Monsieur Hazel. A thin, balding, intellectual: Doug Kinross. A muscular biker wearing capped sleeves to show his tattoos, with thinning blonde hair: Dave? A beautiful redhead with film-star beauty resting her hand in that of an equally handsome guy: Ronnie had no idea. And a petite, slim, lovely, dark-haired woman looking intensely at him with a question in her deep brown eyes: Lucy Roberts.

Ronnie took a deep breath, feeling his blood racing through his chest. He stepped forward and went round the table, making eye contact, hugs, air kisses, hand shakes. Hazel’s other half was Didier: gruff, with passable English, quick to pour a huge glass of red wine. Doug Kinross was there alone, as was Dave, who said hello to Ronnie in the coolest possible way. Ronnie started to feel the old anxiety. Was Lucy here with Dave? Was that all kicking off again? But they didn’t seem to be together. Between them were Donna (Donna!?), the stunning redhead, and her younger husband, Mark, and Lucy only seemed to have eyes for him, for Ronnie. She hadn’t broken eye contact since he’s walked into the room.

A moment’s hesistation in front of her, but she quickly stood up and stepped into a hug, a squeeze, and she seemed to melt into Ronnie’s arms, lingering just a moment longer than anyone else. A step back. “Long time,” she said, with a small smile. Ronnie thought his heart had been pounding before, but to hear her voice.

“Too long,” was all he said.

He took his place at the table, close to Lucy, and Hazel explained that they were holding off on the potted life histories until everyone had arrived. No point in repetition. So they were talking about the weather, how the sleeping arrangements in the cottages would be settled, talking about what there was to do in the Vendée, other places in France. Ronnie settled back and sighed, resting his fingers at the base of his wine glass. He felt a lot of eyes on him, but he felt contented, not pressurised. He was used to it anyway; Ronnie knew he had a certain amount of charisma, but it never went to his head, and he personally felt that Dave had always had as much, if not more.

Apart from the capped sleeve t-shirt, Dave was still wearing his bike gear from the road, and what was left of his hair was showing signs of helmet head (was that a slight mullet?). Normally, this would worry Ronnie, because, as far as he remembered, Lucy had always been a little bit of a biker girl. But there had been something about the way she held him, and there was something in her smile and her glance, that told Ronnie she was more interested in him right now.

And as other people arrived, and went through the introductions, and the crowd in the kitchen grew, Ronnie took a good long look at Dave, at the state of his hair and his features, the way his face had settled into mid-life. There was no doubt that he looked slim and fit, not an ounce of middle-aged spread. But as the night began to fall and the farmhouse kitchen grew warm with laughter and the glow of recessed lighting, Ronnie could see it, and when she caught his eye with a sardonically raised eyebrow – at that moment, he knew Lucy could see it, too.

Dave looked like his dad.