DELLA GALTON MODERN MANNERS

Without old-fashioned methods to rely on, Meg was at a total loss on how to attract Charlie’s attention

The problem…” I told Gran as I sat at the table in her cake-scented kitchen, “… is that it’s not as easy to meet a boy as it used to be.”

“Really?” she said, in that slightly disbelieving tone of voice she uses. “Even with speed dating and online stuff? And there’s the office and the supermarket. We never had any of that.” She plonked a slab of fruitcake on a plate in front of me. “Try that. It’s a Nadiya Hussain recipe.”

I took a deep breath of spiced fruit and my mouth watered. “I’ll be fat when I meet them at this rate.”

“No, you won’t. It’s a small slice. As requested.” She winked and patted her tummy. Gran has always stayed slim. I have a sneaking suspicion that’s because she feeds all her creations to me. She’s a fabulous cook.

“You had supermarkets,” I pointed out. “And you had offices. It was the seventies, not Victorian times.”

Gran liked to make out that she grew up in an age where you met a man by wafting across a park and accidentally on purpose dropping your lace handkerchief on the path for him to pick up. She was actually born in 1957. She’s a young gran. She had my mum when she was 20 and Mum had me when she was 23. I’m almost 20 and haven’t even had a proper boyfriend yet, let alone got married and had a baby.

Not that I’m in a rush to get married and have a baby I would like to point out. I have plans to be a journalist. But it would be nice to feel I wasn’t the only one in my circle of friends who hadn’t even been on so much as a date!

“OK we may have had supermarkets and offices, but they weren’t like today. Men didn’t go shopping like they do now – and offices were segregated.”

She winked. I was never quite sure when she was being truthful or hamming things up for the sake of a good story. Gran’s a born storyteller.

“Tell me how you met Granddad.” Granddad – who had just come in from outdoors – he had a workshop in the garden – overheard this bit and snorted.

“She hooked me in through a series of machinations. If I’d realised what was happening I’d have run for the hills.”

“No you wouldn’t,” she blew him a kiss. “You loved being hooked.”

He blew her a kiss back. “Any cake?” “I met your grandad through college when I accidentally left my gloves at his house, after borrowing a book from him.”

“Followed by her hat, then her coat, then her scarf,” Grandad quipped.

“Did you actually have any clothes left at home?” I asked innocently.

“There was no that funny business,”

Gran said, quick as a flash. “We were very demure in those days.”

Grandad picked up a tube of glue from the table and disappeared again.

“Right then, Meg,” Gran said when he’d gone. “Tell me about the boy you like.” I stared at her. “Did I mention a boy?” She tapped her nose. “You didn’t need to, love. It’s written in your eyes.”

“His name’s Charlie,” I said, feeling my cheeks flame. “He looks a bit like Ed Sheeran and he’s kind and he writes great pieces.” Charlie and I were on the same internship at The Echo. “But I don’t think he’d notice me if I threw my coat and scarf at him, let alone left them round his house, which I can’t because I don’t know where he lives.”

“Well, let’s get our thinking caps on and see if we can’t adjust our tactics to the 21st century, eh love?”

Adjusting our tactics to the 21st Century involved me accidentally on purpose sending Charlie an email the following week, which clearly wasn’t directly targeting him.

Can I pick your brains about the language of flowers? I’m writing an advertorial on it to go in the Shaftesbury and District Horticultural Show issue.

He replied swiftly: Was this email meant for me? I know nothing about the language of flowers.

“Try again,” Gran said unperturbed. “Something a bit closer to home.”

Do you have any background info about the history of chocolate?

I knew he did because he’d written a double page spread on it for the weekend magazine that went out with the Echo. Yes. Here are the links.

“He didn’t elaborate at all,” I said to Gran next time I was there. “Maybe he’s not interested in me. But he did smile when we met at the coffee machine.”

“Try asking him about something he’s actually interested in,” Grandad suggested. “Which probably isn’t flowers or chocolate. What car does he drive?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t really got into conversation,” I confessed.

We met at the coffee machine. That

seemed to happen quite often

On Thursday afternoon that changed. We were both at the coffee machine. That happened often lately, I’d noticed.

Suddenly there was a yelp. Charlie dropped his cup. Unfortunately it was full. Fortunately I was far enough away to be out of splash range.