Page 17

After that, we did try to work. The first day was spent setting up some kind of workstation in my abandoned living room. Stewart had been right about the heating needing to come on. The house was cold and unloved, and it had nothing to do with Jean opening all the windows to get some fresh air in because it felt a little better with someone else in it.

“This Stewart,” Jean said the next morning, when I’d managed to dress in a shirt and tie and open the door for her. “He must be a good influence. Nice tie. Trousers are too big. We need to get those taken in.”

This was what working closely with someone did to you. It was an intimate relationship where boundaries were crossed so often it almost felt normal.

“He’s the guy next door. I’veonly met him once.”

“Yet you spent all day yesterday talking about him. He must have made quite the impression.”

“He’s just the neighbour.”

“One I looked up. He’s quite a character and was very brutally made redundant. I texted with Adeline at Bromptons, and she knows Jenny, who works for Templar, and apparently, everyone was appalled when that terrible hotel sacked all their staff to become a low-cost outfit. Terrible if you ask me, but I suppose that’s the way things work these days. They used to have a decent restaurant too, and now it’s become a Nando’s.”

“A Nando’s?” I questioned, chewing down another of Jean’s morning treats. I wouldn’t need to take in these trousers if she kept feeding me like this. Also, I needed to pay her because she was now loading up suggested schedules and people she was going to ring and offer my services to, and I was filled with an absolute fear of everything she was attempting to do. I wasn’t ready for this.

“You’re absolutely ready for this,” she berated me as if she could read my thoughts. “It’s like riding a bike. First contract done, and you’ll be grand. Child’s play, Dylan.”

The words made me shiver. Cold.

I was cold.

A week later, she was still in my kitchen, rolling her eyes at my impostor syndrome as she made another phone call that perhaps I should have made myself.

The week after, I was crying myself to sleep, out of exhaustion, fear and rejection.

And then it was the weekend, and I found myself once again sitting on the patio in my dressing gown, wondering what the hell I was playing at.

I was an embarrassment. A failed lawyer who had let clients down and cost them projects. My reputation was in tatters, and despite Jean’s cheery disposition, I had failed to lure in a single new client.

“I thought we’d decided to stop the crying on the patio in our dressing gown.”

Stewart.

He placed two cups of tea on the rickety table and sat in the chair opposite.

“So, talk to me,” he said.

Funnily enough, I did.

7. Stewart

We fell into a little routine, where every night around six, he would appear on his patio, rain or shine. He’d stand there, looking a little lost, pretending he wasn’t looking over towards my doors, where I’d be standing myself, hoping to see him.

I’d gone from a nosy neighbour to some kind of parody of a besotted teenager, hiding behind the curtain, hoping to see his crush. I had the teacups ready on the side, having picked out a different packet of biscuits each night.

I was going to fatten him up. Get some bulk back on those skinny bones.

Which was why I snuck out to Tesco each morning, to stock up, and one particular morning happened to run into a woman carrying coffee and a bag of treats. An elegant older lady with a scowl that made me step back and make a little bow.

“Stewart,” she said curtly.

“Yes.” I held out my hand in greeting and realised she had no hands free to receive mine. I smiled apologetically, relaxing when she did. A new neighbour perhaps?

“You’re Dylan’s friend. I’m Jean. If you’re free, I’d like your advice on something.”

“I’m free,” I admitted. I was always free. Well, usually. And not a new neighbour then.

“Come,” she demanded, making me close the gate behind her and follow her like a sheep. Accepting the key she had dangling off her little finger, I opened Dylan’s front door.