Page 38

So here I was in Much Melton, about to knock on Max Meyer’s front door.

It had been over a week after our almost-kiss at the pub that he’d got in touch with me.

I still hadn’t given him my mobile number, but he’d had a brainwave.

He’d looked up the teashop online and emailed us at the address given, asking if the manageress could get in touch with him as a matter of urgency.

Luckily, it had been me checking the emails that day, and I’d replied immediately, saying that if this wasn’t teashop business, it might be better for him to contact me personally. I’d given him my number so he could do so.

He’d rung me within fifteen minutes, which was a relief. I couldn’t believe he’d actually done that, given the way he’d shot out of the pub after our close encounter.

‘Hello, Shona.’

‘Hi, Max.’ I’d deliberately kept my voice bright and cheery, because I’d been determined not to scare him off. I hadn’t wanted him to think I’d been sitting around thinking about him nonstop for a week, after all. He’d definitely have been put off by that.

Instead, I’d aimed for a carefree tone that suggested I’d been really busy so had barely given him a thought since we’d last met, while at the same time making it obvious that I was delighted to hear from him. ‘What can I do for you?’

There’d been a long pause, and I was just about to ask him if he was still there when he’d said, ‘I think we should talk. Would you like to come to dinner at my house tonight?’

Okay, so what did we need to talk about? Because if it was the whole Aunt Polly/his grandfather thing, I had bad news for him on that score.

On the other hand, if he wanted to tell me how that almost-kiss had been a huge mistake, or worse, pretend it had never happened…

Either way, it wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.

‘Great,’ I’d said. ‘What’s the address?’

I’d opened a note on my phone, and he’d reeled off the address, which I’d typed in as quickly as I could, repeating it back to him to make absolutely certain I’d got it right.

And now I was at his home, my stomach churning with nerves as I glanced down at my jeans and tunic top and wondered if I should have dressed more formally. But, to be honest, I’d had other things to think about. Not least my dad’s attitude when he heard I was visiting Max.

‘You remember what we said,’ he’d told me, his eyes flashing a warning. ‘You promised.’

‘I know that, Dad,’ I’d said with a sigh. ‘I won’t let you down.’

His eyes had softened. ‘This isn’t about me. You know that. Do it for our Polly.’

I’d nodded and left the cottage, wondering how I was going to explain all this to Max. I owed him some sort of explanation, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

But the truth was, I owed Aunt Polly more. I couldn’t let her down.

Max’s house was nothing like I’d expected it to be.

I’d imagined a gorgeous, large cottage built of honey-coloured Cotswold stone, with gables, and roses round the door.

In fact, it was a semi-detached, brick new build on a small estate, with nothing remarkable about it at all that I could see.

It had a small, lawned front garden and an adjoining garage, and looked exactly like every other house in the neighbourhood.

I couldn’t deny it was a bit of a disappointment.

I knocked on the door and waited, smoothing my top and hoisting the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and there was Max.

To my relief, he was wearing jeans, too, teamed with an open-necked cream shirt.

He smiled but I could see a trace of nerves in his eyes, which I wasn’t sure was a good or bad sign.

It was good that I wasn’t the only one feeling nervous, but it could be a bad thing if he was worried about hurting my feelings in some way.

‘Shona, come in. You look very nice.’

I supposed ‘very nice’ was better than nothing. I smiled. ‘So do you.’

I stepped into a hallway with wooden flooring and white walls. Very clean. Very tidy. Not a bit of character anywhere in sight.

‘Come through,’ he said, ushering me into a living room and another world.

Talk about a vivid contrast! It should have been lovely and bright in the early-evening sunshine, with its white walls, and French doors opening out onto a patio and small garden, but quite frankly…

I mean, how can I put this politely? It was so full of stuff that it was a tip.

There were two large, dark-green sofas and two armchairs squashed into a room that simply wasn’t big enough for them.

One wall was entirely taken up by bookcases, where so many books fought for space on the shelves, it made me twitch.

Where was the organisation? There were books of all shapes and sizes stacked together in a higgledy-piggledy fashion.

As someone whose own – admittedly much smaller – bookshelf had books neatly stacked in alphabetical and size order, I could hardly bring myself to look at this chaos.

A chunky, oak coffee table stood in the centre of the room on a dark-green rug that covered most of the wooden flooring.

There was another shelving unit squashed into a corner that contained stacks of DVDs.

I caught a few of the titles and sighed inwardly.

Very arty, highbrow films. Not my cup of tea at all.

‘Please take a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment,’ Max said, heading back into the hall, presumably to the kitchen.

‘Do you need any help?’ I asked.

‘No, not at all. It’s all in hand,’ he assured me.

I squeezed past the enormous coffee table, settled myself on one of the sofas, and gazed around me, trying not to be too nosy. A huge, flat-screen television dominated the wall opposite the bookshelves. With all those books to read and DVDs to watch, it was a wonder Max had time to go to work.

‘No fireplace,’ I murmured. It didn’t feel right. I’d never lived anywhere without one and, even though we had central heating at Starling Cottage, I still liked the look of a fireplace in a living room. There were plenty of photographs, though…

I peered through the open door to see if there was any sign of Max returning, then cautiously crept over to examine the framed photographs that hung on the wall opposite the French doors.

The largest one was of a blonde woman, perhaps in her early forties.

She was smiling at the photographer, whoever that was, and looked relaxed and happy.

From what I could see in the background, it looked like she was on a beach somewhere.

Was this Max’s wife, Nina? She wasn’t as glamorous as I’d expected, though I don’t know why I’d thought she would be.

She’d been a surgeon, not a model. But although there was a surprising ordinariness about her, she looked nice.

Friendly. Fun. The sort of woman I could probably have been friends with if I’d known her.

My gaze ranged over the other photos and I swallowed as I realised they were mostly family photos of Max, Rissa, and the same woman.

One, in particular, caught my eye. Rissa must have been about twelve.

The three of them were sitting on a lawn, Rissa in the middle.

She had her arms around her parents’ necks, pulling them closer to her, and they were all laughing. A happy family.

I blinked away tears, feeling a pang of sympathy for Max and Rissa for their loss, and wishing things could have been different for them.

Suddenly, I regretted coming here. What was the point? Max was clearly still in love with Nina, and maybe that almost-kiss never happened. Maybe it was all in my mind? Wishful thinking. What was I even doing here?

I dropped onto the sofa, wondering if I should make some excuse and leave. This felt all wrong. Awkward. I wanted to go home.

‘Dinner’s ready,’ Max said.

I looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, smiling. His face fell and he said, ‘Are you all right?’

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that Dad had just called, and I had to get home. But knowing him, he’d insist on running me back and he’d want to know that Dad was okay, and it would all get even more complicated, so I simply smiled and said, ‘Of course.’

‘Okay. Good.’ He looked a bit puzzled but said, ‘Well, would you like to come through?’

I hardly dared think what horrors the kitchen held, but I followed him into what turned out to be a large kitchen/diner, and yet another complete surprise.

Honestly, it could have been a different house.

There were French doors in here, too, which made it a lovely, light room, though I thought a bit of colour wouldn’t go amiss.

White walls, pale flooring, white kitchen units…

Even a white table and chairs. I felt as if I was in the Imagine video.

All it needed was a piano and Yoko Ono faffing with the curtains.

I couldn’t get my head around it all.

I took a seat as requested and waited for Max to serve. Something smelled really good, and my stomach growled in anticipation.

‘It’s nothing fancy,’ he told me, sounding anxious. ‘Don’t expect anything too grand.’

‘Well, whatever it is, it smells lovely,’ I told him. ‘What is it?’

‘Just chicken and pasta with some roasted vegetables,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Courgette, pepper, cherry tomatoes, garlic. There are some chilli flakes in there, too. Hope that’s okay.’

All I heard was garlic. For shameful reasons.

‘Lovely,’ I said brightly. I hadn’t expected a repeat of that almost-kiss anyway, and clearly, he wasn’t planning on it.

‘Would you like some wine?’ he asked. ‘Or would you prefer a soft drink or tea?’

‘Whatever you’re having,’ I told him, feeling unaccountably shy as he set two plates of utterly scrummy-looking food down on the table.

‘I’ll be driving you home, so I’m having non-alcoholic sparkling wine,’ he told me.

‘Oh no! I came on the bus and I can get one back.’

‘I wouldn’t hear of it,’ he said.

‘Well, in that case, I’ll have the same as you,’ I decided.