Page 9

“You need to think this through for yourself, Charlie. And decide, carefully, what you want to hear off me. I know you and Sue like to joke, but I’ve not got a way to see what anyone is thinking, and I’ll never, ever, tell you to take my advice over your own when it comes to your heart.

So decide for yourself first, what use will you have for what I think of this boy Luke?

” Her expression has stayed the same, but I now notice the hints of tension behind her eyes.

“If I have no good to say of him but you keep him around, what I say will always be there between you and me. And worse, if I say he’s wonderful and that I like him, will you cling on to that later if we’re both wrong, and keep yourself unhappy because of that one thing I say? ”

I hold her gaze. There’s an ancient echo of pain there, one that she rarely shows to me.

I know my grandparents hadn’t always taken her side when my dad had left, and I know now, as an adult, that she can’t have found that easy to accept.

Some wounds scab over, some pain fades, but the memories linger.

Luke returns so we drop the conversation, and as we talk about weather and travel I allow myself to properly think about what Mum’s said.

Of course she’s right. She can’t be the one telling me what to do with Luke, or any other relationship.

That’s on me to figure out. What was I expecting her to say to me?

‘Go ahead, I can guarantee this man will give you the happy ever after you wanted’?

And now I just sit there and fidget, because I need to speak to her more. And I can’t very well tell Luke to eff off for a few more minutes and wait in the hallway while I do it.

Luckily, I’m still an engineer, so practical solutions are still my forte.

“Shirt!!” I say altogether too loudly, out of the blue, interrupting the conversation about the time Mum and Sue went to Copenhagen and were disappointed by how small the Little Mermaid statue actually was.

All of them jump. “Sorry. Mum, you were saying that you managed to get that oil stain out of my white shirt. I need it for… my Monday meeting. Can you show me where it is so that I don’t forget? ”

Mum looks like she’s trying really hard not to laugh at me, but thankfully she follows me upstairs to my old bedroom. I shut the door quickly and turn to her.

“You’re right, and I know I need to take my own advice first. Whatever your impression of him is, it wouldn’t be fair to use that and nothing else to make my decision.

So here it is.” I take a deep breath and let it out.

“I already know I like him, and if he feels the same way, then I’m really keen to see if this works.

But…” I grab Mum’s small, careworn hand on impulse.

“What you think always matters to me. It mattered when I was deciding on uni, and jobs, and houses, and it matters to me now. I don’t think I want to be with someone that you couldn’t at least learn to love, at some point.

” I squeeze her hand. “You don’t have to tell me what you think right now.

But whenever you feel there’s something to say? ”

“Oh, love.” I may be short, but she still has to get onto her tiptoes to kiss me on the cheek. “Of course I will. For what it’s worth, he seems a nice young lad, and you’re to bring him over here whenever you want.”

I’m not sure why this feels like a glowing recommendation despite Mum being the human personification of sunshine and positivity.

“I will.” I hesitate. “He doesn’t… he doesn’t remind you too much of someone?

” Unbidden, half-remembered images stir of a crisp, cold voice saying a succinct goodbye, and a stiff, besuited back disappearing out of the door.

Mum smiles. “The only people he reminds me of, love, are you, and maybe your friend Will. You’ve all worked hard to get where you are in life, and near as I know, none of you have stepped on anyone to get there.

” She pauses. “Well. except the time you trod on little Vince Jackson’s back to climb up the playground ladder. ”

“I was five!” I snark at her, but she’s made me grin as she always does.

“We’re lucky his ma had a sense of humour, anyway.” She reaches into a dresser drawer as we move towards the door. “Here, take your important white shirt. And count yourself lucky I don’t tell Luke it’s been lying in this drawer for four months now.”

“Don’t you dare!” I nudge her with my elbow, and she just laughs.

Luke gives us a curious look when we return, but doesn’t comment. I brush my hand against his as I sit down, and that seems to reassure him.

“Almost done,” Sue comments brightly, and indeed, at long last we’re nearly finished with Ellie’s favour boxes of doom.

“We have you to thank for it being done so soon, I think,” Mum says to Luke, looking at the neat way the various boxes of items are now organised in order of which goes into the boxes first.

Luke flushes and looks pleased. “Not at all. I have to say this has been quite fun.”

“Be careful,” I warn. “Say that again and you’ll be enlisted into helping out here forever with the rest of us.”

He nudges me with his shoulder. “I honestly wouldn’t mind.”

Heart, keep guard of yourself. It’s too soon to fall just yet.

“Would you both like to join us for dinner?” Sue asks me, her hands finally coming to a rest after setting the last box down. "We were just going to get something from the Spice Kitchen."

"Another time, thanks," I say quickly, even though my stomach is weeping at missing out on my favourite lamb biryani.

But it's only the third time Luke's met me, and it may not be time yet for him to see me unhinging my jaw and devouring an unholy amount of Indian food.

Maybe a few more weeks, if all goes well.

Mum clasps Luke's hand as I hug Sue at the door. "You two come back to see us soon," she tells him.

"I'd like that," he says softly.

"Ta-rah now!" Mum calls as she closes the door.

I glance up at Luke, who looks utterly charmed. I’m pretty used to it; that’s the expression almost everyone has when they come to meet my mother. “She’s just so lovely,” he tells me.

“She’s taken,” I respond drily as we walk towards our cars.

He laughs. “That’s alright. I sort of have my eye on her son anyway.”

I thought I was too old to blush this much.

We both drive our cars back towards my apartment, reverting more or less to the original plan of just hanging out.

I direct him to the car park I usually use, which is only a short walk from the apartment complex, and, ever the gentleman, he takes the excess boxes of chocolate from me, tucking them under his arm so that all I have to hold is the stupid white shirt.

I tentatively let my free hand brush against his as I walk beside him.

He takes the hint and reaches over to hold my hand, and the pure joy that this simple action sparks within my chest feels like the first bloom of spring.

“This is nice,” Luke says neutrally as I lead him towards one of the many exposed brick apartment blocks.

“I’m not sure I want to stay here forever,” I confess. “I do like my apartment, mostly. But - and I know it sounds stupid - I miss going upstairs to bed.”

He laughs. “Believe it or not, I know what you mean. After years of living in a shoebox in London, I started having very similar thoughts.” He squeezes my hand lightly.

“Yeah. Oh well.” We’re at my building and I don’t want to let go of his hand. So after minimal one-handed fumbling I manage to find my key, and lead him through into the elevator bank. He smiles at me. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Just musing that your accent’s shifted back after leaving your mum’s house.”

“Ah. Yep.” I peek at him from under my eyelashes. “It tends to do that.”

His smile never leaves his face. “It was nice. It felt like you were more relaxed.”

“You don’t think it’s strange, that I haven’t kept the accent?” The elevator pings, and we step in.

He brings his free hand up to his jaw, rubbing at the stubble on his chin.

“I don’t. I remember reading an interview of Sir Ian McKellen - did you know he was born in Burnley like you?

- and he talked about how he had to get rid of his Lancashire accent when he went to Cambridge.

Apparently some people said some things, and he felt he’d get further if he sounded a bit more like everyone else.

” He tilts his head. “I’m guessing it’s a little bit like that?

” At my nod, he continues, “So no, I don’t think it’s strange.

I do think it’s a shame that you felt you had to.

” He leans in as the elevator doors open.

“I think your voice sounds lovely either way.”

I just about stop myself from doing a happy little wriggle. “Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “Yours is too.” All the distractions so far have meant that I only realise, as I’m opening the door to let Luke in, the number of things I’ve forgotten to get done. “Ah, crap.”

“What’s the matter?” Luke asks, pausing in the doorway.

“Um. I meant to clean up, but Mum called and I completely forgot.” I glance around.

I mean, it’s not a complete dump, but this is definitely not what I’d consider guest-ready.

A pile of folded laundry is sitting on my kitchen counter right next to us, my cartoon cat briefs and a bright red thong taking pride of place on the top.

There’s no way Luke hasn’t noticed them.

The cushions and throw on the couch are placed in a way that it’s obvious I’ve been lying down with my feet up, and there’s a pair of used socks on the TV cabinet.

I’ve not put my dishes away, and my tea towels are bunched up next to the sink rather than folded. "Sorry."

"What on Earth for?" He glances around. "I love how you've decorated the place."

I look back at him as I hurriedly transport my clothes to the bedroom.

"What? Oh. Thanks.” The place may not look at its tidiest, but I’ve made an effort, over the years, to make sure this place at least feels like a home.

Apart from books, my bookcase houses a small display of mementos from places I’ve visited over the years.

A tapestry of the Tree of Life hangs on one wall, surrounded by pictures of me, Mum and Sue.

The throw and plush couch cushions may be mismatched, but I’ve chosen them for comfort rather than appearance.

A large shag rug takes up the middle of the living room, which is soft enough that I’ve been known to nap on it instead of the couch or bed.

I bustle back in after dumping the entire pile of clothes into my closet without separating them, even though knowing I’ve left them unsorted makes my brain itch a little.

“Sorry. Have a seat - I’ll just…” I zip past him, rearranging the cushions and throw on the couch with ruthless efficiency. “There.”

He takes a seat as I trot back towards the kitchenette to fill the electric kettle. “Coffee? Tea? I have juice, and lemonade, and… milk?” I put the kettle on to boil and stick my head in the fridge to make sure.

“Charlie.” I jump at the sound of his voice, which is right behind me. I turn, and he gently grasps hold of my shoulders, and lightly steers me to lean against the kitchen counter. His eyes are twinkling. “Breathe, poppet. What’s turned you into the Road Runner all of a sudden?”

“Meep meep,” I say lamely, but it still garners a laugh from him. “Sorry. I’m nervous.”

“Nervous?” He’s not removed his hands from my shoulders, and his thumbs stroke rhythmic patterns that seem to help all the tension in those muscles melt away.

“It’s been a very long time since I’ve brought a date back here.” I’m sure he’d be put off to know exactly how long it’s been.

He just shrugs. “That’s alright.” He grins crookedly. “It makes one feel special, knowing they’re part of a very exclusive club.”

I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but I can’t quite work up a smile in response. “I’m not sure it’s been exclusive on purpose,” I confess. “And I’m conscious I need to make a better impression than I already have.”

He moves in behind me again, loosely wrapping his arms around me.

Our height difference is such that, with only a little slouching on my part, my head’s tucked comfortably under his chin.

“I have a suggestion. How about we both agree to stop trying so hard to make a good impression? That’s what seems to work best for us. ”

“Okay,” I relent, savouring the feeling of leaning against his strong frame.

I want to say he’s convinced me with his compelling argument, but honestly, he could probably suggest that I get an embarrassing tattoo over my nether regions and I’d still agree as long as he let me stay there, body and mind silenced by his calming presence.

The kettle boils, and I reluctantly leave his embrace to prepare our drinks. At least once I bring our mugs over to the living room and sit down, he immediately shifts closer to me. I turn my face up towards his, and our lips meet and part against each other.

“I’ve missed this,” I say after a while, and immediately wince because I’m coming on too strong.

The miracles continue; he just smiles. “So have I.”

Our mugs of tea go cold. Neither of us care.

After a while, I pull back. I’ve climbed into his lap at some point, and his dilated pupils and the light flush on his face suggest to me that he really doesn’t mind all that much. “Right. Um. What would you like to do now?”

Luke grins. “I quite liked what we were just doing.”

I poke his broad chest lightly. “So did I, but I feel like we should be doing something date-related.”

He leans back, folding his hands behind his neck. “As you wish.” He inclines his head gravely, but the twinkle in his eye reassures me that he’s still in good humour. “What would you like to do, poppet? We’ve deviated somewhat from the third date blueprint today, so I'd appreciate some ideas."

“What?” There’s that odd feeling of déjà vu again. “Say that again.”

“I’d appreciate some ideas?” He frowns a little, and I’m very nearly distracted by the way his brows knit together and how it makes me want to smooth them back to their usual relaxed state with a light finger.

“No. Before that. Third date blueprint?”

I recognise that expression. The man looks like he’s been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “Yes,” he says very slowly.

Third date blueprint. Old-fashioned gentleman. First date rules.

I remember.

“The May Ball.”

He nods.