A pang of guilt hits me as I realize that I’ve never made any effort to chat or find out anything about her.
You never really know people, do you? The hurt they carry, why they are like they are? I should be kinder, I should listen more to what people are really saying, not just the words I hear. We all should.
I sit down at my desk. Look at all the things on my side. I know what I must do. I need to clear everything personal off this desk, make this one hundred per cent professional. I can at least do that. Then when, if, Jamie and I talk I can explain that we can have a fresh start.
Dave’s proposal was a bit of a shock, but it proves that sometimes you have to draw a strong line under the past, however much you don’t want to. I’ve been as guilty as Dave in not doing that. I’ve hung on to my past fantasies about bumping into the boy I kissed – just as Dave has held on to his idea of him and me.
Jamie and I can’t go back to how we were. I know that. I no longer have that hope I’d hung on to for two years that one day he’ll remember me and fancy me as much as I fancy him. The day he admitted he remembered was the day it all changed. The day he got carried away and kissed me again was the day it all ended. Once and for all.
Whatever is going on in his life, he doesn’t want me to be a part of it.
And that is fine.
Next time I’m in I will bring a bag and pack everything away, and it will be quite safe in my newly locked room. From now on the office will be just the office. Not some substitute home. End of.
I click on the website I’m working on and get my head down.
I’m turning my computer off for the day, when the note Jamie left catches my eye again. I peel it off the desk. Run my finger over the indents the pen made. It makes me sad.
Jamie asked how I am, which is more than Dave ever did. Jamie said sorry, which is more than Dave did.
Jamie just wants us to be friends.
Dave doesn’t.
Why, just when you think you’re doing the right thing, when you think you’re starting to get your life how you want it, does it all have to come and punch you in the stomach?
I slip the note in my handbag. Push my chair in. Wave goodnight to Sal and make my way to the lift.
As I leave the building I stop and take my phone out on impulse. I text Jamie.
Yes, it would be good to talk. Alice x
I mean, I have announced to Dave in particular and the whole office in general, that we’re an item, so it’s not just him that might need to explain themselves.
What if next time he comes into the office there’s a barrage of congratulations?
Tricky.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Friday
I stare at the black door nervously. Double-checking I’ve got the right house number, playing for time while I compose myself and rehearse what I’m going to say in my head.
I’ve been doing that since I left work. I haven’t come up with anything witty and original. Isn’t it a bugger how when there’s no pressure you can be hilarious, full of witty one-liners? Standing on a doorstep, the witticisms just don’t come. Hey, long time no see (lame) and Rodney and Mabel miss you (needy – he’ll know I mean me; plants and stuffed toys don’t have feelings or thoughts) have come out top. Well, they’re the only lines.
I decided to dismiss my first ideas Where have you been? I’ve been worried (even though I have) and I can’t stand not hearing from you (even though I can’t), I’ll be friends, anything, just name it immediately. On the grounds that a. they might terrify him, and he’ll run for the hills, and b. they might lead to images of me lying prostrate at his feet, hanging on to his trouser legs like the twins did. Not becoming. Or professional. Or sexy. Well, maybe sexy, done in the right way – but I’m pretty confident that it won’t turn out that way.
I am worried about him though. I’ve been doing some thinking and, I mean, he’s not going to not come into the office because of our hot snog, is he? Particularly as I’m not in when he is. It doesn’t make sense.
He said his life was a mess, has he done something terrible? My head can’t get round that idea at all. Maybe he’s helped out some relative or friend who’s done something illegal.
But why couldn’t he have explained to me why we shouldn’t have kissed?
It must be something terrible.
He must be married, or an illegal immigrant, or in a witness protection programme so he has to lie low.
I’m being ludicrous now. And why would he ask me here, to his home, if any of that was true?
Unless it isn’t actually his home.
Oh hell.
Now I’m here, staring at the door, none of my opening lines seem right. It’s quite an imposing front door. In fact, it’s quite a grown-up house, not like my shared one.
Although Jamie might share a house. I don’t know, do I? I don’t know much about him at all. I feel more jittery than ever. I could just go home.
No. I can’t.
Right, let’s do this! I raise my hand to knock, and the door swings open. I narrowly miss hitting him on the nose and instead almost topple into his arms, then stagger about like I’m on the rush hour train with standing room only.
‘Hey.’ He puts out a hand to my elbow to steady me, then drops it as though I’m red hot. ‘Er, thanks for coming round, I wasn’t sure you would.’ He sticks his hands in his pockets awkwardly.
How could I not? Even before Dave crashing in, and I announced my undying love to the whole office, I guess I’d known in my heart that I couldn’t ignore his note.
Couldn’t ignore him.
I don’t want him out of my life. I’m not going to let him take advantage, but I’ve missed him like hell; the funny notes, the teasing. And I do want to check there’s nothing wrong. I mean, it’s a bit extreme not going into the office because of me, isn’t it? I’m not even there in person!
His reply to my text was totally unexpected though. An invitation to pop in to his after work one day.
He looks as gorgeous as ever, but tired. His eyes aren’t sparkling, the lines on his face don’t look like smiley lines; they look like exhaustion. Mum would say he looks drained.
‘How could I resist? I needed to chase up Mabel’s socks!’ I try and add a spark of humour to cover up the fact that I feel nervous as hell. And confused.
He doesn’t laugh, he shifts uneasily, then leads the way into his home. ‘Come in. Drink? Wine?’
‘Wine?’ I check my watch. ‘Am I going to need it?’ I ask, half serious.
‘I think I do, and it is Friday after all.’
‘True. Any excuse will do me, make it a big one, haha.’ Shit. I’ve gone over the top now. It’s because I’m wound up, I know it is. I need to wind it in, slow down, stop bloody flapping and be cool. He’s just a friend.
Hell, he has got a seriously sexy bum.
I stare around at my surroundings to try and take my gaze, and dirty mind, off his body.
As entrance halls go it’s pretty normal. As in, boring and not much to look at. I’m still thinking about his body. Coat hooks, stair bannisters, mirror. Bugger, why didn’t I slap some more lipstick on, on my way over?
‘Your wish is my command!’
I wish! His words immediately switch my attention from the not-at-all mesmerising magnolia walls.
In the kitchen, he reaches for a bottle of already opened wine. I’d never really noticed before how lightly his forearms are brushed over with fine hairs. ‘Red okay, or I can open white?’ Or how strong-looking his fingers are.
‘Pink?’
‘Now you’re pushing it, unless you want me to mix them!’
This enforced jollity is not good. It’s not us. What happened to feeling comfortable together? That not-needing-to-talk thing? Now we’re blabbing away to fill every crack of silence and it is horrible. It is making my stomach all hollow and empty, because I’m dreading what will happen when we stop talking drivel. When we get to the meaningful stuff like ‘I’ve got a n
ew job’, ‘I’m moving’ (could be why he gave me his address, haha), ‘I’ve asked for a desk transfer’.
‘Good job the weather’s warming up, or Mabel would need her socks!’
He hands me a glass of wine. A very large glass. ‘Wow, planning on getting me tipsy?’ Shut up, Alice. You’re flirting, you’re making it worse.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean… I can pour some out.’
‘Don’t be daft, I was kidding.’ I hang on to my glass. I might need it.
‘Here.’ He signals away from the kitchen area into the open-plan lounge. ‘Shall we sit down?’
Oh God, this is so bad he thinks I need to sit down. He’s planning on telling me he’s married or something and he feels like he’s being stalked. Why did I come here? Why did Soph ask him to the barbecue? Why did I kiss him again? Why, oh why?
I swallow down all the horrible thoughts and follow him over, slide onto the leather couch and look everywhere but straight at him.
I must look like some nervous virgin, knees pressed hard together, clutching my glass of vino, gaze fluttering round the room wildly. I’m even making myself feel more on edge and nervous.
It is actually quite nice in here though. My shoulders relax down a fraction.
Not cluttered, but homely. The seats are squishy, not the slide-off type. It’s all a bit muted but the cushions are a splash of colour, there are crowded bookcases and… Oh my God. I lean forward before I can stop myself and nearly slip off the non-slip chair.
My shoulders are hunched back up, practically cradling my ears.
There’s something, I swear, there is a green and red plastic toy sticking out from under a book on the bottom shelf!
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes, er sure. Sure.’ I turn back to him, bright smile on my face. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ It must be a dog toy. He’s got a dog. A very quiet dog. ‘Impressive place you’ve got, bit bigger than my hobbit hole,’ I say to distract myself. But seriously, how come he can afford a place like this when I’ve got a box room in a house share? He’s got to have either inherited it, or somebody has chipped in to help him out. ‘You never said your parents were millionaires! Not that it’s any of my business,’ I add hastily. He’s going to think I’m a gold digger now.
‘You never knew I was one of those bitcoin billionaires?’
‘You’re not?’ My jaw drops.
‘No.’ He grins, chuckles, and some of the old jokey relationship between us seeps back. ‘I’m housesitting for my uncle while he’s working in Saudi. Five-year contract. Gives me chance to save up a deposit for a place.’
‘Oh.’ Oh shit, there’s something else nestled in the books. It is much too small, even for the smallest dog. Choking hazard.
It is a dinosaur.
I am familiar with plastic dinosaurs; my nephews have many.
Why is there a dinosaur on his bookcase?
I introduced him to my family, I told him about Dave, I very possibly totally overshared. But he never told me he had a house full of children’s toys?
Okay. Slight exaggeration. Take a deep breath, Alice. One toy, well two, okay there’s a tractor down next to Pub Walks on the Coastal Path as well.
I glance along the bookshelves distractedly, wondering what other prehistoric creatures are going to jump out. T-Rex doesn’t. Something else does. On the table next to where I am sitting.
‘Oh wow, is that your nephew? You never said! He’s so cute!’ The picture of the gorgeous chubby-cheeked laughing toddler catches my eye, and I grab it for something to do. Phew, that explains it. It’s not even Jamie’s house, of course they’re not his toys!
He can’t actually have a toddler like that living here. There are no sticky fingerprints. Sticky blobs of solidified Calpol on the carpet.
There’s something about the baby’s smile, the shape of his mouth, his eyes that makes me sure he must be related to Jamie. He’s like a mini version, but with blond hair. And, hey, why else would he have a picture of a toddler in his place? And his toys. The sister he loves to hate must have children, or at least a child. Or his uncle has grandchildren. ‘He looks so like you, I bet he’s better behaved than my nephews, the terrible twins! Isn’t it great when they’re not yours and you can have fun, then hand them back? That’s what Mum always says!’ I am blabbing on, relief making me a bit loopy. All explained! A few stray toys, that’s all! I suddenly realize he is staring at me in a way that’s a bit unnerving.
I put the photo down guiltily. ‘Sorry.’ He must be one of those people that doesn’t like you moving stuff. I check it is in the same spot I got it from, tricky ’cos he hasn’t got dust on the tabletop like I have on mine, so there’s no mark. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete housework slut, I just don’t always pick stuff up to dust under it. Sometimes, not always. I always thought lots of people did that to save time, you know they say ‘a quick dust round’, don’t they? Round being the important word there.
I started to have doubts though when I said it to Lucy (who, let’s face it does only have time to do things quickly – maybe that’s why she acts sex-starved, maybe it is not baby hormones, maybe it’s because she has to do everything at super-fast speed and has to settle for a tremor not an earthquake down there?) and anyway, she gave me a very funny look with raised eyebrows and said, ‘Haha, you are kidding, right?’ I never mentioned housework to her again.
Jamie still hasn’t said anything.
There is no jokey comeback. In fact, the silence is a bit strange. Unnerving. I glance up. He isn’t looking at me though, he’s staring at the photo. I have definitely put it back in the wrong place. I shift it a couple of millimetres.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a twisted smile. Not the normal Jamie at all. And no smile. No laughter in his eyes.
The silence lengthens, and I am so tempted to fill it – because that is what happens in my family. There is never any room for silence, even though I often wish there was. Which is why I now keep it buttoned.
I stop my twitching fingers from touching the photo again, feeling slightly guilty.
‘He does, doesn’t he?’ There’s a catch in his voice. He coughs to clear his throat, and then his gaze meets mine. He’s looking directly at me, in me, if you know what I mean. His face totally serious.
I nod, swallowing to moisten my dry mouth.
‘You might even think I could be his dad.’ Now it is his turn to lean over and pick up the photo. His turn to smile, but the smile isn’t a full-on happy smile. It’s soft, sad.
The way he says it, the expression on his face. It hits me so hard that I feel like I’ve been whacked in the stomach and all my breath has come out in a rush. It can’t be…he can’t. I look at the photo, back at him, then back at the photo. The impossible truth dawns. The blond curls, happy grin, eyes that sparkle with mischief. His and the baby’s.
Then I sneak a sidelong peek towards the dinosaur crew.
‘You could,’ I finally squeak out, unable to bear the wait any longer. My throat is sandpaper-dry, my voice scratchy. I force two more words out. ‘Are you?’ I’m holding my breath. Thoughts swirling about randomly in my head. This isn’t what I expected at all.
He nods towards the photo. One short nod, then looks back at me and the tiny nods of his head get stronger, slower as though he’s making sure I understand, as though he’s almost convincing himself. ‘He’s called Alfie.’
Oh my God, he’s not only married, he has got a child. Maybe children! I glance round wildly as though I’m expecting them to crawl out from under the furniture, from behind the curtains. From between the books.
There I was, joking at work that he isn’t even up to taking responsibility for a mini spider plant, and he’s got a real living, moving, breathing noise-making mini-me.
He said complicated. Bloody hell, he’s telling me. My mind is boggled. Him? A baby? An actual bloody baby. He’s a dad.
Shit. I kissed him. I made him kiss me. My heart is thumping, and there’s a pai
nful lump in my throat as I stare at him. Then my gaze flickers round nervously.
I can’t help it; I realize I’m searching for more signs of family life here. There are no high heels under the sofa, or spare lippy on the mantelpiece (or is that just me?). There is no baby paraphernalia around, no sign of a child apart from this picture.
That’s impossible. I know that from Lucy, from Darcie. Babies come with stuff, lots of stuff. Not just a handful of toys.
It all spreads to all corners of every room, impossible to tidy away.
Jamie’s home doesn’t even say serious relationship, let alone ‘dad’.
‘He lives in Cornwall.’
I stop glancing round guiltily. ‘Oh.’ I am well confused now.
‘My life is a fucking car crash right now, believe me, you really don’t want anything to do with me,’ he says wryly.
Believe me, I would. If he wasn’t already part of a happy family with somebody else. Except he can’t be, can he, if his son lives miles away?
He puts the photograph down slowly.
‘If you want to talk about it…’ What am I saying? He doesn’t want to talk about it, he wants to tell me to stop flirting, stop hoping. Step out of his life. I don’t bloody want to talk about! Do I? Oh God, I hate my nosiness sometimes. ‘Does your er, wife, ex…’ The word sounds strangled as it is forced from my lips.
He suddenly sighs, then sinks down onto the sofa, puts his head in his hands. Rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, and then he sweeps his hair back and leans back onto the cushions.
He looks knackered. I want to hug him. Instead I sit on my hands.
‘This is what I had to explain to you. But it’s not how it looks.’
‘How does it look?’ I know what he’s getting at. I’m still sneaking looks. In a minute I’m going to have to ‘drop something’ so I can sneak a peek under the sofa.
He nearly grins, as though he’s read my mind. ‘Like a bachelor pad?’
I smile, the totally awkward moment broken, but still a bit hard to get my head round. ‘A very homely bachelor pad.’ It is. It might not have many hints of a kid showing, but it isn’t really what I imagined at all. I suppose I’d thought his home would be an extension of his desk; he’s Mr Neat and Tidy. Clean, everything there for a reason, no excess. But this is warm and soft at the edges. Okay, it is tidy, but it’s also lived in. Loved. Welcoming.
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