Conditional Love

by Cathy Bramley

  It would be so easy to pocket the cheque, to just follow where fate was generous enough to take me. But for once I was in the driving seat; I was navigating my own journey. And although it might take me a bit longer, I was determined to get there by myself.

  Dad raised his eyebrows quizzically, but to my surprise said, ‘We thought you might say that.’

  We?

  There was a sharp rap of five knocks on the door. Definitely a Nick knock.

  I was grinning at the thought of a Nick knock as I let him in.

  Norman launched himself at me, wagging his tail and making excited little yelpy noises. I was flattered. I held out a bone-shaped chew and he disappeared off down the hall.

  Nick was still on the doorstep. He searched my face with his eyes; he looked happy, excited even, but a bit on the nervous side. So he should – tracking down my family members and giving them the low down on my life. I didn’t know what he was up to, but he was playing a risky game. Very attractive though, I had to admit.

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ I said in a loaded way.

  A large drop of water dripped off the porch and landed on his glasses.

  ‘May I come in?’

  Stepping aside to let him in, I felt my skin tingle as he brushed past me. His hair was wet and I had to stop myself from reaching up and touching it.

  I reminded myself that I was waiting for an apology.

  He peeled off his wet coat and laid it on the floor. He was wearing a navy suit and a white shirt. I loved a man in a suit. I, on the other hand, was a vision in wool: a jumper that came down to my knees, thermal leggings and a thick scarf that covered most of my face.

  I led him back to the kitchen. It was a tight squeeze, all three of us in a row, but it was our best option; there was not a stick of furniture in the place and at least here we could all lean. The situation was made worse when, for wont of something to do with my hands, I made us all another drink.

  ‘So what did you want to see me for?’ I smirked at Nick.

  His hand hovered between the ‘Keep calm and give us a kiss’ mug and the Take That one. He opted for Take That. Wise move.

  It was only then that I noticed that Nick had my sketchpad tucked under his arm.

  ‘As I was saying,’ continued my dad, ‘we thought you’d say that.’

  The two men exchanged furtive glances. There was a whole language of eyebrow furrowing, nodding and flicking of heads and mouth twitching that I was trying and failing to translate.

  ‘So we’ve come up with an alternative,’ said Dad. Smug was the best word to describe his smile. He nodded at Nick. ‘Well, Nick has.’

  Nick held his hands up modestly. ‘Sophie did all the hard work.’

  If they didn’t spit this big mystery out soon, I was going to throttle the pair of them.

  ‘After I got the letter from your solicitor – thank you for clarifying the situation so professionally by the way – I happened upon your sketchbook,’ said Nick.

  I rolled my eyes at ‘happened upon’.

  He battled on bravely. ‘I’d meant to post it back after finishing the cowshed proposal, but didn’t get round to it. Right at the front, I found those early sketches you did.’

  Early sketches? Crikey Moses, please don’t say he had found that layout with the nursery in it?

  ‘I seem to recall that of all the myriad times I’ve put my foot in it with you, the first was when I assumed that you wanted to demolish the bungalow.’

  How could I forget? He had suggested that the building wasn’t worth preserving and then tied himself in knots trying to backtrack.

  Al of a sudden I knew exactly what he was referring to: months ago – a year even – those scribbles I’d done after my first visit here. And more specifically, the sketch he had inadvertently seen after squirting Ribena all over my pad. The one entitled ‘Bungalow Extension’.

  I felt my face heat up and pulled my scarf up over my nose.

  ‘The more I looked at your ideas, the more inspired I became, playing around with what’s already here, working with what we’ve got.’

  ‘Show her!’ said Dad, practically vibrating with excitement.

  Nick flicked to the back of my pad and held up a drawing of his own.

  I stared at the page, bewildered.

  It was still my bungalow, but not as I knew it. Gone was Eeyore’s gloomy house. Instead it was a light and airy, open-plan modern home. With an upstairs! It even had an upstairs! A single-storey glass extension added masses of space to the ground floor and the front had been completely remodelled; the bay windows were gone and in their place were huge modern oak windows.

  It was perfect. So perfect that it was slipping out of focus due to all the big sloppy tears that had filled my eyes.

  ‘It looks like a lot of work,’ said Dad. His eyes were suspiciously on the moist side too.

  ‘But most of it is cosmetic,’ added Nick. ‘Nowhere near the cost of building from scratch.’ He was watching me closely, observing me; I knew he was trying to work out what I was thinking.

  I was thinking that more than anything, I wanted him to see me as a woman, not only as a client. And that although I loved what he had done for me, I wasn’t sure if I could work with him anymore. Being with him, but not being with him, might be too painful to bear. Just as well he couldn’t read my mind.

  ‘I know you have some money from Aunt Jane,’ said Dad, jumping back in. ‘But if you need it, I’ll lend you the rest. Loan!’ he said quickly, as I started to protest. ‘You can pay me back once you’re working again.’

  ‘That might take a while,’ I said, my voice husky from keeping a lid on my emotions. I explained to them both about enrolling on the interior design course after Easter.

  ‘That’s settled then,’ said Dad, folding his arms. ‘I’m paying for Brodie’s education and I’m paying for yours. No arguments. And I’d be insulted if you didn’t let me do all your tiling.’

  ‘I’ll bet there’s a practical element to the course?’ Nick turned the pages of the sketchpad until he came to my original drawing and placed it in my hands.

  I nodded.

  ‘What better place to experiment than your own home?’ he said.

  I cast my eyes down at the page. Could I do it? Could I spend the next six months standing so close to him, knowing that I could look but not touch?

  ‘Sophie.’ He rested his hands gently on my arms.

  He was touching me. In front of my dad.

  I might faint.

  I raised my head and peered at him over my scarf.

  Once he had my attention, he continued, ‘I’ve done and thought and said all the wrong things ever since we met. But have I got this right?’

  Dad coughed, deposited his empty mug in the sink noisily and informed us that he was going for a stroll round the village. Norman leapt to his paws and trotted after him.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said quietly. ‘Why have you gone to all this trouble? I’m not even officially a client anymore.’

  He sighed. ‘Because I can’t stop thinking about you, because I know I’ve been a total idiot, because I didn’t know what else to do to prove to you…’

  What I did next was a bit forward, but it felt right. I stepped a tiny bit closer until the toes of my Ugg boots (not real Uggs, but the ones that flop down after five minutes and ruin your instep) touched the toes of his super-shiny, smart shoes. We were so close that I wouldn’t have been surprised if he could hear my heartbeat.

  ‘Prove what?’ Well, why not make him work for it?

  ‘That my intentions towards you are not entirely professional.’

  I burst out laughing. That was such a Nick way of putting it.

  ‘I must inform you,’ I said, regarding him earnestly, ‘that I fully intend to take that as a compliment.’

  Nick visibly sagged with relief and relaxed his grip on my arms.

  ‘How did you get my Dad roped into all this? And more to the point, why?’

 
Nick cleared his throat and looked sheepish. ‘I Googled you. Found you on Facebook. Saw your brother on your friends’ list. Brodie put me in touch with Terry.’

  ‘Ooh, a cyber-stalker! Very clever. It wouldn’t even occur to me to do that.’

  I am such a liar.

  Nick leaned back against the worktop and looked up at the ceiling before gazing at me with such intensity that I could hardly breathe.

  ‘And the reason I did it was because of the story you told me about him in Starbucks. I knew that once he had been reacquainted with his daughter, he would jump at the chance to help her out. That’s what dads do.’

  Was this a guilty conscience talking? My heart pounded. Should I admit overhearing his conversation with Phil Strong? I had to say something, give him the opportunity to explain himself. But was I ready to hear the truth, even if the truth was ugly?

  ‘Is that how it is for you?’ I nibbled on my lip and waited for his reaction.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Would you do anything for your child? Joanna’s child?’

  I regretted my words instantly. Nick’s face turned to stone. Very pale stone. He stared off into the distance, shaking his head. When he spoke, his voice was gruff and low.

  ‘Joanna is the ‘ex’ I told you about. The relationship that nearly ruined my career. She was a client.’

  I knew that. I’d Googled her, obviously. I nodded at him to go on.

  ‘What I didn’t tell you was that she broke my heart.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Smashed it into a million pieces, actually.’

  ‘We’d been together a year when she announced she was pregnant. It took me some getting used to, but I was delighted and asked her to marry me. She asked for time to think about it and disappeared for forty-eight hours.’

  He rubbed a hand over his face and his eyes met mine. ‘When she came back, she’d had a termination. I had no say in the matter.’

  I could have cried for him. It all made sense now: the pain in his eyes when I told him about Jess; his interest in my own family saga.

  ‘Apparently, she is now ready to be a mother,’ he raised an unimpressed eyebrow, ‘but she’s having problems conceiving. And in an attempt to lay the blame elsewhere, decided to tell her new boyfriend that I’d persuaded her to get rid of our baby. Anyway.’ He stood up, gave himself a shake and smiled. ‘I’ve been to Manchester and had it out with her. It’s sorted now.’

  I knew it! I knew he wouldn’t have behaved badly. What a relief! I was ashamed to have even contemplated it.

  A feeling of euphoria and anticipation crept over me. It was that smile of his. A smile that lit up his face, and carved a dimple in his cheek. A smile that hinted at unprofessional intentions. I smiled back.

  He was in front of me again. ‘I’ve got an overwhelming urge to kiss you,’ he whispered, his eyes boring into mine.

  Time seemed to slow right down and I was glad because I wanted this moment to go on forever, the moment when he slid his arms around my waist and pulled me in close. Then his lips dipped down towards mine, my body melted into his and I gave myself up to his kiss.

  The relief at being in his arms was so sweet, I could hardly breathe.

  I looked up at him and grinned. ‘What about your “hands-off-clients” rule?’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ He unwound the scarf from my neck. It took him about three circuits of my head. It was a very long scarf. He rolled his eyes as he dropped it to the floor. ‘I can see definite advantages to this type of working relationship.’

  He moved his lips to my neck and placed a row of hot kisses down to my collar bone. I shivered and felt my knees go weak with desire.

  ‘Good,’ I said, pulling his face back to mine, ‘because otherwise I’d have to sack you again.’

  We kissed once more, clinging to each other as if we were afraid one of us would change our minds. The intensity of my feelings for him was almost scary. But at the same time, nothing, no one had ever felt so right.

  ‘So you like the extension idea, then?’ he said finally, pulling away from me to look deep into my eyes. I missed him already and reached out to touch his dimple. I nodded.

  ‘You really don’t mind not being able to build your dream home?’

  I thought about it for a moment. ‘What you’ve designed is my dream home and I think Great Aunt Jane would approve too. Besides…’

  I took each of his arms and tucked them round my waist until our bodies were pressed tightly against each other.

  ‘I feel perfectly at home exactly where I am.’

  About the author

  Cathy Bramley lives in a small village in rural Nottinghamshire with her husband, two daughters and a very bouncy dog. She has spent most of her career in PR and marketing, running her own agency.

  Cathy is a fan of Masterchef, strong coffee, chocolate brazils and Marian Keyes books. She is addicted to her Kindle and has an irrational fear of bananas.

  Conditional Love is Cathy’s first novel. She hopes you like it enough to connect with her online…

  www.cathybramleyauthor.com

  www.facebook.com/CathyBramleyAuthor

  www.twitter.com/CathyBramley