by Gill Paul
At the door, Alex says, ‘Listen, could you do me a favour tomorrow? I have to go in to work but I’ve got a bloke coming to fix the washing machine. Could you be here to let him in?’
‘Yeah, no problem.’ It occurs to me that while he knows I work for a marketing company in town, I haven’t a clue about him. ‘What do you do, by the way?’
‘I work for the council.’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway, that’s great. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
It’s cold and colourless back at Rufus’s place. And he still hasn’t phoned. But the delicious red wine we drank with the lasagne has made me drowsy and I fall asleep the instant my head hits the pillow.
*
Next day, I get to Alex’s just as he’s leaving for work.
I want to ask him how his eco-bra design is developing. But he seems in a rush, even though I know from what he told me last night that he’s definitely not late.
‘Make yourself at home. Eat the leftover lasagne. And I’ll be back about six,’ he calls as he dives about finding keys and wallet, and disappears out of the door.
He pops his head back round. ‘You’re welcome to stay for dinner, by the way. There’s steak in the fridge.’
I smile at him. ‘Thanks.’ One more day as a meat eater isn’t going to put a hole in the ozone layer, is it?
I was worried I’d be bored but I end up having a lovely day.
Spot of tidying up. Spot of daytime TV. Bliss. Lovely lasagne. Tastes even better the next day. Nice chat with the washing machine engineer. And after a long, hot shower, I feel great, as if I’ve shrugged off the worst of the cold.
I take time drying my hair until it gleams like the sun, and I dress in skinny jeans and a jade green top that brings out the colour of my eyes.
Then I settle on the sofa and flick through the magazine Alex bought me while I await his return. I’m looking forward to another fun evening filled with good food and daft banter. It helps to take my mind of Rufus and his complete lack of contact.
Alex arrives back soon after six. I’ve already prepped some potatoes for home-made oven chips to go with the steak. It will be nice, I think, to chat in the kitchen while we cook. Open the bottle of wine I nipped out during the day to buy. Find out more about him.
But after a quick ‘hello’ and ‘how’s your day been?’, he disappears off to his study without even removing his coat.
I try to concentrate on my magazine, but when I find myself reading the same paragraph over and over, I eventually give up on it and stare into space.
Finally, Alex comes through and suggests we start dinner.
It’s strange.
The night before, we’d joked and laughed and fed each other meat sauce straight from the testing spoon without a thought.
But tonight, the easy camaraderie is gone. It’s like we’re stepping around each other, warily, trying not to invade the other’s personal space. It’s all a bit bewildering after last night and I’m not sure how to break the ice.
It feels so awkward that when he mentions he needs to get a plumber in to fix an irritating dripping tap, I laugh and say, ‘Get me the tools and show me the way!’ It will be a relief to escape the weird tension between us.
He hunts around and finds what I need. And I disappear off to the en suite while he carries on with dinner.
But fixing Alex’s tap is not as straightforward as it usually is.
One of the bolts will not come loose, and for some reason my hands are shaking, which is making me clumsy, all fingers and thumbs.
A bead of sweat trickles down my back.
I’ve told Alex I can do this. I have to do this!
Just then, my mobile starts ringing.
It’s Rufus.
Quickly, I hit ‘end call’.
I haven’t got time to talk right now. I’ll call him later.
‘How’s it going, Miranda?’
I jump and swivel round from where I’m half-sitting, half-lying on the floor, holding a spanner aloft.
‘With Rufus?’
‘No, the tap.’ He hunkers down and examines my handiwork.
I turn back round to look, lose my balance slightly and sway against him. Our eyes lock briefly and there’s an intensity in his that sends my heart rate into orbit. Hastily, I lever myself away from him, and in doing so, I feel the rock-hard muscles of his thigh under my hand.
A surge of desire rips through me.
I can hardly look at him. But I just know his eyes are still burning into me.
‘I – er – didn’t know you had a Jacuzzi bath.’ I’m desperate to find a way back to the easy banter of the night before. ‘Can I try it out? I think I deserve a treat after mending your tap.’
Grinning, I place my hand back on his thigh, my heart pulsing crazily.
Time is frozen for who knows how long.
Then he gives me a strange half-smile, carefully takes my hand, rubs the back of it with his thumb and places it on my own knee.
It’s an infinitely gentle gesture.
And a horribly decisive rejection.
I stare at my hand, a whole range of emotions fleeing through me.
My throat aches. What on earth was I thinking of? Coming on to a man when all he was doing was being kind and hospitable towards me?
Coming on to a man when my boyfriend is due back tomorrow!
‘Sorry, I’d better go.’ I get shakily to my feet and stumble into the hall, and he doesn’t try to stop me.
‘Miranda!’ He calls my name just as the flat door clunks behind me.
*
I lie in Rufus’s bed, my head whirling off the scale, like one of those clothes dryers in a gale force wind. I really don’t know how I feel. I can’t seem to make sense of anything tonight. All I know for certain is: Rufus is back tomorrow. It’s Valentine’s Day. And I have to make it up to him.
As soon as I wake next day, I remember Alex’s painful rejection and the shame of it floods my face a hot pink.
I dive out of bed, determined to put it out of my mind. I have to concentrate on Rufus today. He texted me last night to say he’d be home by five and I’ve got a lot of work to do before then to cook him a surprise Valentine’s dinner.
I call Eliza. ‘Do you want to help me forage for exotic mushrooms?’
A bit of foraging will please Rufus no end.
Eliza laughs. ‘Well, what else are Saturdays for but rummaging about in the undergrowth? Poppy will be with me. She wants to take her cat for a walk.’
Poppy is Eliza’s ten-year-old niece. As I recall, taking Mr Muffin ‘for a walk’ involves her carrying him around like mini royalty and giving him a briefing on nature.
‘Oh, and Mum’s sprained her ankle and needs me to do some shopping for her,’ Eliza adds.
We meet at the village green, to the right of which is a little copse of trees which (I was reliably informed by Rufus) harbours all sorts of interesting fungi. The chance of finding something edible in midwinter is, I suppose, fairly slim – but I’ve brought his fungi reference book just in case. Poppy sets off ‘walking’ Mr Muffin round the perimeter of the green, while Eliza and I scuff around the woodland, eyes peeled for mushrooms.
‘So what did you get up to in his flat?’ she asks. ‘Wasn’t it boring on your own?’
I think of Alex and immediately a telltale flush warms my cheeks. I turn away from Eliza to check a fascinating variety of mushroom (genus: non-existent).
‘It was fine, actually. I got a lot of – er – reading done.’
All day, I’ve been trying desperately hard to block from my mind that excruciatingly awkward moment when I invited Alex into the Jacuzzi and he turned me down.
Eliza is looking anxiously at her watch. ‘Look, do you mind if I get Mum’s shopping out of the way? Won’t be long.’ She glances over at Poppy who’s completed her circuit of the green and now appears to be introducing Mr Muffin to a dead bird. (Mr Muffin is clearly very keen to learn. He’s scrabbling about excitedly, trying to escape Poppy’s hold
.)
I grin at Eliza. ‘I’ll watch her. Don’t worry.’
After she’s gone, I half-heartedly retrace our steps around the wooded area but there’s not a single fungus to be found. I lean against a fence, watching Poppy, who’s now shouting for Mr Muffin to come down from a tree.
I think my cold is coming back. I feel listless, as if I haven’t got the energy to do anything today. I look up at the flat grey February sky and close my eyes. Why is life so complicated?
When I open my eyes and look for Poppy, my heart nearly stops. She’s climbing the tree, trying to get to Mr Muffin, and she’s already far too high up for me to reach her.
I run over, not wanting to shout her name in case she loses her balance and falls.
I can see Mr Muffin crouched on the next branch above Poppy.
She looks down, sees me and waves excitedly, and my heart rises up into my mouth. ‘Don’t climb any higher, Poppy! Mr Muffin will come down on his own.’
But she’s already pulling herself up to the next branch, level with the cat. And as I watch, to my horror, Mr Muffin seizes his chance and leaps nimbly into her arms.
Poppy is smiling away, unaware of any danger.
I could swing for that stupid moggy.
Climbing down proves far more problematic for Poppy with Mr Muffin to carry.
‘Right,’ I shout to her. ‘I’m coming up!’
I reach for a solid-looking branch and haul myself up.
The last time I climbed a tree, I was about ten. My granny’s straw hat had flown up in a gust of wind and got stuck. This time, the stakes are a little higher, to say the least.
Not daring to look down, I climb higher, testing each branch a dozen times before putting my weight on it. At last I’m within reach of Poppy and, as calmly as I can, I start instructing her where to put her feet and hands, until finally, she and Mr Muffin are once again on solid ground.
Then I start down myself – and that’s when I realise the branch I’m standing on is about to snap. I have a second of gut-wrenching panic before I somehow manage to swing myself over to a sturdier branch.
But my legs are shaking so much, I don’t trust myself to attempt the descent. It must be fifteen feet to the ground. What if another branch gives way?
Realising I’m in trouble, Poppy shouts, ‘I’ll get you down, Auntie Miranda!’ and runs off.
‘Fetch Auntie Eliza!’ I yell after her, but she’s already halfway across the green.
I sit there, clinging desperately to the branch above. But after what feels like hours, the cavalry has still not arrived.
And now I’ve got that daft song lodged in my brain.
Always look on the bright side of life!
De-doo. De-doo-de-doo-de-doo.
It honestly couldn’t be less appropriate. Except if you take into account that when he sang it, Eric Idle was nailed to a cross. And I’m stuck up a tree.
So, same scary distance from solid earth.
I desperately need the loo but I can’t cross my legs because I’m too petrified to move. And every time the wind gets up and my perch starts to sway, I go rigid with shock and think: This is it! I’m going to die!
I’m so numb with cold, I keep having visions of the latest Damart thermal-wear catalogue. And to top it all, hailstones the size of golf balls have just begun falling out of the sky and chipping at my head.
I risk a quick glance down and my head swims.
Always look on the bright side of—
My heart leaps.
A familiar black car is travelling along the road. It comes to a stop almost exactly below my tree and relief floods through me.
Thank God!
Rufus gets out and I prepare to yell, ‘Up here! Up here!’ but a second later, the words freeze in my throat.
A woman with long red hair emerges from the passenger side and as I watch, heart thudding, Rufus strides round, grabs her in a clinch and they kiss. Right there in front of the tree. I recognise her as the girl who was handing out leaflets with Rufus in the shopping centre. She hurries into a house on the other side of the street. And Rufus gets back in his car and drives off.
I cling tighter to the branch as a wave of nausea floods through me.
Happy Valentine’s Day to me …
I think of Rufus arriving home and finding I’m not there. He’ll have his story all ready, of course. One of the speakers went on too long which meant he was late leaving the conference. The usual stuff. Because now I think about it, he’s always either ‘held up’ or having to rush off to an unexpected meeting.
The branch sways and I cling on tighter.
When I first met him, I was wildly attracted to his dynamism, his get-up-and-go, the fact he was so highly principled.
My mouth twists wryly.
It would seem his principled attitude does not extend to affairs of the heart.
I convinced myself we were in a relationship that was going somewhere, but of course it never was.
And to cap it all, I’ve made a complete arse of myself with Alex …
It’s hardly surprising he rejected me.
I wish I’d never met Rufus. But even if I never see Alex again, I could never, ever regret knowing him.
Not that realising any of this makes me feel better.
To be truthful, I’ve never felt so lonely in my entire life.
Always look on the bright side of life …
Oh my God. Am I seeing things?
A fire engine is turning into the street, moving slowly along the green. And next moment, I spot Eliza and Poppy running across the grass towards me.
Everything happens very fast after that. The vehicle stops and two firemen in helmets get out and carry over a ladder, which they expertly position against the trunk. One holds the ladder steady while the broader of the two climbs up until he’s level with me.
I’m so relieved I won’t be spending the night up here after all, I immediately start thanking him profusely for coming to my rescue and apologising for getting into such a stupid scrape in the first place and wasting his time.
He waits for me to finish. Then he says a surprising thing.
‘Do I take it you’d like me to rescue you, then?’
‘Er … sorry?’
He shrugs. ‘Some women are so damn independent, they kick up a fuss if a man tries to come to their aid.’
What’s going on?
I know that voice!
‘Especially when they’re standing on a dustbin, trying to climb through a bathroom window.’
My heart gives an enormous thud.
‘Alex?’
‘At your service, Ma’am.’
‘Oh my God, you’re a fireman?’
‘Very observant.’ His tone is dry as an autumn leaf. ‘Now, listen. I’m going to tell you exactly what to do.’
‘Okay.’ I beam at him, willing to do absolutely anything he tells me because even if he wasn’t wearing a highly reassuring (and may I say, frighteningly seductive) uniform, I know I can trust this man with my life.
With everything …
‘Did Poppy phone you?’
‘No. Now shuffle along the branch. Tiny movements. Slowly.’
‘But who did?’
‘Eliza.’
‘Oh. Right. Have you met her yet?’
He nods. ‘Thirty-two years ago.’
‘What?’
‘She’s my cousin.’
‘What?’
‘Look, I’m going to have to insist you concentrate,’ he barks.
‘Ooh! Yes. Sorry.’ He sounds so commanding, I’d jump to attention if it weren’t for the fact that it would be the last thing I ever did.
‘Right, you’re going over my shoulder. And you’re going to be quiet.’
‘Righto.’
All the joy of my rescue vanishes, like air squeezed out of a balloon. He’s talking to me as if I’m just another slightly irritating member of the public he has to deal with before finishing his shift.
‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’ I say in a very small voice. The realisation is surprisingly gutting.
He gives an exasperated grunt. ‘For God’s sake, of course I like you. Why do you think I’m here trying to stop you from falling out of this damn tree?’
‘Because it’s your job?’ (Of course I’m not fishing. As if.)
He growls. Yes, growls.
‘Yes, because it’s my job. But also because you’re the most infuriatingly stubborn, ridiculous, funniest, loveliest woman I’ve met in a very long time. Now will you just shut the fuck up and let me rescue you?’
‘Okay.’
I’m fifteen feet from the earth, there’s still a chance I could plummet to my death, but my heart is so overflowing, I actually feel like bursting into song.
Always look on the bright side …!
I do what he says, and pretty soon, we’re moving down the ladder and the ground is growing nearer and nearer.
‘Nerdy Ferdy,’ I murmur in wonderment. ‘Who’d have thought—’
‘Shut up.’
‘Okay.’
We reach the bottom and, gently, he sets me down then asks how I’m feeling. I assure him I’m fine; just a little shaky on my feet. He keeps his arm firmly around me and I sink gratefully against him as he guides me over to a park bench at the edge of the little copse.
‘Thank you. For rescuing me. I feel like Julia Roberts.’
‘Why? Did your mouth expand while you were up there?’
I laugh. ‘Ooh, you bitch! Don’t tell me you haven’t seen Pretty Woman? Where she gets rescued from a balcony by Richard Gere?’
‘Afraid I’ve missed that gem. Sorry I’m not Mr Gere.’
I lean in closer, loving the solid feel of his body, his arms wrapped around me. ‘I’m not sorry.’
Any minute now, he’s going to tell me to sit down on the bench, and then I’ll have to leave the lovely, safe circle of his arms.
We look at the bench. But he doesn’t say a word.
One of the guys brings me water and I sip it gratefully. Then I ask one of the burning questions on my mind: ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were a fireman?’
He grins. ‘Because telling a woman I’m a fireman sometimes has this really weird effect. They go all breathy and flirty and want to feel my muscles.’
‘Well, perish the thought.’ Discreetly, I cross my fingers. ‘I’m definitely not like that.’