City Girl in Training

by Liz Fielding

  ‘If I ever find it I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Oh…sugar.’ I glanced at the pile of thin porcelain I’d put into a dish, hoping, against the odds, that I might be able to do something with it. Or, failing that, to find a matching replacement. But while the original break might have been reparable, nothing that fragile was ever going to survive a close encounter with Cal’s feet—however elegantly shod. ‘I’m not having a very good day.’

  ‘No.’ Then, ‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’

  I’d been hoping he wouldn’t bring that up. ‘Simple kindness?’ I offered. ‘I’d stolen your taxi, lost your umbrella and gone a fair way to shattering your eardrums. I thought you deserved a break.’

  He was supposed to smile. He didn’t. ‘You managed your suitcase all right on your own?’

  That was why he’d told me to wait? So that he could help? After all that… ‘No problem,’ I said. Wishing I’d stayed after all. Then, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you lived in the same block? When I told you where I was going? I thought…’

  Actually, I didn’t want to tell him what I’d thought, but he was way ahead of me.

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t believe me. That you might think I was coming on to you.’

  ‘Oh…’ I said. ‘No-o-o…’

  His smile suggested that I was fooling no one but what he said was, ‘You took quite a risk, you know.’ His gaze held mine for a moment. ‘Something that you clearly realised, if somewhat belatedly. That was why you were holding an attack alarm in your pocket?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said, noncommittally. It occurred to me that I still was. Taking a risk. It would certainly account for a raised pulse rate and curiously erratic heartbeat. Then, to cover my own confusion, I picked up the piece of broken china that bore the potter’s mark. ‘Do you think I’ll be able to replace this without going bankrupt?’

  He continued to look at me for what seemed like for ever, before finally taking the piece of shattered porcelain, glancing at the imprint. His expression did not fill me with optimism.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be insured,’ he said.

  That was supposed to reassure me?

  ‘Oh, great. I’ve been foisted on the Harrington girls as a charity case and on the day I arrive I blow the fuses and smash a valuable bowl.’

  ‘The fuse wasn’t your fault, just bad luck. And you fixed it.’

  ‘With your help.’

  ‘That’s what neighbours are for. And as long as it’s fixed they won’t worry about the details.’ He picked up a glass and offered it to me. ‘Stop fretting and take a swig of that. It’ll make you feel that the world is a better place.’

  I looked at it doubtfully. ‘I don’t usually drink red wine.’

  ‘You should do one new thing every day.’ He placed the glass in my hand, wrapping his long fingers around mine to steady it. Honestly, though, he was just making things worse.

  I didn’t normally shake like this. It had to be this extraordinary closeness that seemed more than physical, this intimacy with a stranger that not even the clinical décor of the kitchen, the bright lighting and the sheer banality of the conversation could diminish.

  He just seemed to affect me that way. Make me edgy, jumpy and a little bit excited as our eyes locked over the glass.

  ‘I think I might have overdrawn on the “new thing” bank today,’ I said, my voice slightly hoarse.

  ‘Trust me, Philly. You can’t overdraw.’

  ‘No?’ Maybe not. ‘Well, maybe you’re right. And I do have a lot of catching up to do.’

  With Don I was comfortable, easy. Best friends. As my big sister was fond of remarking, we were like a couple who’d been married for thirty years. Of course, she hadn’t meant it as a compliment.

  Right now, with Cal holding my hands between his, I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a precipice and that was very new, so I quickly ducked my head to drink the wine. It slid down my throat, spreading through me, warming me. And he was right. I did feel better.

  ‘Gosh, that’s good,’ I said and took a second mouthful.

  ‘Liquid sunshine,’ he agreed, and finally let go. The heat evaporated and I was left with the disconcerting impression that the warmth had come direct from him, not the wine. I sipped again, but the effect was diminished and I put the glass down and returned to the safer comfort of pizza.

  ‘You don’t know the Harrington girls?’ Cal said, after a moment or two. ‘I assumed you must be old school friends or something.’

  ‘Did you?’ He’d been thinking about me? ‘Er, no,’ I said. Any thoughts he’d had about me wouldn’t be flattering. ‘My mother is on a committee with their mother’s cousin,’ I explained. ‘Or maybe my mother’s cousin is on a committee with their mother…’ I found myself frowning and, since it wasn’t in the least bit important, I let it go. ‘You’ve heard of the old boys’ network? Well, this is the old girls’ version. I needed somewhere to stay. They had a spare room. Bingo,’ I said. And giggled. Which was odd, since he’d just reminded me that I’d have to spend the next six months being scowled at by Sophie and I didn’t feel much like laughing.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Not really,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘Sophie wanted the room for a man she’s got designs on.’ I reached for a second slice of pizza and then, remembering my manners, glanced at Cal.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said, and refilled my glass.

  I didn’t need telling twice. ‘Do you think she might have booby-trapped the cooker to get rid of me? Sophie…’ I added, when he raised his eyebrows. Good grief, what was I saying? Rapidly changing the subject, I said, ‘This is so-o-o good. Don always orders the meat feast. You know…piled high with, um, meat. Pepperoni and stuff. The kind with a single olive in the middle if you’re lucky.’ I took one of the olives and popped it in my mouth. ‘And no anchovies. Which is okay,’ I said, quickly, realising that I was repeating myself. ‘But this makes a lovely change,’ I finished lamely, and then decided my mouth would be more usefully employed in eating.

  And for a moment there was silence while we concentrated on the food.

  ‘What do you do when you’re in Maybridge? Apart from distract Don,’ Cal asked, after a while.

  ‘My job?’ That was safer territory. The kind of polite, social, conversational gambit I was comfortable with. And I gratefully followed his lead, telling him about the bank and the people who worked there. The sweet customers who brought me cakes. The cheeky ones who flirted and asked me out. The weird ones whom I wasn’t sorry to leave behind.

  ‘Are you looking for the same kind of thing in London? Or have you got a transfer to a different branch?’

  ‘A transfer of sorts. Just a temporary one.’ I glanced sideways at him. ‘What do you do when you’re not rescuing drowning damsels? And chasing umbrellas.’

  ‘I make films. Documentaries,’ he added quickly, before I could get too excited and throw myself on the nearest couch. ‘Wildlife stuff.’

  ‘In London?’ I asked, without thinking. Then, realising my mistake, ‘Oh, no…’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve made films in London. Urban foxes. Feral cats.’ He grinned. ‘The secret life of the pigeon.’

  ‘Really?’ I tried to sound thrilled. I’d been imagining polar bears, lions, wolves. Oh, well. ‘I didn’t realise the pigeon had a secret life. I thought it did absolutely everything in the street,’ I said. Then wished I hadn’t.

  ‘Of course, I do have to do boring stuff, too. I’ve just come back from the Serengeti. We’ve been making a film about a year in the life of a family of cheetahs—’

  ‘That’s boring?’ He grinned. ‘Oh, you’re teasing.’

  My brothers had teased me, when they’d been at home. Don used to, but lately he’d been distracted by the Austin and I’d apparently lost the ability to spot one coming.

  ‘You like to travel?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t pretend it’s all wonderful, but, yes, I enjoy seeing new places. Don’t you?’

/>   ‘My brothers and sister are the travellers in our family. They got to the family gene bank first and emptied the “travel and adventure” account.’ Then I shrugged. ‘And I don’t fly.’

  ‘Me neither. I usually take a plane…’ His voice trailed off as I just stared at him. ‘Sorry. Not funny. So you’re going to stay at home and marry Don?’

  The way he said it made me sound about as interesting as watching paint dry. ‘That’s the plan,’ I said, firmly.

  Well, it was my plan. In my head I had it planned down to the last hand-stitched pearl on my cream silk train. I was a redhead, okay? I looked better in cream than white. And I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was a virgin. It was bad enough being one.

  Don hadn’t actually got around to getting down on one knee and asking me, but everyone assumed that we’d get married. Not that I had a diamond on my left hand. And no one was getting flustered about invitations, or bridesmaids. With my parents away for six months nothing was going to happen on that front any time soon.

  ‘Eventually,’ I added before he asked when the wedding was going to take place.

  ‘Is he in engineering?’ Dragged from my this-year, next-year, sometime, never thoughts, I frowned.

  ‘Engineering?’

  ‘I thought perhaps he might be an engineer. With his interest in cars.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, no. He’s an accountant. It’s the family business. His grandfather was an accountant. His father was an accountant until he ran away with his secretary to run a smallholding in Wales. His uncles and cousins are—’

  ‘Accountants,’ Cal said.

  ‘Right. He’ll be a partner eventually. The car is just a hobby.’

  ‘Is it?’ We both reached for the same piece of pizza. Our hands collided and mine retreated like a snail’s antennae. He pushed the box towards me as if he hadn’t noticed. ‘That’s some hobby,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Don’s always enjoyed fixing things up. He started by rebuilding a wrecked bike he found in a skip just after he moved in next door. He brought it home, but then realised he didn’t have any tools—’

  ‘His father would have needed them in Wales,’ Cal said.

  He was quick. And he was paying attention. He’d just better not be smiling. I gave a quick glance in his direction. He wasn’t…

  ‘I used to smuggle my Dad’s toolbox to him through a hole in the fence.’

  ‘That was handy.’ This time there was a tell-tale lift to the corner of his mouth.

  ‘It wasn’t very subtle, was it?’ But a girl had to do what a girl had to do. ‘My reward was to be allowed to help him polish the spokes.’

  ‘The way to a man’s heart has many paths.’

  ‘This one became so well worn that my Dad eventually put a gate there.’ I wondered, briefly, what the new tenants would make of that. Then I shrugged. ‘Since then,’ I said, ‘the projects have just got bigger. More complex.’

  And lately, a lot more time-consuming.

  For a while Cal said nothing. Just stared into his glass. ‘I found an old Super-8 movie camera in the attic when I was a kid. I thought it was magic.’ And he smiled at the child he’d been. ‘I took a sheet from the airing cupboard to build a hide in the garden for filming birds. It was white so I painted it with some creosote I found in the shed. I nearly killed myself with the fumes. And then my mother nearly killed me for ruining one of her best linen sheets.’

  ‘She must be proud of you now.’

  ‘Must she? My grandfather was an architect. She’s an architect. My uncles and my cousins are all architects. She married an architect.’ He drained his glass and slid from the stool. ‘I’d better go.’

  The sudden movement took me by surprise. ‘Must you? I could make coffee.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t think it would be wise to touch any of the switches until the electrics have been checked over. I’ll get someone along first thing tomorrow to look at it.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’ He turned in the kitchen doorway. ‘And if you insist on replacing that broken bowl, I’ll take you to Portobello Road. The flea market is on Saturday and you might find something like it there.’ About to say that he shouldn’t judge me on my performance today, that I was perfectly capable of doing all of those things for myself, I stopped myself. Just because I could do it by myself didn’t mean I had to. ‘Can you be ready by ten o’clock?’ he asked, already halfway through the door.

  Ten o’clock? That was halfway through the day. ‘No problem. Thank you, Cal. And thank you for…’ But he was gone. I heard the front door close with the well-bred clunk of an expensive lock. And I was alone. But no longer lonely, I discovered. ‘Everything,’ I finished.

  If I’d thought about what kind of night I might have in a strange bed, in a strange flat, in a strange town, I’d have assumed it would have been disturbed, restless. But having washed the glasses, dumped the empty—empty? What happened to my resolution to stick at a sip?—wine bottle in the bin with the pizza carton, I sank into the huge bed, oblivious to my tasteful surroundings, and remembered no more until I was woken by a long peal on the doorbell.

  I sat up with a start and then wished I hadn’t as something inside my head exploded. And the evening came rushing back to me.

  Power cut. Cal McBride. Pizza. Cal McBride. Red wine.

  The sickening feeling that accompanied the thought ‘red wine’ left me in no doubt where the headache had come from. And I sank back against the pillows.

  The doorbell was attacked again and this time it was held down. Since there was no other way to stop it, I crawled out of bed and peered out into the hall. No one else had stirred. Desperate for silence, I unlocked the door and opened it a crack.

  The noise of the bell abruptly stopped. ‘Sorry to disturb you so early, Philly, but I’ve brought the electrician.’

  I blinked, pushed the hair out of my eyes. Cal was at the door and he was not alone. His companion was wearing blue overalls, had a businesslike toolbox clamped in his hand, and I realised that some response was called for.

  ‘You woke me up,’ I said. It was the first thing that came into my head. And I looked at my watch to underline my complaint. It seemed to be telling me that it was just after eight, but I couldn’t quite focus on the tiny numbers.

  ‘It’s now or Thursday week,’ the electrician said. ‘Please yourself.’ And he took a step back as if to say that, if I didn’t want him, there were plenty of others who’d be glad to pay his weekend call-out charge.

  ‘Now!’ Cal said, in a voice that suggested no one had better disagree with him.

  ‘Now!’ I echoed, rather more feebly, opening the door wider before he could walk away with the cocky assurance that only a skilled artisan in high demand could carry off. Then I clutched at my head. ‘Sorry. I’m not thinking straight. I’m not used to red wine.’

  The electrician shook his head, in a practised you-young-girls manner. I almost expected him to tut. But he restrained himself and, without waiting for an invitation, walked in, found the fuse-box and threw the switch to isolate the mains before heading for the kitchen.

  Cal remained where he was. His name might not be George, but he did look absolutely gorgeous in close-fitting jeans that were moulded to the kind of thighs any footballer would have been proud of. And a dark blue collarless shirt that gave his eyes a more Mediterranean than Atlantic hue.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Despite all evidence to the contrary, I really appreciate this.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Still he didn’t move.

  ‘I’d offer you a cup of coffee—I could really use a cup of coffee—but the electricity is off,’ I said, unnecessarily. He already knew that.

  ‘Why don’t you come next door and I’ll make coffee for both of us?’ he offered, cheering me up considerably.

  ‘If you throw in a couple of painkillers, you’ve got a deal.’

  ‘You’ve got a headache?’ he asked, concerned.
And, without waiting for an answer, he reached out to push back the explosive mop of hair that was covering my eyes and laid his hand on my forehead. It was blissfully cool and my headache magically vanished.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t drink much,’ I admitted.

  ‘It isn’t something to apologise for,’ he said, which made me feel better still. Then he took his hand away, which didn’t. But he only moved it as far as my wrist, wrapping his long fingers about it in order to lead me next door, apparently concerned I couldn’t see where I was going through my hair.

  But I hesitated. ‘Hadn’t I better tell Sophie and Kate?’

  ‘Why? They’re not invited,’ he said. ‘I’m not responsible for their hangovers. Just yours.’

  ‘I haven’t got a hangover,’ I said, too quickly and too loudly. I closed my eyes, ran my tongue over dry lips. The headache relief had been temporary. ‘I just wish I’d stuck to one glass of wine.’

  ‘Put a pound in a jar,’ he advised. ‘And do it every time you say that. You’ll be a rich woman in no time.’

  ‘No, I won’t. The situation isn’t going to arise again.’ He didn’t look convinced but I wasn’t giving him an opportunity to say so. ‘I just thought that Sophie and Kate might wonder where I am.’

  ‘I very much doubt it, Philly. It’s Saturday. Assuming one or either of them came home last night, they won’t surface much before midday. But leave them a note if you think they’ll send out a search party for you.’

  ‘No…I meant…’ Actually I wasn’t sure what I did mean. ‘I’d better get dressed.’

  ‘Must you?’

  Something in his eyes alerted me to the fact that I might be reliving the embarrassment of this moment for the rest of my life and, with the greatest reluctance, I looked down.

  I was wearing a washed thin rugby shirt that had once belonged to one of my brothers. When new it had been quartered in colours bright enough to shine through the mud of a rugby scrum and long enough to reach almost to my knees. Years of hard washing had reduced it to pastel shades and it now skimmed my thighs just the right side of decency.