by Jenny Colgan
Posy swallowed hard. ‘Oh, it was nothing, just had a few drinks, stayed with a friend.’
‘You don’t need to tell me, Posy,’ said Matt. ‘It’s your business. ’
‘But I want to . . .’ said Posy.
‘I have a client,’ said Matt sadly, walking on out. Posy wondered if he’d seen her rumpled dress - her outfit of shame from last night. Had he taken something from that?
‘Matt!’ she called desperately. ‘Are we going to talk or what?’
Matt looked at her, shaking his head. ‘You’re never here.’
‘I’m here now.’
‘And it’s two p.m. on a Saturday. I have a client. Sorry.’
Posy is having a lie-down.
‘Well, you’ve really fucked it now,’ said Fleur, sitting on the end of her bed.
‘Ssh,’ said Leah. ‘That’s not helpful.’
‘What? She was engaged for five minutes and she spent a holiday with an ex and then the night with another ex. You’re not cut out for marriage.’
‘That’s too harsh, Fleur,’ said Leah. ‘It just means she’s not cut out for this marriage.’
‘Could you stop talking about me like I’m not here?’ said Posy. ‘It’s not helping.’
‘Well, you are playing the invalid,’ pointed out Fleur.
‘I can’t get up.’
‘Shagged out?’
‘Shut it.’
‘Where’s Matt?’ asked Leah.
‘Don’t know,’ said Posy. ‘He just says “out” these days and vanishes.’
‘He must be up to someone,’ said Fleur.
‘Matt? I don’t think so,’ said Leah.
‘Oh, come on - “I have to think it over” means “I have to go out and see if there’s anyone better out there.” Just what you’re doing, in fact.’
‘I,’ said Posy grandly, ‘was just being a complete fucking idiot. That’s not the same thing at all. Do you really think he might be cheating on me?’
‘You have to be going out with someone to cheat on them,’ said Leah.
Posy let her head bang back down on her pillow. ‘Things are just getting more and more complicated.’
‘Do you think Matt will want to buy you out of the apartment? ’ asked Leah.
Posy put the pillow on her head. ‘Oh God, I don’t know.’
‘Can you buy him out?’
‘No. I owe tons of money on my Visa. This was a stretch anyway. And he’s raking it in with his private clients.’
‘Oh,’ said Leah.
‘Especially after I bought those flights to Scotland.’
‘Oh.’
‘All I can see,’ said Fleur, ‘is that you just have to cut your losses and run. You must see that. It’s all over.’
‘Well, yes, but I’ve never felt the urge, like you, to get by in a touring caravan.’
‘That’s because you don’t have a free soul.’
Leah looked worried. ‘Fleur might be right, you know. Maybe the marriage was just too much after everything—’
‘What?! You bought me the bridal mags! You’ve been collecting “special buttons” for my dress!’
‘I like special buttons,’ said Leah.
Posy stared out of the window. ‘Maybe. Or maybe if I just saw this through . . . finished it up.’
Fleur and Leah glanced at each other.
‘Well, the last two times you’ve done this it’s gone brilliantly ,’ said Leah. ‘So do go ahead.’
‘I am completely wasted as your sister,’ said Fleur, getting up. ‘I wish I had someone who appreciates me and my good advice.’
‘Although,’ said Leah, stopping and turning in the doorway. ‘Maybe if just once, just once you said his name, that might be a start. Help you move on somehow. Somewhere.’
‘Yes,’ said Posy. Because it was time, she thought. It was past time.
Chapter Seventeen
It had been Victoria Station again. Where she met everyone. Where everyone passed through sooner or later.
This time, however, had been different. Well, seeing Margie was no surprise - that was a perfectly normal morning. She was usually earlier than Posy, but once a fortnight or so Posy would bump into her, stomping across the concourse like someone had just peed on her shoes, heading directly for the muffin stand. But that morning, she wasn’t alone! Not only that, but she had a man with her . . . and not just any man. Not at all.
It was four years after Adam. Since then there had been men, nice and otherwise, in and out, but nobody she’d really felt for. A lot of them were like Adam, in fact - fashionable, fun, flashy, but she wasn’t thinking about letting them get close. She didn’t want that again. And she hadn’t really met anyone . . . no one that made her heart really bounce, no one that made her bubble with excitement inside. As her friends started to pair off, Posy was starting to wonder if perhaps it was going to be like this for her, after all - maybe she just wasn’t destined to fall in love like the rock songs, or the poets. Maybe love like that was for nineteen-year-olds, and here she was, washed up at twenty-seven and just never going to be the type, never destined for a ‘great love’. It made her feel sad, sometimes.
She’d moved on in flats and was sharing with Leah, which was fun, even if she had to occasionally make sure she didn’t use a very avant-garde hat as a teacup. She felt much more comfortable with her friends, her life; she liked her new job at the insurance company. Everything was mostly fine. If she had someone to love, she thought right then that morning in Victoria Station, she did have someone to love, he would look exactly like him.
The man walking with Margie was tall and rangy, slim without being puny, with huge chocolate-brown eyes and slightly unruly curly hair that straggled over his head and needed a cut, but actually looked just perfect as it was. His eyebrows arched up on his wide forehead and his stripy Breton T-shirt was spattered with paint. It wasn’t very often Posy fell for someone at first sight. Never, in fact. But her very first sentiments on looking at this man were very simple: if Margie is dating this man, I will want to die.
Normally Margie and Posy merely nodded at one another at the station. Being a few years older than her, and single too, Margie had decided when Posy joined the office that she needed to instruct her on the ways of the wiser woman, and was constantly trying to get her to buy a cat so they could do ‘cat chat’ and gossip about the younger women in the office. Posy very much wanted to be one of the ‘younger women in the office’ and usually tried to have none of it. This morning, however, after checking her lipstick, Posy went up to her, beaming. She couldn’t help it, she told herself. This man . . . Even if he was someone else’s, she needed to have a closer look.
‘Hi, Margie!’
Margie, not to be outdone, smiled regally. ‘Hello, Posy. I was just coming in to work.’
‘Mhm,’ said Posy, but she wasn’t really listening. Up close, he was even better. He had a couple of lines round his eyes that suggested amusement, and full lips that looked like they smiled easily. Margie, however, wasn’t going to be bullied into introductions. But her face. Was she . . . was she simpering? This was very unlike her. Snapping she did a lot, Margie, and complaining sourly. But simpering? There was no other word for it. It wasn’t a good look on her.
‘Well, bye then, Almaric,’ she breathed.
Almaric? thought Posy. Yeah, right. I wonder what his real name is. Steve, probably. You could melt in those eyes though.
‘Steve’ gave a shy, incredibly sweet smile.
‘Sorry,’ he said, addressing Posy directly. ‘I didn’t realise Margie was in such a hurry.’
Posy started, shocked at being addressed out of her reverie. ‘She likes to be on time for work,’ said Posy helpfully, then cursed herself for not thinking of a witty rejoinder. She likes to be on time for work. Great job, Posy. Really sparkling out there.
‘I could have guessed that,’ said ‘Steve’.
‘I just think it’s appropriate behaviour in the workplace,’ said Margie gru
mpily. ‘Unlike some.’
‘Steve’ and Posy raised their eyebrows at one another.
‘Hi,’ he said, putting out a long hand, with delicate-looking fingers. ‘I’m Almaric.’
He glanced at her face. ‘I know, I know. Please, it’s all right, you don’t have to mention it. No, my parents weren’t hippies; no, I’m not making it up; no, it’s not some kind of sealant. It’s a family name. You can call me Steve or something if you like.’
Posy grinned at how accurately he’d read her.
‘In fact, I do like it,’ she said.
‘Steve.’
‘Yes.’
‘Or there is also Alfalfa, Alabama, Pain-in-the-Neck, Al—’
‘Was school fun for you?’
‘Yuh.’
‘BYE,’ said Margie loudly. ‘See you next week. Come on, Posy, we don’t want to be late.’
Posy raised her eyebrows again. She couldn’t help it, she didn’t want to go anywhere out of the orbit of this fascinating man.
‘I’m Margie’s pottery teacher,’ offered Almaric.
‘We’re just friends,’ said Margie, as if Posy had been insinuating something. Posy nodded, but inside her tummy suddenly started dancing a little happy dance. Was Almaric holding her eye for a little longer than was entirely necessary?
‘You’re a potter?’
‘You need a class?’
This was getting more overt by the second. After the grimness of the London dating scene, Posy was amazed to find herself enjoying a proper flirt.
‘That’s amazing! That’s exactly what was on my agenda for today. That and nothing else. I have to find a pottery class!’
Almaric grinned. ‘Well, Margie has my number.’
‘Actually, you wouldn’t give me your number,’ said Margie, looking crosser by the second and glancing at her watch. ‘You said you never gave it out to clients.’
Almaric’s lip twitched. ‘I don’t?’ he said. ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. That’s right. Sorry.’
There was a pause.
‘I’ll just have to hope to run into another pottery teacher in a station with someone I work with,’ said Posy seriously.
‘I hope you do,’ said Almaric. He glanced at Margie and Posy could have sworn he was wishing she wasn’t there so they could swap numbers. They lingered a second more.
‘Well, fingers crossed,’ said Posy.
Almaric smiled at her as she and Margie crossed the station concourse. Posy couldn’t resist the urge to glance back, just once, but he’d gone. But inside, it was the oddest thing. She knew she would see him again. She wasn’t even sad when she didn’t get his number.
‘He’s very in demand,’ said Margie, fluffing up her bosom. ‘You wouldn’t manage to get a pottery class with him anyway.’
‘I don’t really give a stuff about pottery,’ said Posy.
Margie looked at her. ‘Why, fancy him or something?’
‘No,’ said Posy.
‘No, he’s probably not right for you,’ said Margie. ‘Has loads of girls after him all the time anyway. Us older ladies need to hang back!’
‘Do you fancy him?’ asked Posy, stung.
Margie sighed and stopped walking for a second. ‘Yes. I fancy him a lot. Really a lot. Can we stop and get some muffins?’
Posy was intrigued.
‘And I think he likes me too, definitely, it’s just that he has, you know, so many students it’s hard for him. That’s why he doesn’t have a phone or anything.’
‘Like the Queen,’ said Posy helpfully, choosing blueberry.
‘Yes,’ said Margie. ‘I’ll have two double choc-chip please. So I’ve arranged to have extra classes early in the morning, you know, so we can really get familiar with each other.’
‘That’s a good idea.’
Posy felt mean, pumping Margie for information on the chap she was after herself. But somehow, she just couldn’t help herself.
‘Is he a good teacher?’
‘He’s amazing,’ said Margie, glowing. ‘He’s really patient, and he does all these amazing sculptures and things.’
‘Of pots.’
‘Well, OK, yes. They’re pots. But they’re really nice ones.’
‘Is he a bit like Patrick Swayze in Ghost?’
Margie bit her lip and stifled a giggle. ‘Ooh.’ She looked up. ‘Well, maybe just a bit.’
‘So he sits behind you and—’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Maybe I should get myself to this pottery class,’ said Posy.
Margie glared at her. ‘I saw him first!’
Posy would have felt guiltier about muscling in on Margie’s teacher if Margie hadn’t then marked her up on the office calendar for being late, even though they were both, clearly, late, claiming that she’d just wanted to keep everything nice and efficient. Posy had finished her muffin too, while Margie had both of hers left.
This wasn’t the best justification in the world for Posy trying to pinch Margie’s favourite pottery teacher. But a week of slightly pathetic lingering around the exact same spot in the station at exactly the same time was getting her nowhere (except having to walk to the office every day with Margie), so after a quick perusal of Floodlight, the evening-class guide - there weren’t too many Almarics listed - she decided, given her alternative Thursday night plans (watching Leah trying on hats at late-night shopping, followed by a long post-mortem over half-price cocktails about whether or not wearing a hat was offputting to men), to take herself off down to the Adult Institute. OK, this seemed a bit desperate but it had been so long - possibly forever - since she’d felt this strongly about someone. She couldn’t help it.
She wasn’t enrolled, so decided to come by at the end and take a peek in. This was very unlike her, but for some stupid reason . . . Well, OK, she couldn’t help it. He was the hottest man she’d seen in possibly ever. And now she was going to feel like a stalky idiot.
Wearing jeans and Converse, as if dressing down would make her look less psychotic, she headed through the dusty grey corridors of the old school. Classes of various people were reading out loud, or listening to teachers, or crocheting things. It was all incredibly interesting-looking and made Posy feel she should probably take a class in something, rather than focusing all her attentions on following EastEnders, looking for a boyfriend and getting drunk with Leah.
Finally, on the third floor, she found him. He was sitting at the front of an Art class, using a wheel. His face was entirely concentrating on the long vase he was pulling out of the clay, his fingers long and beautiful. Posy was transfixed. As were, she could see, the faces of the eight female classmates, including Margie, who were sitting in front of their own wheels, but watching him intently. One, Posy thought, actually had her tongue hanging out. He was wearing an old checked shirt over a white t-shirt smeared with clay, and he had small pieces of it on his high forehead, which didn’t seem to bother him at all. Finally, he completed the piece - a perfect oval, a smooth shape reaching up out of the raw matter - and took his feet off the wheel. The class actually applauded.
‘Now you try,’ Posy could see him mouth, and as the women set their feet to work, splashing merrily with water and clay, he moved around them all, touching and shaping their endeavours so they could start to grow out of the grey sludge. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He walked between them so carefully and elegantly, laughing, using his fingers to reshape and improve the work, handling the material with a casual mastery and complete focus that made her bite her lip. She couldn’t remember finding anyone so attractive.
As he rounded the back of the class, he caught sight of Posy staring through the window, and his eyebrows shot up. Posy immediately realised she should have come up with a better excuse for why she was there. But the fact was, she didn’t have one. Since she’d met him, even though it was only for a moment, she’d wanted to see him more than anything. That was it, that was her excuse. She couldn’t do any better.
Almaric excused himself to the cl
ass and came to the door. Margie shot her head round and although Posy tried to duck out of sight, she didn’t quite manage it.
Almaric closed the door behind them.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hey,’ said Posy. She felt her face flaming red all of a sudden. But he didn’t seem cross or annoyed to see her there; genuinely puzzled if anything.
‘Did you come about the class?’
‘Uh, yes.’
‘It’s kind of full.’
‘Uh, that’s OK. I don’t really want to take a class.’
‘I don’t really want to teach one,’ said Almaric.
At that moment, out of nothing, something passed between them - a glimpse, an understanding. It was so instant, and felt so absolutely right, that Posy almost couldn’t believe she’d seen it. But a part of her knew exactly what he meant, and her heart leapt with joy in her chest.
‘Can I . . .’ she started. ‘I mean . . .’
His gaze was intent. He had soft brown eyes, downturned slightly at the corners. He had none of Adam’s confident shrewdness, nor Chris’s intelligent distraction. He was just beautiful, plain and simple.
‘Yes, please,’ said Almaric. He glanced at his watch. ‘I finish in twenty minutes.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘I’m not sure I can.’
Both of them were blinking quite quickly. Posy felt her heart-rate scurry.
‘There’s a pub round the corner—’
‘I know it,’ jumped in Posy.
‘No, not that one, that’s where everyone goes.’ It was as if they hardly needed to talk; they could understand one another with barely any words.
‘A little further on. The Yorkshire Grey.’
When he arrived, looking dishevelled, twenty-five minutes later, Posy was shaking. This seemed such a mad, ridiculous thing to do. She didn’t know this man, not at all. What on earth was she doing? What must he think of her just turning up like that, all weird and . . . it was just wrong. She should just go home. Definitely. But somehow . . . she just wanted to see him. She couldn’t help it, she needed to find out.