by Jo Watson
I get a plate out of the cupboard and spoon out a portion, trying another mouthful as I do. Maybe it’ll taste better now that it’s done.
It tastes… Oh, God. It tastes like bloody Christmas.
I don’t suppose there was much I could do to compensate for all that spilt cinnamon.
And I’m not sure there’s meant to be this much liquid. It looks like I microwaved cinnamon ice cream.
Perhaps it would be better if I stayed in here. At least until Zara’s finished. I lean forwards on the counter and stare into my sloppy mess.
“Oh. Um. I was coming to get us some spoons.” Zara pulls our cutlery drawer open.
“You hate it, don’t you?”
Zara pauses, still holding the drawer open. “I appreciate the effort you’ve put in.”
“But?”
“But were you trying to make dinner or a pancake mix?” Her lips curl into a smile.
I glance at the takeaway menus pinned to the notice board. “I guess we can always order in still.”
“It doesn’t taste that bad. It’s just difficult to eat with a fork.” She holds a spoon out to me. “Come on.”
Reluctantly, I follow her back to the living room and sit down.
And Zara’s right. Once I’ve had a few bites, it doesn’t taste that bad. But it doesn’t taste that good, either.
“Takeaway night will be back on next week, won’t it?” Zara asks.
“I’m sorry I can’t cook.” I sigh. “I just thought I should learn. I’m going to be twenty-five in January!”
“Who says you should learn?”
I stare down at my plate. “Olivia Bright,” I admit.
“What the hell does she know? Modern women don’t spend all their time in the kitchen.”
“Don’t they?” My eyes move over Zara’s zebra-print jeans and black leather-panelled T-shirt. “But you love being in the kitchen.”
Zara laughs. “I don’t think confidence comes as a direct result of knowing how to follow a few recipes.”
“Then where does it come from?”
“I don’t know.” She fixes her sharp green eyes on me. “And neither does Olivia Bright.”
“But I was starting to feel better,” I moan.
“Then don’t give up because of one failed attempt.”
“Hang on.” I shoot her a confused look. “Isn’t that the complete opposite of what you’ve been telling me all along?”
“Yes.” Zara stacks our plates. “But when have you ever listened to me?”
Chapter Fifteen
Tim is sitting on my couch, his body hunched forwards, when I get home from work on Friday.
What is he doing here?
And more importantly, why did Zara let him in?
“Oh, hi Megan.” My flatmate breezes into the room holding a tray (we own a tray?) of coffees. She sets one down on the beige carpet by Tim and holds another steaming mug out to me. “I thought you might like a hot drink.”
“Thanks.” I place the coffee down on the table behind me.
“I told Tim he could wait here for you,” she explains, seeing my confused expression.
“Tim is Bryony’s brother,” I blurt out.
“I know.” She gives him a subtle once-over while she sips her coffee. “I’ve heard your mother talk about him enough times.”
Tim laughs as though this is hilarious. “So, Megan, I was hoping I could have a word with you?”
“Oh?” I pick up my coffee mug.
He clears his throat and glances at Zara.
“Right. I get it. You mean alone.” Zara jumps up and disappears into her bedroom before I can utter a word to stop her.
“I know you said you were busy,” Tim begins as I stare into my milky coffee. “But I’ve been thinking about our potential as a couple. How about you go out with me tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow? I’m not sure. I might be doing something with Zara,” I hedge.
Tim shakes his head. “She says not. I already asked her.”
He asked Zara if I had plans with her? Oh shit. What am I supposed to say now? He probably already knows that I’m not seeing my mother. What about a work colleague?
I’m thinking of a plausible pre-arranged activity that I could be doing with Scarlett when nasty Liam pops into my head.
I suppose I could do a lot worse than Tim Hudson, with his scrawny build and inky black hair.
What other options do I have?
Available men are hardly queuing up in the tiny communal garden outside my front door.
I force a smile onto my face. “Right. Well, in that case, I don’t think I’m doing anything.”
“Great! I have this amazing Indian restaurant in mind.”
Oh, no. I was hoping he’d suggest going to see a film or something where we wouldn’t have to talk to each other.
“Sounds lovely,” I lie.
* * *
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I yank down the hem of my red velvet dress again.
“Doing what?” Zara lifts her head over the top of her laptop screen to look at me.
“This!” I lift a studded black sandal in the air while I try to fasten the other one. “Going out with Tim.”
“Ah, come on. He’s not that bad.”
“You met him for all of twenty minutes,” I remind her.
She shrugs. “Well, he seems harmless enough. And your mother obviously likes him.”
“Is that why you let him into the flat even though you had no idea who he was?”
Zara stops typing and rolls her eyes at me. “Seriously, Megan? He told me who he was. Unlike you, I don’t assume all men I don’t know are axe murderers.”
I turn towards the mirror and start smoothing my loose curls. “I don’t assume that about all men. It was just a logical conclusion to come to about Gary. You haven’t exactly offered up a valid reason about where you were.”
“Oh sorry, is work not a valid enough reason for you?”
“Yes.” I sigh. “It’s just that you’ve been so secretive about everything recently.”
“Do you know that there’s a price tag hanging out of your dress?”
“What? No.” I try to look over my shoulder and grope for the tag.
“When did you buy this?” She stands up to remove it for me. “Isn’t this the one you got at the January sales?”
I nod.
“It’s nearly December and you still haven’t removed the tag?”
“I didn’t notice because I haven’t had the opportunity to wear it yet.”
“Well.” She steps back to take a look at me. “You look amazing, Meg.”
“Thanks.” I grab my beaded evening purse as I hear a car horn outside. “I won’t be back late.”
Zara sits back down to her laptop. “Why don’t you give the guy a chance? He might surprise you.”
And when I see Tim waiting for me, all smartly suited up with his hair slicked back, I do my best to anticipate an evening that will exceed my expectations.
* * *
Bollywood-themed music blasts from the restaurant Tim takes me to. I look out the car window to see tall gold pillars wrapped in twinkling lights, supporting an archway spanning the entrance.
As I follow Tim inside, I start to hope that Zara’s right about him.
We’re greeted by a waiter wearing a purple uniform and a teeth-flashing smile. “Have you booked a table?” He looks at Tim.
“Hudson,” supplies Tim. “Table for two.”
The man leads us to a white-clothed table by a large window at the back and hands us each a menu.
“Can I get you some drinks?” Another man appears by the table.
Tim orders a bottle of champagne without consulting me, and I stare longingly after the waiter, in the hope that Tim might notice and realise that I wanted to see their wine list. But he’s too engrossed in studying the menu.
I glance down at mine, already knowing that I’ll probably order a chicken rogan josh like I alwa
ys do.
“Are you a fan of hot curries, then?” asks Tim.
I shake my head. “I’m nowhere near brave enough. I always tend to order the same dishes to be honest. A bit boring.”
“It’s not boring at all,” he insists. “I’m the same, really. But I can handle the hot stuff.”
“Can you?” I quirk an eyebrow.
He leans back in his seat, puffing out his chest. “Oh, yes. I’m a vindaloo man myself.”
Well, that is surprising. I had him down as a korma sort of person.
The waiter returns with two champagne flutes and a bottle in an ice bucket. I stare at the fizzy liquid as he pours it into my glass.
I did say I was off champagne. But I didn’t know Tim was going to order it. And I can’t just not drink it, can I? That would insult him even more than the white wine incident in the pub.
I take a sip, letting the bubbles go straight to my head.
“Would you like some more time?” The waiter poises his pen above his notepad and gestures to the menus in front of us.
After we’ve both ordered, the waiter collects our menus and heads off towards the kitchen.
“I think this calls for a celebration.” Tim trails a finger around the rim of his champagne flute before lifting it in the air.
“Oh. Right.” I clink glasses with him, wondering what’s worth celebrating about this scenario. “So, how’s the job search going?”
Tim stares down into his drink as he places it back down on the table. “It’s pretty abysmal.”
“Still no luck?”
“I’m lucky to get rejections. Most don’t bother to acknowledge my application.”
“Sounds terrible.” I reach a sympathetic hand out to him.
He laces his fingers through mine, and I suddenly feel trapped.
What am I doing here?
Putting on a frock and going to a posh restaurant with Tim isn’t going to make me fall in love with him. I wish that it could.
Another waiter comes over to give us some cutlery, and I take the opportunity to wrench my hand free.
I take another sip of champagne. “How’s your mum?” I never was much good at small talk. But asking questions that I don’t care to know the answer to is certainly preferable to letting the topic slip to his sister and her perfect wedding plans.
When the food arrives, Tim takes a mouthful and instantly reaches for his drink, gulping it down and refilling it straight from the bottle.
“Are you okay?” I watch him sweat as he takes another bite.
“Water!” Tim bangs his fist against the table as a waiter comes past.
The waiter hurries off to fetch us a jug and I touch Tim’s arm cautiously. “Does this normally happen?”
He removes his glasses and wipes at his streaming eyes. “Well, actually, no. It’s not a usual occurrence.”
A jug of water appears on the table and Tim pours it straight into his champagne glass, drinking it all. He reaches for the jug again, and I look on in horror as the glass handle slips from his sweaty grasp and water gushes out. It soaks the tablecloth and drips on the floor, where it splashes against my feet.
“Oh!” Tim dabs at a pool of water with his napkin, still looking like steam is about to come out of his ears.
Another couple is staring at us, watching Tim as he flails his arms around trying to soak up the damage.
I can hear them laughing from here, and I feel the embarrassment burn in my cheeks. Tim and I probably look like a pair of bloody lobsters.
“I think we should go.” I push my half-eaten curry away. “I’ve had enough, anyway.”
“You’re full?” He glances down at his own barely touched food. “Well, if you’re sure. I’ll get the bill.”
A waiter arrives and starts mopping the floor. I don’t say anything as I pull my coat on so that I’m ready to leave as soon as Tim gets back.
“Megan?”
I turn to see Helen standing behind me wearing an orange maxi dress.
She walks from her table to mine. “What are you doing here? Are you on a date?” She narrows her eyes and scans the large restaurant.
My eyes fall on Tim, handing over his credit card at the little desk near the entrance.
If I play this right, she’ll never find out about him.
“I was waiting for someone, but I’m leaving now.” I stand up, gripping my handbag straps. “I guess I’ll see you at work on Monday.”
“Guess what! I booked that holiday to Benidorm.”
“Great.” I smile at her. “Who are you going with?”
“Myself. I’ll have more fun that way.” She winks.
“I’m sure you will.”
Her eyes land on the soggy table behind me as the waiter clears the mess. “Why are there two plates on your table? Did somebody spill something?” She peers suspiciously at the evidence of my date.
“Uh…so, who are you here with?” I grab her arm and steer her towards her hunky companion. “Is this Brad?”
“No, silly!” She laughs as we reach her table. “Megan, this is Alistair, my personal trainer.”
“Oh, right. Alistair.” I nod as though I have the faintest idea who he is, or that Helen even has a personal trainer.
“Ali, this is Megan from work,” Helen explains.
He looks up at me, a brief smile on his sculpted face.
“Well, I’ll see you later, Helen.”
“Aren’t you staying for a drink with us?” Helen pouts. “Here! Have a read of the cocktail menu.”
In my peripheral vision, I can see Tim walking towards me. “No, thanks.” I decline her offer. “Got to shoot off. Nice to meet you, Alistair.”
I dash towards the door so fast I almost believe that Tim hasn’t spotted me. I’m deciding I’d rather get the bus home when he catches up to me at the entrance.
“Where are you running off to?” he asks, a playful smile on his face.
“Oh, there you are.” I feign surprise. “I just looking for you.”
“Ready to go?”
I yank one of the heavy glass doors open. “Ready.”
Of course, being alone with Tim is distinctly better than having someone like Helen seeing me out with him. But still I wish the drive from Horsforth to Rothwell were quicker, allowing for less time of awkward car conversations.
There are only so many questions I can ask about his mother, or how he likes living in Leeds again.
And there is no way I’m going to venture anywhere near the subject of his sister and her bloody wedding.
I thank him when we pull up outside my flat and unbuckle my seatbelt.
“We should go out again,” he suggests.
I look away without answering. Maybe I’d be inclined to agree if we’d gone to a film, rather than having to watch him behave like an idiot in the restaurant.
Before I know what’s happening, Tim is pressing his face towards mine.
Well, not just his face. His lips, too.
And, even as I pull away, I can feel the sheer heat of his mouth.
Christ, that’s hot. No wonder he’s just lost half his body weight in sweat.
“Are you okay?”
I nod and force a brittle smile while my fingers grip the door handle. “Thanks, Tim.” I push the car door open and swing my legs out. “Good night.”
The car engine is still running as I walk up the steps and unlock my front door. I give a limp wave in Tim’s direction and watch him drive off.
I did try, didn’t I? I set out with the best of intentions for my night with Tim. It just isn’t going to work.
The living room is dark with no sign of Zara, but I’m not worried about that.
All I want to do is take off these stupid shoes and climb into bed, where I can eat a big bag of Maltesers and watch the repeat of EastEnders on BBC Three.
Chapter Sixteen
I wake up to a phone call from my mother.
“Hello?” I mumble, trying to shake my morning voice. My mum does n
ot understand anybody who sleeps in past eight o’clock, mostly out of jealousy that she has never been able to do so.
“Ah, I presume you made it home, then.”
I pull myself into a vague approximation of a sitting position. “What?”
“You didn’t stay at Tim’s last night?”
I scan the familiar surroundings of my bedroom, the cluttered bedside table covered with used makeup wipes, the wavy mirror on the wall next to the open wardrobe. “Why would I stay at Tim’s?”
I’m not going to bother enquiring how she knows that I was with him last night.
“You’re quite right, darling. There’s nothing wrong with a woman having some respect for herself. Especially after all these things you see on TV about young girls going out in their knickers.”
“Mum,” I interject with a yawn, “what on earth are you talking about?”
“Oh, I’m so pleased that you’re finally giving Tim a chance.”
“Don’t get too excited,” I tell her. “The date was awful.”
“Oh? That’s not what Tim said.”
“What?” I peel the covers back and sit on the edge of the bed. “You’ve already spoken to Tim?”
“Of course! I wanted to hear from him how things had gone. He says you two might be going out again.”
“Well, we’re not.”
“Never say never, darling!”
“Trust me, mother. I am never going anywhere with Tim Hudson again.”
I use her silence as an opportunity to slip my feet into a pair of fluffy slippers and tug on my dressing gown.
I’m combing my fingers through my hair when Mum decides to speak again. “That’s a shame. I was thinking he’d make an ideal date to Bryony’s engagement do.”
“An ideal date?” I choke on the words. “I’m sure he would. Just not for me.”
“And it’s winter themed, so there’ll be plenty of mistletoe,” she continues as though she hasn’t heard me.
Since when did it become compulsory to bring a date to an engagement party? A party that I don’t even want to go to.
I rub my fingers against my forehead as though that will remove the mental image of Tim puckering up beneath the mistletoe. But the picture morphs into somebody else’s face. A bloody Michael Bublé look-alike I have even less desire to think about.