I felt embarrassed as well. It was like the first time we’d met, except now my stomach was fluttering about and I kept wanting to laugh. I pulled on my bottom lip with my teeth and watched you open Bea’s food and bend to fork some into her bowl. Then you stood up. ‘Tea?’ you said, going to the kettle and picking it up.
‘I could make us dinner,’ I said, chewing my cheek because I knew it was a bit forward suggesting dinner when it wasn’t my house. ‘If you’re hungry.’ I held up the bag with the Easter eggs in. ‘We’ve got dessert.’
You put the kettle back on its stand and took the bag, stepping away again once you’d got it and peeking inside. ‘Turkish Delight,’ you said, smiling because you remembered that it’s our favourite chocolate, but you still didn’t look at me.
I said, ‘They had them in Poundland.’
You nodded and put the bag on the table. There was an awkward silence then while you stared at the bag, smoothing your hair down at the back. Then you said, ‘We could eat.’
You went over and got the pasta out of the cupboard – Napolina Penne – then opened another cupboard and got a jar of Tomato-with-a-hint-of-Chilli sauce.
‘Have you got any cheese?’ I said.
‘I have cheese,’ you said, making eye contact with me for the first time since we’d gone into the house, but only for a second. You opened the fridge door and took out a pack of cheddar, put it on the worktop, picked up the pasta again and turned it round, looking for the cooking instructions.
‘We need to boil it,’ I said, wishing I could just take it off you and tell you I knew exactly what to do. I mean, I knew it had to be boiled, but I didn’t know how long for. I filled the kettle at the sink and turned it on.
‘Ten to twelve minutes,’ you said.
We were both standing by the worktop. I thought, we have a lot of weird silences when the kettle’s boiling and wondered whether to say it out loud, but then you went and washed a saucepan. I thought about telling you my idea about making your kitchen black and white with a red blind and accessories, but it didn’t really seem like the right moment, so I got some bowls out of the cupboard. Then I read the instructions on the pasta packet too, except that I couldn’t concentrate on any of the words. You walked round me, drying the pan with a tea towel and put it on the hob, pressing the button till the ring was on high.
We both stood looking at the empty pan on the hob getting hot and waiting for the kettle to boil. Then I poured the water in. It splashed a bit and got you on the wrist.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, putting my hand out, but you pulled your jumper over it and said it was nothing. The pasta bag split when you opened it and a few bits of penne fell on the floor, but I picked them up and put them in the pan. Then you added about half the packet and fiddled about with the timer on the oven while I stirred the pasta and watched it all bubble up.
I got the sieve ready and took the forks and ketchup into the front room and put them on the floor. Then I pushed the sofa and chairs back to the edges and, because it was starting to get dark, got the lamp that you’d put out of the way upstairs and stood it on the floor, so it felt nice and cosy.
When I went back into the kitchen, you were getting two wine glasses out of the cupboard. I gave the pasta a stir and tried it and it was soft so I poured it into the sieve in the sink, then put the pasta back in the pan. When I turned round, you were pouring Coke into the glasses from a can, carefully adding a bit more to one of the glasses so they were both the same and you looked exactly how I’d imagined you when I’d been standing in the garden just before I found Alice’s sketchbook. It was like a dream or something – a fairy tale. Like you were only here now, pouring us rum and Cokes, because I’d imagined that was where you’d be and that somehow – maybe because I hadn’t looked through the window – my wish had come true.
You looked at me like you were wondering what I was doing, standing there with the pan in my hands, staring at you through the steam, but you didn’t look annoyed. You looked lovely. I smiled at you, thinking about your chest under your jumper and your big strong hands. Then, when you looked away again, I put the pan back on the hob and stirred in some of the sauce so it’d get warm. ‘D’you think I should stir the cheese in?’ I said.
‘Sure,’ you said, pushing the Captain Morgan bottle to the back of the worktop. ‘Let’s do that.’
I took the bowls of pasta and you carried the two rum and Cokes into the front room and we put it all down on the floor. Then you went and closed the curtains and put the telly on. You didn’t sit on the velvet chair like normal, though. You walked right past it and came and sat on the sofa next to me. Then Bea came in and after sniffing at the pasta and getting a tap on the nose from you, she lay down on the floor, put her head on her paws, looked up at us both and gave a big happy sigh. It felt a bit weird in there with some of the furniture gone and the stepladder in the corner, but it was nice too – like we were a proper couple – a family moving into a new home together, which in a way I suppose we were.
‘What d’you want to watch?’ you said, putting the telly onto Guide with the remote.
I leant forward and got my bowl of pasta. ‘Don’t mind,’ I said, putting a cushion under it, and really I didn’t, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to watch anything in any case – that I’d only be able to sit there thinking I must be dreaming, that none of this could really be happening, and listening to the whisper in my head going, over and over: ‘You’re really here, You’re really here . . .’
The pasta was nice with the cheese all melted into the sauce. You scrolled up and down the Guide, then put it on Top Gear, which made everything feel even more cosy because the people on the telly kept laughing and you were laughing too, between forkfuls.
I wasn’t listening. I was miles away, happy – blissfully happy in that way when you don’t want to do or say anything, just to be there forever. I thought about Alice’s flower, safe in the pocket of my jeans, and wondered if we’d ever talk about her – if I’d ever tell you how I’d really loved her. Still love her, although now I suppose it’s just the memory of her.
When we’d finished and my bowl was sitting in yours on the floor, you leant forward and handed me my drink, then you sat back again with yours and you did something that was so amazing I’d never even imagined it – you put your arm round me – not like before, when you were a bit drunk and had only done it to steer me into the front room – but properly, like a boyfriend – like a proper boyfriend. And then, when I’d had a few sips of my drink and my heart had calmed down a bit and I’d got used to the weight of your arm across my shoulders and your fingertips pulling gently at the mohair of my jumper sleeve, I said, ‘You know, I thought I saw her the other day, when I took Bea to the shop to get the stuff for sandwiches.’
You didn’t ask me who, because you knew. You had a sip of your drink, your eyes shining in the dim, orange light as they looked at the telly.
‘It looked just like her,’ I said. ‘Same long fair hair, same bouncy walk.’ When you still didn’t say anything, I said, ‘I followed her.’
‘Oh right,’ you said, and your fingers pulling at the wool of my jumper, your voice so close to my ear, made me dizzy, made me want to kiss you. You said, ‘Which way did she go?’
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my wonderful agent, Sue Armstrong, and to everyone at Conville & Walsh, who signed me with overwhelming enthusiasm last spring, and to Canongate – most especially my editor, Louisa Joyner, who guided this story with such skill and unswerving belief.
To Lou Kuenzler at City Lit, who was there from the first page and who gave me the strength to keep going, and to her entire class who were so genuinely helpful and supportive.
Enormous thanks to my writing friends Jen, Jo, Alli, Emma and Steve for their honesty and encouragement, and most especially to Bioux, who was with me every step of the way, unsparingly sharing her every idea and cheerleading me to the finish line.
To Richard Henson
, who generously gave up an evening and all his inside knowledge on police procedure in exchange for a coffee and a biscuit.
Thank you, too, to all my family; to James and Mackenzie who have such faith in me, and to Mum and Dad, who have shown me that so much is possible if you just do it, and who are always at the end of the phone, ready to help in any and every way they can.
Without each of these people, this story would not be what it is. I’m so grateful for this one extra thing in the world that we now all have in common.
Tasha, February 2015.
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