by Suzanne Snow
Ellie’s father, Olivia’s feckless ex-husband, usually travelled and worked right up to the holidays and his time with Ellie even when she was a child had been sporadic. But they were still in contact, and this year Ellie was heading to the Caribbean to spend the holidays with him and his extended family in Tobago, Logan going with her. Olivia had a weekend with her daughter and Logan to look forward to before they left at the end of term, and she needed to get a move on with her Christmas shopping.
Five stocking fillers and half an hour later, Olivia strode up the lane back to her dad’s house and let herself in. She took off his scarf, hung up her coat and went straight up to bed. The mulled wine had made her surprisingly drowsy and she always slept better when she was in Thorndale, although this would be the first night she had spent in the house without her dad in an awfully long time.
The house was silent, as though it had breathed in and wasn’t quite sure how to exhale again without him there. She unpacked her cosy pyjamas and sighed. It was never that warm here, and yesterday she’d ordered the first pair she’d found online that could be delivered to her office this morning. The pyjamas were navy, long and snug, and she did her best to ignore the dozens of dachshunds in Christmas hats and jumpers printed on the fabric.
The bed felt cool when she slid between the sheets and she jumped out again, hurrying barefoot to the bookcase on the landing to find a book from the dozens of choices facing her. Her hand reached for a childhood favourite and she was back between the sheets in no time. It wasn’t even ten p.m. when she finished checking her emails and fell asleep, the paperback still in her hand.
It was the thud that woke her. Some part of her mind thought she was dreaming, and she lay still in the bed, her senses suddenly alert. Olivia didn’t know the house that well at night now and she took a deep breath, reassuring herself that it was just a tree outside, or someone shutting a car door. She turned over, willing the sleep she’d already had to find her again.
When the second thud came, she knew it was in the house and that she wasn’t alone. She hurriedly gathered her phone and keys, slid them into her bag and got out of bed. The carpet felt thin and cold beneath her feet as she moved to the door and slowly twisted the doorknob, praying it wouldn’t squeak.
The tiny peep that followed as she turned it wasn’t any louder than her own heartbeat roaring in her ears and she listened. Footsteps now, crossing the hall. She slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder and tiptoed onto the landing in the darkness, reaching for the bookcase. Her fingers found a heavy hardback, something that felt as big as an atlas.
Olivia heard the footsteps climbing steadily, passing the stairlift, nearing her. They’d reached the little landing beside the picture window now, where the stairs turned, and she saw a shadow moving in the faint light, framed for a second by the glass. Her heart was pounding so fast she was ready to scream, and she bit her lip to stop the fright escaping.
She would use the book, aim low and take them by surprise, then leg it out of the house to her car. She’d back it straight through the flimsy wooden garage doors like James Bond if she had to. He – she was certain it was a man – was only two feet away from her now, crouched as she was beside the spindles in the darkness. The hardback in her grasp, she lifted it with two hands, ready to strike.
The light came on, flooding the landing with brightness and making Olivia squint. Shocked, she dropped the book before she managed to land a blow and it hit the floor with a resounding clunk. There was a terrified yell and she saw the intruder leap about a foot in the air and spring away from her.
‘What the bloody hell?’ he roared as the glass in his hand fell to the floor, spilling water and shattering into dozens of pieces. She saw the recognition dawn in Tom’s face at the same time as hers and gasped in horror. His wild eyes narrowed suspiciously as they shifted to the atlas near her feet. ‘What were you planning to do with that?’
‘You would’ve found out if you hadn’t switched the light on.’ There was a shaky note in her retort and she swallowed, trying to rid herself of the tremble in her hands.
‘If you want to kill me, Olivia, there are probably kinder ways to do it. Don’t move,’ he ordered, pointing to the mess between them. ‘Your feet are bare and there’s glass everywhere.’
So he’d remembered her name. She was too shocked to move, other than to slump against the spindles, her bag sliding to the floor beside her. She’d forgotten about her feet; a run across frozen gravel without shoes to her car wouldn’t have been very nice.
A dozen thoughts were chasing through her mind and she tried to arrange them into some sort of order. What was Tom doing here, in her dad’s house? Did they know one another? Had he followed her somehow, found out who she was and where she was going to be? No, that one was ridiculous, she told herself. They’d exchanged no personal details and there was more than one high-end property-finding company in Manchester.
She hadn’t seen him since he’d rushed from her room that night in the pub three weeks ago and she hadn’t expected to see him again ever. The morning after she had made sure to be up and away by dawn so there was no chance of bumping into him again, the humiliation of his exit and what they’d almost done still so raw. She’d worked even harder since then, pulling more hours, scheduling more meetings, trying to forget she’d ever met him.
But it hadn’t been easy, forgetting. Every so often reminders of their conversation had come back to her, made her smile. Then she’d remember his eyes and the fun, the flirting as they’d discussed a first date and talked about that honeymoon. The look on his face the second before they’d kissed, and she’d been pressed against the door. Then the disappointment, the regret when he’d halted all they’d shared and she was certain they had both wanted.
Tom stepped past her, running down the stairs. He was back in a few minutes, a cloth, dustpan and brush in his hand. She watched him clear up the mess, trying to make sure he had gathered up all of the shattered glass.
‘What are you doing here?’ She found her voice and stood up, crossing her arms and giving him the best outraged glare she could manage in Christmas dachshund pyjamas. He straightened, the dustpan in his hand and Olivia saw the tension again in his face.
‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’
‘Me?’ she replied incredulously. ‘This is my house. I have every right to be here, whereas you…’ She tailed off, feeling a bloom of satisfaction as she registered his astonishment.
‘Your house? Doesn’t it belong to Hugh Bradshaw?’
‘It does,’ she told Tom coolly. ‘Hugh is my father.’
‘Your father?’ Tom let out a breath that turned into a sigh. ‘Right. I knew he had a daughter but I wasn’t expecting her to be you.’
‘So it appears, and I certainly wasn’t expecting you either. But what I still don’t know is why you’re actually here and creeping around his home in the dead of night.’
‘He hasn’t told you?’ A note of anxiety in Tom’s voice, one that was still doing things to her senses that it absolutely shouldn’t.
‘Obviously not.’
‘I see.’ A beat of silence followed as he rubbed his jaw. ‘So you probably don’t know then that Hugh and I are good friends and he’s, er, he’s very kindly offered me the use of his house for a few weeks.’
‘He’s what?’ Olivia wished she’d toned down her shriek, longing to reach for the atlas again and chase this man straight outside into the night and far away from her. She should be asleep, not confronting the person responsible for disturbing it every time she laid eyes on him. ‘He can’t have! He knew I was planning to stay so why on earth would he let you be here as well?’
There was a defensiveness crossing Tom’s face now and she had the impression he didn’t want to answer. He wasn’t getting away with that. He was technically still a stranger to her and she waited. ‘Well? And how come you’re such good friends and I know nothing about it?’
‘Does your father know all of y
our friends and when you see them?’ Tom countered.
Olivia couldn’t refute that, feeling her adrenaline finally beginning to settle and finding it difficult to make eye contact with him. Her dad had made so many friends through his shop down the years and she knew he was still in touch with some of them.
‘You can either tell me and leave in the morning or you can leave now without explaining. It’s up to you but your stay is over. If you’re here to look after the house for him then there’s no need, I’m taking over. I’ll be seeing him soon and I’ll let him know you’ve gone, it’s too late to call him now.’
‘That would be difficult for me.’ Tom was apologetic as he faced her, waiting for the challenge she was sure he was expecting. The wretchedness in his voice took her by surprise and she felt herself softening for a second, lowering her defences for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom.
‘Which? Leaving or explaining?’
‘Both.’ He carefully placed the dustpan on the floor beside the cloth and straightened up. His eyes found hers and she steeled herself against the glimpse of panic and pain she saw in them, the effort she suddenly knew he was having to make to speak.
‘Because I’m homeless, Olivia. I have nowhere else to go.’
Chapter Four
‘You must have.’ Olivia hadn’t meant to sound so sharp, blinking rapidly. ‘I mean, surely, you must…’
Tom shrugged, hunching his shoulders against the hurt. She felt herself wanting to go to him, to reach out and apologise, to say – what? She had no idea and she held back, unwilling to offer more in this moment. Who was this man really, and how was he friends with her father? How had Tom crashed into her life, twice now, and rattled her in ways she wasn’t used to?
‘You look, I mean, you don’t…’ She couldn’t find the words, couldn’t explain how a man who seemed as he did – handsome, successful, charming, capable – could possibly be homeless. She stepped back to lean against the spindles. She was used to being the one in control, able to command her emotions and settle them as she chose, but the ability had deserted her in this moment following his revelation.
‘Don’t look the part?’ There was bitterness in Tom’s voice and he was twisting the ring on his right hand. ‘No, I don’t suppose I do.’
‘And Dad’s letting you stay here? Because you’re homeless?’
Olivia didn’t like the word, didn’t like to pin it on Tom, didn’t like the way it made him look and her feel – sad and sorrowful, a new thread stitched into her thoughts of sympathy, possibly even pity. What had brought him to this? His words that night came back to her. That he wasn’t what he’d let her think, believed he was less than she deserved.
‘He knew I needed somewhere to go and was kind enough to offer me his home.’ Tom was staring at her, and she sensed he was forcing out just enough words to provide a plausible explanation. ‘I’m writing a book and he thought it might give me space to think without worrying for a while.’
‘You’re a writer?’
‘I was,’ Tom corrected her. ‘Used to be. Trying to be again.’
Olivia dismissed that. ‘My dad always says if you write, you’re a writer.’ She hesitated, remembering again that night in the pub, the things they had talked of. ‘What about your job? The charity?’
Tom was leaning against the wall and she felt sure he didn’t like being questioned. Didn’t like being obliged to confess the poverty of his position but felt compelled to, given the circumstances in which they had both now found themselves, and she really couldn’t blame him. But she need to know more, to get everything straight in her mind, her order to him to leave made moments ago already wavering in the light of his admission.
‘I didn’t actually say it was a job,’ he replied quietly. ‘I said I fundraise for a charity.’
‘I assumed, and you let me.’ Olivia knew he had not been untruthful, simply economical with it, and she wondered if she might have done the same, in those same circumstances. ‘You meant that you’re a volunteer?’
He nodded. ‘I’m sorry for that. We all tend to make our own assumptions about one another and I was happy to let you believe that my status was different to the reality.’ He paused. ‘But you’re right, we can’t both stay here. I’ll leave in the morning if you don’t mind. It’s a bit late for a train now.’
‘Tom.’ Olivia hadn’t even realised she’d moved until her hand was on his arm, much smaller than him now in her bare feet. At once she felt the flutter of the attraction she’d recognised the moment he had settled opposite her in the booth that night. ‘We can talk about it tomorrow. I wouldn’t make you leave now even if there was a train.’
‘Because you feel sorry for me?’
She couldn’t entirely deny it. Who wouldn’t, confronted with a man who appeared the epitome of success only to find out it was a shell he wore, perhaps keeping the world at bay and letting it make its own decisions about him, just as she had done.
‘You really don’t need to, Olivia. It’s my problem and I’m working it out.’
‘But where will you go?’ She didn’t want to be worried about him, couldn’t seem to help it now. ‘Surely you must have friends, or family…’
Tom looked weary and it was late to be having this conversation. She was surprised to see her hand was still sitting on his arm and she withdrew it. ‘We should probably both try and get some sleep. We can work out what we’re going to do in the morning.’
He nodded and the panic on his face from before had been replaced by relief in the reprieve she’d offered, however temporary. ‘Be careful,’ he said softly, glancing at the carpet. ‘There might still be glass around.’
‘I’m fine.’ She was still standing in front of him and saw him taking in the cheery Christmas pyjamas. That night in the pub suddenly flared between them again and she saw the flash of awareness in his eyes before stepping back quickly. Whatever had taken place then was over and she wasn’t about to go there again.
‘I’ll bring you some more water, it was my fault you lost the first.’ She turned away, his reply following.
‘I’m glad it was just the glass that got broken and not my kneecaps. You were crouching there like some sort of ninja about to deliver a fatal blow. I’ll fetch the water, you’ve still got bare feet. That kitchen floor is freezing.’
He passed her, heading down the stairs. Olivia returned to her room, shivering, her feet like blocks of ice as she huddled between the sheets, an old patchwork quilt covering them. She heard Tom coming back upstairs, knew then he was sleeping in the room next to hers as the door opened and then clicked shut.
Used to living in a busy apartment block, the silence in the house seemed to be shouting, making her restless. She picked up her book, resisting her phone and the work she would find there. At some point Tom crossed to the bathroom; her every sense was alert to his movement, aware of another night in the same building with him. A second night of disturbance, a second night of thinking about him.
* * *
When Olivia woke in the morning she reached for her phone and glasses first, as ever. She quickly checked her emails and messages, glad to see that there wasn’t anything so urgent that she ought to deal with it in the next hour or so. Last night and finding Tom in the house was at the front of her mind, and she got out of bed, checking the landing for signs of him before she darted across to the bathroom.
That would be another problem if he were to stay. There was only one bathroom on the first floor and a basic cloakroom downstairs. She was so used to her own functional and organised space and didn’t relish the thought of sharing, like being a student in digs all over again. After a hurried shower she went downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table with coffee and her phone.
She missed her dad in the house, how it felt empty now and yet full still of almost everything he possessed. The thousands of books he couldn’t bear to part with, many of them stashed in the little annexe at the bottom of the garden that he’d turned into another shop
.
When she’d tried to persuade him not to, he had declared he missed the day-to-day trade of customers, even though hardly anyone knew the shop was there. Until the move into town he had propped himself in the annexe a couple of afternoons each week and lit the fire, happy to chat to whoever found him. Apparently a few visitors even bought books, something that always made him happy.
Tom’s presence in the house now was something else. Olivia felt hyperaware of him, as though she could sense him through the silence. She didn’t want to think of the fun and flirting they’d shared when they’d been mistaken for newlyweds, their amusement over a fictitious first date and the choice of pretend honeymoon.
She didn’t want to be reminded of how their attraction was as mutual as it was compelling, or remember their hands exploring one another so urgently. How she’d loved discovering the shape of him and the way they had kissed. And she especially didn’t want to still be thinking about kissing him as he walked into the kitchen.
‘Morning.’ His gaze found hers for no more than a moment before he removed it. He was about to help himself to coffee from the cafetière she had made, and Olivia saw him pause, his hand hovering above it. ‘Would you mind?’
‘Of course not.’
There was a familiarity to his quiet movements around the kitchen as he found a cup and opened the fridge to add milk to the coffee she already knew he didn’t drink black. To Olivia’s experienced and professional eye the room looked dulled, a blue range clashing with the dark green walls, the colours unsuited to a west-facing aspect. No morning sun troubled this space, with its mismatched range of cupboards spelling out their history.
Despite the room’s lack of cosmetic appeal she could still appreciate its generous proportions: the large window overlooking the small, paved garden leading to the annexe at the bottom. She’d tried a few times to get her dad to update the kitchen, to bring it into this century from the last one but he’d always stubbornly insisted he could manage perfectly well without a few modern appliances and better heating.