Thinking of You

by Jill Mansell

  “You think I should feel sorry for her?” Ginny half smiled. “I can’t see that happening.”

  “Maybe not. You just have to put it behind you and move on.”

  “Is that what you did?” She felt brave enough to ask him now. “After Tamsin left?”

  Finn shrugged and this time his shoulder made contact with hers. “It’s the only thing to do.”

  “But it’s easier for some people than others. Like you with that girl Catherine,” said Ginny. “The one who sent you flowers the other week. Why did she do that?”

  He sounded amused. “Because I gave her a lift home?”

  Ha, and the rest. Bluntly, Ginny said, “Did you sleep with her?”

  There was a pause then Finn nodded. “OK, yes. I did.”

  “You see?” Vigorously Ginny shook her own head. “I’d love to be able to do that!”

  Now he was definitely smiling. “You’d love to sleep with Catherine? Or with me?”

  Oh Lord, what a thought.

  “Neither! I meant I’d love to be the kind of person who could do that.” Ginny felt the heat creeping into her cheeks. “I wish I could go out, see someone I like the look of, and… well, have a one-night stand, just for the hell of it. But I can’t, because I’m not that kind of person and I never have been.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. It’s really annoying. Men do it all the time. And so do loads of women, I know that. But I’ve never been able to.” Recklessly Ginny said, “If I told you how many men I’d slept with, you’d fall off the sofa laughing. Honestly, I’m pathetic.”

  Finn raised a playful eyebrow. “So you’re saying you want to be like Carla?”

  “God, no, nothing like that. Just… you know, once in a blue moon it’d be nice to think, oh sod it, why not?”

  “Find someone you like the look of and just go for it?”

  “Well, yes.” Ginny knew her cheeks were on fire now; she still couldn’t quite believe she was having this conversation, and with Finn Penhaligon of all people. But her pent-up feelings were spilling out uncontrollably like molten lava. “What are you doing?” she added, because he was now twisting round on the sofa, peering out of the window at something in the sky.

  “Just checking if it’s a blue moon.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. This, subconsciously or otherwise, was exactly what she’d wanted to hear him say. Maybe it was pathetic, but after having her confidence dented—more like smashed—by Perry, she was ridiculously flattered to know that Finn Penhaligon would be prepared to have sex with her.

  Except, terrifyingly, he appeared to have made his offer and was now awaiting her response to it.

  Except, aaarrgh, what if it hadn’t been an offer at all? Maybe he was a keen astronomer genuinely interested in discovering whether the moon tonight might actually be blue?

  “Well?” Finn prompted, his dark eyes questioning.

  Hopelessly unsure and petrified of making a twit of herself, Ginny said, “Is it?”

  “Take a look.” He gently turned her round to face the window. “Tell me what you think.”

  There was an unromantic thunk as Ginny’s ankle knocked against the edge of the coffee table, setting the coffee cups rattling against the metallic surface. Her heart hammering against her rib cage, she followed the line of Finn’s pointing finger and saw the moon hanging low in the inky-black sky, partially obscured by the branches of a sycamore tree.

  “So, does it look blue to you?” The words came out as a whisper, his warm breath circling her ear in such a way as to send Ginny’s nervous system into a frenzy. But she still didn’t know if this was all part of his seduction plan or simply an experienced astronomer asking a hopeless ignoramus an easy question.

  “It looks… um, well… I think maybe it looks a bit blue.”

  “Really?” Now he sounded amused—oh God, was that the wrong answer?

  “White with a hint of blue?” hazarded Ginny. “Sort of… very faintly… bluish?”

  “Hmm.” He nodded thoughtfully. “You know, I think you could be right.”

  “Yiawoooooow.”

  “What’s that?” Startled by the unearthly noise, faint but clearly audible, Ginny’s eyes widened.

  “Sounds like Myrtle, somewhere outside.”

  “Yiiaaarrrrlll.”

  “She’s not happy. Oh God, what if she’s been cornered by a fox?”

  “Poor fox, he doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for. She’ll rip him to shreds.”

  “Mwwwwaaaaaooowwwwww,” Myrtle yowled, sounding more outraged than Ginny had ever heard her before.

  “She’s being attacked by something. I’ll go and let her in.” Leaping up and slipping past Finn, she headed downstairs and opened the front door. “Myrtle? Come on, sweetheart, it’s OK, come inside.”

  But although she heard another faint yowl, Myrtle didn’t materialize out of the darkness and shoot past Ginny’s ankles in a blur of indignant black fur. Finally, she closed the door and made her way back upstairs. If Finn had a torch, they could go in search of her.

  But when she reached the landing, she saw Finn standing at the far end of it, his hand resting on the handle of a half-open door that, if she’d got her bearings right, had to lead into the master bedroom. His dark eyes locked with hers for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he held out his other hand and slowly beckoned her forward. His voice low and with a husky edge to it, he murmured, “Come here.”

  Oo-er. Tingling all over, torn between finding a missing cat and being drawn into Finn Penhaligon’s bedroom, Ginny hesitated. Then again, what had Myrtle ever done for her? Maybe the time had come to be selfish for once. If Finn had decided that the moon was blue, who was she to argue?

  Wandering in a dreamlike state toward him, she imagined herself unbuttoning Finn’s white shirt, removing the leather belt that held up his black trousers, undoing the zip in a sensual manner. Oh Lord, she was disastrously out of practice; she hoped she didn’t show herself up. Socks, for instance. Would he take his own socks off before the trousers came down? Surely he wouldn’t expect her to deal with them. Heavens, she couldn’t remember how socks got disposed of; she was going to make a complete fool of herself and—

  “Take a look at this.” Finn noiselessly opened the bedroom door and drew her inside. As she held her breath, the first thing Ginny realized was that she wasn’t going to have to wrestle with sock etiquette after all.

  Not with Finn either, come to that.

  Another realization was that as far as her long-cherished fantasy was concerned, she couldn’t have got it more wrong if she’d tried. There was no four-poster, no cream hangings billowing gently in the breeze. The bed was king-sized and ultra-modern with a leather headboard and a heavy, expensive-looking dark blue suede bedspread.

  Except it wasn’t looking quite so expensive at the moment, what with all the gunk and slime smeared in the center of the bed over the supple, top-quality suede.

  “Oh…” Ginny’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “Yiaaaaaawwwwww,” Myrtle yowled, furry paws extending and rib cage heaving as the next contraction gripped her body. As they watched, a silvery parcel emerged, slithering out of Myrtle and onto the bedspread only inches from the first blind mewling kitten. Twisting round, clearly relieved to have got a second one out, Myrtle used her sharp teeth to remove the covering membrane and bite her way—eww—through the umbilical cord.

  “I didn’t even realize she was here in the flat,” Finn whispered. “She must have jumped across from the tree outside and climbed in through the window.”

  “Like a true cat burglar.”

  He grinned. “Give her a motorcycle and she’d out-leap Evel Knievel.”

  “Oh looook.” Ginny tugged at his shirtsleeve as the first kitten, having staggered to its feet, promptly fell over the second. Struggling to get up again, it then slipped on a patch of dark green slime and landed on its back. It lay there mewing piteously until Myrtle took pity on it and uncere
moniously hauled it by the scruff of the neck over to her stomach.

  “How do they know how to do that?” said Finn as the kitten, without a moment’s hesitation, latched on and frantically began to feed.

  “How did Myrtle know she had to bite through the cord?” Ginny shook her head in wonderment. “I’m glad I didn’t have to do that when Jem was born.”

  Myrtle turned and blinked majestically, topaz eyes surveying her audience. For once she didn’t snarl or hiss at them. “Maybe now she’s a mother she’ll turn into a nicer cat.” Finn didn’t sound too hopeful.

  “Maybe she just has more important things on her mind right now, like bracing herself for the next contraction. How much did your bedspread cost, by the way?”

  “Hundreds.” Finn paused. “And hundreds. Tamsin chose it.” Another pause. “Almost a thousand, I think.”

  Consolingly, Ginny said, “It’ll probably dry-clean.”

  Since seduction was no longer on the menu—if it ever had been—they left Myrtle to get on with the task in hand and headed back to the living room. Finn made more coffee and paced the kitchen while Ginny perched on a high stool at the counter and surfed the Internet on his laptop.

  “Sit down,” she complained. “You’re making me jittery.”

  “I am jittery. I feel like a prospective father.”

  “Well, you aren’t.” Ginny winced the moment she’d said it. What a thing to come out with. Luckily, typing “cats giving birth” into Google diverted her attention.

  Yikes, cats giving birth wasn’t the straightforward procedure she’d imagined.

  “What?” Observing her look of alarm, Finn plonked a mug of coffee in front of her.

  “Are you squeamish?”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a whole list here of all the stuff you need when your cat goes into labor. A maternity bed.”

  “Well, she’s already helped herself to that,” Finn said drily. “What else? Gas and air?”

  “A heating pad,” Ginny read aloud. “Clean cloths or towels. A weighing scale.”

  “I’ve got bathroom scales.” Finn frowned.

  “Sharp scissors,” said Ginny, pulling a face. “Disinfectant. A small syringe. And dental floss.”

  “Do I want to know why?”

  “If the mother doesn’t sever the umbilical cord, you have to do it yourself. You tie the dental floss round the cord before you cut it.”

  “Interesting use of the word ‘you,’” Finn observed. “How about if we toss a coin?”

  “I only fix DVD recorders.” Ginny held up her hands “Besides, she’s your cat.”

  He grimaced, then nodded at the computer screen. “So is that it, then?”

  “Not quite. Petroleum jelly.” Ginny read the accompanying instruction. “If the mother is having trouble giving birth, you need to put some petroleum jelly on her to help ease the kitten out.”

  “Fine. I’ll put some on her ears.”

  “And we’re going to need three tennis balls and a washed lettuce.”

  “What?”

  “Joking.” Ginny beamed.

  “Yaaaaiiiioooooooow!”

  As they hurried back to the bedroom, Finn said, “I don’t think Myrtle found that joke funny.”

  By three o’clock in the morning it was all over. Myrtle had given birth to a litter of four kittens and, thankfully, hadn’t required the services of two incompetent human midwives. She had delivered her babies, chomped her way with relish through their afterbirths (bleurgh), and was now lying peacefully on the bed with all four babies curled up at her side.

  Finn, busy making up the bed in the spare room seeing as Myrtle had nabbed his own, came out and saw Ginny yawning and collecting together her jacket, bag, and car keys.

  “Are you off now? Drive carefully.”

  Not the most romantic of sentiments but understandable, considering the circumstances. It crossed Ginny’s mind that he might even have given her a good-bye kiss if she hadn’t been yawning offputtingly, like a hippo.

  “I will. Sorry, bit tired.” She waggled her fingers at him. “See you tomorrow.”

  Who knew how their evening might have turned out if Myrtle hadn’t chosen to give birth in Finn’s king-sized bed? Oh well, it had been an experience.

  “See you,” said Finn.

  Was that a note of regret in his voice or was she imagining it?

  Cattus interruptus, thought Ginny.

  Damn.

  Chapter 32

  Saying good-bye didn’t get any easier. Jem was on her way back to Bristol and Ginny’s throat was aching dreadfully with the effort of not making a public disgrace of herself. Having Jem at home again had been wonderful, but now their week together was up and she couldn’t bear it.

  To add insult to injury the train was on time. As it pulled into the station, there was a clap of thunder overhead and the first fat raindrops began to fall.

  “Oh yuck.” Having painstakingly straightened her hair and keen to avoid it going stupid, Jem threw her arms around Ginny and gave her a kiss. “Don’t hang around out here, Mum, it’s going to tip down.”

  “I don’t mind. Text me when you reach the flat, just so I know you’ve got back safely.” Ginny had to force herself not to stroke her daughter’s face—“Mum, that’s embarrassing”—as she had always done when Jem was young.

  “Yes, Mum, and I promise to eat plenty of fruit and vegetables and always wear a coat when it snows.”

  “Don’t make fun of me. It’s my job to worry about you.”

  “Well, you don’t need to because I’m a big girl now.” Hauling her vast rucksack onto her shoulders, Jem moved toward the waiting train. With a grin she added, “And you have to behave yourself too. No getting up to mischief while I’m not here to keep an eye on you.”

  Without meaning to, Ginny’s thoughts turned to Finn. Chance would be a fine thing. Since the arrival of the kittens, there had been no more talk of blue moons. No flirtatious looks either, to the extent that she now wondered if she’d imagined them ever being there in the first place.

  The heavens opened and with a squeal Jem leaped into her carriage. “Bye, Mum! See you soon!”

  “Bye, sweetheart.” Ginny blew a kiss as the train’s doors slid shut and the ache in her throat gave way to tears. Thankfully the rain streaming down her cheeks disguised them and she kept a bright smile plastered to her face.

  Jem blew extravagant kisses back, the train pulled out of the station, and moments later she was gone.

  Back to Bristol, back to Pembroke Road in Clifton, back to Rupert whom Ginny just knew wasn’t right for her.

  But what could you do? Jem wasn’t six years old anymore; Ginny couldn’t simply forbid her to see him because, like skateboarding without a crash helmet, if she did, Jem’d only end up getting hurt. Jem had to be allowed to make her own mistakes now. And hopefully learn from them.

  Like the rest of us, Ginny reminded herself, thinking of Carla and Perry and the sorry mess that was her own nonexistent love life.

  ***

  Jem had texted Rupert on the train. He had flown back from Nice airport that morning. Letting herself into the flat, she called out joyfully, “Hi, honey, I’m home!”

  “Hey.” He appeared in the hallway, impossibly tanned and clutching a bottle of lager. “Honey, you shrunk your T-shirt.”

  Jem gazed down at her front; the storm had followed her all the way from Cornwall and rain was bucketing down outside.

  Her cropped white T-shirt was now drenched and transparent, thanks to the long walk from the bus stop on Whiteladies Road.

  “Don’t try and cover yourself up. I like it.” Grinning, he gave her a cool, beery kiss and trailed his hand down her chest.

  “Is Lucy here?” Jem had to double-check.

  “Not back yet. Which I have to say I’m quite happy about. So, good time?”

  “Great.” With an expert shoulder wiggle Jem released the straps of her wet rucksack and let it fall to the ground with a thu
nk. “I went to a party, met up with loads of old friends.”

  “Old friends, eh? Would that be old girlfriends or old boyfriends?”

  “Both.” Entranced by the idea that Rupert might be jealous, Jem said, “Actually, there was one old boyfriend there.”

  Rupert raised a playful eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

  “No. I don’t fancy him anymore.” It was the truth; bumping into Niall again had had zero effect on her. Compared with Rupert he’d just seemed so… ordinary.

  “Good.” And then Rupert was kissing her, and all thoughts of Niall Finnegan flew from her mind. It was too busy experiencing its own fireworks display instead.

  “What about Lucy?” breathed Jem as he led her by her wet T-shirt in the direction of his bedroom.

  “Relax. She won’t be home for hours.” As skillful as an ice dancer, he maneuvered her through the door, simultaneously unzipping her skirt and pulling the T-shirt off over her head. Jem didn’t even care that he’d stretched it beyond repair.

  “Anyway, what about you in the south of France?” Teasingly, Jem prodded his chest. “Surrounded by beautiful girls in bikinis? You must have been chatted up.”

  “The thing is, you call them beautiful girls in bikinis. I call them a bunch of old slappers. Of course I was chatted up,” Rupert drawled. “But all they’re interested in is bagging themselves a guy with money. The moment they spot your platinum credit card they’re all over you like a swarm of wasps. Not my idea of fun.” Gently he pushed Jem onto his double bed, gazed down at her, and said with a smile, “That’s why I’m here now. Because you are definitely my idea of fun.”

  Afterward, Jem ran her fingers through her disastrous hair. “I must look like a wet hedgehog.”

  “You look gorgeous.” Rupert kissed the tip of her nose. “Sexily disheveled.”

  “Sexily disheveled.” She wrinkled her nose doubtfully. “Is that flattering?”

  “Now you’re fishing. OK.” Gravely he surveyed her naked body. “You have a great figure.” He ran an experimental hand up her shin. “No stubble, always a bonus.”

  Jem giggled. “Cheek.”

  “Ah yes, glad you reminded me.” Skillfully flipping her onto her side, Rupert carefully inspected her bottom. “Excellent, no cellulite either.”