by Dani Atkins
‘What is it you want to ask?’ Looking down, I saw I’d unconsciously crossed my fingers. How stupid was I going to feel if Mac’s question wasn’t the one I was hoping to hear? But, unbelievably, it was.
‘I was just wondering if you’d made plans for tonight. Which now that I hear it out loud, is just ridiculous. Of course you’ll have something planned. Why wouldn’t you?’ It was so unusual to hear him sounding anything less than composed, I took far too long to reply. ‘I’m sorry, it was silly to expect you’d be free tonight.’
‘No,’ I said, a little breathlessly.
‘No, you’re not free?’
‘No, I don’t have any plans for tonight,’ I said, making no attempt to play it cool. ‘I was actually planning on spending the evening alone with the TV.’
He was smiling now. I could hear it in his voice. ‘Is that an idea you’re prepared to reconsider? Because if it is, I’d really like to see out the old year with a new friend.’
Okay, I thought with a rueful smile. I heard the message hidden not so subtly within the invitation, but it did nothing to slow my pulse rate. Presumably Mac’s original plans for the evening had fallen through, and inviting me was Plan B. I was probably only one call higher up the list than Barbara or Jamie. But I didn’t care.
As I stood before my open wardrobe trying to decide what to wear, I realised how little appeal there’d been in having to spend the evening alone. Even though I knew this would be a totally platonic date, excitement trilled through me. My hand skimmed over the row of hangers on the rail, considering and rejecting every outfit until it settled on a dress hidden beneath a plastic cover. I’d bought it over a year earlier but had never had an occasion to wear it; more recently, I’d not had the confidence either. The fabric was soft, the type that found my curves and clung determinedly to them. The dress was a shade of red that turned heads for all the right reasons, with long, tight sleeves and an off-the-shoulder neckline that dipped into a plunging V. I slipped it on and then surveyed my reflection critically. There did seem to be an awful lot of creamy skin on display, and for a second I glanced longingly at the jumble of concealers in my bin. I shook my head. I hadn’t imagined my new resolution would be tested quite this soon, but I was determined not to break it before midnight even came around.
A quick brush of smoky grey on my eyelids and a slick of scarlet gloss – the same shade as the dress – on my lips, and I was done. The girl in the mirror was someone I hadn’t bumped into in quite a long time, and to be honest it was rather nice to see her again.
*
The Uber driver kept up a constant stream of chatter on the drive to Mac’s apartment, which thankfully left me no time to reflect on the evening ahead. When the car pulled up at the kerb beside an impressive modern development, my jaw dropped in a very uncool way. Dense, floodlit shrubbery flanked a porticoed entrance, where the name of the building was carved into a black granite block.
I climbed from the car, cradling the chilled champagne I’d plucked from my fridge as my eyes travelled up the building. Each apartment had a large wraparound balcony, and my gaze settled on the one on the top floor. From within Mac’s flat, yellow lights glowed invitingly. With a heart that was beating a little too fast, I crossed the pavement and pressed the button beside the plate-glass doors.
My heels clipped out a staccato rhythm as I crossed the polished stone of the entrance foyer, and four nervous Mollys then stared back at me from the walls of the lift; all of them looked startled to find Mac waiting for me in the top-floor corridor. Was there any chance at all that he hadn’t seen me practising my ‘relaxed’ smile of greeting as the doors slid apart? From the tell-tale twitch of his lips, I doubted it.
He bent to graze my cheek with a friendly peck, and the hand he placed amiably on my shoulder made a mockery of the fledgling fantasies I’d been indulging in on the ride over.
Mac’s home could have been lifted straight out of the pages of a glossy magazine – the aspirational kind I only ever read in the dentist’s waiting room. I could tell at a glance that the Swedish retail warehouse where I’d furnished most of my rooms had played very little part in Mac’s decor. That cream leather sofa alone had probably cost more than I made in six months, and the rich patina of the walnut floor was definitely not a laminate. And yet for all the luxury and elegance, the flat was still welcoming, in a masculine way. If Carrie had had any input in its design, Mac must have removed all evidence after their break-up. Good, I thought somewhat childishly.
‘Can I take your coat?’
Although ‘no’ wasn’t really an acceptable answer, it was definitely the one I wanted to give. The dress I’d chosen screamed ‘date’ rather than a casual evening with a friend, and my gaffe was going to be obvious the minute I slipped off my coat. Mac’s own black jeans and soft grey marl T-shirt were far more suitable, although the way the fabric emphasised his biceps whenever he moved was an unexpectedly disturbing distraction.
He was waiting patiently, one hand extended, and short of telling him I was feeling chilly and would like to keep my coat on, I had no option but to remove it. My fingers trembled as they forced reluctant buttons through holes that seemed to have shrunk since I left home. My attention was fixed on Mac’s face as I slipped the coat from my shoulders. His eyes flickered, but it was impossible to tell if that was due to the expanse of cleavage on show or the scar that ran through it. I forced myself to stand taller and own that this was me now.
‘You look lovely,’ he said, and for a moment there was an expression of admiration on his face I don’t think I was meant to see. It was so fleeting there was no time to process it before he hid it away behind a neutral smile.
‘Thank you.’
He’d taken my bottle of modest supermarket champagne with delight, as if I’d brought along vintage Dom Pérignon. ‘Shall we save this for midnight?’ he asked, turning towards a modern kitchen with glossy cupboard doors and sliding it into the fridge.
I nodded as my eyes took a 360-degree journey around the place he called home.
The open-plan layout was spacious enough that even the baby grand piano in the corner didn’t make it look cramped. A wall of sliding glass doors led out onto the balcony, and it was easy to imagine city sunsets on warm summer evenings, with a glass of wine in hand. The only thing wrong with that image was the lingering spectre of Carrie, which I couldn’t seem to erase.
‘You have an incredible view from up here,’ I said, mesmerised by the lights of the city twinkling below us like a laser show.
‘That was the main reason I bought this place,’ Mac said, a small laugh chasing his words. ‘Although, ironically, for half the time I’ve lived here I couldn’t actually see it. A view like this was wasted on a guy slowly losing his sight.’
Mac rarely spoke about the period when his failing eyesight had gradually stolen his life away, one piece at a time, taking his job, his independence and finally his girlfriend from him. Even now, when it was all in the past, I could hear the emotion in his voice.
Never had I wanted to hug someone more than I did Mac right then. In case the impulse proved too hard to resist, I crossed the room to stand before a modern gas fire with extremely realistic-looking flames. Mac must have moved to join me with the stealth of a cat burglar, because I had no idea he was standing right behind me when I stepped back and somehow managed to tread on his foot with one very pointed stiletto heel.
‘Oh God, Mac, I’m so sorry,’ I said as he gave a muffled sound containing a very earthy Anglo Saxon exclamation. ‘Are you okay? Did I hurt you?’
I instinctively dropped to my knees to examine his injury, as though he were one of my pupils who’d fallen in the playground. Thankfully I could see no blood staining his pale grey sock, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t punctured his skin with my weapons-grade heel.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, holding out his hand to me. ‘It’s nothing, honestly.’
I took the hand and allowed him to pull me back up to my fe
et. The manoeuvre brought us so close, I could feel the warmth of his body through his T-shirt. Like a guilty trespasser, I quickly retreated out of his personal space.
‘I’ve no idea why I’m like this around you,’ I said with an embarrassed laugh. ‘Believe it or not, I’m not usually clumsy.’
‘Perhaps I make you nervous?’
I swallowed a gulp. ‘No, I don’t think that’s it.’
He gave an easy shrug and changed the topic, although the one he opted for was almost as uncomfortable.
‘Well, notwithstanding my broken foot, I just want to say how glad I am that you could come this evening. It’s been quite a year, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather kiss it goodbye with.’
My cheeks flushed, and with an honesty I’d probably regret later, I spoke from the heart.
‘Nor me.’
He bit his lip as though trying to stop his next comment from escaping, but it found a way. ‘I felt sure Alex would have beaten me to it.’
His comment was like a casually thrown grenade, and my mouth opened and closed like a goldfish as I sought for and rejected several replies. I was still no closer to picking one when the trilling of Mac’s phone offered me a reprieve.
He glanced down at the screen and gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, Molly. Do you mind if I take this?’
I shook my head, more than glad of the interruption.
‘Andi,’ he exclaimed, his voice so warm I could practically feel the temperature in the room shoot up a few degrees. Not wanting him to think I was eavesdropping, I wandered towards the windows and tried to distract myself with the view.
Mac’s comment about Alex was troubling on many levels. Did everyone think the same thing? It was getting harder and harder to dismiss the suspicion that Alex continued to look for his wife in me. I shivered, despite the heat of the room. If that was really what was happening, surely the kindest thing I could do for everyone was to walk away? But doing that would mean I’d lose all contact with not just Alex but also Connor. The thought of never seeing either of them again filled me with an irrational dread. I rested my head against the cool glass of Mac’s windows, as though in need of a compress to ward off a migraine.
‘Are you okay?’ Mac called across the room.
I found a smile and pasted it in place before turning to face him. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Andi said hi,’ he said easily.
‘That was nice of her.’ And then as though I’d lost all ability to filter my thoughts before they popped out of my mouth: ‘Actually, I imagined you’d be spending New Year’s Eve with her.’
Mac looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Really? I think that would probably be the last thing they’d want and playing third wheel doesn’t really appeal to me.’
‘Third wheel?’
‘Her fiancé Scott is home for the holidays and until his assignment in Japan is over, we all know better than to intrude on their time together.’
‘Oh,’ I said, only just managing to hide my grin.
‘And besides,’ added Mac, ‘I already said you were the person I’d like to see the year out with.’ There was absolutely no way of hiding the grin this time, so I didn’t even try.
‘Fancy helping me prepare our dinner?’ he asked, picking up a very large chopping knife and then pretending to look worried. ‘How safe are we if we put this in your hands?’
It was just the antidote I needed. I answered with a beam and crossed the room to the kitchen area. ‘Let’s chance it,’ I said. ‘Put me to work.’
It had been a long time since I’d shared a kitchen, and I’d forgotten how companionable it was to prepare a meal with someone. The kitchen was well laid out but compact, and we moved around each other with smooth, effortless choreography, as though we’d done this many times before.
Twenty minutes later Mac carried our two steaming plates of pasta to the table, while I followed him with the wine and glasses.
‘This looks wonderful,’ I declared. I felt a bit like a MasterChef judge as he watched me spear a mouthful of his signature dish, spaghetti carbonara, onto my fork, waiting for my verdict. I didn’t normally have any trouble swallowing, but it was surprisingly hard to do so with his eyes fixed on my mouth.
I reached for my glass of wine and lifted it to him in a salute. ‘Delicious.’
‘Next time I’ll make you my stroganoff,’ he said, looking ridiculously pleased.
Next time. The words hung in the air between us; they felt like a promise, but not one I could imagine ever coming to pass.
Mac was as good a host as he was a cook, and as we passed from pasta to pavlova to coffee, the conversation flowed with ease. The stories of his student escapades were particularly hilarious, although it was hard to equate the responsible man I knew with the wild rule-breaker he’d apparently been fifteen years earlier. It also made me feel I’d frittered away too many of my own uni days in study halls and the library.
‘I think that’s actually what you’re meant to do,’ Mac said, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he got to his feet and began gathering up our plates.
‘It just makes me sound so boring,’ I said.
He was halfway to the kitchen, his arms stacked high with dishes, but he stopped to look back at me over his shoulder.
‘You are many things, Molly Kendall, but boring is definitely not one of them.’
*
‘Why don’t you pick out some music for us to listen to?’ Mac suggested as he began loading the dishwasher. With a glass of wine in hand, I headed for the impressive sound system, but a detour past his baby grand piano gave me a better idea.
‘Would you play something for us instead?’
‘Sibelius?’ he asked with a crooked smile as he straightened up from his task. ‘He’s not known for his party tunes.’
I glanced at the sheet music on the stand. ‘Maybe something a little livelier?’
His grin was my answer. ‘There are some music books in the cabinet beside the piano. You should find a few jazz ones in there, with the kind of songs your dad would probably have enjoyed.’
My nose prickled and my eyes felt suddenly scratchy. Mac had remembered my dad’s passion for jazz. It was such a small detail and it shouldn’t have felt significant – but it did.
I dropped to my knees before the cupboard and began flicking through the eclectic music books in Mac’s collection. My fingers had fastened on a volume with the word ‘Jazz’ on the cover when I saw something wedged in beside it. Something that looked out of place.
The clang of saucepans and clatter of cutlery meant Mac was still busy in the kitchen, but that was not an excuse for me to pluck the sketchpad from the cabinet. It was clearly not a musical score and none of my business. And yet the Pandora pull to look inside it was impossible to resist. I set down my wine glass and drew the book onto my lap.
Put it back. It’s private, the Jiminy Cricket voice of my conscience whispered in my head. But something was stopping me, something that went way beyond normal nosiness.
From the turn of that first page, I was hooked. I’d assumed that, as an architect, Mac would be skilled at drawing, but I’d never imagined he’d be so good that the breath would catch in my throat as I gazed down at the first sketch.
It was as detailed and accurate as a photograph – no, it went even deeper than that. No amount of pixels could have captured the look in Connor’s eyes in the way Mac’s pencil had. The little boy was looking at something or someone in the distance with a fledgling smile on his lips. It was so realistic, I quickly flicked the page as though this was a cartoon sequence and his smile would hatch in the next drawing.
But the following page was different, depicting a collage of faces. Jamie and Barbara featured most prominently, but Dee and Todd were there too, and even Maisie. I knew without asking that none of the subjects had posed for these portraits. They were drawn from memory, and the level of detail was scarily accurate. Mac had an incredibly keen eye – or at least he did now.
I was unaware that the cacophony of clanging pots and pans had ceased. I had no idea Mac had left the kitchen and was standing directly behind me until his shadow fell across the page with Alex’s face staring back at me. I jerked my hand away from the drawing as though I’d been burnt.
‘I’d forgotten that was in there.’ Mac’s voice sounded strange – tight, in a way it hadn’t done before. Was he embarrassed that I’d found the sketchpad?
‘These are really good.’
Mac shrugged and his eyes were oddly shuttered.
‘Are there more?’ I asked, already turning the page before he could reply. I sensed he’d like nothing more than to pull the pad from my hands, if only he could find a way of doing so.
I had no idea why I was so shocked. Shouldn’t I have been expecting this? Especially as every other member of our group had been drawn.
He’d made me beautiful in a way the mirror confirmed I’d never actually achieve. Unlike with the others, Mac had drawn me in a variety of mediums. I seemed most wistful in the charcoal ones. The pencil sketches were more accurate, so detailed that in the one where my eyes were closed beneath the sun’s rays I could see the individual lashes on my cheeks. I looked truly at peace.
Drawings of me outnumbered the others by about five to one, and yet I was embarrassingly slow to realise how peculiar that was.
‘How come there are so many of me?’ I asked artlessly, and it wasn’t until I saw his jaw clench that I realised it was the wrong question.
‘You have a great face for portraits. The angles and lines of your bone structure are…’ Mac looked as though he wanted to be somewhere else right then, very badly. ‘You’re easy to draw,’ he concluded. There was something in his eyes that warned me not to press him further, and so I didn’t.