An attractive woman in high wedges, a long red dress and a large circular donut bun in her hair approaches us.
“Ready, Marina, really sorry to have kept you. Bit of a mix-up here.” His tone lightens and he spreads a great big smile onto his handsome-as-hell face. He’s so like a film star. Dark hair, cut so short, almost shaved, with a little spiky re-growth. The darkest eyes and fullest eyebrows I have ever seen. For sure, Claire Carney would be blinking in rapid succession, storing this man in her memory bank. Or would she? Poor Claire. Her horrendous situation hits me in the stomach again.
Tony taps my shoulder. “You still with us?”
This is all a bit disconcerting. I’m still livid with him, but I compose myself, turn off my phone and enter the meeting room.
6
“Well, that was easy enough after all,” Tony says to me now as we walk outside. The clouds have lifted, leaving clear blue skies above, and the direct heat of the sun on my face is wonderful. A wonderful smell of freshly brewing coffee hits my nostrils. I breathe it in. I’d presumed Marina would offer coffee, and I’ve have taken her hand off. Instead she had mineral waters and saffron buns.
“Yes, thank you for your help,” I say, now absolutely roasting and removing my suit jacket. “It was really important we got those late-night closing hours on a Thursday and Friday agreed on,” I say, businesslike. Tony sits on the small wall and crosses his long legs one over the other. Looking up at him, he reminds me of the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. I feel like little Jack beside him: that’s how powerful Tony’s physical presence is. Sitting beside him, but not too close, I move my suitcase in between us both with my legs. I’d love a gum or a mint. I’m guessing my breath isn’t that fresh. I’m regretting the garlic potatoes and tofu I made for our dinner last night, partly because it was very bland and unsatisfying and partly because I must stink right now. Normally it never bothers me that I cook with so much garlic.
“Can I drop you off at the hotel so you can drop off your case?” he asks, smirking at me now.
“No, it’s fine, I will hold onto it for now. I’ll get a taxi when we are finished all the business at hand. Thank you, though,” I answer. If I don’t get a coffee soon I will cry. He nods and shifts on the wall as he takes out his phone, scrolling through something.
“I know a good taxi guy I can speed-dial for you later, so.” Then he pauses. “I never usually make mistakes like that. I’m so sure you told me you were getting a taxi from the airport.”
Then I recall the conversation. He seemed preoccupied, writing something down, and I was in the process of checking in online.
“I think perhaps we were both at fault. I said I’d take a taxi back to my hotel when we had done all the business, if I remember correctly.” I’m acutely aware of my appearance every time he looks at me and I don’t know why. I’m wondering now, is my liquid eyeliner running? Is he noticing my three chins?
“Aha,” he says, still scrolling through his phone. “I was sitting at the kitchen table trying to finish my crossword that afternoon, so I might not have been paying attention.” He smiles widely. He has perfectly straight teeth.
“Your crossword?” I can’t help but laugh.
“I take it very seriously, like to keep my brain active, ya know. Look, Courtney Downey, I’m sorry for the mix-up. Allow me to drive you to the hotel when we’re finished?” His wide eyes make his appeal for him.
“Thank you, that would be great, if you are sure.”
He doesn’t move, just continues to stare at me, and it’s intense, and I feel a bit flushed and uncomfortable.
“Will I be waiting here until you get your car and then you never come back?” I raise my eyebrows in jest.
“You are a funny one . . . Don’t you think veneers are the funniest things you have ever seen in your whole entire life?” he asks, tapping his teeth with his baby finger.
“No . . . What, do you have them?” I lean in to take a look.
“I do not! I literally can’t look at them. I’m just instantly reminded of Jim Carrey in The Mask and it sends me into hysterics!” He laughs again at himself.
“Okay,” I say, unsure.
“Just getting to know you, that’s all,” he says.
“Was that the reason for the bizarre, ‘Tell me, have you ever been arrested or charged with a crime’ question back in the town hall?” I can’t help but be highly amused at this man, and I’m not sure why.
“Indeed.” He nods and smiles. “Gotta love random questions to strangers, right?” He says the words as though he’s been carefully considering them. “This way. Brian is expecting us.” He stands back and gestures to me to walk first.
I drape my jacket over the suitcase and pull it along behind me. A black jeep is parked nearby. It beeps and the lights flash on and off, and we settle in. As Tony concentrates on pulling out into the traffic, I steal another look at him. His short hair has speckles of grey. His big, dark brown eyes sit above heavy dark stubble. He’s wearing dark jeans, a black T-shirt and workman’s boots, those heavy black industry ones. I bet you could drop the heaviest kettlebell on them and he wouldn’t feel a thing. His biceps are big, but from manual work. They’re not those awful gym biceps. He has dark speckles of hair on his forearms. Manly. Masculine. They are the two words to best describe this Tony Becker.
“Have you been to Cornwall before then?” He makes an effort at conversation.
“Yes.” I realise that I’m staring at him, so I look out my window. Small talk has never been one of my strong points. I avoid most situations where I have to engage in it. Another area David and I were so different in. He loved talking to the neighbours for hours. He’d go to put the bin out and be out there for an hour, discussing nothing. It’s not that I don’t like our neighbours, I do – they are great and I’m blessed to have such good ones even if they are slightly nosey – I just don’t have the time to make long-winded small talk and, if I’m truthful to myself, it makes me uncomfortable.
“Right. You like it?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’ve been here, to St Ives actually. A good few years ago now, but I adored the place. It had a real effect on me, if I’m being really honest,” I tell him.
“St Ives can do that all right.” He turns and nods in agreement with me. Our eyes meet. He looks down now and fiddles with the radio dial. His forefinger and thumb move the knob around and around until he settles on a song he must like. He turns the volume up high and taps his long fingers on the steering wheel as we drive on. It’s a light rock anthem I know and love, so I tap my feet along too. The sun streams in through the window and he suddenly leans across me to the glove box, brushing his hand off my leg. Every sense in my body is heightened by his touch. He flips open the glove box and then pulls out a pair of aviator shades. He turns down the volume as the DJ pipes in at the end of the song.
“Are you married then?” he asks as the DJ drones away. I stare at him. For some reason it’s easier to do so now that his eyes are covered.
“That’s a very personal question, don’t you think?” I say into my own reflection.
He nods in agreement. “Suppose it is, really.”
“Are you married?” I ask, although I’d noticed he wasn’t wearing a ring in the town hall earlier.
“Indeed I am not. Awful thing, marriage. Horrific.” He physically shudders then waves at a car that passes us and toots lightly on the horn. “I mean, why would anyone want to do that to themselves?” His shades glisten into my face.
“Oh, I dunno . . . But you really should keep your eyes on the road, Tony . . . Lifelong commitment is a huge sign of true love, perhaps?” I offer, unconvinced myself after my shambles of a marriage and Claire’s current situation.
“Is it? It is in me arse. Lust! That’s what triggers commitment and, as we all know, lust doesn’t last.” He takes his eyes off the road again, but this time I can’t meet his stare.
“It does in a lot of cases, Tony,” I tell him.
“Not a lot, Courtney. Lust is new. It’s fresh. Lust is something that’s so powerful it can’t sustain itself. Lust is dangerous and lethal and never-lasting.”
“Wow . . . I’m assuming you have never been married then?” I make a fist and rub an imaginary stain off my passenger window.
“No. Never have, never will.”
We drive on in silence. Aromas waft through the window and I think, Oh, coffee, I need coffee.
“You wanna see the post office revamp? Check out your new office and living space before we drop into Brian’s?”
“Sure. Eh, Tony, any chance I could grab a coffee somewhere before that? I’m gasping.” What the hell, I have to ask. Hello, my name is Courtney Downey and I’m a caffeine addict.
“Oh sure, here . . .” He suddenly bangs down the indicator with his two fingers. “We’re literally passing my house and I’ve the good stuff. Brian isn’t going anywhere this evening,” he says, and I nod in agreement. He almost swerves off the main road and I get thrown around the passenger seat as we drive up a long, narrow lane. Branches of trees scrape noisily off the side of the jeep and a fox darts past us. Tony toots the horn again three times.
“That’s old Billy the fox. I let him live here rent-free.” He laughs and beeps loudly again, sticking his head dangerously far out the window. “Hello, Billy, my old chum, we have a visitor, get the muck off your paws!”
The fox stops in its tracks and looks up at the jeep. I can’t help but laugh again. This man is nuts. At the end of the lane, a large house comes into view. It’s detached, with a thatched roof. It’s uniquely beautiful, all cream brick front and huge bay windows.
“Oh wow, is this your place?” I am gobsmacked.
“Yeah, nice spot, ain’t it? I built it myself about eight years ago. I could never live anywhere but St Ives.” He pulls the jeep to a halt as the stony gravel crunches under the tyres.
“Who do you live with?” It’s a natural question, as the house is so big.
“With Billy. Don’t you ever listen, woman?” He winks at me and the engine dies.
* * *
You know one of those cups of coffee where every sip is heaven? Strong and piping hot. Caffeine fix. Your blood starts to flow better and your head clears. That’s the coffee Tony has just handed me in a chipped yellow mug. Heaven.
His kitchen is huge, and has pale cream walls with granite flooring and a black Aga in the corner. The table sits in the middle of the kitchen, a huge oak one with eight wicker chairs around it. It’s kind of indescribable how comfortable I feel at this table. It’s littered with various crossword puzzle books, some as thick as War and Peace, and a few empty wine bottles. It has a look, this kitchen, of being lived in, but not being loved. I have an unbelievable urge to see what’s in the fridge and whip up lunch.
As if he was reading my mind, he says, “No food to offer you, I’m afraid. I never cook in here. I might have a digestive somewhere . . .” He pulls out a wicker chair for me to sit in as I shake my head.
“No, this is perfect, thanks a million.” I cradle the cup between my hands.
“Great accent, the Irish accent,” he says with a smile.
“Tank yew, sur.” I mock my own accent and smile at him as he laughs. I am easier in his presence now. Perhaps because it’s been so long since I’ve been alone with a man like this I was a bit knocked off my perch. He is typing a message on his phone, so I sneak another look around. A dartboard and bookshelves crammed with autobiographies are mainly what catch my eye, plus a very large red dog bowl with little black paw prints painted on it. To me, it looks home-made, as though a child might have painted it.
“Lar tells me you might be the one down here next month working in the relocation office for the summer. I come into contact with a lot of people in my other job who are always talking about relocating.” He puts the phone down on the pile of crossword books.
“It’s a bit of a hard one, I’m afraid . . .” Am I imagining it or did he actually pull a face when I said “hard one”. His expression is serious again, so I don’t know. I narrow my eyes at him in a way that says, “Don’t mess with me, Two-Job Tony,” before I go on. “I have a daughter you see—”
“Oh right, are you married then? Sorry about all that earlier in the car. Each to their own and all that.” He puts his yellow coffee cup to his lips.
“No.”
He puts the cup straight back down.
“Well, technically . . . yes. I’ve been separated for well over a year now, but we share custody of our daughter.”
“How old is she?” He picks the coffee back up and blows into the mug.
“She turns sixteen next Saturday. Sounds crazy when I say that. Where did those sixteen years go to?” I shake my head and he nods back to me as though in total agreement.
“So I’m presuming she’s coming with you? And would I also be right in saying that this is the issue then: that you don’t want to take her away from her dad? That’s it, isn’t it?” he asks, leaning in closer to me again.
I shrug. To be honest, I’d never thought of it that way. It’s a bit of a bolt of lightning to my brain. I’ve never even considered David’s feelings in all of this! I haven’t even talked to him about it, at all. If Susan says she wants to come, we are doing it. Is that awfully unfair of me?
“I haven’t told him yet,” I say.
He tilts his head and looks at me questioningly.
“How is that possible? He is her father, right?” His tone has changed slightly.
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Well then, he has a bloody right to know your plans, pet.” His tone is now slightly aggressive. Am I actually hearing him correctly? How dare he? I put my cup down carefully on a coaster.
“Yes, thank you, I am aware of that, Tony,” I spit back at him.
“Okay . . . Just seems to me like you might have forgotten his feelings in all of this, that’s all.”
“Mind your own business,” I snap. He jerks his head at me. “Shit . . . Look, I’m sorry. I think we’d better go now.” I push back my chair and stand up, mortified at my outburst.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Courtney Downey.” He is out of his chair now and moves the seat further back for me. I walk to the sink, cup in hand.
“You haven’t, it’s just all still a bit raw, that’s all, and please can you stop calling me Courtney Downey? I sound like the accused in a court room or something.”
“Okay, Courtney Downey.” He is beside me at the sink.
“Seriously?” I hold my eyes open wide and he pokes me in the leg.
“Ouch!” I scream.
“Woah, sorry . . . Jesus, it was a gentle poke!” He looks completely horrified.
“Sorry, I know . . .” I rub my throbbing thigh. “A guy whacked me there with his briefcase earlier and it’s so sore.” I feel so stupid now. I just want to get to my hotel.
“Here, sit. Let me put some ice on it for you.” He takes the cup from my hand, puts his arm around me and redirects me back to the seat. My tummy is crashing around at his touch.
“No need . . .” I try to protest, but he’s plonked me on the chair and is over at the large fridge-freezer. Returning with a bag of frozen carrots, he kneels by my side.
“Where is it exactly?” he asks, concerned, and I put my hand on the bruise. Gently, he lifts my hand and holds it for a second too long, I think. Lightning bolts run through me at the touch of his fingertips. I pull my hand away.
“If you’d prefer to take your trousers off, you can take my carrots into the bathroom.”
I blurt out a laugh now. This is ludicrous. He starts to laugh too.
“No thanks, I’m good. Just let me hold the carrots here for a minute; I’ll get ice for it later on in my hotel room. Thanks.” I stare up at him, flirting through my eyelashes. He stands up and stretches. Jesus.
“If you’re sure.”
His body language is jittery now, I notice. He rubs his palms down the sides of his jeans. Lus
t. It’s the four-letter word that’s doing a dance through my brain.
Holding the carrots takes me back to reality, and I think about what he has just said. He is right. Of course he is. Could David stop me taking Susan here for the summer? Surely not. Surely he will see what a great opportunity this is for me and to broaden Susan’s horizons too? It’s only for three months and, of course, he can come and visit as often as he wants. And Mar-nee, if she must.
Suddenly eager to move away from Tony, I pick up the carrots, get up and put them back in the freezer. I see my cup is in the shallow ceramic sink now, so I turn on the tap.
“What an asshole,” he says and he looks really cross.
“Who?” I ask, turning back to him.
“That asshole that rammed his suitcase into you! Are you okay? I have some painkillers, if you need any.” He looks genuinely angry.
“No, honestly.” I turn on the tap to wash the cup, slightly taken aback by his concern.
“Leave that, it’s fine,” he says. So I do.
We’re standing about three feet apart, staring at each other. I look to the right, then I look back, and he’s still looking straight at me.
“Right.” He shakes his head roughly from side to side, as though trying to get himself out of a daze. “Shall we go?” He grabs his ginormous bunch of keys from the kitchen table. Nodding in agreement, I walk to the door and stand out by the dusty black jeep. The gardens are beautiful. Lots of primroses are in bloom, and they smell divine.
As I move to the car door, I glance across the gardens at a large round rustic table and benches. A gas barbeque square stands beside them. This garden is making me hungry. It’s the type of garden that you can effortlessly see hosting a big party: children running around playing hide and seek, adults sipping cold white wine, and the smell of barbecuing sausages filling the summer’s air. There is a sense of what this house could be. I strongly feel it.
“Back in the jeep,” he says as he beeps the doors open and closes the front door of the house behind him. “We are only ten minutes away from Brian’s warehouse,” he tells me, and those are the only words we speak for the next ten minutes. He twiddles that damn dial and my head spins about Susan and the possibility of us coming here. More winding roads and small lanes where brambles scratch the paintwork on the jeep. We pull up to a large warehouse.
The Importance of Being Me Page 9