by Paige Toon
‘Would it be all right if I leave my car parked at your place overnight?’ Sonny asks. ‘Evelyn said it was okay to park there if I couldn’t find a space on the road,’ he adds.
‘Of course. You thinking of catching a taxi home?’
‘Yeah. I could easily sink a couple of beers. I’ll ride my bike over and collect it first thing.’
‘I’ll be at work, so you’re welcome to grab it whenever.’
‘Thanks. It belongs to my dad so I’d better get it back to him. Whose is the old Morris Minor?’
‘Charles’s. I learned to drive in that car.’ He re-insured me before he went away so I have a set of wheels if I need them.
He’s intrigued. ‘Who taught you? Charles?’
I nod, then seeing his mind ticking over, explain, ‘I lived with him and my aunt June when I was a teenager.’ Realising this explanation is raising more questions than answers, I continue, telling him about my homeschooled upbringing and unconventional hippie parents.
‘So this is not just a look for you.’ He nods at my general appearance. ‘It’s not a fashion statement.’
‘Me? Fashionable? Ha!’
‘I’ve met plenty of women who couldn’t pull this look off nearly as well as you,’ he comments casually.
‘Now you’re making me laugh.’
‘I’m not joking.’
I’m not laughing.
‘You’re more interesting-looking than half of the models I’ve worked with,’ he insists. ‘Models can all seem a bit bland after a while. You, on the other hand.’ He leans forward and studies my face. ‘Your eyes are out of this world.’
I regard him suspiciously, trying to ignore the butterflies that are stretching their wings in my stomach.
‘I’m not coming on to you, by the way,’ he says with a grin, knocking back a mouthful of beer.
‘That’s good to know,’ I remark, mock-indignantly.
‘Only because I’m sworn off sex, though.’ He plonks his pint glass down on the wooden table and gives me a cheeky look. ‘Was I right about Matilda warning you off me?’
‘Yep.’ I’m trying to adopt a flippancy I don’t entirely feel. ‘You’ve been a very bad boy, Sonny Denton.’
He snorts at the description, rubbing away some of the condensation on his glass.
‘You’re going to have a job convincing her you’ve changed,’ I add.
‘I’m not entirely sure I have changed yet. But the intent is there.’
‘Do Archie and Matilda know you’re going to Evelyn?’ I ask curiously.
‘No. It’s not a secret, but it’s not something I wanted to get into in front of everyone. I’ll bring Archie up to date soon. Man, I fancy a burger,’ he says abruptly. ‘Shall we eat?’
‘Sure. I’ve got nothing else on tonight.’
‘I’ll go get some menus.’ He slides out from his bench seat.
‘I’ll have the vegetarian option if you want to order while you’re up there?’ I grab my purse from my bag.
‘You’re a vegetarian?’
‘Pescatarian. I eat fish.’ I offer up a twenty-pound note.
He waves me away. ‘You can get it next time.’
I’m warmed by his assumption that we’ll be doing this again.
He returns with another round of drinks. ‘I got you fish and chips. No way was I ordering you a vegan potato, pea and seaweed burger.’
‘I quite like the sound of that,’ I complain jovially.
‘Sorry, you’re having fish and chips. Deal with it.’
I grin, picking up my fresh glass of cider. ‘That sounds good too. And thanks for this.’
‘Thanks for coming out and keeping me company,’ he replies, raising his glass.
‘I wonder what Matilda and Archie are up to tonight,’ I muse.
‘I thought about giving Archie a call, but decided I’d try you first.’
‘I’m flattered. Or was it simply a case of you being lazy and me being right next door?’
He laughs. ‘Something like that. No.’ He shakes his head. ‘I like you. It’s admittedly quite a novel concept for me, but I think we could be friends.’
I grin at him. ‘What’s novel about our being friends?’
‘I don’t really do girl friends.’
‘Why not?’
‘Evelyn and I are in the process of working that out,’ he replies humourlessly.
I consider him for a moment as he reaches down to pat Bertie – for want of something to do that doesn’t involve eye contact, I think.
‘What are your parents like?’ I ask after a while.
‘Ordinary. Dad’s an accountant, Mum’s a librarian. I have two older sisters: Harriet’s a hairdresser, and Jackie’s a secondary school teacher. They’re all very normal.’
‘How much older are Harriet and Jackie?’ I ask.
‘Harriet is twelve years older than me and Jackie is nine. I know what you’re thinking – I’ve been through this with Evelyn – and you’re right. I was spoiled as a child. Given practically anything I wanted. The baby of the family. The prodigal son,’ he finishes deprecatingly. ‘It would make sense for my fuckwittery to stem from there, but I had good role models growing up: my dad’s never been anything other than decent to my mum – as far as I know, anyway – and my sisters are happily married with five kids between them. They’re all very normal,’ he repeats, stressing the last word. ‘I think I’m just flawed.’
‘And this – your flaw, as you call it – was making you unhappy?’
‘It was making me empty,’ he reveals. ‘I felt hollow. Vacuous. I still feel a bit like that, to be honest. Not right at this moment,’ he clarifies. ‘I always feel better after seeing Evelyn.’ He hesitates, his blue eyes sincere. ‘And you’re easy to talk to too.’
‘I did learn from the best. I grew up with Charles, remember? I was forever being psychoanalysed.’
‘Why did you need to be psychoanalysed?’
‘I was a teenager,’ I reply emphatically. I don’t want to elaborate. ‘How did you come across Evelyn?’ I steer the conversation back to him.
‘My sister, Harriet, recommended her to me. Her husband went through a low point a couple of years ago. Crisis of confidence, lost his job. She said Evelyn really helped him. She made me make an appointment. Literally pressed dial and put the phone in my hand.’ He averts his gaze, but his bleak look is hard to miss. He must’ve been in properly dire straits after his friend died. What I’ve seen can’t have been the half of it.
One of the bar staff is walking towards us, carrying two plates of food in his hands.
‘Sonny?’ he asks on his approach.
‘That’s me,’ he replies. ‘Thanks.’
I thank him too as he places my fish and chips in front of me and leaves us to it.
‘If your parents are so ordinary and middle-of-the-road, why did they name you Sonny?’ I ask.
‘What’s wrong with Sonny?’ he replies with a frown, picking up a chip and biting it in half.
‘Nothing. But it’s a bit cool for school.’
‘Am I not cool?’ he asks.
I laugh. ‘You’re all right.’ I don’t want him to get a big head by telling him otherwise. ‘But your parents aren’t cool, are they?’
He grins and picks up his burger. ‘My real name is James. When I was a baby everyone called me Jimmy. Then my grandad started calling me Sonny Jim and it stuck. At least, the Sonny bit did. I’ve been Sonny ever since I can remember.’
I can’t say it doesn’t suit him.
*
Later, we find ourselves sitting in two battered old leather armchairs in a cosy nook by the window. The midges came out and the light began to fade so we moved inside to the centuries-old building, where its dim lighting and predominantly wooden interior – low beams, bar, wall panels, floorboards, bookshelves – makes everything seem darker and more intimate.
For the first time this evening, our conversation has run dry. Sonny is looking at me steadily and
the alcohol swimming in my veins is enabling me to stare back at him without feeling self-conscious.
‘I think I’d better call a taxi,’ he murmurs in a low, reluctant tone.
‘Really? Already?’ I ask with dismay, snapping out of the moment and checking my watch. It’s only ten thirty.
‘Yep,’ he replies firmly but unenthusiastically, digging into his pocket to retrieve his mobile phone.
‘What’s the rush?’ I ask as he searches through his contacts.
‘You’ve got work tomorrow,’ he mutters, his attention on his phone screen.
‘I’m a big girl—’
‘And if I have another drink I’ll try to sleep with you,’ he interrupts, meeting my eyes directly and pointedly.
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah.’ He holds the phone to his ear.
My stomach is cartwheeling. Thankfully I have time to pull myself together while he talks to the taxi company.
‘They’ll be here in ten.’ He puts his phone away, his expression pensive. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, running his hand through his hair. ‘I really want to see this through, this promise that I’ve made to myself.’
‘If it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t have let you sleep with me anyway.’
His lips quirk up. ‘Okay, then!’
I laugh at his cheerful tone.
‘You know, I was planning to ask you out for a drink that day I came in to pick up my glasses,’ he confesses.
‘I would’ve gone,’ I admit.
‘Really?’
‘Yep. You were going to Amsterdam the next day so it would’ve been easy: no strings attached.’
‘And you would have been okay with that?’ He’s surprised.
‘Yes. You’re not the only one who has a problem with lasting relationships,’ I enlighten him. It’s why I haven’t given him any stick about his behaviour towards women – he and I have this in common. ‘The only long-term boyfriend I’ve ever had was when I was sixteen, but I broke up with him after it got physical.’
‘Don’t you like sex?’ he asks with almost comical confusion.
‘Of course I like sex. It wasn’t about that. He got too close, too clingy.’ He wanted to know all of me, inside and out, and I wasn’t comfortable laying myself bare – I never have been. ‘I prefer shorter flings. It’s simpler that way.’
It was easier when I was abroad. Everything feels temporary when you’re travelling, and people are more willing to go with the flow than muddy experiences with serious relationships. But now that I’m back here for months on end – thank you very much, Charles – I’ll probably go stir crazy. I don’t want to complicate my life by starting something up with someone who lives locally. One night with Sonny before he left for Amsterdam would have been perfect, but there’s fat chance of that happening now.
‘So you don’t have to worry,’ I conclude. ‘I’m not going to let you sleep with me. Not now that I’m getting to know you. In fact, I promise I won’t let you sleep with me,’ I say firmly.
‘I promise not to try to sleep with you either,’ he replies weakly, and I detect regret mingled in with his relief, which my ego finds mildly gratifying.
‘Great. Let’s get back to being friends.’
Chapter 8
‘He is so beautiful,’ I say with affection, staring down at the tiny bundle cradled in my arms. He’s looking right at me, directly into my eyes.
A few years ago, I read an article about some research that had been conducted on babies. It claimed that infants of between two and five days old preferred to look at faces that were gazing back at them. Recordings of the brain activity of four-month-olds also showed that they processed gazing faces more deeply than faces that were averted.
Calvin is less than two weeks old and he certainly seems to like looking at me. It’s hard to tear my eyes away from him to talk to his mother.
‘How are you finding everything?’ I ask Danielle.
She’s tired but elated, her feet tucked up beneath her on the sofa and her head resting against a cushion as she cradles a mug of hot tea in her hands.
‘I’m loving it,’ she replies softly. ‘It’s hard, but mind-blowing, you know?’
I don’t know. But I nod and smile empathetically.
Danielle’s husband, Brett, has gone to the supermarket, so we’ve got the house to ourselves.
We talk about her for a bit, about her sleepless nights and breastfeeding trials and tribulations, about how her body is recovering after giving birth for the first time, about the friends she’s met through her antenatal classes and how they’re coping with all of the above.
Eventually she wants to know about me.
‘What have you been up to since you’ve been back?’
This is the first time we’ve caught up, though not from my lack of trying. Danielle had so much on in the later stages of her pregnancy that she was busy every time I attempted to see her.
‘Working. Looking after Bertie. Keeping Charles’s house and garden in order. And I’ve made a couple of new friends.’
She sits up straighter. ‘Who are they? What are they like?’
‘Matilda works in the pharmacy next door to Umeko’s.’ I tell her about how we kept bumping into each other and started chatting, which makes her smile. ‘And then there’s Sonny.’
‘Ooh.’ She perks up at my change of tone, sensing a bit of juicy gossip coming her way.
‘Like I say, he’s a friend. But he’s a good-looking one.’
Her eyes widen with glee. In my arms, Calvin starts to cry.
Danielle’s face scrunches up and she checks her watch. ‘He can’t be due a feed yet,’ she mutters, reluctantly putting her mug of tea on the table and getting to her feet. ‘I’ll take him,’ she says with a sigh, but as soon as he’s in her arms she’s smiling again. She stands in the middle of the room, bouncing and cooing and he immediately stops making noises and fixates on her face.
‘Good-looking?’ she prompts, willing me to go on. She doesn’t sit back down, doesn’t want to risk setting Calvin off again.
I launch into the story of how we met, but her gaze keeps drifting to her beautiful baby boy and I’m not sure how much she’s taking in.
I don’t hold it against her.
She seems so different from the girl I went to school with. So grown-up. She’s a mother now and that is massive.
Her cornrows need redoing and I keep thinking about how I used to braid her hair and she would do mine in turn. We lived in each other’s pockets, once upon a time, dressed in each other’s clothes, squeezed into single armchairs, feasting on popcorn and TV. We were like two peas in a pod, but that time is long gone and it’s hard not to feel nostalgic for it.
Danielle and Brett have known each other even longer than she and I have. They went to the same primary school, started going out at the age of sixteen and have barely spent a day apart since. She’s twenty-six – I started secondary school a year late so she’s younger than me – and she’s so settled already, so sure of what she wants from her life.
‘Are you guys still in touch with Joshua?’ I ask.
Joshua was my first boyfriend, the one I was telling Sonny about. He and Brett were best friends at school. Danielle was all about us being a foursome and I succumbed to her plans. Our friend Nina was going through treatment and I felt left out at school – it was easier to fall in.
‘Yeah, we see him all the time. He’s engaged. You’d know that if you were on Facebook,’ she teases.
‘That’s great. I’m happy for him.’ I hope I sound it, even if it is hard to escape the niggling fact that everyone else is moving on and growing up. Everyone except for me.
Chapter 9
My phone beeps to announce an incoming text as I’m getting into Charles’s old car. Every time I drive it I experience a feeling of déjà vu that takes me right back to my teenage years: the smell of the worn maroon leather interior that matches the external paintwork colour and the distinctive ash wood fr
ame that’s scratched, inside and out. A couple of those scratches on the inside rear doors were made with my fingernails, I remember guiltily, having lost my virginity to Joshua in this very car.
Shaking my head to expel the memory of him and the other insignificant boyfriends who followed in uncomfortably quick succession, I reach into my bag for my phone.
The message is from Matilda: The boys are playing cricket on the meadow from 1.30pm if you fancy it?
My spirits instantly lift. Sounds great, I reply, starting the ignition and wondering who ‘the boys’ are.
My phone beeps again.
And bring your swimming costume! she messages.
I’ve been feeling surreal about my conversation with Sonny on Friday night. Friends don’t generally talk about how they want to have sex with each other. Alcohol had loosened us up, but will it be awkward when we next see each other?
I may be about to find out.
*
The match is already in full swing by the time I go via home to collect Bertie, and it’s such a quintessentially English scene – men in cricket whites dotted across the large green space with the River Cam in the background – that I feel compelled to simply stand for a while and watch the action.
Archie is bowling and Kev and Warren are in the field, but there’s no sign of Sonny, and the realisation that he’s not here makes me feel frustratingly flat.
Scanning the spectators, I spy Matilda all the way down by the river. Bertie and I go through the adjacent field to avoid getting clocked on the head by a cricket ball.
‘I’m so glad you made it!’ Matilda cries at the sight of us, getting up from her picnic rug to give me a hug. ‘This is Faith.’ She turns around to introduce her friend and my stomach churns as I realise I recognise the name: I think this is one of the women Sonny has slept with.
‘Hi!’ Faith says with a friendly, welcoming smile.
She’s about my age and pretty: tall and thin with shoulder-length blond hair and a heart-shaped face.
‘Hello!’ I try to sound upbeat in turn as I pull Bertie back from the rug.
She’s excited to be out because I didn’t take her with me earlier – Danielle has never been a big fan of dogs and she wouldn’t have wanted one to come into contact with her newborn.