Chapter Seven

I’ve been chatting to Franko over DM – sorry, Paul – over the past few days, and we’ve been reminiscing about our schooldays and the years we’ve missed out on. Paul has been single for six weeks (enough time to have got over the relationship? I’m not sure how serious it was – must find out) and I told another teeny fib and said Dane and I broke up a couple of months ago, because I’d felt like a bit of a loser when I typed out that I’d been single for a couple of years. So I’d deleted it and fudged the numbers a bit. Not only did Dane hurt me when he cheated on me, he really knocked my confidence and I haven’t been able to even think about dating, until now. Paul Franks is my saviour. My insanely hot, gym-owning saviour.

We’re both on different shift patterns at the moment, with Paul working mostly during the day while I’m at the chippy from late afternoon until closing. It’s usually after midnight by the time the clear-up is finished, so communication has been patchy, but it means the thrill whenever I see a message from him is intensified.

‘Expecting a call?’ Gran places a tea tray on the table and straightens the plate of biscuits (home-made chocolate chip. Divine).

‘Nah.’ I slide my phone into the pocket on the front of my hoodie (Paul hasn’t replied yet anyway) and reach for a biscuit. ‘Just checking Instagram.’

‘Jerry said he’d followed you.’

I try not to grimace as I nod. Having an old geezer as my most active ‘friend’ isn’t going to do much to make me look cool and sophisticated. Especially with some of the content he posts.

Gran eases herself onto her end of the sofa. ‘I’ve had to accidentally unfollow him again, to be honest. Some of that stuff he shares is far too blue.’ She reaches for the basket she keeps next to the sofa, pulling out an ancient quilted bag she calls her ‘project bag’. She’s always got a crochet project on the go, something to ‘keep her hands busy’ while we watch telly. It’s blankets at the moment, which she’s making for the dog shelter where she volunteers.

‘Are we ready?’ I have the remote poised, but Gran shakes her head.

‘James is joining us.’

What? But this is our time. I was working late last night, so we’ve had to wait until this morning to catch up on Waiting on You , which we always watch together. It’s our thing, mine and Gran’s, and James made it perfectly clear that daytime soaps are beneath him.

‘I’m teaching him to crochet, and this is the only time we’re both free.’

A belly laugh bubbles up and rumbles out. ‘James is learning to crochet? Why? ’

‘Because he saw me crocheting the other day and asked what I was making. You know, taking an interest. A nice thing? Anyway, I told him about the blankets for the poor little doggies, and he said he wanted to help.’

Oh, he’s a clever sausage, that one. Of course he’s letting Gran teach him to crochet. Not only does he get brownie points for being a caring citizen, he also gets to spend time with Gran. Bonding with her. Showing her what a delight he is. That he thinks of others, even poor, defenceless animals. That he isn’t afraid of fighting against gender stereotyping. He’s worming his way into her affections via the medium of wool. Sneaky.

‘Will you teach me?’

I have no interest in crocheting – never have done, never will do – but if it means I get to thwart James’ devious plans to charm my grandmother, I’ll do it.

‘You want to learn to crochet?’ Gran looks at me as though I’ve just announced my intention to run naked along the seafront. Which is valid, I suppose. Running along the seafront in my birthday suit is preferable to crocheting. ‘Brilliant. The more the merrier, and it’ll mean more blankets for the shelter.’ She reaches into the basket and pulls out an old pencil case, rummaging around until she produces a silver stick with a thick blue rubbery-looking handle. ‘Here’s your hook. What colour yarn would you like to start with?’

I couldn’t care less if I tried really, really hard. ‘I don’t mind. Whatever you have to hand.’

‘I’ve got a nice yellow here, or this rosy pink?’ She’s plucking balls of wool out of the basket, holding them up for me to look at before placing them down in the space between us. ‘This is a lovely emerald. Or how about this cornflower blue? I have a deeper blue here. Or orange. You like orange. It’ll match your jumper.’

I’m already regretting my decision, and we haven’t even started yet. It was impulsive, rash. I should rescind my interest before we’re in too deep. Let James drain her savings – if he’s willing to put this much effort in, he probably deserves it.

‘We’re making granny squares. I’ve started James off with a really simple, single-coloured square. He’s gone for lime green. Fun!’ She checks her watch. ‘He should be back any minute now.’

Back? From where? It’s only just gone nine o’clock. Where has he been? Oh, God. Don’t tell me he gets up early to start the day off with a run. I couldn’t cope with it. The crochet is bad enough, but being super-healthy on top? Have a day off from being Mr Perfect, James.

‘If you don’t like any of these colours, I’ve got stacks upstairs in the craft room.’

‘This one’s fine.’ I grab a ball of wool – I don’t even look which colour. ‘What do I do now?’

‘Let’s have a cup of tea first while we wait for James.’ Gran shuffles forwards and reaches for the teapot. There are three cups on the tray. Why didn’t I clock that before?

I scoff my chocolate chip cookie, but it doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation I’ve landed myself in.

‘So, let me get this straight. He’s engaged to her, but she’s having an affair with the dude with the twiddly moustache and round glasses – who looks like a badly drawn cartoon character, by the way – while he’s secretly in love with the chef?’

Our crochet lesson has ended (thankfully, because that was an excruciating experience, especially as I couldn’t keep my eyes from James’ nimble fingers and comparing him to Tom Daley’s poolside knitting, which is hot and James most definitely is not), and we’re rewarding ourselves with yesterday’s episode of Waiting on You . James is displaying his morning’s effort on the coffee table (a slightly wonky but passable lime green crocheted square) while I’ve hidden mine down the side of the sofa. I don’t think anyone wants to see the orange sausage-like clump I created while attempting to create ‘chains’ and ‘double crochet’, not even Gran, who made encouraging noises while I wasted her wool.

‘No, no, no. Melvin, the chef, is engaged to Tegan, but she’s having an affair with Rex – the moustache man – while he’s secretly in love with Amber.’ Gran explains the main drama of the soap to James as she pours another round of tea. ‘But Melvin isn’t the poor, innocent party here, because he’s the father of Joanna’s unborn triplets.’

‘Even though Elvin thinks that he’s the daddy.’ I add a couple of sugar cubes to my tea and a glug of milk from the little ceramic jug that matches the teapot.

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Being her husband. You’d just assume that was the case.’ James takes the milk jug from me and adds a dash to his tea. ‘It isn’t so much a love triangle, or even a square. More like love spaghetti, with everybody connected somehow. They must be riddled with all sorts.’

I give him a long, hard stare while he stirs his tea. ‘You don’t have to watch it, you know.’

James holds his hands up. ‘I’m just saying, it’s a very busy restaurant where this soap is set, but the only thing they seem to be serving is themselves up on a platter.’

‘It’s a daytime soap. It isn’t supposed to be serious, just a bit of fun.’

‘Have you got a dictionary to hand, Cordy?’ James picks up his cup of tea and takes a sip. ‘I think we need to look up the definition of the word fun.’

I pretend not to hear, but in my head I’m sticking two fingers up at the judgemental prick, very enthusiastically.