Chapter Fourteen

I can sort of see where Gran was coming from when she said she was lonely living on her own. I’ve only been in the flat for a week and I almost tap-dance with glee when I spot a real-life person (the canvases and cushion photos in the flat are of no comfort whatsoever). I’ve been working the later shifts at the chippy over the past week, so it’s past midnight before I drag my weary carcass up the stairs and crawl into bed, but those few hours between waking and starting my shift are boring as hell. Mum, Dad and Claire are working, and Gran’s either busy volunteering or visiting her friends (once again, I am appalled that my grandmother has a better social life than I do), so I’m left to potter around the flat with only Bolan for company. Despite curling up to sleep at the end of my bed every night, I’m pretty sure the cat despises me. He has this look – this really dirty look that I didn’t think an animal was capable of giving – that he treats me to whenever he’s awake (which isn’t that often, to be fair) and he seems to store up his poops until just after I’ve changed the litter in his tray.

I’ve watched a lot of Russell and Jed’s DVDs to try to ease the boredom this week, and I’ve been working my way through the extensive collection of Seventies music from the shelves while I doss about on Instagram, messaging Paul and searching for the elusive Sienna. Plus (and I hate to admit this) I resorted to finishing off my granny square. For some strange reason, I’d popped the little square, ball of yarn and the crochet hook in my bag when I was last at Gran’s and brought it back to the flat with me, and now I have my first granny square. It looks okay – a bit wonky, perhaps, and some of the stitches are a bit loose, but I’m kind of… proud of it. I made this .

The week has passed slowly, but I’ve survived it and even gained some life skills along the way. I know how to use the washing machine ( and the dryer – bonus) and I’ve built up my directory of things I can cook, adding baked potatoes, pasta bake (from a jar) and scrambled eggs to my (limited) repertoire. I’m so confident in my abilities in the kitchen, I’m hosting a dinner party. Tonight. For actual people.

The menu I’ll be offering my guests consists of tuna pasta bake (currently in the oven) served with garlic flatbread (shop-bought) and a side salad (from a packet), followed by strawberry cheesecake (from a box, defrosted and waiting in the fridge). There’s a long road ahead of me before I reach Nigella levels of cooking, but I’m baby-stepping my way there.

The doorbell rings as I’m sprinkling cheese on top of the pasta dish (from a packet, pre-grated. Don’t judge me). Wiping my hands on the apron I found hooked on the back of the kitchen door (which has the image of a sausage spiked on a fork and the slogan: ‘Wanna see my sausage?’ Keeping it classy, guys), I hurry down the stairs and take a deep breath before I fling open the door, welcoming smile in place.

‘Claire. Thank God it’s you.’ I pull her into the flat and squeeze the life out of her, the forced smile sliding away. For some strange reason, my stomach is a jumble of nerves about tonight. And it isn’t as though I’ve invited royalty over, or even Paul. ‘Hey, you.’ I offer my hand to Arlo for a high five and he obligingly slaps my palm as hard as he can. ‘Do you want to come upstairs and meet my friend’s kitty?’

I’d begged Claire to come to my dinner party, which wasn’t supposed to be a dinner party at all. The intention of the evening was to have Gran round for tea. No pressure. No stress. Just the two of us eating something hopefully edible. But Gran got the wrong end of the stick and assumed I was inviting her and James over for the evening, after some conversation we supposedly had last week in the garden. Anyway, she’d already extended my offer of hospitality to James before I could correct her mistake, and so I’d begged Claire to join us, to make the evening at least bearable.

‘I’m not sure I can get a babysitter at such short notice. I only have you and Mum to help, and Mum has her Pilates class on Monday nights.’

‘Bring Arlo with you. It isn’t going to be anything fancy – this is me we’re talking about.’

‘A night off cooking?’ Claire had tapped her finger against her chin in mock thought. ‘I’m in.’

So it’s going to be the five of us. Six, if you count Bolan, who’s currently enjoying a chin tickle from Arlo. He has his eyes closed as he lifts his face up for easy chin access, and he’s purring . He’s never purred for me.

‘Would you like a drink?’ I’ve stocked up on wine for the grown-ups and juice for Arlo. I could only find fancy crystal wine glasses in Russell and Jed’s cupboard, so I’ve bought a little plastic beaker with a picture of cartoon dogs in various emergency services uniforms on the front for the boy.

‘Yes, please.’ Arlo continues to tickle Bolan’s chin. The cat continues to enjoy the fuss. ‘Does the kitty have any toys?’

I almost splutter at the question. Any toys? The spoilt feline has tons of them, stored in a circular velvet storage box next to the fireplace. There’s everything a kitty could dream of playing with: mice on string, little plush birds and fish, feather-duster-type things on long sticks, balls that jingle, sparkly pom-poms, finger puppets . I show Arlo the storage box of playthings before heading to the kitchen to check on the pasta bake (the cheese is starting to bubble – good sign) and pour drinks for Claire and Arlo.

‘Can I help with anything?’ Claire has followed me into the kitchen, and she accepts the glass of wine and takes a sip.

‘No, I think everything’s under control.’ The table has been laid, the salad is prepped (tipped from packet to bowl and shoved in the fridge) and the garlic bread is waiting to be popped into the oven when the timer on my phone goes off. ‘Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it. I owe you one.’

Claire holds the glass of wine up to her lips, eyeing me coyly as she takes a sip. ‘Do you think I can cash in that favour on Sunday? I’ve got a date but Mum can’t babysit…’ She widens her eyes and flashes a little half-smile at me.

‘Of course I’ll babysit.’ It’s the least I can do. Without Claire, I’d be on my own with Gran and James without the distraction of Waiting on You or granny squares. ‘Who’s the date with?’

‘Danny.’ Claire smiles, properly this time.

‘Danny? The temp?’ We’ve been on the same shift a few times and he seems all right. Fun, blokey, likes to get drunk at the weekends. And on weekdays. In fact, I don’t think he’s worked a shift when he hasn’t been at least a little bit hung-over. He can eat a meat and potato pie in three bites, and he’s proud of it.

‘He’s fit. Don’t you think he’s fit?’

I shrug, not committing either way. He is good-looking (though not a patch on Paul, obviously) but the tattoo on his face is a bit off-putting. It isn’t anything grotesque, like lizard scales covering his entire face or an alarming teardrop, and I’m not against tattoos – I have three myself and I wouldn’t rule out getting more in the future. But on my face? That’s a step too far for me.

The doorbell rings, saving me from having to elaborate on the shrug. I press the plastic beaker of juice into Claire’s hand before hurrying to answer the door.

‘You look lovely.’ Gran pulls me into a hug before stepping into the little entrance hallway. I’ve made more of an effort than usual with my clothing and styling choices, wearing an ankle-length black dress with white spots that Claire kindly let me borrow for the occasion. Of course, I’ve teamed the dress with my glittery Converse, because I’m not wearing heels, dinner party or not. And instead of scraping my hair into a messy bun, I’ve washed and dried it and left it loose around my shoulders, which is the most attention I’ve paid to my hair in a very long time.

‘You look lovely too.’ Gran’s wearing a pale blue dress with a matching cardigan and low-heeled court shoes, and she’s curled her hair. ‘Very Queen Mary Berry. This way, Your Majesty.’ I indicate the stairs behind us before peering around her to acknowledge James with a brief wave.

‘Thanks for having me over.’ Gran has moved past me and started to climb the stairs, and James closes the gap between us, hesitating for a moment before he thrusts a bottle of wine at me. For a second there, I thought he was going to lean in and peck me on the cheek. I flash a smile of thanks before turning and legging it after Gran, just in case.

‘This place is gorgeous.’ Gran nods appreciatively as we step into the living room, her eyes taking in Russell and Jed’s décor. The room is cosy and inviting, with its forest-green feature wall, jewel-coloured furnishings and the plush rug that your feet sink into. The myriad of photos – of Russell, Jed and their friends and family, plus Bolan – add another layer of warmth. ‘You won’t want to leave. Russell and Jed will have to forcibly evict you when they get back. I bet you were ecstatic when they said they were staying for the extra week after all. Not that you’d wish ill health on Russell’s mum, obviously. How is she, by the way?’

‘Getting there, according to Russell. They should be back at the weekend.’ I move fully into the room and head towards Claire. ‘Gran, you remember Claire and Arlo? Claire, this is James, my gran’s lodger.’ It still feels so weird saying that. ‘James, this is my good friend and colleague, Claire, and her son, Arlo.’

‘Hello, James.’ Claire lifts her hand and wriggles her fingers. ‘It’s good to see you again, Cordelia. Arlo, come and say hello to Cordelia and James.’

The boy drops the little stuffed flamingo toy he’s trying to entice Bolan with and joins his mum on the sofa, pressing his cheek to her chest. Claire kisses him on the top of his head.

‘He’s a bit shy.’

‘My daughter can be the same.’ James sits down on the armchair, a safe distance from Arlo, who eyes him through lowered lashes. ‘But once she starts chatting, there’s no stopping her. Her brother, on the other hand, doesn’t speak because he’s a surly pre-teen rather than being shy.’

‘How old are your kids?’ Claire sneaks a peek at me, and I can see the unaired question: pre -teen? Because didn’t I claim the child was sixteen or something the other day as I attempted to process the new information?

‘Edith’s seven and Seth’s eleven.’

I avoid her second peek and study the ceiling instead, focusing on the intricate coving. In my defence, the kid is extremely tall, and James wasn’t even allowed to legally drink when Seth was born. He was practically still a kid himself.

‘Arlo will be in the year below Edith then.’ Claire and James start chatting about the school – Edith is in Mr Thompson’s class while Arlo is in Miss Higginbottom’s class – so I leave them to it and back away into the kitchen to pop James’ wine in the fridge for later. After checking on the pasta, I pop the garlic bread in the oven and check my phone for any messages from Paul. I told him about the dinner party earlier, to show him how sophisticated I’ve become since we left school, but I haven’t heard from him since.

‘Jeez, Cleo.’ Claire has joined me in the kitchen, and she hisses in my ear as I slip my phone in the pocket of my dress. ‘You didn’t mention how fit James is.’

‘He is?’ Frowning, I lean so I can peep out of the kitchen and into the living room. James is sitting cross-legged on the rug with Arlo, dangling a fish attached to a miniature fishing rod at Bolan, who’s lying on his back and batting at the fish with his paws. Arlo’s cheeks are pink with delight, his mouth gaping open as he laughs at the game. Both child and feline are thoroughly charmed.

Claire nudges me. ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. He’s gorgeous .’

‘He is?’ I have another peek. James is laughing as Bolan clutches the little fish with his claws, bringing up his back legs so he can kick the toy repeatedly. Arlo is clutching his stomach, his cheeks bright red now as he giggles his little socks off.

‘He is.’ Claire fans herself, which I think is a bit much. Okay, fair enough, the man is good-looking behind all that hair, but gorgeous? I wouldn’t go that far.

‘Do you want me to set you two up?’ I assume James is single, otherwise why would he be lodging at Gran’s?

Claire has a long look at James before she scrunches up her nose and shakes her head. ‘Nah. He’s too wholesome-looking for me.’

‘You mean he looks a bit like Jesus with the long hair and beard?’

‘No, I’m totally on board with the beard and long hair.’ Claire shivers with delight. ‘But look how he’s dressed. He could be a teacher or a librarian.’

He could be a teacher or a librarian – I still have no idea what he does for a living. My sleuthing skills are shite.

‘I think he dresses smartly.’ James is currently wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a soft grey jumper and a charcoal blazer. It’s the most casual attire I’ve seen him wearing, but it’s still elegant and stylish.

‘Exactly.’ Claire gives a slow nod. ‘I like my men a bit… rougher around the edges.’

‘Rough like having tattoos on their faces?’

‘Exactly.’ Claire sucks in a huge breath before letting it out in a dreamy rush. ‘That’s exactly my type.’

I don’t think I have a type. My last three boyfriends have been as far apart, looks and personality-wise, as they could be. Bradley was short but buff with jet-black hair (too jet-black to be natural, though he claimed otherwise) and a bit of a poser. Mo was super-tall and skinny with a wild Afro that gained him far more attention than he was comfortable with, and Dane was a gentle giant. He had the physique of a rugby player but he was kind and attentive ( too attentive, it turned out, when he lavished attention on the Red Lion’s barmaid). And then we have Paul, who’s a mix of all three; he’s almost as tall as Mo, and he has an amazing body like Bradley, and he has piercing blue eyes like Dane. Maybe I do have a type after all, but I’ve only picked out little bits of it along the way so far. But now I have the perfect package and in seventy-five days we’ll get to start our perfect life together.