Chapter Fifteen

‘The thing is, I don’t have a passion like you do.’

A grin spreads across Claire’s face as she flicks her gaze towards Danny, who’s hefting a bucket of sliced potatoes up to the fryer. I tut and push the distance-learning prospectus along the counter towards her.

‘Not that kind of passion. I mean this.’ I tap on the cover of the prospectus, which I flicked idly through before bed last night. I was buzzing after my first successful dinner party, but this sent me off to sleep with no trouble. ‘You’ve always known what you wanted to do. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go to uni after my A levels – it was just expected of me, I suppose – and then Grandad got ill so I didn’t end up going anyway. And I didn’t miss it. I was fine with staying here in Clifton-on-Sea, and working here, but now I want more. I just don’t know what that more is.’

‘And none of these courses sparked even a bit of interest?’ Claire picks up the prospectus and opens it at random, turning it to show me the page. ‘Art history?’

I scrunch up my nose. ‘I have no interest in the history of anything, to be honest.’

‘Anything creative at all? Creative writing? You like doing your journal thing.’

I shake my head. ‘That’s just for fun. It’s a load of nonsense, usually. Top celebrity crushes, favourite films, to-do lists, that kind of thing. It isn’t anything deep and meaningful.’

‘It’s meaningful to you.’

‘But not something anyone is ever going to pay me for.’

Claire returns to the prospectus. ‘Languages? Religious studies?’

I flick the brochure closed. ‘I need to start my career now , not years down the line when I have a qualification.’

‘How about working with the elderly? They’re crying out for care assistants.’

‘Can’t think of anything worse.’

‘But you looked after your grandad.’

‘Because he was my grandad, and Mum and Gran never made me wipe his arse.’

‘How about… working with kids then?’

‘Okay, I can think of something worse than working as a carer.’

‘So that’s a no then?’

‘A very big one.’

Claire looks as though she would quite like to strangle me right now, and I can’t blame her. This career stuff is frustrating when you have no drive whatsoever. Instead of wrapping her hands around my neck, she opens the prospectus again but whips it away and plasters on a smile when the door opens and a customer steps inside. But the smile slides away when she spots Riley shuffling towards the counter. He’s already blushing, bless him, and he hasn’t even made eye contact with her yet.

‘I’ll leave you to it. Stuff to do.’ I raise a hand in farewell and back away, making a heart shape with my hands once I’ve passed Riley. I can tell Claire wants to shoot me daggers, but she won’t want to draw attention to my symbol of affection. Instead, she focuses on taking Riley’s order while I make swooning gestures as I back out of the shop.

Bolan glares at me from his four-poster bed when I step into the living room of the flat, and I glare right back at him. I’m still peeved that he woke me up at four o’clock this morning by walking across my face, but I’m not sure what his problem is with me. I’m due at Gran’s in half an hour, so I settle down on the sofa with a brew and my crochet. I have to remind myself that I’m twenty-five and not a pensioner, but I’m getting pretty good at granny squares now. I still have to read the instructions Gran noted down for me carefully, and while James can knock out a granny square during a couple of back-to-back episodes of Waiting on You , it takes me several hours to complete the rounds. But I have mastered the colour change, and my current granny square, which I’m trying desperately to finish before I head over to Gran’s, is made up of three colours (magenta, electric blue and forest green, inspired by Russell and Jed’s décor).

‘Get off.’ With a tut, I snatch the yarn away from Bolan, who has just leapt from the coffee table onto the sofa to attack the stringy forest-green foe. The yarn’s movement only encourages the cat, who rolls onto his side and hooks the yarn with his claw and brings it to his mouth. ‘ No . Bad kitty. Play with Mingo.’ The flamingo plush toy is on the sofa, but Bolan isn’t interested, not even when I waft it in front of his face. Only the yarn will do, apparently. ‘No, not happening.’

I pick up the cat and pluck the yarn from his claws before placing him back in his four-poster bed. I need to get this square finished in the next twenty minutes or so, and I’ll never manage that with a feline gnawing at the yarn.

‘I did it.’ I hold up the jewel-coloured granny square for Bolan to inspect, but having settled on the bed, he doesn’t even bother to flick his eyes from their position glaring at the wall. I’m well and truly in the doghouse with the cat.

I have just enough time to weave in the ends, pack my crochet things into a plastic bag and water the plant Gran bought me (she was very pleased to see it was still flourishing at the dinner party last night) before I head out, calling a cheery farewell to Bolan before I pull the door closed behind me. I peek in the chippy as I pass, waving to Claire and Danny and making the heart gesture when I spot Riley still sitting inside with his chips and a can of Coke. Claire gives a gesture of her own in return, but it isn’t a friendly one.

Gran puts the kettle on as soon as I arrive, and I eye James’ fancy coffee machine. Would it be cheeky to swipe another pod? I’ve already raided his selection so many times I’ve lost count, but they’re so deliciously tempting.

‘Look at this.’ Gran opens the fridge, but instead of taking the bottle of milk out of the door, she swings it shut again before opening it with a flourish. I study the fridge for a moment before looking at Gran for elaboration. She tuts and rolls her eyes before reaching for the milk. ‘The light. It works again. James changed the bulb for me.’

‘I said I’d do that for you.’

‘Yes, you did.’ Gran nudges the fridge door shut. ‘Before Christmas.’

‘I was busy and…’ I forgot. Plus, I don’t know how you change a fridge light bulb, or even where you’d buy a new one. ‘You could have asked Mum or Dad.’

‘Your mum already does too much. The poor woman never has five minutes to herself, what with work and running after me and your dad and… everyone.’

Me. She means running after me, even though I should be perfectly able to look after myself by now. And I am starting to. I can wash my own clothes now, and I’m finding my feet in the kitchen, and I’ve got my first driving lesson in a couple of days so I’ll be able to run myself into town very soon. We’ll ignore the fact that Mum has paid for my first ten lessons to set me on my way (she says it’s an investment, that she’ll save money in the long run if she no longer has to taxi me around. Gran has also offered to go halves on the rest of my lessons. It isn’t an investment for her, she’s simply ace).

‘Anyway, in the end I didn’t have to ask anybody. James took it upon himself to fix it.’ Gran pours milk into the little jug set out on the tea tray. ‘Just like he took it upon himself to fix that squeaky floorboard on the landing and bleed the radiator in the bathroom.’

Lucky Gran, having St. James to fly to the rescue and sort stuff out, no bother.

‘He’s mended that gap in the fence as well. You know the bit where next door’s dog keeps squeezing through and messing on my lawn? He’s a godsend, honestly.’

Sod it, I’m having one of his coffee pods. Mr Perfect can spare another one, surely.

I’m halfway across the kitchen when I hear the front door open. I freeze, my coffee pod-pinching plans flying out of the window as James strides into the kitchen.

‘I can’t stay long.’ He shrugs off his blazer and drapes it over the back of one of the chairs at the table. ‘I’m on my lunch break. Are you having a coffee, Cleo?’ He passes me, opening the coffee pod cupboard and I feel a stab of guilt that I was about to pilfer one behind his back. I should have a cup of tea, as penance.

‘Is there a latte going?’ I am very bad, but I can’t help it. Caffeine is the devil.

‘Regular, caramel or vanilla?’ And James really is a flipping saint. Why can’t he be a knobhead so I can hate him with impunity?

‘Caramel, please.’ If there are any left. I’ve had at least four since the coffee machine’s arrival, all of them when James hasn’t been around.

‘Excellent choice. I think I’ll have the same.’ My stomach tightens as James rifles in the cupboard, but he produces two caramel latte pods and sets them going at the machine. With the drinks sorted, we all sit around the kitchen table so we can get cracking on the final part of our blanket project for the dog shelter. James and I have produced lots of granny squares (James way more than me, but who’s counting?) but neither of us has enough to create a large enough blanket (my squares would barely amount to a tea towel) so we’re going to combine our efforts.

‘These are very good.’ Gran’s inspecting my granny squares, nodding in approval as she runs her thumb over the stitches. ‘They’re going to make a beautiful blanket. I’m proud of you.’

She’s going to be super-duper proud of me in a second, because I’ve held the best square back. The triple-coloured granny square is still in the plastic bag on my lap, but I pull it out now, placing it down on the table, and try not to look too smug. Unfortunately, James chooses this moment to dump his own granny squares on the table, totally overshadowing my poor triple-coloured effort with his fancy-ass, multi-coloured squares.

‘What the hell is this?’ I pick up one of the squares between finger and thumb and thrust it at James. This is no ordinary granny square, and not just because it’s made of four colours . The centre is made up of a white circle, surrounded by red, petal-like stitches, which are framed by larger, rounded stitches in a navy-blue yarn. The final layer is a dark grey, which takes the circular design into a square.

‘It’s a sunburst granny square.’ James picks up another sunburst granny square , this one in alternating rounds of red and yellow. ‘The effect is really good, but they’re much easier to make than you’d think.’

The effect is really good. So much so that they make my basic efforts look like dog shit. Thank you, James. Thank you very much.

It turns out that it’s quite difficult to sulk when you’re concentrating on sewing together crocheted squares, and the excitement of seeing the blanket coming together overtakes my misgivings of James’ superior (smug?) crocheting skills, but James is determined to keep my mood down as he shoots off the worst dog-based dad jokes as we put together the blanket for the animal shelter.

‘A three-legged dog walks into a bar and says “I’m looking for the man who shot my paw”.’

Gran titters politely while I roll my eyes practically right up to the clouds.

‘What kind of dog did Dracula have?’ James pauses for a second, leaning forward as he prepares to deliver the punchline. ‘A bloodhound.’

‘Can you stop?’ I hold up the crochet squares I’m joining together. ‘I’m trying to concentrate.’

James can’t – or won’t – stop. ‘Why do dogs make terrible dance partners? Because they’ve got two left feet.’ James cracks up, belly-laughing at the terrible joke, and I have to fight the urge to kick his shin under the table. ‘I wanted to see lots of dogs at the zoo, but they only had one small dog. It was a shih-tzu.’

That one, I hate to admit, was actually quite good, and this time I’m fighting the urge to crack a smile. But I win the battle and manage to keep a straight face until James gets up to set the coffee machine going. Even then, I hide my smirk with my hand and am fully recovered by the time he places my mug down in front of me. The second latte is incredibly soothing and I’ve pretty much forgiven James for his show-off crochet skills and the horrifically bad jokes by the time he slips his blazer on and heads back to work. I still have a bit of time before I’m due to start my shift at the chippy so I stay with Gran and finish building the blanket from our crocheted building blocks. It’s a hodgepodge of colours and designs, but it works in a quirky kind of way. My fingers are aching by the time I leave, but I have a warm feeling of satisfaction in the pit of my stomach as I head back to the flat. Tomorrow, that blanket will be going to the dog shelter, and some little pup will really appreciate its warmth. They won’t care that some of the squares are sunbursts and others are not-so-fancy basic ones. We’ve done a Good Thing here, and I’m proud of both of us.

I’m in an incredibly good mood as I climb the stairs up to Russell and Jed’s flat, but it evaporates as soon as I step into the kitchen and spot the Starbucks mug Gran bought me. The poor plant is half in the planter and half on the floor, with soil spilling everywhere. The handle has broken clean off and when I pick the mug up, it comes apart in two pieces. Bolan is sitting in front of the fridge, cleaning his paws. He pauses and eyes me, and I almost expect him to shrug and say, ‘Yeah, I knocked it off the side. So what?’ This is revenge. For the yarn thing this morning. He knows I’m trying to be a grown-up, and that keeping this plant alive is important to me, so he’s sabotaging my plans.

Okay, I may have had too much caffeine today. Cats don’t do revenge or sabotage, even if this particular mog is looking me dead in the eye as he ever so slowly licks his paw, challenging me. Testing me. What are you going to do now, Cleo?

What I’m going to do is get a grip and stop imagining my kitty flatmate is a supervillain. I’m going to find something to put this poor plant in temporarily, and I’m going to throw the mug away before sweeping up the loose soil and porcelain fragments. And quickly, because I’m due at the chippy in three and a half minutes. Bolan may have put my ‘keep the plant alive’ task in jeopardy, but he will not make me late for work.