Chapter Three

Mum’s waiting for me when I step out of the shop, tapping the steering wheel to Boyzone (she only has one CD in the car, which is a Boyzone greatest hits collection, and she plays it over and over again. From the beat of her fingers on the steering wheel, I’d guess it’s ‘Picture of You’). She obviously doesn’t trust me and is under the impression that I wouldn’t have gone straight home to help set up the party without her supervision. Like Claire, she knows me too well.

‘Oh, Mum’s here. I can’t come back to yours and help you to pick out your outfit after all. Good luck with your date tonight. Wear the teal tea dress with the wedges that tie around your ankles.’

Claire tilts her head to one side. ‘That dress is mega short.’

‘Exactly.’ I pull the door shut and wave to Jed, who’s back from his curling session and is getting ready for this evening’s trade. ‘You have the legs to pull it off and you look amazing in it, trust me.’ Claire doesn’t look convinced, but I don’t have the time to persuade her as Mum’s stopped tapping on the steering wheel and is now jabbing at her watch. ‘See you on Thursday. Give Arlo a big kiss from me. And text me later, yeah? Or leave me a comment on Instagram. Make me look popular.’

‘Picture of You’ blasts out as I open the car door, but Mum turns the volume down as I climb inside. ‘Thanks for the lift. What a nice surprise.’ I smile sweetly at Mum even though inside I’m mourning the loss of the glass of wine I’d planned to have while we rifled through Claire’s wardrobe for the perfect ensemble. It’s her third date with this particular bloke, and she doesn’t get many of those (Claire has the worst taste in men) so we’re at a crucial point in her romantic life and we need to tread carefully. She doesn’t want to appear too keen (this is usually her downfall. That and she picks complete turds to pursue), but nor does she want to be off-puttingly cool.

I may be more invested in Claire’s love life than my own.

Speaking of which… I slide my phone out of my hoodie pocket and open Instagram.

‘Yes!’

Mum’s eyes are wide with panic at my sudden outburst, but I couldn’t keep it in. Franko – sorry, Paul Franks , according to Instagram – has followed me back. And he’s sent me a DM .

Hey Cleo great to meet up this morning even if I did knock you into

that bush lmao can’t wait to catch up again Paul xxx

My stomach gives a happy little flip (which has nothing to do with the dip in the road we’ve just driven through). I’m going to ignore the lack of punctuation (nobody likes the grammar police) and focus on the positives. Paul (it’s a bit weird thinking of him as anything other than Franko, but I’ll get used to it) can’t wait to catch up again. He’s looking forward to our date as much as I am!

‘Your dad is going to keep your gran away as long as possible, but we really do have to get a move on with the party prep. I’ve made the sandwiches but I’ll need to warm up the sausage rolls and the quiches…’

Mum’s blathering on about the party as I tap out a reply but I zone her out and float into a daydream where Paul (still weird) and I meet up for our first date. I’m wearing a floaty, floor-length dress with delicate straps at the shoulders (because daydream me is more sophisticated than reality me who doesn’t own this outfit) and I’m barefoot as I make my way down the steps to the beach, which is strangely deserted even though the weather suggests it’s the height of summer. Paul’s waiting for me on the sand, surrounded by a circle of flickering tea lights (will have to watch my floaty dress while near those) and in the centre of the circle is a small, bistro-style table and two chairs, with two silver cloches covering what I imagine will be a sumptuous meal.

‘You look beautiful.’ Paul murmurs the words, shaking his head in wonder as he watches me approach. I’m suddenly aware of the music playing softly from invisible violins as Paul takes my hand gently in his and grazes his lips against my fingers. ‘I have waited so long for this moment. You’re the most unique girl I’ve ever met, do you know that?’ I didn’t realise my rainbow dreads were back, but he has one in his fingers, twirling it between his finger and thumb as his lips move slowly towards mine. ‘Cleo? Are you going to sit there all day?’

Damn it! The daydream is whipped away – Paul, the delicious meal, every last grain of sand – and I’m back in the car with Mum. We’re outside Gran’s house and Mum is reaching into the back seat.

‘I’ve brought your new outfit. We won’t have time to go home so you’ll have to change here.’ She dumps the carrier bag on my lap before climbing out of the car and heading for the boot. I try to conjure the daydream again (I’m not bothered about the meal, but Paul was about to snog my face off) but it isn’t forthcoming, especially as Mum’s yelling at me to grab the platter of sausage rolls and pork pies from the boot. I check my phone as I drag myself from the car but Paul hasn’t replied yet.

There’s music blasting from upstairs as we stagger into Gran’s house with arms full of flimsy disposable platters crammed with party food. I can barely see over the stack Mum’s shoved into my arms and I nearly stumble over a box in the hall.

‘I thought Gran was out?’ The Buzzcocks are jamming at top volume upstairs (and yes, I have fallen in love with someone I shouldn’t have fallen in love with, Buzzcocks. Dane turned out to be a rather unsavoury character who I wish I’d never clapped eyes on. Thanks for the reminder).

‘She is.’ Mum sounds out of breath as she staggers along the hall towards the kitchen. ‘She must have left the radio on.’

That must be it, because the Buzzcocks aren’t really Gran’s cup of tea. I’m only familiar with the song because Russell’s obsessed with Seventies music and plays it in the shop all the time. I could probably name more songs and artists from the Seventies than I could from the current charts, and if that isn’t tragic, I don’t know what is.

‘How many people are you expecting?’ It’s a relief to dump the platters on the kitchen worktop, but I know it’s only a brief respite because there’s more food waiting to be transferred from the boot.

‘Just us and a few of Gran’s friends.’ Mum checks the time on the oven. ‘We don’t have much time so we’d better get cracking. I’ll grab the rest of the food and get it set up in here if you’ll blow up the balloons?’ Mum waits for confirmation (a barely supressed sigh seems to be sufficient) before striding off back into the hall. ‘Oh, and can you bob upstairs and turn that racket off first? It’s giving me a headache. I think we should check the batteries in your gran’s hearing aid when she gets back.’

Mum’s left a packet of balloons on the side, and I shove them in the front pocket of my hoodie before peeling the layer of cling film off one of the platters and wriggling a vol-au-vent free. I’m chewing on my creamy mushroom bounty as I head up the stairs, wincing at the increasing volume of the Buzzcocks. The music isn’t coming from Gran’s bedroom as I expected it to be, but the back bedroom. Decades ago, it was Dad’s childhood bedroom, but it’s now the guest bedroom. The door is half open, the music painfully blaring out, and I can see movement coming from inside – a shadow shifting across the carpet, an arm reaching out – and someone’s singing along with Pete Shelley.

What the hell?

I’m frozen to the spot, my mind telling me to march into Gran’s guest bedroom to confront the intruder while my cowardly heart is telling me to scarper down the stairs to get Mum. I still haven’t decided which option I’m going to plump for when a bloke appears in the doorway. He’s tall, with dark brown hair curling around his face and almost reaching his shoulders. He has a neat, closely cropped beard and brown eyes beneath dark brows. I suppose you’d describe him as handsome, if you’d met him in a club rather than in your gran’s house, mid-burglary.

‘Hi.’ He has to shout over the music, and his brow has furrowed. His stance has morphed into attack mode, his knees slightly bent, fingers slightly curled in front of him, ready to pounce. ‘Who are you?’

‘This is my gran’s house.’ I try to stand tall, to show him I’m not afraid, even though I’m in danger of peeing (or worse) on the hallway carpet. I wish I was armed with more than half a vol-au-vent and a packet of balloons. ‘Who are you ?’

‘Cleo?’ His brow smooths as a grin spreads across his face, and he takes a step forward, his hand reaching out to strike me. Instinctively, I take a step back, colliding with the mahogany dresser that sits between the back bedroom and the bathroom. I graze my hip on the corner and although I want to cry out all the swear words, no profanities are forthcoming. I am mute with fear, even when in pain. He knows my name . How?

‘I’m James.’ His hand hangs in the air, and I realise he isn’t going to hit me – he wants to shake my hand. What the actual hell?

‘ Mum! ’ I finally find my voice as I spot movement at the bottom of the stairs. Mum’s back with more food. She’ll know what to do. She’ll karate-chop the dude in the face or kick him in the balls. She’ll do something other than stand here like a turnip.

‘What is it, love?’ Mum’s jogging up the stairs, and the burglar inches forward so he can peer around the doorway. I finally, miraculously, conjure some courage from somewhere deep down inside and take a step forward, holding up my hand, palm out.

‘Back off, buddy.’ Emboldened when he does as I command and stumbles backwards into the bedroom, I move towards him, keeping him cornered. The last thing I want is for him to bolt, knocking Mum down the stairs in his haste.

‘What’s going on?’ Mum’s almost at the top of the stairs now, which is good because my courage is already fizzling away. My hand is still held aloft, but it’s trembling.

‘Him.’ I curl my fingers into my palm, so there’s only my index finger pointing at the burglar. Mum’s reached my side now, and she turns towards the back bedroom, her body jerking in shock when she sees the strange man standing in the room.

‘Who are you? And what are you doing in my mother-in-law’s house?’

I knew Mum wouldn’t crumble. I knew she’d take control. Take action. She doesn’t stand for any nonsense, particularly from scummy opportunistic burglars of the elderly.

‘I’m James Merchant.’ The burglar holds up his hands, palms out. ‘I’m moving in with Cordy. I take it from your reaction that she didn’t tell you about me?’

‘No, she didn’t.’ With one hand held up towards the burglar (or James, whatever) Mum holds the other out towards me. ‘Phone, please. We need to sort this out.’

I hand my phone over, my hand still trembling. Mum keeps an eye on James (if that’s even his name) while she phones Gran. Slowly, and explaining his actions before he carries them out, James turns the music off before returning to his spot near the door.

‘Sorry about that, James.’ Mum hands me the phone back. ‘We had no idea who you were.’ Some of us still don’t. ‘The thing is, we’ve organised a surprise party for Cordy and she’s already on her way back, so we need to get a move on.’ Mum turns to me. ‘Forget the balloons for now. Food first and then we’ll see if we’ve got time for decorations. And you need to get changed. I don’t want you dressed like that when your gran gets here.’

I look down at my leggings-and-hoodie combo. I’ve got a patch of mushy peas crusting on my sleeve and a hole on the inside seam of my leggings near my left knee. She may have a small point.

‘What can I do?’ James steps out of the bedroom and into the hallway. ‘I was unpacking, but that can wait.’

Thinking about it rationally, James isn’t dressed for burglary. Instead of loose, running-away-from-cops type clothes, he’s wearing fitted jeans, brown brogues, a navy sweater and matching blazer.

‘You want to help?’ Mum places a hand on her chest and tilts her head to one side. ‘How sweet of you. There are still a few bits and pieces in the car – would you mind bringing them into the kitchen while I set out the buffet?’

From thief to hero in one swift move. What a charming bastard this dude is – and Mum’s falling for it, hook, line and sinker. Well, I won’t be falling for it. I’ve been taken in by smooth-talkers before, and look where that got me. I’m going to keep an eye on this James fella. A very close eye.