Chapter 8
Honestly, the weather is up and down like a frigging yo-yo. On Friday it’s sunny again. Not that I’m complaining.
This time I manage to nab Charlie at eleven forty-five as he attempts to back out of the house with April in her pram.
‘What time will you be back?’ I ask him, distractedly smiling at April as she gazes up at me. She’s too intent on finishing whatever indeterminate white and gooey round thing she’s eating to smile back.
‘I’m not sure.’ He frowns. ‘Why?’
‘I might nip into Padstow for some groceries. I don’t want to get locked out.’
‘Oh.’ He looks surprised. Has the thought not even occurred to him that I can’t leave his house and get back in if he’s out? ‘I was going to try to put April down in her cot at two today,’ he says.
‘Okay, great. I’ll tie my walk in with you, then.’
‘Okay,’ he says.
‘Okay,’ I say.
He goes out of the door and pulls it shut behind him.
I decide to take a break and eat my Pot Noodle early, turning my music right up and singing along to ‘Unbelievable’ by EMF while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil. It’s not even noon, but I won’t leave the house before one if I’m taking an hour’s lunch break. I’m over by the French doors punching the air when Charlie calls my name.
‘Holyfuckingshit!’ I gasp, clutching my hand to my chest as I spin around to face him.
‘Sorry,’ he replies with a smirk. He’s standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘Forgot nappies.’
He looks – dare I say it? – amused as he roots around in the cupboard, pulling out what he’s after. ‘See you later,’ he calls over his shoulder, a blindingly gorgeous grin on his face.
I reel backwards. That’s the first time I’ve seen him smile properly when it wasn’t at his daughter.
Or at the memory of his wife.
‘Freedom’ by the lovely, late George Michael is playing at top volume on the stereo inside my head when I finally make it out of the house. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and Padstow is absolutely rammed. I can barely make my way along the footpaths because they’re so packed with locals and tourists, so I walk on the road instead, hoping I’ll be able to avoid death by motor vehicle. The water in the small harbour is dotted with sailing boats, and a flock of seagulls are going berserk over something a small, gleeful boy has thrown to them. I can see two ice cream vans from where I’m standing, and I passed a crêperie van on the way here, too. Grey-stone, light-blue and cream-painted shops, restaurants and cafés follow the curved line of the road to my left, and, across the other side of the harbour, a hill stretches away from the town, creating a pretty green backdrop to the buildings.
The sweet smell of fudge wafts out of a confectionary shop as I pass, mingling with the aroma coming from the Padstow Pasty down the road. I think there’s a Co-op around the corner. If this is anything like the other posh seaside towns I’ve visited, there’ll be a White Stuff, Joules, Fat Face or Seasalt here, as well.
I find all four. If Marty were around, we could’ve made that a drinking game.
I miss her. In truth, I’ve been missing her for a long time. I’m glad that she’s happy, but, when I dicked off to Australia for a year, I didn’t expect to come back and find her living with a guy I hadn’t even met. I like Ted – he’s a good ’un – but seeing my friends so loved up and popping out babies makes me pine all the more for Elliot.
Not that I want a baby.
After I’ve picked up a few bits and pieces from the supermarket, I nip into Joules and try on a couple of things. I get a bit of a shock when I discover the size 12 is a little on the tight side – damn my Rick Stein’s addiction! – so, on my way back to Charlie’s, I take a detour via one of the bicycle-hire places. The Camel Trail is excellent for cycling, apparently, so I reckon I’ll go on a few bike rides this weekend and try to burn off some excess calories.
I arrive at the house to find that Charlie hasn’t yet returned, so I sit on the wall in the front garden and wait for him, twiddling stalks of lavender and absent-mindedly sniffing my fingers.
A girl with a red T-shirt and matching headscarf pushes a pram along the footpath towards me.
Bandana Central.
‘Are you the author?’ she asks, smiling brightly as she comes to a stop in front of me. She has warm, brown eyes set within a round face, and her legs are surprisingly stick-thin. With her red T-shirt, she reminds me a little of a kindly robin.
‘Yes, Bridget,’ I introduce myself, liking the ring of author way more than ghostwriter.
‘I’m Jocelyn,’ she replies. ‘And this is Thomas.’ She nods at her son. ‘We live across the road.’
‘Hello,’ I say, smiling at her baby. He looks to be about April’s age.
‘Is Charlie out?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, he went into town. I’m just waiting for him to get back.’
‘Don’t you have a key?’ she asks with surprise.
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
Awkward.
‘How’s he getting on with the school job?’ she asks, as though I’d know.
I’m a bit embarrassed that I don’t, so I pretend otherwise. ‘Okay, I think, although it’s a bit tough without childcare.’
She looks dismayed. ‘I can have April! I keep offering, but he never takes me up on it! Will you remind him? Thomas and I are free this afternoon for a couple of hours.’
‘I think he wants to put her down in her cot at two o’clock for a nap, but he might give you a shout later.’ Again, I bizarrely feign knowledge of the situation. I don’t know what’s got into me.
‘Urge him to,’ she says. ‘I’m a teacher at the school he’s making it for,’ she explains, whispering conspiratorially, ‘I put the job his way.’
Eek, I hope I haven’t just landed him in it.
‘Well, it’s all looking fantastic so far,’ I enthuse, overegging it a bit. ‘The kids will love it.’
She smiles. ‘I know they will. Charlie’s pieces are works of art.’
She and Thomas have gone into their house by the time Charlie appears.
I hop down from the wall. ‘I just saw Jacqueline, no, Evelyn, no—’
‘Jocelyn,’ he helps me out as he pushes the pram up to the door.
‘That’s the one. Nice lady. She offered to babysit April for you if you need some help.’
‘That was nice of her,’ he murmurs, leaning over April to put his key in the lock.
‘She meant it. I could tell,’ I state, wheeling my bicycle up the path behind him, my shopping hung over the handle. ‘She’s around this afternoon,’ I add, looking around for something to lock the bike to.
‘Okay, thanks,’ he says as he pushes the pram over the threshold.
I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s not going to accept her offer of help, but I don’t know why.
‘What is that?’ he asks, stopping so abruptly that I almost ram into him. He turns around to face me.
‘A bike.’
His face breaks into a sudden, surprising grin. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Bicycle-hire place.’
He laughs, and I realise I should probably be annoyed that he finds the idea of me on a bike so funny, but the sight and sound of him laughing is so lovely that I find myself giggling in return.
‘What?’ I ask, mock-affronted. ‘Is it so strange that I want to get some exercise?’
‘Not at all.’ He shakes his head, trying to keep a straight face as his green – or hazel, still can’t decide – eyes sparkle. ‘But you’ll look like a right div on that thing. Bring it indoors,’ he urges. ‘There’s nowhere to lock it up out there.’
He moves the pram out of the way and holds the door back for me, so I wheel the bike into the hall.
‘You know what? Return it,’ he says suddenly. ‘You can borrow Nicki’s bike while you’re here.’
I freeze, my smile locked in place as my eyes grow rounder. He immediately sobers up.
‘No, I couldn’t.’ I shake my head.
‘Yes, you can,’ he mutters quietly, shutting the door behind me. ‘It’s in the shed. I’ll get it ready for you this weekend.’
‘Honestly, I—’
‘It’s a good bike,’ he interrupts. ‘Practically new. She bought it with the money from her book.’
I continue to protest.
‘I want it to get some use,’ he says, cutting me off again, and I know he’s had enough of my arguing.
‘Okay, thanks,’ I say edgily.
He shoves his hand deep into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a set of keys.
‘I should’ve given these to you earlier.’ He drops them into my palm. ‘You can come and go as you please. Let me talk you through the alarm. I don’t usually bother setting it, but I should.’
As he goes through the instructions for the keypad on the wall, my eyes drift over the wood dust coating the light-blond hairs on his lean forearms. He notices me noticing.
‘No time for a shower.’ He brushes his hands over his arms and I stiffen with embarrassment, trying to focus on the rest of his instructions.