‘He’s really sorry about the way he left, you know. He feels dreadful about it. And he’d like a chance to make it up to you.’ Paul smiles and my heart jumps. How could I have worked right next to the man for all this time and ignored how gorgeous his smile is?
‘OK,’ is all I can think of to say.
Paul gets off his garden chair and comes to kneel by my feet, the traditional position of proposal. Suddenly I can see it all: the wedding, my dress, Paul looking devastating in his morning suit, all our family and friends smiling indulgently, paper confetti in rainbow hues …
‘Stella?’ And back to reality.
‘Stella, I know you’ve been through a really bad time lately, and I really admire how you’ve been coping. But the thing is …’
I drift off again as Paul carries on talking, his face sincere and thoughtful. He’s saying something about Billy and my father but I’m not listening. I’m just looking at him. Looking at his mouth. His full, strong, mobile mouth. And before I even know what I’m about to do I lean forward and lay my own lips against it.
For a beautiful ten seconds our lips blend together in perfect harmony. My head tilts to one side to get a better angle and my hand begins to creep up his arm, feeling the taught muscles under thin fabric.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it is over, and Paul is looking at me with an expression on his face that can only be described as horror.
‘Stella! What are you doing?’
Oh my God. I’ve made a terrible mistake.
I try to think of a way to pass it off as a joke but my mind is still reeling, partly from residual pleasure and partly from shock that I could have got it so wrong.
Forcing myself to laugh, I sit back and say, ‘God, what was I thinking? For a moment there I thought you were Brad Pitt. Must be the shock of being back in this place.’ It is weak, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.
‘Brad Pitt?’ Paul repeats doubtfully. Great, now he is regarding me with something close to sympathy. That’s the last thing I wanted.
I could tell him that confusing him with Brad Pitt would be impossible because Paul is better looking by far. I could tell him that I can’t imagine not having him in my life now, and that I want more than just his friendship – much, much more. But I can’t find the words. Instead, I get up and head for the kitchen and the ever-reliable crutch of making tea.
Paul follows me and leans against the makeshift table, lowering his head to try and see my eyes. ‘Was that what I think it was?’ he asks me gently.
I nod, and then shrug. There really is no point trying to hide it. He can see through me completely, always has done.
‘But I can see I got it wrong,’ I tell him with a brave smile. ‘Which is fine. Can we just drop it now?’ Teabags go in mugs, milk sloshes over sides of mugs, kettle starts to boil frantically. I keep my face away from him, terrified I might cry and do even more damage.
Ever the sensitive one, Paul takes the hint and leaves me to it. I can hear him shuffling boxes around in the lounge while I finish making tea. By the time I join him I’m just about OK. Now, as long as he’s not nice to me I’ll be fine.
‘Stella,’ Paul says softly, taking the mugs out of my hands and standing them on the floor, ‘I’m so sorry I reacted like that. I’m flattered, I really am.’
I try to brush it off again but he stops me with a finger on my mouth.
‘You are a wonderful woman. Beautiful, intelligent, funny, sexy …’ He pauses and I wonder if he’s run out of nice things to say about me. Not that it matters. However wonderful he thinks I am, one thing’s for certain: he doesn’t want to play tongue-hockey with me.
‘Paul, it’s OK. I just, you know, just got a bit crazy for a moment. Please,
please
, can we forget all about it now?’
He nods, still dreadfully serious. ‘It’s only that I’m not ready for a relationship, Stella,’ he explains earnestly. ‘With anyone. I love my life just as it is and I don’t want it to change. It’s – my life is uncomplicated and that’s just the way I like it.’
‘Me too!’ I lie, and we look at each other for a moment before bursting out laughing. ‘Still friends?’ I say lightly.
‘Still friends,’ Paul agrees. ‘Always.’
‘Always.’
But as I sip my disgusting tea I find myself wondering whether somehow my faux pas might have changed our friendship for ever. Only time will tell.
Chapter 9
Wednesday 27
th
June
Today is not a good day.
When these diaries are published I think today may stand out as one of the worst days ever – worse even than the day I discovered that Will Young is gay. But first, I must report on other matters.
The situation with my mother has improved a lot, mainly because she’s moved out of Grandma’s and they’ve lifted my curfew. So I can see Rob as much as I want, which is great. It’s been nearly a month since the fire though, and there’s no sign of things getting back to normal anytime soon. I’m getting just a little bit sick of being stuck in this room with nothing to do. I know I should be going into school but as I’m not planning on taking any exams and I’m leaving soon anyway it seems like a waste of time. Alistair has an X-box he says I can play with, but it’s in his room and I don’t feel right going in there. He’s got loads of pictures of naked women on the walls, and since we had that talk about Rob he looks at me weird.
I saw my dad yesterday, for the first time in ages. He’s actually really cool, and he was great about me and Rob, not all hysterical like my mum. He tried to give me a lecture about contraception and stuff but I think he was too embarrassed. Bet my mother put him up to it, that would be so like her. Anyway, he gave me some money to buy myself some new clothes and promised to go and talk to mum about Rob. If she just gave Rob a chance she’d see he’s really great.
Rosie’s getting on my nerves. She keeps wanting to go to Café Crème and laugh at my mum in her stupid uniform. I mean, yes, she looks daft but does Rosie have to go on and on about it? At least my mum is trying to get money and stuff, at least she cares. Rosie’s mum doesn’t care about anything except golf. And she’s ugly, whereas my mum, although she’s completely mental, is also fairly hot – according to the guys at school anyway. Maybe I should ask her what her secret is?
But I can’t think about any of these things right now. I have to go to the bathroom any minute and check again. I’m five days late. Not good. Very, very bad. I told Rob we should have used something. I’m not stupid. But he said he’d pull out beforehand. He said that was safe. And he should know. And we’ve only done it a few times, and the third time he was pretty drunk. You can’t get pregnant that easily, can you? Please God, don’t let me be that unlucky. Please, please, please …
***
Paul let himself into his flat and stood with his back to the door, listening. Silence. That was good. That meant Billy was out and he had the place to himself. Not that he minded having Stella’s brother staying with him – Billy was a good laugh (in small doses) and Paul was glad to be able to help out. But, still. It was nice to have a bit of ‘personal space’ as the guys at work would have called it.
Paul thought about Stella while he checked the flat to make sure it really was empty. He hoped she wasn’t dwelling on what had happened earlier – he’d gone to great lengths to reassure her that they could easily forget all about it and carry on as before. He pushed the memory of that kiss firmly out of his mind. It would have been so easy, so natural, to have just taken her in his arms and – No! No. She was a friend, a good friend, and he wasn’t about to ruin that. What he’d told her was nothing more than the truth – he just didn’t want to be in a relationship. With anyone. It was as simple as that.
He grabbed a beer from the fridge and pressed the button on the answerphone. Two messages: one from Nick cancelling their poker night, the other from Andrew bowing out of squash – some excuse about a sprained ankle. Funny how the sprained ankle coincided with Andrew getting a new girlfriend – the nubile Rachel that Paul had had to hear all about last weekend.
So much for friends, he thought, picking up the day’s post, which was piled in an unruly heap on the worktop. Bills, more bills, a circular for double glazing. A postcard from his mate Dave, holidaying in Spain, lucky bugger. And a hand-written purple envelope with a big fat letter inside.
Paul looked at this with interest. Turning it over he noted there was no return address and that the envelope was thick and plush – and distinctly feminine. He tore it open carefully, and then tipped the contents out onto the coffee table. Five or six purple sheets opened up like a fan revealing large, looped handwriting in blue biro.
He dropped onto the sofa and started to read. While his beer went flat, Paul clutched the sheets of paper in shaking hands, reading and re-reading the words until they were etched indelibly into his brain.
Sharon. The sweet, unchallenging beautician from Bletchley. A woman he’d dated, and unintentionally hurt, more than nine years ago, now back in his life via a purple letter. And with a pretty big surprise up her sleeve.
He never even knew there had been a baby. A
pregnancy
, yes. And he’d tried, he really had tried, to be supportive in every way possible. Except for the one way that wasn’t possible, not for him, as he knew he didn’t love her and he knew he couldn’t stay around for ever, to give her what she needed and deserved.
‘But I would have supported her,’ he said to the empty room, ‘and the baby, if I’d known that was what she wanted.’ Feelings of guilt, long buried, rose cruelly to the surface, and Paul felt his eyes blur, his legs grow heavy and weak.
‘I didn’t even know she wanted to keep it,’ he whispered.
But keep it she had. Secretly, without his help or his knowledge, she’d decided to go ahead and have the baby, and never to tell its father it even existed. Until now. The letter didn’t explain why; in fact, for such a long letter, it held few of the details that Paul so desperately wanted to know. The only detail he had, and the one he returned to again and again in his mind with a strange combination of elation and panic, was that out there somewhere, he, Paul Smart, confirmed bachelor and lover of all things single, had a beautiful eight-year-old daughter.
***
By Sunday morning I have recovered my equilibrium enough to put the whole Paul fiasco into perspective. In fact, I am even starting to believe my own lie – that being back at the scene of my recent disaster, and with the prospect of staying here alone for the first time since the fire looming, I had taken leave of my senses and gone a little crazy. It could have been anyone – it happened to be Paul. It certainly didn’t mean anything.
It didn’t mean anything at all.
That said, I’m still planning to keep a low profile for a few days, which, as we work together, could prove tricky. I’ll just have to keep my head down, that’s all. Get stuck into work for once. Give Loretta the shock of her life.
I spend the morning washing down the walls in the lounge and the hallway. With music blaring from the portable stereo I “borrowed” from my mother’s kitchen, and a cheerful breeze blowing through the house via the open front door, sweeping away the last of the horrid musty smell, I find I’m feeling almost happy.
When my hair gets in my eyes I grab one of the rags from the pile on the floor and tie it around my head, washerwoman style. When I have to kneel for a while to tackle the skirting boards I use more rags to make pads for my knees. And when a favourite song comes on the radio I turn the broom over and pretend it’s a microphone, belting out the words at the top of my voice.
Unfortunately, this is how Paul finds me when he sticks his head around the front door just before lunchtime. So much for keeping a low profile.
‘Stella!’ He manages to suppress a smile but I can see his eyes flickering over my bizarre appearance. He probably thinks his rejection has sent me completely over the edge.
‘Paul,’ I reply nonchalantly. Oh, I’ve suffered worse embarrassments than this. The secret is to brazen it out, pretend you’re not bothered. ‘And what can I do for you?’ I flip the broom back over and start to scrub the ceiling, accidentally flicking water all over him.
He retreats to the kitchen and calls out, ‘Do you think you could leave that for ten minutes? I wanted to have a word with you.’
‘Sure.’
I’m due a break anyway, so I join him in the kitchen, pleased to see he hasn’t come empty-handed. As well as sandwiches and a bottle of coke, he’s brought two fold-up chairs that he arranges on either side of the pasting table. Very cosy. We sit and I eat, watching him warily.
‘So, what’s this word you want to have with me?’ I ask him coolly. I hope it’s not another sorry; I really would like to forget about the whole bloody thing now. That’s twice I’ve made a fool of myself over Paul Smart, and I’m certainly not going to do it again.
I needn’t have worried. Paul’s news has nothing to do with me – or us – but it leaves me reeling, all the same.
‘
You
have a daughter?’ I say, too shocked to censure the emphasis out of my voice.
‘Is that so hard to believe?’ he snaps. I don’t know why he’s being so touchy – you have to admit it’s a bit of a leap to go from bachelor-Paul to daddy-Paul in the space of twenty-four hours.
To calm him down I ask more appropriate questions: How old is she? Where do they live? What is this ‘Sharon’ person like? Paul looks up warily at this but I smile and make my eyes wide, as though I’m merely interested.
Of course I’m suspicious. Or maybe protective is a better word. (Jealous is certainly not a word I’d use.) After all, Paul is a successful man with his own business, a penthouse flat, all the trappings of a great catch. Fair game for an unscrupulous woman with a claim on his affections from years ago.
‘So,’ I say as casually as possible, ‘why is she telling you about this now? After all this time?’
‘I’m not sure. In her letter she says that she wanted to go it alone at first, didn’t want me to feel obligated. But she says that lately Hannah has been asking about her daddy. And she didn’t want to lie to her. She says she wants to know if I’m willing to have a relationship with Hannah, before she tells her anything.’