‘Do you fancy that tour? It’s an improvement on the last place of mine you saw.’ My face reddens as a question that has persistently vexed me re-emerges: what the hell
did
we get up to that night?
If I had sex with him, I want to have been good at it. Not necessarily ten A stars, but certainly passable. Given that I could barely remember my own name by the time I awoke the next morning,
I’m gravely concerned that my performance wouldn’t scrape me a Brownie badge.
I leave Asha talking to Richard and follow Matt.
‘So why
were
you staying in that grotty flat in Crosby?’ I ask.
‘A friend of mine is a landlord – he buys places like that, does them up, then lets them. I needed somewhere to stay until I got the keys to this place, so he offered.
Different
, wasn’t it?’
As he pushes open the kitchen door, I have mixed feelings about seeing Rita’s old flat in the process of reinvention. Part of me wants to remember the living room as her haven of demented
decadence: the velvets, the animal prints, the crusty books. But, obviously, I can’t resist a look at its new incarnation.
‘The kitchen and living room are the only rooms finished so far,’ he tells me.
The kitchen is now completely different. He’s painted the walls pale green, adding light into what was previously a dark room. The style is quirky-traditional, with wood surfaces, slate
tiles and dozens of cool finishing touches like a giant blackboard and a birdcage filled with plants.
‘You’ve done so much already! It’s gorgeous. I’m stupidly jealous.’
He laughs. ‘I’m glad you approve.’
The living room is equally stunning – and I love it all, from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves to the tree-stump side table.
‘The rest you’ve seen. It’s my predecessor’s decor. Like I said, this is a project.’
‘She’d have liked this.’
‘I’m glad. So when do I get a tour of your place?’
‘It’ll take about four seconds. It’s not as big as this.’
‘Ah well, size isn’t everything – is it, Josh?’ he says, as his little boy scurries in carrying a ball.
‘Grandma says, when is it time to play rounders?’
Matt turns to me. ‘Don’t suppose you were on the school team?’
‘For rounders? I was, actually. Although I’m not dressed for it,’ I point out, holding out my skirt.
‘Emma – have you got a minute?’
I spin round and see Asha, with an urgent look on her face.
I make my excuses to Matt and we step outside to speak privately.
‘I need to go,’ she says.
‘What’s happened?’
She takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve spoken to Toby.’
‘Has he . . . done it?’ I ask anxiously.
She shakes her head. ‘No. But there’s a reason.’
‘Go on.’
‘Christina’s father had a massive heart attack yesterday. Toby was on his way home to tell her . . . then events overtook themselves.’
‘So . . . is her dad okay?’
She looks at me, distraught. ‘He died.’
I hold up my hand to my mouth. ‘Asha, I don’t know what to say.’
Asha throws her eyes to heaven. ‘No, Em. Neither do I.’
‘You’re in demand,’ Cally grins, thrusting a rounders bat in my hand.
‘How did you get changed, you traitor?’ I gasp, looking her up and down.
‘We slipped home. I felt like I was in fancy dress.’
I glance at the bat. ‘Why have you given me this, as if I’m first up?’
‘Cally assures me you were
brilliant
at rounders when you were thirteen,’ Matt says, appearing from nowhere.
‘I was brilliant at squeezing spots then too – it doesn’t mean I want to do it now.’
‘No excuses!’ Cally drags me by the arm towards the centre of the garden. ‘Em – you’re on my team.’
‘I haven’t played it for fifteen years,’ I protest, ripping up half the lawn with my heels as I stumble across the grass.
‘Zachary’ll be disappointed if you don’t do this. I’ve told him you’re a champion.’
Logic tells me that Zachary’s about as likely to have a view on this as he is on the Greek debt crisis. Nevertheless, part of me thinks that it’d be nice to win some credibility,
from him and everyone else.
‘Let me go to the loo first.’
‘Be quick!’ she urges.
The toilet is as it was in the days when I’d pop over for a cup of herbal tea – and end up being plied with pastis that, even when diluted, was potent enough to remove nail varnish.
The only difference now is that there are plush Egyptian cotton towels, two framed, retro comic book covers and a beautiful hand-wash and cream set. I rinse my hands, give them a cursory dry, and,
never capable of leaving an upmarket moisturiser alone, apply it liberally, before heading outside.
My eyes haven’t even adjusted to the sunlight before I’m flung into the batting area, barely having time to slip off my heels. ‘We’re relying on you,’ Cally grins
as I take the bat.
Matt is bowling. His mum is on first base. A teenage girl in vintage cut-offs is in second. And Matt’s friend Richard is on third, putting on the worst display of nonchalance I’ve
ever seen. Kids of all ages are dotted around the garden, their mildly tanked-up parents eager to join in.
Suddenly, I’m determined to show everyone what I’ve got.
I’m transported back to 1995 and I’m facing St Hardknocks School (or something) in the rounders finals – the day I smacked the ball so far across the field I almost tripped
over my Green Flash trainers in shock.
My eyes focus and Matt grins as he steps back, swings his arm and releases the ball.
It’s as it is hurtling towards me that a piercing alarm registers in my brain, alerting me to an issue with my grip. Or lack of it.
My still-damp hands might now be delightfully scented with Lime Basil and Mandarin, but the hand cream with which they’re smothered has the lubricating qualities of WD40.
The implications of this become apparent when the ball is a metre away, and, by then, instinct has taken over. The only option is to go for it. With legs astride, I swing hard and fast, the
thrill of potential victory running up and down my spine.
I’m convinced this will be a four baser. My aim is impeccable . . . my stance is faultless . . . and as the ball makes contact with the end of my bat, everything is perfect.
Except for one thing.
I can
see
the bat slip from my fingers before I feel it, then I watch it hurtling out of my hand and spinning erratically through the air like a shot-down helicopter.
The normally innocuous two-foot piece of solid wood becomes a lethal weapon, soaring towards the horizon as small children wail, elderly ladies hobble for cover and the barbecue chefs dive away
from their sausages.
The fact that it clouts nobody on the head is a miracle for which I will remain grateful for all eternity.
But I get off far from scot-free, as is clear from the devastating smash of the kitchen window, its thunderous reverberation across the garden and, judging by the shock on everyone’s
faces, the near-cardiac arrest of all those over the age of thirty-five.
The glass shatters like we’re in a scene from
Die Hard
, each tiny piece raining down onto the patio. It never seems to stop. It simply continues falling like coins in a Las Vegas
slot machine until, finally, eventually, there’s nothing left of the window except one or two jagged edges that hang precariously over the potted gerberas.
The silence that follows is so deafening I think my ears are bleeding. Slowly, incredulously, each guest turns to me, open-jawed.
Cally raises her eyebrows. ‘Maybe someone else should go next.’
‘Emma, please.’ Matt looks at me sternly as I throw an empty Fruit Shoot bottle in the recycling bin. ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t
you?’
I wipe my hands on my jeans. Ah, yes, my jeans. I have never felt so glad to be in them. ‘I know, but I really am so—’
‘Don’t!’
‘But I’m—’ He throws me a warning look and I back down until the pressure becomes too much. ‘
I’m sorry!
’
He shakes his head. ‘It is
not
an issue. It was an accident. I’d intended to replace the window anyway.’
‘Why do I not believe you?’
‘You must be a cynic.’
It is nearly midnight, the final guests left half an hour ago, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d never believe there’d been a huge party here today, particularly one
involving the damage I generated.
Six hours ago this was a scene of chaos, especially with adults trying to keep small children away while the same-day glazier (whose bill I’ve insisted comes to me) got to work.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ Matt tells me. ‘I’m fine clearing up by myself.’
Paranoia prickles through me. ‘Would you rather I left?’
He prises the recycling bin from me. ‘I’d rather you sat down and had a beer. Or at least a cup of tea.’
Matt returns five minutes later with two steaming mugs and, after placing them on the cast-iron table, he brings over five tea lights. My shoulders are warm with sunburn, although when darkness
fell the temperature dropped. I take a sip of tea and a welcome flood of heat sweeps through me.
‘So which exotic location will you be flying to next?’ I ask.
‘My favourite – the Greek Islands. I go tomorrow night. It’s only for four days.’
‘And this is work?’
As he laughs, my eyes are momentarily drawn to his Adam’s apple. ‘There are some people who’d like the idea of making up children’s stories all day, you know.’
‘Oh, I’ve never claimed mine was real work,’ I say dismissively. ‘Although – and you’ll think I’m a diva for saying this – it
can
be
harder than it looks.’
‘I don’t doubt it. I’ve got a friend who tried to write children’s books and got nowhere. Turns out that getting into the mind of a three-year-old can be tricky. You must
have a gift.’
‘I don’t know about that. I don’t entirely understand it myself. It was never my dream job, put it that way.’
He looks surprised. ‘What’s your dream job?’
‘I wanted to be an interior designer when I was younger. I’ve always loved beautiful homes,
unusual
ones, something with character and personality. I approve of
yours.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ He’s pretending to be flippant but it’s obvious he’s pleased. ‘So what stopped you?’
I shrug. ‘I stumbled into kids’ TV. Which
nobody
does, by the way – jobs like mine are stupidly competitive. While I was at university doing my history degree, I had
arranged to do my work placement at an interior-design agency in Manchester, but it fell through at the last minute. My dad’s neighbour was the brother of someone who worked at Little Blue
Bus Productions, and he got me in to spend two weeks with the scriptwriters. To my surprise, I loved it. And, not to sound immodest, I turned out to be good at it. So I never left. It’s easy
to stay in a job when that happens, isn’t it?’
‘You could leave if you wanted to.’
‘I have no experience in interior design and couldn’t get a job unless I started at the bottom.’
‘That doesn’t sound like it would pay well.’
‘Quite. Only, I’m thirty soon and part of me thinks it’s now or never.’
‘A watershed year.’
I nod. ‘It’s made me think hard about my life, my achievements and, well, what I want to have done by thirty.’
‘When’s your birthday?’
‘Twenty-second of December.’
‘Plenty of time,’ he grins.
‘You haven’t seen my list.’
‘What list’s that?’
I look at my mug and wonder why I blurted that out. I think about offering to go and make more tea as a diversion, but something stops me.
‘It all started fifteen years ago . . .’
I spill the beans about the list, my ambitions, and why – fifteen years later – I felt compelled to take notice of it. Part of me is embarrassed. Except, the way
he’s listening . . . well, it makes me want to tell all.
Almost
all.
‘I think it’s a great idea,’ he says when I conclude. ‘Honestly, I do. Everyone feels the same when they turn thirty, though. I don’t think you should worry about
that.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘Ah, well, do me a favour and tell me your thirties are
so
much better than your twenties and that I’ll love it. That’d be some consolation for getting older.’ I
grin.
He looks at his empty mug. ‘Actually, my thirties haven’t been great. But I’m not holding it against the decade. It was . . . circumstances, that’s all.’ He shifts
in his seat, keen to change the subject. ‘Hang on a minute, what’s on your list again?’
I reel them off.
‘You said there were twelve.’
‘Oh . . . did I?’
‘You listed only eleven.’
‘Who are you – Poirot?’
He grins. ‘Come on, what’s number twelve?’
‘It’s one I . . . it wasn’t a good idea,’ I bluster. ‘No offence, but . . . it’s not really me, that kind of thing. I’m not that sort of girl
and—’
‘You’ve already done it?’
‘Hmm . . . yes.’ I’m trying to think of a plausible non-X-rated alternative, but my mind is blank.
‘Let me guess,’ he says, amused. ‘It’s obviously something racy if you say you’re not that sort of girl. I’ve got it! You streaked at a sporting
event?’
‘God, no! With my cellulite?’
‘You had webcam sex?’
‘
No!
’ I shriek.
‘You did burlesque?’
I tut and shake my head.
‘You posed topless in a lads’ mag?’
I roll my eyes. ‘As if they’d have me.’
‘I’m sure they’d be delighted. Come on, don’t be shy. I’m very non-judgemental.’
‘Clearly,’ I say, my mouth engaging before my brain again.
He frowns.
I decide there’s only one way to deal with this, painful as it is. ‘It was . . . the one-night stand.’
He says nothing.
‘I’m partly telling you this because I want you to know that I’ve honestly never done that before. When I said I’m not that sort of girl, I meant it. And, whatever it was
like – and I genuinely have no idea – I regretted it instantly. Not because I’m sure you weren’t very competent,’ I add reassuringly. He doesn’t seem that
reassured. ‘It’s just . . . all these “achievements” were meant to make me feel good about myself. They were meant to make me
braver
. Which is a noble cause,
isn’t it, only—’