I idly click on the link and put in the details I’ve repeatedly typed over the last few weeks, expecting to be confronted with the same, familiar words: 0 results.
Only, something so unexpected happens that I launch into a coughing fit that prompts Giles – terrifyingly – to leap round the desk and start walloping me on the back as if trying to
beat the dust out of an antique rug.
When I finally prise him off and he slopes back to his desk, I have a proper look.
Interior Designer – Apprenticeship
The advert is beautifully designed, a veritable work of art. I don’t know why this impresses me so much; I’ve always been a sucker for a good font. And the job sounds amazing. The
salary is less than I’m earning now, of course. But the position would involve working hand-in-hand with the managing director for six months, after which a promotion and a pay rise are
virtually guaranteed.
My heart is throbbing as I flick through the company’s website. Their client list is to die for, featuring upmarket boutique hotels in Chester and luxury offices in Manchester. They
specialise in a look that’s both contemporary and classic – and their preference for the traditional is underlined by the fact that all correspondence with them is to be delivered the
old-fashioned way, by letter. Candidates have to send off their CV and a covering note, as well as something else designed to test natural ability. A link on their website features a picture of a
stylistically challenged room. I have to give it a makeover – theoretically transforming it within a specified budget, while demonstrating flair, taste and originality.
My mind starts whizzing with ideas of fabrics, textures, paints as I begin to compose my application. And for the first time since I found my fifteen-year-old list, I feel something approaching
optimism.
The second amazing thing happens twenty-four hours later. And it takes my breath away.
I arrive at Rob’s flat for my guitar lesson, have my coat off and am trying to remember the opening bars to ‘Mary had a Little Lamb’, when I realise he’s looking strange.
I don’t mean he’s wearing a false moustache and glasses or anything – more that he’s on edge, as if he wants to tell me something.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask, taking a seat on his leather sofa as he paces in front of me. He nods and sits down. Then he stands up again.
He walks towards me slowly and gently takes the guitar from my hands, returning to the chair on the other side of the room.
He looks supremely handsome, in a plain grey T-shirt and those jeans that I’ve seen women actually dribble over when he walks past them in the street. He flicks back his hair and starts to
strum.
‘I want to play something for you.’ His voice is husky and strangled at first. He looks self-conscious.
‘Okay,’ I say cautiously, somehow knowing this won’t be a tune from my copy of
Very Easy Guitar Songs for Simpletons
.
‘Ohhhh . . . Emmahhh . . .’
Ohhhh . . . God.
Rob’s smart enough to realise that this could go either way. On the one hand, writing and performing a song for me could be the most romantic gesture on the planet. On the other –
more likely – hand, it could be cataclysmically naff.
At first, I’m not entirely sure into which camp it falls.
There are moments as he sings my name when his expression is torn between euphoria and torture and, perhaps because of this, it’s far from a comfortable experience, at least at first.
The references to my
deep blue eyes
, and particularly to my
succulent thighs
(a description I last heard applied to a Bernard Matthews turkey), don’t help.
But then he gets into it, really into it . . . and, I’ve got to admit, so do I. The tune is genuinely beautiful, stunningly so. I knew Rob was good at
playing
the guitar, but I
had no idea he could compose so well. And okay, the lyrics are never going to give Andrew Lloyd Webber a run for his money, but that’s not the point.
The point is this: I am sitting in front of this amazing man and he is singing his heart out. To me. A song he has written. For me.
The room is suddenly silent and he can’t look up.
So I ease myself off the sofa, and as I cross the room he meets my eyes. Then I kneel in front of him and I don’t stop to think about whether what happens next is the right thing to do. I
just know that I can do nothing else.
I take his face in my hands and draw him into me, until our lips touch. It’s a soft kiss, brief. But loving enough to make it entirely clear that this is more than us making friends. This
is something else altogether.
It’s Rob who pulls back first.
‘Emma,’ he whispers. ‘I’m sorry I asked you to marry me.’
The words feel like a rock thrown at my heart as I gaze into his eyes, which are now glistening with tears. ‘Rob, don’t apologise, that’s ridiculous. You can’t help how
you feel and—’
‘I feel differently now,’ he interrupts.
‘How?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘I feel a lot for you, Emma. I can’t pretend I don’t. But what I can do – if you’ll let me – is forget the idea of getting married or
anything full-on like that. I can just be your boyfriend, exactly how it was.’
‘Yes but—’
‘Let me ask you a question, Emma. Have you missed me?’
I bite my lip. Then I nod.
‘Well, I’ve missed you too. So it’s this simple. I want you back in my life. If that means taking things slower, not thinking about the future and just enjoying what we have
now, then . . . I’ve got my head around that.’
‘Really?’
The question is a pointless one. Part of me suspects that once you have feelings for someone you can’t just rein them in. Part of me knows that there’s a real possibility that he
still wants what he said – the M word – and is feigning this new easy-going Rob.
But another part of me thinks . . . so what? I’m here with a man with whom I love spending time, who I miss every day. And he wants to be with me.
‘Really.’ He squeezes my hands. ‘Let’s get back together.’ It is neither a plea nor an instruction. It’s four simple words. Let’s get back together.
It’s how things should be.
I close my eyes and know that – right or wrong – there is only one thing to do. I put my arms round him and breathe in his familiar smell. ‘Okay, Rob,’ I whisper.
‘I’m all yours.’
I can’t tell you how great it is having sex again. Even if I’m aware that, for Rob, it isn’t quite the recreational experience it is for me.
Rob doesn’t have sex, he
makes love
.
He hugs and caresses and holds, his eyes burning with passion and love. Which is so sweet – lovely, in fact – but does puts paid to any aspirations I might have to experiment with
the techniques on Tracey Cox’s website.
Not that I’m complaining – how could I? I have somehow managed to gain the adoration of a bloke with whom every woman he comes into contact with falls in love. God knows how. I am so
aware of how undeserving I am that I tell him this every time I see him over the next two weeks.
‘You know your problem, Emma? You feel uncomfortable with being happy.’ He laughs.
I frown. He’s got this from one of his self-help books. Rob reads them all the time and will psychoanalyse you into oblivion, given half the chance.
‘I don’t think it’s that, Rob. That would make me certifiably nuts.’
‘Come here, you beautiful woman,’ he whispers, pulling me back to bed with a muscular arm. I fall into his embrace instantly, revelling in his sexiness, in how glad I am to be back
with him.
I don’t know why, but it’s at that moment that I feel a swell of relief that, on the day we got back together, I remembered to remove the list from my fridge door and hide it in the
kitchen drawer. It’s not that I’m abandoning it – there’s no way I’d do that at this stage – but explaining the
one-night stand
and
snog somebody
famous
to Rob is something I’d really rather avoid.
‘I’ve got to go, sweetheart,’ I say, kissing him on the neck.
He nods and I wait for him to let go.
‘I mean I’ve got to go
now
,’ I clarify.
‘Oh.’ He releases his grip and I gather my belongings.
‘You could stay tonight. You haven’t stayed over for ages.’
‘I need to get back to the flat to see if I’ve heard anything about my job application. Plus, I’ve got loads of washing.’
‘I’ll do your washing,’ he offers.
I tut. ‘Rob, I’m not having you washing my dirty socks.’
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ he says. And the worrying thing is, I know he wouldn’t.
It’s gone nine when I arrive home and I am all of a quiver as I open my letter box. I flick through the post, which consists of two letters for my flat’s previous
occupant and a money-off coupon for the installation of a hot tub.
‘
Emma!
’
I spin round to see Matt wearing the same blue T-shirt he wore for the barbecue, showing off his tanned arms and complementing his eyes. He looks delicious. To deny it would be like claiming
tiramisu is no more pleasurable to the palate than a stale Ryvita. Yet the thought still sends a shot of guilt through me.
‘I’ve been at my boyfriend’s flat,’ I feel compelled to announce.
He looks at me blankly, entirely unmoved. ‘Um . . . good. Ohhh . . .’ he says, with a flicker of recognition. ‘This is the guy you were telling me about when we went to
lunch?’
I nod. ‘Rob.’
‘Ah, that’s great. I’m glad you gave him a second chance. He sounds like a lovely guy.’
‘He is. He plays the guitar.’
He raises an eyebrow as if wondering why I’m imparting this information. As am I. ‘He also has an amazing job as a wealth manager and can speak a bit of Cantonese and . . . well,
he’s wonderful. You were right about me and him. Thank you.’
‘I’m not sure what I did but . . . well done. Oh, I’ve brought this over,’ he adds, handing me an envelope. ‘It was delivered to me by mistake.’
‘Thanks.’ I take it from him. ‘Well. Goodnight, then.’
He holds up his hand and flashes me a smile. ‘Have a good one.’
As he walks away, I push open my door, unfolding the letter and barely thinking about its contents, which I half suspect will be an offer for a new conservatory. But it’s something else
entirely.
It’s from the interior-design agency. I’ve got an interview.
Matt makes amazing coffee. Which I know is a random fact, except this is so supremely delicious that I can’t let it go without passing comment.
‘The trick is using coffee that’s really fresh – keep it in the fridge.’ He pours Arabica grains into the espresso maker I bought a few years ago. It’s one of those
traditional Italian stove-top ones that are like mini versions of how 1950s comic-strip illustrators imagined spaceships would look.
I bought it for its chicness, although I’d heard that the coffee in Italy is universally glorious so was convinced I’d never set foot in Starbucks again. Unfortunately, the espresso
I make manages to taste as if it’s been brewed in pig swill.
‘And it’s got to be full-fat milk,’ he continues.
‘Full-fat milk is for babies and builders.’
He tuts. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘Oh, I do. About an extra stone and a half.’
If you were to ask me why Matt is here I couldn’t give you an answer, except that it feels like the same reason I see Cally or Asha. There’s a difference in this friendship, of
course – we haven’t tried on each other’s shoes, debated the merits of a hairy chest or agreed once and for all
how much
is
too much
when purchasing
handbags.
But a friendship – albeit a fledgling one – it undoubtedly is.
He hands me a cup. ‘How’s that?’
I take a sip. ‘
How
do you do that?’
‘What?’
‘Use exactly the same ingredients as me but make it taste like
that
.’
He grins. ‘Didn’t I tell you I was a trained barista?’
I fling a tea towel at him. ‘Very funny, Pinocchio. Are the boys with their mum today?’
‘Yes, they’ve all gone to Splashy World.’
‘That sounds . . . wet.’
He laughs. ‘Wet it most definitely is. How are you feeling about your interview?’
I’m about to tell him I’m so wound up about it that I’m unreassurable, when the doorbell rings. I excuse myself to answer it and as I open the door I am surprised to see that
it’s Rob. Actually, surprised isn’t the word. Flummoxed is.
‘Hello! What are you doing here? I’m not due over for the lesson until two.’
‘I couldn’t wait,’ he breathes, stepping over the threshold and pulling me into him, kissing me on the lips. It’s a strong, passionate kiss, the type I’ve come to
expect from him. Rob is one of nature’s great kissers and always has been. Under normal circumstances, I’d get right into it.
Except, with his lips now on my neck, I’m suddenly very aware of the presence of another person in the flat. I wriggle away and take him by the hand. ‘Listen, my neighbour’s in
the kitchen. Why don’t you come and say hello?’
‘Oh.’ He fails to hide his disappointment. ‘Okay.’
In the three seconds it takes for Rob and me to walk to the kitchen, I remember a fact that makes my spine prickle with discomfort.
I have never mentioned Matt to Rob before. Not once. He has never seen him, nor heard of him, nor indeed – until now – been made aware of his very existence.
There is every possibility that when he walks into my kitchen he is expecting to see a sixty-five-year-old woman, like Rita.
I turn to look at Rob and he smiles as we enter the kitchen, where Matt is sipping his coffee and flicking through my
Marie Claire
.
‘Matt, I’d like you to meet someone,’ I say breezily.
Only, when I turn to Rob this time, his expression is different from three seconds ago.
‘Um . . . this is Rob!’
I don’t know what it is about the situation that prompts me to smile so widely you’d think I’d swallowed something hallucinogenic. Actually, I do know. It’s the curl of
Rob’s upper lip, the flicker of something in his eyes that’s very dark indeed.