He knew that would irk her, denying her the chance of cooking his bacon. He had almost skirted around the thing to go out of the back door when Clooney’s lips pulled over his ferocious-looking teeth to do a yawn. He emitted a strange, unholy noise that made Phil’s bowels momentarily jerk.
‘Sweet Baby Jesus on a bike!’ he said, tearing off to the front door instead, and stamping out muttering and swearing loudly to himself.
In contrast, when Lou came downstairs, Clooney was up on his feet, tail wagging and the most pleased to see her that she could remember anyone ever being in recent times. She let him out of the back door where he did a dutiful wee, then he was back inside again for the attention of Lou and a warm towel. It was still lashing down outside and she dreaded to think what state he would have been in, left outside all night–and he would have been, if she hadn’t stood up to Phil in a way that had surprised even her. Then again, it was always easier to stand up for someone else–she’d always battled with Shirley Hamster that bit harder for bullying the little kids–the real test was standing up for yourself. Thanks to her not backing down for once, though, Clooney was warm and dry and breakfasting happily on more chicken and rice.
Lou was washing up when there was a firm knock at the door and, through the patterned glass there, she saw a big shape with black hair. Abandoning his meal, Clooney started whining and howling and getting very excited–and that was all the evidence Lou needed to know that it wasn’t the postman.
She had a quick panic about how she must look with her puffy, tired eyes. Making a quick adjustment to her hair in the kitchen mirror, Lou hastily checked that the zip on her jeans was in the ‘up’ position, then mentally slapped herself. What was she doing? What did she care what he thought of her? Just let the man get his dog and then he could be out of her life again. Straightening her back, she went to open the door. But for all her outward composure, her heart was thumping a loud betrayal in her chest.
Clooney barged past her to get to Tom, who bent down and scrubbed him with his hand and said affectionate man-to-dog things like, ‘Hello, lad, how ya doing? Hello, boy.’
‘Come in out of the rain,’ said Lou, cursing herself but standing aside so he could enter. That damned politeness-override reflex again.
He walked in and tried to wipe his boots on the mat whilst Clooney fussed around him making pathetic ‘missed you’ whines. Tom Broom looked totally knackered. He had circles around his eyes that matched her own.
‘Thanks so much for taking him in,’ he said to Lou. ‘I didn’t get your message till I got into the office this morning. I’ve been out all night looking for him. A mastiff went for him on a job down in Ketherwood last night and chased him off.’
‘Ketherwood? That must be at least two miles away!’ said Lou. No wonder Tom was worried. They ate dogs in Ketherwood.
‘How he got here I’ll never know,’ said Tom, giving his adoring friend an extra hard scratch.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ asked Lou graciously.
‘Am I holding you up? You off to work?’
It would be unforgiveable, really, to pretend that all this had caused her a lot of trouble when it hadn’t, apart from having to listen to Phil’s tantrum. But hang on–this guy needed bringing down a peg or two.
‘No, I took a day off,’ she said stoically, lying through her teeth.
‘Because of this? Oh, I’m so sorry!’
‘No, it’s perfectly all right. I couldn’t have left him, now could I?’ she smiled so sweetly that the sugar almost crystallized on her lips. ‘Please sit down, have a coffee.’
He sat down meekly at the table, Clooney at his side, head resting on his master’s knee. Lou got two cups and filled them from the hissing, spitting percolator.
‘White or black?’ she asked.
‘White, please. No sugar.’
‘Ah, me too,’ she said with a nice-lady-hostess laugh that rang a very false note.
The cup looked tiny in his large hand.
‘Thanks, I needed that,’ he said after a big glug. The rain was dripping off his hair. His jacket was so saturated that Lou just couldn’t stop herself from asking, ‘Look, why don’t you take your clothes off for a minute and get dry.’
Oh nuts!
‘Outer clothes, I mean. Your coat! Obviously not all of your clothes. That would be ridiculous…being naked…in my kitchen,’ Lou struggled, momentarily losing her upper hand.
‘Thanks,’ he said. He was doing that grin thing again as he slid off his coat and hung it over the radiator. She wished she hadn’t said anything now. Even her rescuing his dog didn’t stop him from thinking she was a living breathing joke.
Tom drained his cup and she poured him another immediately. She would show him that she was a generous, benevolent being, far superior to someone who got their kicks making fun of others. Her hospitality would make him ashamed of trying to take the rise out of such a nice spiritually-generous person with his ‘I’ve-got-a-twin-no-I-haven’t’ puerile game.
‘I hope it didn’t cause any problems for you last night,’ said Tom. ‘I remember you saying your husband was allergic to dogs.’
‘No, he was fine about it,’ said Lou with a fixed smile.
Tom didn’t say that he had heard Phil’s little voice-over on her answering machine message, nor did he reveal that, as he was driving up The Faringdales estate, he was just in time to see a man slamming the door to number 1 and stomping over to his car issuing expletives to the cosmos. Tom had driven on and parked around the corner for five minutes until he was sure the immaculately groomed man had gone, for he had the distinct feeling they wouldn’t get on. It was pretty obvious that Clooney’s arrival at Lou’s house had caused her hassle that she wouldn’t admit to him. Plus, he wanted to get her on her own after what he had just seen parked outside her house.
‘I think I owe you an apology,’ said Tom.
‘Really, Clooney was absolutely no trouble at all. Don’t even think—’
‘I didn’t mean about that,’ said Tom, putting his cup down on the table.
‘Oh? Why would you think you owe me an apology then?’ asked Lou, her eyebrows raised to a perfectly innocent height.
‘Because you’ve got a full Harrison’s skip parked on your drive.’
Farts! She had forgotten about that.
‘I wasn’t sure if I’d upset you with all that twin business. When I saw you’d defected to the enemy, it was obvious that I had.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ flustered Lou, convincing no one.
‘I knew there was something wrong when you walked out of the shop without waiting for that receipt,’ he said, ‘even though the last time I saw you and you said there wasn’t, I just knew it. And then, when I didn’t hear from you about any more skips…’
‘Another coffee?’ offered Lou, who couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Thank you,’ said Tom, and then added softly, as she was pouring it, ‘I’m really sorry if you thought my joke went too far. I wasn’t laughing at you, not in a nasty way…’
‘Forget about it,’ said Lou, suddenly feeling a little silly.
‘I take up far more than my fair share of the world as it is–it wouldn’t be environmentally friendly of me to have a twin!’
‘Yes, of course not.’ Yes, of course not?
‘No twin, there’s just me and my sister Sammy. Well, my half-sister.’
‘Really, it’s fine.’
‘The shop is all mine as well as the skips. That’s what the T.U.B. stands for–Tom Broom, although everyone’s called the place the Ironmonger’s Tub since I put the sign up.’ He looked genuinely contrite.
‘So…what’s the U initial stand for then?’
‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to shoot you.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’
‘It’s one of those embarrassing names you just don’t want to admit to,’ Tom smiled, scratching at the back of his head in a nervous gesture.
‘Can’t be all that bad,’ said Lou.
‘If you promise not to laugh, I might just tell you,’ said Tom.
Lou crossed her heart.
He took a deep breath and then said, ‘Umberto.’
It wasn’t that funny but Lou laughed anyway because a) promising not to laugh automatically made her want to laugh and b) her insides felt like a pressure cooker that had wanted to burst open since he walked in with his big soggy coat on and tired eyes.
‘See, I told you that you’d laugh,’ said Tom with mock indignation.
‘I’m sorry, I’m only laughing because I’m not supposed to. It’s a nice name. Where does it come from? Do you have someone in the family called that?’
He leaned in conspiratorially. He has such a nice face, she thought. There was a bump on his nose and a slightly cauliflowered ear that old rugby games must have been responsible for. He was rough where she liked smooth, dark where she liked fair, big where she liked slight, not her type at all. So why was there a warmth spreading inside her chest?
‘My grandmother was Italian,’ he began. ‘She came over here when she met my grandfather.’
Gulp, you’re a quarter Italian! thought Lou.
‘And when she was sixteen, my mum went across to Italy to stay with the family for a holiday and met a guy called…’ He urged Lou to fill in the gap with a roll of his hands.
‘Umberto?’
‘Precisely. Need I say more? Signor Umberto Baci.’
‘Baci, that’s a nice name.’
‘It means “kisses” in Italian.’
Blimey, that was a bit of a conversation stopper. Lou swallowed. He was looking right at her, unblinking, his eyes grey as steel. Jesus! Half-Italian. More than half. Double blimey.
‘So…’ Lou gulped, ‘do you like pasta?’ Oh no–what a crap question!
‘Sì, signorina!’ he said in an exaggerated accent.
Their gentle laughs linked and Lou topped up their cups with coffee, yet again. She nearly dropped the pot because her hands had gone all shaky.
‘Do…do you speak any of the language?’
‘Indeed I do,’ said Tom. ‘Do you?’
‘I did a year at college, but that was way back. I’ve been meaning to take another class for ages,’ said Lou, thinking, Another thing I let go of when I shouldn’t have.
‘You should. You could order your skips in Italian then. Can I have a skip tomorrow, Mr Broom? Posso avere un cassonetto per domani, Signor Broom?’
‘Yes, I will,’ Lou smiled. ‘It’s a beautiful language–so expressive.’ Il mio tesoro, ti amo. Lou had a flash of being in bed with a big sweating man whispering passionate Roman endearments in her ear. She hoped her head wasn’t transparent.
‘Mum was never on the scene much so our grandparents brought us up and Nonna used to only speak Italian to us when we were together so she could force us to learn it. Sammy speaks it to the kids and we’ve been over to visit the relatives a few times in Puglia, so we keep it nice and fresh.’
‘Lucky you. I’ve never been to Italy,’ said Lou with a heavy sigh.
‘You should go,’ said Tom, ‘it’s beautiful. Obviously it has its rough places, but the parts that are beautiful are really bellisimi.’
‘I should die if I didn’t go to Venice before I die,’ said Lou. ‘But my husband is more of a Spain man.’ Of course, Spain was beautiful too, but Phil wasn’t interested in any of the real Spain. He wanted to be surrounded by English speakers, hot sunshine, cold San Miguels and lots of cheap British food and entertainment in the bars whilst he was drinking those San Miguels.
‘You should have a change,’ said Tom.
‘Yes,’ said Lou, somewhat wistfully, but somehow she couldn’t see Phil snogging her in a gondola. Once he found out how much they cost to hire, that would be the end of that. As for flicking a coin over his shoulder into the Trevi fountain to guarantee they’d return–Don’t be so sodding silly! I’d look a right fool. Besides, I don’t bloody want to come back! She could hear him saying it now. She shook him out of her head. She didn’t want to think about Phil at the moment.
‘Your mum never married Umberto then?’ Lou asked.
‘Ah well, it seems that naughty Umberto was already married. A couple of years later, Mum played out exactly the same scene on a skiing trip to Norway with a guy called Sigi, which is why my sister is all blonde and dainty. We were brought up between my grandparents and my Uncle Tommy and Auntie Bella–they couldn’t have kids of their own. It was such a shame, they tried for years and then there was my mum who only had to walk past someone and she was up the spout.’
Lou nodded understandingly. ‘Yes, that’s often the way of it.’
‘Am I going on too much?’ Tom asked suddenly, taking his signal from Clooney, who had removed himself to the sleeping bag where he flopped down with a bored grunt.
‘No, not at all,’ said Lou, who was thinking that it wouldn’t matter if he was expounding on the history of plastic injection moulding, it was just ashamedly nice to be near him.
‘Uncle Tommy built up the ironmongery business and ran a skip and cement sideline and when he died, he left it all to my sister Sammy and me. I bought her shares so now it’s all mine. She’s happy to help me out part-time, we work it around the kids.’ He smiled fondly. ‘She’s a good girl, is Sammy, she’s just finding that carrying this one is harder than all the others put together. They were so easy.’ He stopped, remembering what she had told him about her inability to have children and quietly cursing himself for his insensitivity. He drank some coffee.
‘Do you get much trade in the shop?’ enquired Lou, guessing exactly why he had closed up that line of conversation.
‘Loads,’ said Tom, happy for the turn of subject-matter. ‘You wouldn’t believe how far people will travel to have a poke around. Whatever anyone wants, however obscure, I guarantee to get it for them. I love that whole detective part of it.’ He twiddled the ends of an imaginary Hercule Poirot moustache. ‘I have a store on the internet too. My sister runs that side of things for me, as she can do it from home so it’s handy for her, but me–I like being surrounded by all that stuff far too much to give it up. I always did, even as a kid. I worked with my Uncle Tommy any chance I got. I recently sold off the cement side because we have too much work on as it is, but I like getting out in the skip wagon and meeting nice people…’ Tom coughed, embarrassed. ‘Anyway, this is all about me. What do you do for a living?’
‘I’m a part-time accounts clerk,’ said Lou, aware that it was a conversation-stopper also, but not half as interesting as Tom’s had been with his Italian kisses. If she’d had a pound for everyone who had said, ‘Ooh, an accounts clerk? That’s interesting, do tell me more,’ she wouldn’t have a single pound. At least now, she had a pleasant conversational codicil to offer.
‘But I’m in the process of setting up a business with my friend Debra,’ Lou went on. ‘We’re both qualified chefs, you see. We wanted to set up a business a few years ago but plans got altered,’ which was putting it mildly, she said to herself, ‘so…better late than never, we’ve started looking for premises with a view to launching ourselves upon an unsuspecting public.’
Tom was leaning forward with wide-eyed interest. ‘A restaurant business? Wow! What sort of food?’
‘By a startling coincidence, an Italian coffee-house, specializing in proper coffee and incredible cakes. There are plenty of over-priced conveyor-belt services out there but not a lot of quality and value for money going on.’
‘I love cakes. Can you tell?’ said Tom, jiggling his tum which looked pretty solid to Lou. She found herself wondering if he had a little line of hair stretching down from his navel. A small silence hung between them before Tom broke it with a loud tut.
‘Harrison’s Waste, eh?’ he said, shaking his head accusingly. ‘I don’t know. You give someone superior service and look what they do to you.’
‘Defecate to the enemy, like you said,’ said Lou.
&nbs
p; At Lou’s unconscious misuse of her native language, Tom’s grin appeared again. It was lopsided and wide, but she saw it for what it was, gentle and teasing and totally devoid of any malice. She had misread him over the twin business.
‘More coffee?’ she asked, guiltily avoiding his gaze.
‘Thanks, but no. I’ll be running to the loo all day if I have any more.’ Disappointingly he got slowly to his feet and stretched, banging his hand on the beam above.
‘Oh, your airer’s up, I see,’ he pointed.
‘Yes, tell your brother thanks,’ she said.
He smiled and turned to get his still-damp and steaming coat off the radiator.
‘Look, thanks again for taking care of Clooney. Can I…I don’t know…buy you lunch or something to say thanks?’
Lou smiled regretfully. Damn. ‘Thank you, um, but I don’t think that would really be appropriate.’
He interjected, ‘Yes, of course, I understand. You don’t have to explain. It was just lunch. I shouldn’t have…I wouldn’t…’
‘Oh, of course! I didn’t think that you meant anything else,’ Lou interrupted back, over-anxious to make sure he didn’t think that she thought that he might fancy her, which he didn’t anyway, clearly. It was just one of those polite offers that was said in the hope it would be refused, that was obvious–like saying to Des and Celia or Fat Jack and Maureen that they ‘simply must come and spend Christmas with us.’ Ugh! Tom would have run a mile if she’d not played the game and said, ‘Ooh yes, lunch would be lovely.’ Which it would have been, actually.
Tom stood in the doorway and looked down at her.
‘Well, I’d like to say thanks, other than just saying “thanks” if you know what I mean. What can I do for you?’
Don’t answer that, Lou Winter, she said to herself with a bit of a sneaky giggle. Her imagination jerked hard at its rein. She thought for a moment, sensibly though. There was one thing she needed.
‘Tell you what,’ she said tentatively. ‘If you don’t mind–if it’s not too much of a cheek after my betrayal…’
Tom urged her to answer with beckoning hands.
A Spring Affair Page 16
