City Girl in Training

by Liz Fielding

  Actually, I was closer to tears than at any time since my grandmother had died. But all tears did was make your eyes and nose red, so I resisted the urge to sit on the horrible table and bawl my eyes out. Instead, I edged my way carefully past the broken china and made it to the cloak cupboard without further mishap.

  I’d thought it was dark in the hall. In the cupboard it was black.

  At home—and at this point I was beginning to realise that I’d seriously underrated my mother—there would have been a torch handily placed on top of the fuse-box, along with spare fuse wire.

  ‘Mum,’ I said, lifting my face in the darkness so that she could hear me better. ‘I swear I’ll never call you a fussy old bat ever again.’ Not that I ever had—well, not to her face. ‘I’ll wear warm underwear without being nagged, replace my attack alarm first thing tomorrow and never, ever go out without a clean handkerchief…just, please, please, let there be a torch with the fuse box.’ I groped in the darkness.

  There was no torch.

  I was released from the warm underwear promise—not that it mattered because the way my life was going no one was ever going to see it in situ—but I was still in the dark. Fortunately, the cloak cupboard was right by the front door and it occurred to me that, since I was now living in a luxury apartment, I could borrow some light from the well-lit communal hallway.

  Pleased with myself, I opened the door and screamed again—this time with no holds barred—as a tall figure, silhouetted in black against the light, reached out for me.

  Sound-blasted back by my scream, he retreated into the light and I belatedly recognised the neighbour I least wanted to meet. And he hadn’t been reaching out to grab my throat as my lurid imagination had suggested, but to ring the doorbell.

  It was the first time I’d seen him in full light and there was nothing about him to suggest that my earlier assessment of him had been wrong. He was tall, he was dark. And the way my heart was pumping confirmed that he was, without doubt, dangerous. To my equilibrium, if nothing else.

  But what really held my attention was the large flat carton balanced on the palm of his hand. He might be dangerous but he’d got pizza and my stomach—anticipating the promised cheese on toast—responded with an excited gurgle.

  ‘Yes?’ I demanded, to cover my embarrassment.

  ‘You screamed,’ he said.

  ‘You scared me,’ I snapped back as, for the second time in as many minutes, I waited for my heart to steady. Then, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Not just now when you opened the door,’ he said, with the careful speech of a man who believed he was dealing with an idiot. ‘You screamed a minute or two ago—’

  A minute or two? It seemed as if I’d been in the dark for hours…

  ‘—and since I saw your friends go out, I thought I’d better make sure you’re not just watching a scary video alone in the dark.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. It was just as well I wasn’t trying to impress this man. He clearly thought I was a total ditz. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise the walls were so thin.’

  ‘They’re not.’ He said this with the authority of a man who knew. ‘I was at my door when you—’

  He seemed reluctant to use the word again and I could scarcely blame him. ‘Screamed,’ I said, rescuing him. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you. The fuses blew. That’s all.’ All! ‘I was just going to fix them.’

  ‘You know how?’ he said, without bothering to disguise his disbelief.

  I tried to remember that he was being kind. A good neighbour. That he could have just shut his door. ‘They teach girls stuff like that in school these days,’ I assured him.

  ‘Really?’ He seemed unimpressed but he didn’t argue. Didn’t do that ‘I’m a big clever man and you’re just a girl’ thing that most men did. Instead he said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ Which should have been more gratifying than it was. He took a step in the direction of his own front door, then hesitated, turned back. ‘You’ve got spare fuse wire?’

  There had been none where I’d have expected it to be and it occurred to me that I might yet be grateful for his ‘good neighbour’ act.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so for a minute,’ I said. Keeping my smile to myself.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve only seen your flatmates from a distance. Very decorative, but they didn’t strike me as the practical type.’

  I considered the fragile beauty of Sophie, the cool sophistication of Kate. ‘You may be right,’ I said. Women who looked like that would never need to be practical.

  ‘Why don’t you see if you can find the blown fuse while I fetch some wire?’ he suggested.

  ‘Actually, a screwdriver would be useful,’ I said. ‘If you’ve got one.’

  ‘A screwdriver. Right.’

  ‘And perhaps a torch?’

  He said nothing, just handed me the pizza and left me to it, which, considering the way my stomach had rumbled, was trusting of him. But I resisted the urge to open the box, grab a slice and eat it before he returned. Instead I used the time to recover my wits—and my breath—as well as find the fuse. Although why he should leave me so completely breathless was a mystery.

  He was gay, I reminded myself.

  And I was practically engaged to quite tall, fair-haired and safe Don. We were Philly-and-Don. Had been for as long as I could remember. Everyone considered us a couple. Except his mother, of course. How she must be enjoying my banishment.

  I put the pizza down on the hall table and by the time my new neighbour returned, with wire, a small screwdriver and a torch, I’d located the fuse. ‘What blew it?’ he asked, handing me the wire, his fingers brushing mine in the process. Which undid all the good work I’d put in on my breathing while he’d been fetching it and I dropped the fuse. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘The cooker,’ I said, bending down quickly to retrieve it. Which could have explained why my cheeks were hot.

  ‘I’d better make sure it’s turned off.’

  His passage to the kitchen was punctuated by a crunching sound as his huge feet crushed delicate pottery into the polished floor. He muttered something under his breath that I didn’t quite catch. I didn’t ask him to repeat it. I had a feeling that what he’d said was not for my benefit, but simply to relieve his own feelings.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, when he returned. ‘The cooker is off. You’d better get someone to check it out before you try to use it again.’

  I hadn’t actually been planning a rerun of the last ten minutes, but all I said was, ‘There goes my cheese on toast.’ Then, busy with the fuse wire, ‘Why did you bring the pizza with you?’

  I couldn’t believe I’d said that. I might as well have sat up and begged, my tongue hanging out, drooling.

  ‘I was paying the delivery man at the door when I heard your—exclamation of annoyance. I thought your safety was more important than eating my supper while it was still hot. I’d have been quicker but the delivery man refused to wait for his money.’

  I glanced up, certain he was being sarcastic.

  He used the opportunity to take the fuse from me and check it out before handing it back. It was an action that would, under normal circumstances, have infuriated me, but I suspected the fit of trembling that swept through me had more to do with the way his fingers brushed against mine in the semi-darkness than outraged feminism.

  Not that I wasn’t furious; I was.

  Before I could gather myself for a serious tantrum, however, he said, ‘Maybe you’d care to share it with me?’

  Share? Share what?

  ‘I realise pizza is no substitute for cheese on toast, but it’s as near as you’re going to get tonight without a cooker.’

  It was odd. He wasn’t smiling and yet it felt as if he were.

  I turned quickly away, my fingers fumbling with the fuse as I turned to push it into its slot.

  It wasn’t just the long fingers, it was the gravelly voice, I decided. It was terminally sexy.

  The hallway was flooded with
light and for a moment I was left blinking like a mole emerged from the dark. When my eyes had recovered from the shock, I realised he was holding out his hand.

  ‘I’m Callum McBride,’ he said, rather formally. Then, ‘Cal.’

  He had long, thin fingers, strong and scarred with hard use. They were the kind of fingers that looked as if they could do anything. Lay bricks, play a sonata, gentle a baby to sleep.

  I just didn’t get it.

  Despite all recent evidence to the contrary, I wasn’t totally stupid. I had friends in Maybridge who were gay. They didn’t wear placards around their necks, but I hadn’t needed the facts to be spelled out in words of one syllable despite the fact that some of them had looks that would turn any girl’s head. They just didn’t get this kind of purely female response from me. The kind you got when a man and a woman looked at one another and wanted to rip their clothes off.

  So what was there about him that Kate and Sophie could see, but that I was missing?

  Then the name registered.

  ‘Callum? Callum McBride. You’re not Gorgeous George?’ I said, with a rush of relief. It was all a mistake. A huge mistake…

  ‘Gorgeous George?’ he repeated.

  ‘Kate described you as tall, dark and g-g-gorgeous,’ I said, stopping myself from using the ‘gay’ word just in time. I’d made enough of a fool of myself for one day. And he’d probably be terminally offended, ignore me in the lift for the rest of my stay. ‘I wanted to put a note through your letterbox but I didn’t know your name. From her description I assumed you must be George from number seventy-two…’

  Something in his eyes warned me that my mouth was wide open and my foot was jammed right in it. It was at that point I realised that ‘Gorgeous George’ was just Kate and Sophie’s nickname for him. Like ‘Wee Willy’.

  And now he knew it too.

  ‘Oh, knickers,’ I said. ‘You do live at number seventy-two, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s me. Tall, dark and g-g-gorgeous?’ His almost-smile suggested he knew that gorgeous hadn’t been my first choice of word. ‘And you are?’

  I was an idiot. Why else would his fingers against my skin be sending tiny shock waves of pleasure to my brain?

  ‘I’m Philly Gresham,’ I said, ‘and now I’m going to the kitchen to kill myself.’

  I made a move to take my hand from his, but his grip tightened imperceptibly, holding me fast. ‘Don’t do that. Not until you’ve helped me eat this pizza.’

  He wasn’t offended? Apparently not. The almost-smile finally reached his eyes and as they crinkled at the corners my abdomen tightened in response. I recognised the feeling. Anticipation, excitement, a promised treat.

  I like pizza, but it doesn’t usually have that effect on me.

  ‘Purely as a penance?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, well, if it’s penance you want, you’ll have to share a bottle of wine with me, too.’

  ‘Boy,’ I said, ‘you’re tough.’

  ‘But g-g-gorgeous with it,’ he said. And then he grinned. ‘Why don’t you pick up the broken china while I go and fetch a bottle from next door?’

  I tore my gaze from his face and glanced at the mess. ‘Do you think it’ll stick back together?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so for a minute,’ he said, repeating my own words back at me, his eyes alight with amusement before he turned to retrace his steps to his own apartment. The one with number seventy-two on the door.

  So, he really was gay.

  Until I saw him open his front door, I hadn’t realised how much I wanted to be wrong about that.

  The little heart-sink moment of regret was pure selfishness, I knew. Sheer arrogance to think that he was the one missing out. I don’t suppose he thought that for one moment.

  Cal McBride had been, was being, kind and suddenly London looked a lot more welcoming.

  Okay, as I picked up the broken china I admit that I did have a momentary qualm about Don. But only a momentary one. After all, he had his Austin to keep him company. And Cal, well, Cal wasn’t interested in me as a woman. Which was actually rather splendid. Perfect, in fact. We could be true friends without any of that tiresome boy/girl stuff. No guilt.

  Besides, I was hungry.

  For one reckless moment I considered suggesting that we ate our supper in front of the television, to the accompaniment of that scary video. Something stopped me. Perhaps it was the sure and certain knowledge that the only reason I’d ever watch a scary video was for the opportunity it gave me to throw myself into the arms of the man in my life.

  I’d been doing a lot of that lately.

  Once Don had spent two or three hours in the garage working on the car, a bowl of microwave popcorn and late-night video on the sofa was about as energetic as he got.

  That had to be why he’d been so slow to take advantage of the opportunities I’d kept throwing in his way. All he did was put one comforting arm around me, leaving the other free to dig into the popcorn.

  To be honest, I was beginning to wonder if his witch of a mother was putting something in his food to suppress his natural urges. She grew her own herbs, drying them in great bunches in her kitchen, and who knew what they were and what she did with them?

  But at least I could describe Don as ‘the man in my life’ and get no argument.

  Callum McBride wasn’t ever going to be that. So there was no point in scaring myself to death for nothing.

  Absolutely not.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  You break a valuable ornament while staying in the home of people you’ve only just met. Do you:

  a. immediately own up, apologise and forget it, assuming it’s properly insured?

  b. panic and attempt to repair it with instant glue?

  c. leave the pieces for someone else to find?

  d. blame any pet larger than a stick insect?

  e. move heaven and earth in an effort to replace it before they notice?

  f. call a cab from your mobile phone, pack your bag and leave by the back door?

  ‘ANCHOVIES!’

  I’d busied myself finding napkins and glasses, showing uncharacteristic restraint in the matter of the pizza. I hadn’t even peeked to see what toppings Cal had picked. I wasn’t really fussy and at that moment anything would have been welcome, but I had to admit to a real weakness for anchovies.

  I’d left the door on the latch and after a few minutes he returned with a bottle of red wine, so dark that it was almost purple. I regarded it with misgiving as he filled the glasses. I didn’t drink much. A spritzer when Don and I went down the pub, that was all. The only time I’d ever had a glass of red wine, I’d had a terrible headache the following day so I’d never repeated the experience. I didn’t say anything, though. It would be rude. I’d just take a sip.

  He nodded in the direction of the box. ‘Dig in.’

  I didn’t need telling twice, but flipped open the box and instantly forgot my concern about the wine as I spotted my favourite food. Cal had gone for classic simplicity. With anchovies. And extra olives.

  ‘You can pick them off if you don’t like them,’ Cal said and I realised that my exclamation could have been taken as easily for horror as delight.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ I said, helping myself and catching the oozing strings of mozzarella on my fingers, taking it straight to my mouth. Okay, so it wasn’t pretty, but there was no other way to eat that kind of stuff. ‘My boyfriend hates anchovies,’ I said, after a long sigh of contentment. ‘This is a real treat.’

  He hooked his foot around a stool, pulled it back and sat next to me. As he reached for a slice of pizza his arm brushed against my shoulder and I jumped as if I’d had an electric shock. He glanced back at me, curbing his own rush to sink his teeth into the deep and crispy crust.

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Don,’ I said. ‘Don Cooper. He lives next door.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t,’ he said, before finally taking a bite out of his delayed supper. I frowned. ‘I live
next door.’

  ‘Oh, well, yes,’ I said. And laughed, but more as a defence mechanism than from any real amusement. He was about as much like a ‘boy next door’ as I was like Kate and Sophie. ‘Obviously I meant he lives next door to me at home. In Maybridge.’

  ‘That’s—’

  ‘A cliché. I know.’ I said it before he did. I’d been teased by my older brothers and sister for years. I’d been teased by my friends. I was beyond embarrassing on the subject. Or at least I thought I was. ‘Falling for the boy next door is the world’s biggest cliché, but he moved in when I was ten and he was twelve and it’s been Philly-and-Don ever since. Side by side. No spaces.’ I shrugged. ‘Except for his mother. As far as she’s concerned we’re Philippa and Donald. Preferably with a five metre wide ditch between the little “a” and the capital “D”.’

  ‘She doesn’t like you?’ His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. As if he understood where she was coming from.

  ‘I don’t think it’s that personal. I don’t think she’d like any girl who had plans to take her son away from her.’

  ‘She’ll be glad you’ve moved to London, then.’ The corner of Cal’s mouth lifted imperceptibly. I’d have said it was a wry smile, except it stopped just short of the smile.

  ‘Turning cartwheels, I shouldn’t wonder.’ But only when no one could see.

  ‘What about Don? He must be pretty fed up that you’re hitting the bright lights without him.’

  Not nearly fed up enough. Just envious of the fact that I’d get to see the original of his car in the Science Museum. That was my business, though.

  ‘He’s reached a critical point in the restoration of a 1922 Austin Seven,’ I explained. ‘I’m a distraction.’

  ‘That I can believe,’ he said. With feeling.

  ‘Look—I’m really sorry about earlier. Your umbrella, the alarm… I’ll pay for any repairs. Was it badly damaged?’ He looked confused. I didn’t blame him. So little time, so many disasters. ‘Your umbrella.’