by Jenny Colgan
‘Well, that was because of the office,’ said Issy.
‘Let’s see, shall we?’
‘I’m sure it’ll be different now.’
Helena gave her one of her looks.
‘Well,’ said Issy defiantly, ‘I’m at least going to find out.’
‘I’m so glad he didn’t even have to leave the comfort of his own living room,’ said Helena to the empty space after Issy had gone. Then she sighed. No one ever listened to good advice.
Graeme had a bottle of champagne open too. His flat was, as ever, spotless and minimalist, a huge contrast to Issy’s colourful, overloaded home. It was quiet and calm. Robin Thicke was playing on the expensive sound system, which Issy thought might be overdoing it a bit. On the other hand, she was wearing her best soft woollen grey dress and heels. And her Agent Provocateur perfume.
‘Hey,’ he said, as he opened the door – he lived in a rather smart new-build, with carpeted corridors and flowers in the lobby. He was wearing a fresh white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, with very dark stubble on his fine jaw. He looked tired, a little stressed – and utterly, utterly handsome and gorgeous. Issy couldn’t help it. Her insides leapt for joy.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Thanks … thanks so much for coming over.’
She looked nice, Graeme was thinking. Not hot, like those nightclub girls, with their skirts up to their bums and their great manes of long blonde hair. They looked sexy, really hot … but sometimes, if he was to be totally honest with himself … sometimes they could look a bit terrifying. Issy on the other hand – she just looked nice. Comfortable. Pleasant to be with.
Issy knew she should have played it cool, planned for a lunch a few days away, given herself breathing space.
But she wasn’t cool. She knew that. He knew that. There was no point beating about the bush any longer. Either he was in or he wasn’t, and she didn’t have months of pussyfooting about to figure out which.
He kissed her lightly on the cheek, and she smelled Fahrenheit, her favourite aftershave. He knew it was her favourite; he was wearing it for her.
She accepted a glass and sat down, perching on his imitation Le Corbusier black leather chair. It was like the first time she’d ever been back here; the mixture of fear and excitement; of being alone in this sleek apartment with this sensual, attractive man she fancied so much she could barely think straight.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘It’s funny not to be looking at you from over a desk.’
‘Yes. Losing the frisson?’ said Issy, then wished she hadn’t. This wasn’t the time for flippant remarks.
‘I have missed you, you know,’ said Graeme, looking directly at her from under his straight black brows. ‘I know … I think … maybe I took you for granted.’
They both knew this was an understatement.
‘You took me for granted,’ said Issy. ‘No maybe about it.’
‘OK, OK,’ said Graeme. He put his hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry, OK?’
Issy shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
‘Issy, don’t say “whatever”, you’re not twelve. If you’re cross with me and want to say something, just come out with it.’
Issy pouted a little. ‘I’m cross with you.’
‘And I’m sorry. It’s this fucking job, you know that.’
He tailed off. Issy realized suddenly that this was it, this was her moment to say, to ask: What am I to you? Truly? Where are we going? Because if this is back on, it needs to be serious. It really does. Because I am running out of time and I want to be with you.
It was the time to say it. She knew she was very unlikely to see Graeme in such a vulnerable state ever again. This was the time now; to put down the new ground rules of their relationship; to make him say it.
They sat in silence.
She didn’t. She couldn’t. Issy felt the old familiar blush steal over her face. Why was she such a coward? Why was she so scared? She would ask him. She would.
Graeme crossed the living room. Before Issy got the chance to open her mouth, he was right there in front of her, his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes focused right on her.
‘Look at you,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’re blushing. It’s adorable.’
As usual, having her blushing pointed out only made it worse. Issy opened her mouth to say something, but as she did so Graeme made a shushing motion, then moved forward very very slowly and kissed her full and hard on the lips, the way she remembered; the way that had been haunting her dreams for weeks.
First reluctantly, then fully, Issy surrendered to the kiss. She realized how much her body had missed the contact; how much she had missed the feeling of skin on skin; that no one had touched her for two months. She’d forgotten just how good it felt; how good he felt; how good he smelled. Unable to help herself, she let out a sigh.
‘I have missed you,’ breathed Graeme. And for the moment, Issy realized, leaning into him once more, that was going to have to be enough.
It wasn’t until the next morning, after an extraordinary night, when Graeme was rushing around getting ready that he thought to ask her what she was doing.
At first Issy was oddly reluctant to tell him, to let light flood into their bubble. She didn’t want him to laugh at her. She was enjoying feeling happily tired, her muscles liquid and relaxed, luxuriating in his big bed. She was doing something she rarely got to do: staying all night. It was bliss. She would get up and saunter down to Notting Hill High Street, have coffee, read the papers in Starbucks maybe … Suddenly she could see the positives of being out and about on a weekday, it made her feel like she was bunking off.
But then she remembered with a start: she couldn’t bunk off. Not any more. She had stuff to do. Lots and lots of stuff to do. She’d signed up to the lease and with the lease came a shop, and responsibility, and work and … She sat bolt upright in a fit of panic. She had an appointment with a small business adviser; she had to examine the property – her café! – she had to figure out what work was absolutely essential and what could wait till they were up and running; buy an oven, think about staffing. Last night, starting with the champagne and ending with the most incredible sex with the man currently gelling his hair in the ensuite mirror – that had been celebration. Today, she was self-employed. It was starting.
‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘I have to rush. I have to go.’
Graeme looked perturbed but amused.
‘Why? Urgent pedicure appointment?’
‘No, actually.’
And she told him.
Graeme couldn’t have looked more surprised if she’d said she was opening a zoo.
‘You’re what?’
He was halfway through knotting a natty blue tie Issy had bought him, thinking it would appeal to his peacock tendencies and bring out his eyes, both of which it did.
‘Yes,’ said Issy, insouciant, as if this was exactly what she should do and completely unsurprising. ‘Sure.’
‘You’re opening a small business. We’re five minutes out of recession and you’re opening a business.’
‘Well, it’s obviously the best time,’ said Issy. ‘Rents are cheap, opportunities are out there.’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Graeme. Issy was half pleased at surprising him and half cross at his evident scepticism. ‘What type of business?’
Issy stared at him. ‘Cupcakes, of course.’
‘Cupcakes?’
‘Yes, cupcakes.’
‘You’re going to make an entire business out of cakes?’
‘People do.’
‘Those sugary things?’
‘People like them.’
Graeme frowned. ‘But you don’t know anything about running a business.’
‘Well, who does when they start?’
‘Almost everyone in catering, for starters. They’ve all worked in other bakeries for years or grown up in the trade. Otherwise you’re sunk. Why didn’t you go and work in a bakery if you wanted to bake? At least you’d have seen if it sui
ted you.’
Issy pouted. This was exactly what a little niggly voice at the back of her mind told her. But the shop had come up! Her shop! She knew it was right!
‘Well, a shop came up that I think is just right, and—’
‘In Stoke Newington?’ snorted Graeme. ‘They saw you coming.’
‘Fine,’ said Issy. ‘Be like that. I have an appointment anyway with a small business adviser.’
‘Well, I hope he’s cleared his schedule,’ said Graeme.
Issy stared at him.
‘What?’
‘I can’t believe you’re being like this.’
‘I can’t believe you’re throwing away Kalinga Deniki’s incredibly generous redundancy package on something so ridiculous. So stupid. Why didn’t you ask me?’
‘Because you didn’t bother to ring me, remember?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Issy. Come on. I’ll ask around. I’m sure there’s a secretarial job going at Foxtons commercial. I’m sure we can find something for you.’
‘I don’t want “something’’,’ said Issy mutinously, biting her lip. ‘I want this.’
Graeme threw up his hands.
‘But it’s ridiculous.’
‘So you think.’
‘You don’t know anything about business.’
‘You don’t know anything about me,’ said Issy, which she realized made her sound dramatic and stupid, but she didn’t care. She glanced around for her other shoe. ‘I have to go.’
Graeme looked at her, shaking his head.
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
‘You’ll ruin everything,’ he said.
Issy picked up the shoe. She wanted very badly to throw it at him.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ she muttered, as she jammed it on and tottered out of the door, berating herself, once again, for being such an idiot.
Issy rushed home, shaking. All she wanted to do was get out of these stupid clothes. The flat was silent, but not empty. She could sense Helena around somewhere; feel her disapproval (and Shalimar perfume) wafting in her direction. Well, she didn’t have time for that now. She had a meeting at the bank, had to sound clever and professional and get a business plan, even though she’d been up half the night with the biggest wanker in bloody London. She was getting the keys later on that day, giving her a few weeks to spruce up and get ready for business so that they could open for the ‘spring trade’. Which sounded optimistic, she thought. Bugger it, bugger it.
Now, what to wear? She pulled open her wardrobe, looking at the array of non-attention-grabbing work suits she’d accumulated. The grey pinstripe? Graeme had always liked it, he thought it looked like sexy secretary. Issy had always wanted to be one of those fashion-y looking girls with the lovely slim top halves, who could wear vests without bras and drop waists. She was never going to be one of those girls, she realized. But she didn’t like to dress to emphasize her figure. Helena on the other hand had turned it into an art.
She pulled a white shirt closer. Shirts never seemed to fit properly. Sensing someone behind her, she turned round. It was Helena, holding two cups of tea.
‘Don’t knock,’ said Issy. ‘It’s only my flat.’
‘Do you want tea?’ said Helena, ignoring her.
‘No,’ said Issy. ‘I want you to stop wandering into my room uninvited.’
‘Well, sounds like last night was romantic.’
Issy sighed. ‘Shut up.’
‘Oh God, that bad. I’m sorry, love.’
It was hard to stay angry at Helena for long.
‘It was fine,’ said Issy, taking the tea. ‘Fine. I don’t want to see him again anyway.’
‘OK.’
‘I know I’ve said that before.’
‘OK.’
‘But this time I mean it.’
‘Fine.’
‘I am fine.’
‘Good.’
‘Good.’
Helena looked at her.
‘Are you going to wear that for your meeting?’
‘I have a business now. I have to look the part.’
‘But that’s not your part. You’re a baker now, a professional, not someone who carries a folder about while checking Facebook every five minutes.’
‘That’s not what my old job was, actually.’
‘Yeah, well, whatever.’
Helena reached into her cupboard and pulled out a lightly sprigged dress and a pastel cardigan.
‘Here, try these on.’
Issy looked down. Her head felt too full to concentrate.
‘You don’t think it’s a bit … twee?’
‘Darling, you’re running a cupcake bakery. I think you have to make your peace with twee. And anyway, no I don’t. I think it looks pretty and approachable and it suits you, which is more than you can say for porno-secretary.’
‘This suit isn’t …’
Actually, thought Issy, glancing in the mirror, perhaps it was time to get rid of this suit. Dump that stupid office once and for all. And that stupid man … She tried to keep her thoughts away from that particular track, and got changed.
In the new outfit, she did look nicer – younger and fresher. It made her smile.
‘There you go,’ said Helena. ‘Now you look the part.’
Issy glanced at Helena, who was wearing a deep green square-cut-neckline ruched top.
‘What part are you dressing for?’
Helena pouted. ‘Flame-haired Renaissance goddess, of course. As usual. You know that.’
Issy was nervous going to the bank, extremely so. She’d explained this was just a preliminary chat and they’d said fine, but still it felt a bit like having to go in and explain away her overdraft, just as she had done in college. Graeme liked to check his statements every month and call them up the second he found something he disagreed with. She didn’t feel like doing that very often.
‘Um, hi,’ she almost whispered, as she entered the beige-carpeted hush of the bank. It smelled of cleaning products and money. At that moment she would have preferred the armour of her grey pinstripe.
‘Can I speak to Mr …’ she checked her notes, ‘Mr Tyler.’
The young girl behind the desk smiled distractedly and leaned forward into her telephone, buzzing her through. Being on the other side of the security barrier was a little disconcerting; open-plan desks were scattered around, with people peering at computer screens. Issy glanced about her, just in case there was any gold visible.
She didn’t see anyone who looked like a Mr Tyler, so she sat down nervously, picking up and replacing a magazine about the bank, too anxious to read anything, letting her fingers fiddle with the pages and hoping she wouldn’t have too long to wait.
Austin Tyler sat in the head teacher’s office, feeling like he was in some kind of déjà vu. It was exactly the same room he used to sit in, kicking his scuffed Start Rite shoes against the chair when he was getting told off for running through the bushes, or fighting with Duncan MacGuire. There was a new headmistress – quite a young woman, who said, ‘Call me Kirsty,’ when he’d much rather call her Miss Dubose, and perched on the front of her desk instead of sitting imperiously behind it like Mr Stroan used to do. Austin, frankly, preferred the old way; at least you knew where you stood. He glanced sideways at Darny and sighed. Darny was staring at the floor crossly, with a glint in his eye that said whatever was coming, he wasn’t listening. At ten years old, Darny was smart, determined and absolutely convinced that anyone ever telling him what to do was in severe breach of his human rights.
‘What is it this time?’ asked Austin. He was going to be late for work again, he knew it. He ran a hand through the thick, unruly reddish-brown hair that was flopping over his forehead. Time for another haircut too, he noticed. As if he could possibly find the time.
‘Well,’ started the headmistress, ‘obviously we’re all aware of Darny’s special circumstances.’
Austin raised his eyebrows and turned to Darny, who
se hair was more auburn than Austin’s but stuck up at the front in a very similar fashion, and whose eyes were also grey.
‘Well, yes, but Darny’s special circumstances were six years ago, weren’t they, Darny? You can’t keep on using it as an excuse for ever. Especially not for …’
‘Using bows and arrows on the reception class.’
‘Quite,’ said Austin, looking disapprovingly at Darny, who stared even more fiercely at the floor. ‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’ he asked the boy.
‘My loyalty is not to you, Sheriff.’
Kirsty looked up at the tall, curly-haired man in the slightly dishevelled suit and wished she were somewhere else. She wished they were both somewhere else. A bar perhaps. She thought, not for the first time, that this job was totally useless for meeting men. Everyone in primary teaching was female, and it was considered very much ‘not on’ to chat up the dads.
But Austin Tyler of course wasn’t exactly a dad … Would that make it OK?
Everyone at the school knew the tragic story. As far as Kirsty was concerned, it only made rangy Austin, with the horn-rimmed specs he kept taking off and putting back on again when he was distracted, even more attractive. Six years ago, when Austin had been a postgraduate student in marine biology at Leeds, his parents and his baby brother (the result of a silver wedding celebration that had given them all the shock of their lives) were involved in a horrible car accident after a lorry tried to do a U-turn on a busy road. The four-year-old in his car seat had been fine, but the front of the car had been completely crushed.
Despite being knocked sideways by grief, Austin had immediately given up his studies – a job where you had to travel the world being patently unmanageable – come home, fought off well-meaning distant aunties and social services, taken a mundane job in a bank, and was raising his baby brother as well as he could (which wasn’t always, Kirsty noted privately, as well as he could be doing it if, say, the child had a strong maternal influence in his life …). Now thirty-one, Austin had such a strong bond with Darny that although many women had tried to get in between them, no one had quite managed it. Kirsty did wonder if Darny had scared them off. Or maybe Austin hadn’t yet reached the right woman. She just wished the only chance she had to see him was not when she had to talk to him about Darny’s behaviour.
