by Karen Clarke
He opened his mouth and seemed to be searching for a suitable response. Clearly not finding one, he removed his other trainer and said, ‘I’ll put these outside, shall I?’
‘Please,’ I said, shortly. I unlocked the back door, feeling hot and bothered. There’d be no stopping Mum, now she’d made up her mind to visit, and all the bacon had burnt. What was I going to cook for breakfast?
‘I can make some scrambled eggs if you like.’ As Craig bent to place his trainers outside the door, I let the air cool my face and clear the lingering smoke from the kitchen. ‘It doesn’t seem right you waiting on us, especially after the way we showed up last night.’ It sounded like he hadn’t approved – or maybe he was recalling the state I’d been in when I answered the door. ‘You will be paid for your trouble,’ he added.
‘I don’t want paying, and it’s hardly running around,’ I said, tetchy with embarrassment, even though I’d never been in the habit of cooking men breakfast; even Max, who’d preferred a coffee and a cigarette. He’d struggled to quit smoking, despite being desperate to give up for his daughter’s sake. ‘I’ve only got quail’s eggs,’ I admitted.
Craig turned, his eyebrows inching up. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever eaten them,’ he said mildly. ‘It’ll be a new experience.’
‘Please yourself.’ My headache had returned, and I didn’t have the strength to argue. ‘The eggs are over there, and the pan’s in the cupboard.’ I opened the fridge. ‘I bought some oyster mushrooms, if you fancy a go.’ I slapped the carton on the worktop.
Craig glanced at me, but didn’t comment, before crossing to the cooker and turning it back on. ‘You must have a lot of questions.’
‘Not really,’ I said, in a mean little voice, wishing Ollie would come down and lighten the mood. I reached for the loaf and a knife, feeling like a visitor in my own kitchen, despite agreeing to let Craig cook the eggs two minutes ago. ‘I’ll slice the bread.’
He scratched the back of his head, leaving a tuft of hair sticking up. ‘Your butter’s melted,’ he observed. ‘How long did you leave it in there?’
‘About five minutes.’ I looked at the microwave and, seeing a greasy pool leaking from under the door, thought of several swear words. ‘I’ll get a cloth.’
While I attempted to mop up the mess, Craig silently began cracking quail’s eggs into a bowl, and the sight of his long fingers, handling the tiny shells, melted my irritation.
‘They’re fiddly, aren’t they?’
He looked at me sideways. ‘Just a bit.’
I tossed some of the remaining butter into a pan, then spread the rest on thinly cut slices of the artisan loaf, which was small and rather hard.
When Ollie came in, smelling of expensive shower gel, his hair freshly blow-dried, Craig was scrambling the eggs with the mushrooms, while I took out some cutlery, pleased it was the solid silver set my grandmother had given me when I moved in to my studio flat.
‘Wow, what a treat,’ Ollie enthused, rubbing his hands together.
‘Thanks for cleaning up in here, you didn’t have to,’ I said. He’d changed into loose black jeans and a grey hooded top that deepened his tan. The overall effect was a lot more appealing than his public-schoolboy/nightclub-owner look.
‘Hey, it was my pleasure,’ he said, grinning. ‘Ages since I put my hands in bubbles. I covered the pies and your yummy-looking cake, so they didn’t go stale. Used to help Nanny in the kitchen with that sort of thing, as a boy.’ I guessed he was referring to an actual nanny and not his grandmother. At least she’d taught him a thing or two. Max could barely tell one end of a tea towel from the other. Washing up didn’t fit with his self-image as an aspiring poet and passionate lover.
‘Thought I’d dress down a bit and go for a more urban vibe,’ Ollie said, catching me checking out his clothes. ‘What do you think?’
He rested one bare foot against the wall, squashing a hand in his pocket as he gazed moodily into the distance, like someone in an advert.
‘Suits you,’ I said, briefly catching Craig’s eye. ‘Much better, actually.’
‘You think?’ Ollie’s face relaxed. ‘I don’t look like I’m trying too hard?’
Was he asking for fashion advice? ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, although now I thought about it, wasn’t he supposed to be on a higher plane than the rest of us, with a sprinkling of stardust thrown in? Otherwise, someone from the council might as well switch on the Christmas tree lights. ‘I like it.’
‘You look like you’re auditioning to be someone’s love interest in Coronation Street,’ Craig said. ‘Stop fishing for compliments.’
Ollie gave another of his guffaws. ‘He’s bloody hilarious this bloke,’ he said, aiming a playful punch at Craig’s upper arm. ‘He keeps my feet on the ground.’
Shaking his head, Craig dished up two portions of food.
‘Aren’t you having any?’ I said, seeing the pan was empty.
‘I had something to eat at the café while I was out.’
‘You could have invited us, mate.’ Ollie looked around, as if seeking waiter-service in a restaurant.
‘Come and sit down,’ I said, gesturing to the little pale wooden table I’d squeezed into the corner with four mismatching chairs. ‘Or we can sit in the living room, if you like.’
‘Oh, no, here’s fine. This place is so cute.’ Ollie stretched his arms wide, demonstrating he could practically touch the walls, before straddling a chair the wrong way round, hands dangling over the back. ‘It reminds me of the Wendy house that Pa had built for Prissy’s sixth birthday,’ he said. ‘Remember, Craggers? She’d invite us in to pretend dinner parties.’
Craig handed Ollie a plate and a fork. ‘Of course,’ he said, quietly.
‘His pa was our chief gardener,’ Ollie said to me, shovelling some egg into his mouth. ‘Wonderful cook, just like his ma.’ He jabbed the fork in Craig’s direction, and I felt a prickle of interest. I’d assumed they must know each other from Eton, but it somehow made sense that they were from totally different backgrounds.
‘It’s only eggs,’ Craig said, modestly.
‘They’re quail’s,’ I added, as if it mattered, sitting self-consciously at the table with my plate.
‘Is he a farmer?’ Ollie looked quizzical. ‘I’m all for people buying local produce.’
I laughed a bit too loudly. ‘That’s a good one.’
Ollie’s brow puckered. ‘I don’t follow.’
As Craig massaged the point between his eyebrows, it dawned on me perhaps Ollie hadn’t been joking, and thought I was actually referring to a Farmer Quail. ‘Oh, I… er, I was talking about the bird the eggs came from.’
‘Ah!’ He let out a laugh. ‘Of course you were. I didn’t make the connection for a second.’
‘It’s a ground-nesting bird,’ I said, as if he was five.
‘Every day’s a school day, big man.’ Craig’s tone was dry. ‘Next, you’ll be telling him those mushrooms came from oysters.’
He gave me the tiniest of smiles, but it felt as if he was making fun of Ollie so I looked away and picked up a slice of the bread from a few that I’d fanned out on a plate. As I’d suspected, it was like chewing cardboard, and I wished I’d bought a squashy white loaf instead.
‘So, we need to sort out an itinerary,’ Ollie declared, once he’d cleared his plate and eaten four slices of the bread with apparent enjoyment. I was impressed that, despite his background, he seemed perfectly at home and wasn’t remotely judgemental – apart from his comment about the size of the kitchen (what must he have made of the tiny shower cubicle?). ‘Did Erin give you any deets?’
‘Deets?’ I pushed aside my half-eaten food, my appetite having diminished under Craig’s watchful eye. Eating when someone else wasn’t just felt wrong.
‘Details,’ Ollie said, handing Craig his empty plate. ‘A plan of action.’
‘You know she’s my friend?’ I said. It was odd, hearing him say her name. ‘Erin, I mean. And no, no deets.’
‘Yah, of course I do, she asked me to come here as a favour.’
‘It’s a favour for you, too,’ I felt moved to point out, as Craig rinsed Ollie’s plate at the sink.
‘She’s a great girl, isn’t she?’ Ollie said, perhaps not hearing me.
‘She is.’ I smiled. ‘The best.’
‘She’s so great at her job. She got me the gig with Snugz.’ My head grew hot as I pictured him in his pants. ‘Shame the bastards dumped me, excuse my language.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘About them dumping you.’
He shrugged. ‘I can sort of see why they had to, but they didn’t know all the facts.’
‘Oh?’ I waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, added, ‘Had you been on the show a long time?’
‘Hey, let’s not talk about that.’ He jumped up, smiling widely. ‘I’m trying to get away from that whole scene. This is my fresh start.’
‘I know all about that,’ I said, talking in a similarly jaunty way, as if it was catching. ‘This was my fresh start.’ I gestured around me, and noticed Craig had quietly made some tea and there were three steaming mugs on the counter.
‘Oh?’ He looked interested.
‘Let’s not talk about that either,’ I said.
His half-smile disappeared. ‘Right.’
‘Do you know Prince Harry?’ I said to Ollie, the words leaping out before I could snatch them back. ‘He must have been at Eton at the same time as you.’
He gave me a broad smile and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Now, I definitely can’t talk about that,’ he said. ‘Except to say, he’s a jolly nice chap.’
‘That’s… great.’ What had I expected? That he’d offer to set us up on a blind date? Hardly likely, especially as the prince was now dating an American actress. I was relieved when Craig picked up one of the mugs and said, ‘Let’s go and sit in the other room.’
‘Good idea,’ I said, gratefully.
‘God, he’s bossy.’ Ollie’s grin was admiring as he picked up his tea. ‘You can see why I need this guy, can’t you?’
It was clear they got on well, despite their obvious differences, with Craig taking on an older-brother role – I guessed – from years of familiarity.
Ollie crept comically after him, as though trying to avoid triggering a landmine, and threw me a pretend–scared look that made me smile.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ I said. ‘Make yourselves at home.’
I added two sugars to my tea, taking the opportunity to catch my breath.
Was this really happening?
I looked out of the window and watched a couple of seagulls wheeling past. The sky was white again, as if holding back more snow, and I thought how much had happened in a very short time. I didn’t know whether to be excited or scared.
How was I going to fit in working on my novel? I’d have to make some time, or I’d never get past chapter one.
Peeling back a corner of foil, I reached for a mince pie and ate it quickly.
The doorbell chimed and I started, slopping tea over the clean worktop.
Mum couldn’t be here already!
‘I’ll get it!’ called Ollie, and before I could tell him not to, he’d already opened the door. I entered the hallway to see him scribbling on a piece of paper for a swarthy man in a brown delivery uniform, gloved hands gripping a clipboard.
‘I don’t know how word got round,’ Ollie said, seeming not at all put out despite his clandestine arrival, and protestations about avoiding attention. ‘It’s been an absolute age since I’ve actually signed my autograph. People usually want selfies.’
‘I don’t think he wanted your autograph,’ I said, smiling at the confused-looking man as I spotted the Sweet Dreams van behind him on the road. ‘He was asking you to sign for a bed.’
Chapter Twelve
Craig helped the driver wrestle the bed frame and mattress upstairs, while Ollie issued directions from the foot of the stairs – ‘mind the bend, you don’t want to bring the paint off the walls, old chap’ – seemingly unembarrassed by his autograph faux pas.
As I went to close the door, Sheelagh came up the path, resplendent in a tight black jumper adorned with glittery red hearts, tucked into a voluminous skirt. She’d artfully arranged a couple of curls on her forehead, mascaraed her eyelashes into spider-legs, and painted her mouth blood-red.
As soon as she clapped eyes on Ollie, her pudgy hands shot to her cheeks. ‘I knew it was you!’ she cried. ‘I was taking Marmite to the vet’s for his monthly health check and saw you looking out of that bedroom window.’ She jabbed a finger upwards. ‘I recognised you right away, from a scene in Players, when you were caught in Gabriella Forsythe’s suite at that fancy hotel, after your cousin’s wedding, and hid behind the curtains so her husband didn’t find you.’ She drew breath, and Ollie gave a broad grin as he thrust his newly washed hair back, clearly not minding at all that he’d been ‘discovered’. ‘You weren’t wearing much then either, as I recall.’ Sheelagh’s twinkle rivalled Ollie’s, and I realised she must have spotted him fetching the towel from my bedroom.
‘Your eyesight is superb, ma’am.’ Ollie gave a little bow and, with a girlish giggle, Sheelagh said, ‘Oh, please, call me… Loretta.’ What? ‘It’s my middle name.’ A vivid pink stain crept up her face as her gaze fluttered towards me and away again, as though I’d turned invisible.
‘Charmed to meet you, Loretta.’ Swooping forward, Ollie lifted one of her hands and pressed his lips to the back of it, and from the look of wonder and gratitude on Sheelagh’s face, it was obvious that meeting her idol was exceeding her expectations.
‘I knew you’d be a gentleman,’ she simpered, when he released her fingers. ‘And if you don’t mind me saying, you’re much handsomer in real life.’ She smoothed both hands over her jumper and hips, as if drawing attention to her waist. A waist that hadn’t been there the last time I’d looked. Sheelagh hadn’t just raided her make-up bag and wardrobe since returning from the vet’s, it looked like she’d squeezed herself into a corset. No wonder her face was slowly changing colour. Or maybe it was the Ollie effect, which I was starting to see was considerable. He’d switched up the charm, as if the presence of an adoring audience – even one as humble as Sheelagh Lambert – was feeding into an inherent need to be admired.
It was disconcerting, but before I could analyse it further, there was a muffled curse from upstairs and Craig hopped into view, clutching one socked foot.
‘Sorry about that,’ boomed the delivery man. ‘I thought you’d moved out of the way when I let my end go.’
‘It’s fine,’ Craig muttered through gritted teeth, leaning over the banister. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved soundlessly. He was either swearing or counting to ten, and I felt a stab of guilt for not helping with the bed.
Finally unhooking her gaze from Ollie, Sheelagh watched as the delivery man came downstairs, his fleshy cheeks even redder than hers. He shot out to the van to fetch the bedding and curtains I’d ordered. ‘That’s the lot,’ he said, thrusting the packages at me, and fled.
‘You should have said, love, I’ve plenty of spare blankets going.’ Sheelagh placed one shiny, square-heeled shoe on the doormat. ‘Is he staying with you, then?’ Her eyes darted from me to Ollie, with poorly concealed excitement. ‘Oh my!’ she said, when I failed to produce an adequate answer, fanning herself with her hand. ‘Just wait until I tell everyone the latest. That there’s an actual star living in the house next door!’
Both feet planted on the doormat now, she looked at me properly. ‘You’ve done yourself proud, my dear.’ Her eyes shone. ‘To bring someone like Ollie Matheson into our neighbourhood…’ She shook her head, as though words had momentarily failed her. ‘It means an awful lot.’
‘Hey, it’s my absolute pleasure,’ said Ollie, drawing her adoring gaze back. He placed a strong arm around her, and as Sheelagh looked down in awe at his broad, tanned hand on her shoulder, her lip wobbled
as if – in that moment – everything she’d ever wanted had finally come to pass.
I was almost envious of the purity of her emotions. Had I ever felt as passionately about anyone? My feelings for Max seemed puny in comparison. I almost felt sorry for Barry Lambert, suspecting he’d never evoked such a strong display of emotion.
‘You got a raw deal, being sacked from the show,’ she said, turning in the curve of Ollie’s arm, as though she’d remembered vowing to say this very thing, should she get the opportunity. ‘It was obvious to me that it wasn’t the whole story,’ she continued, her voice juddering with gravity. ‘I’m certain it was all a big game to Tattie Granger, you could see it in her eyes. She engineered the whole thing, you mark my words.’
Ollie’s features shifted slightly, though he didn’t take his eyes off Sheelagh. ‘It’s a perfect opportunity for me to try new things, my sweet Loretta.’ He was using a late-night radio voice that had Sheelagh swooning towards him, her expression pained, as if it was almost too much, and I knew she’d be replaying this moment for weeks to come – if not for eternity.
‘Do you want a hand putting the bedding on?’ From the top of the stairs, Craig’s flat voice was like a gust of cold air. I shivered, suddenly noticing the temperature had dropped with the door standing open for so long.
‘I can do it myself,’ I said, wondering whether he was jealous of the effect Ollie was having, even if the recipient was a woman the wrong side of fifty, with questionable dress sense. I had no idea whether Craig was in a relationship, but there was something contained about him that suggested he was used to being single.
‘I can’t wait for you to see our Christmas lights,’ Sheelagh was saying to Ollie, clearly not ready to get back to her mundane life. ‘I know you’ll make the right decision when it comes to judging the best house.’
‘I can’t wait, either,’ said Ollie. ‘I had a look last night, and I have to say I was terribly impressed.’ For a horrible moment, I thought Sheelagh was going to raise one leg and wrap it around his.
