It’s the last straw.
I get up and start to move; Raff automatically stands and moves aside to let me out. My throat jams on my hasty “Good night.” So it comes out half strangled as I open the door and jump out before he can see the tears spilling down my face.
I rush towards the door. Not the front door where everyone came in today but the side entrance that leads to the kitchen. It’s thirty yards away; the rain drenches me before I even reach it.
Gravel crunches behind me; a hand on my arm. “Hey, hey.” His voice is low, and soft with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. What should be wrong?” I slap on my best stage smile. One advantage of the downpour, my tears look like raindrops so he won’t be able to tell. It was a mistake to have even told him about the play at all. This isn’t a thing to discuss with people, especially not a man I hardly know. It’s far too humiliating.
I push through the door. “You’d better get back before you drown in this.”
But he follows me inside. I’ve never been any good at getting rid of people.
“Leonie? It’s something I said, isn’t it? I’m sorry if I’ve upset you but please tell me how because I really didn’t mean to.”
He called me Beauty. Sleeping Beauty. But he won’t understand. “You didn’t upset me.”
“But you're clearly upset.” He pushes wet hair off his own face and waits for me to say more.
Something about the way his eyes study me makes it hard to look away from him. He looks troubled; two vertical lines deepen between his eyebrows.
“It’s not you.” I try for another smile.
“A good effort,” he says lightly, gently. “But not even the best actors can pull it off when they’re this upset.”
Oddly, a small laugh breaks out. I wipe my cheeks with my sleeve which makes my face even wetter. Seeing this, he smiles quickly. “We’re both dripping wet and making a mess on your floor.”
“Come upstairs. I have dry clothes and towels.”
I head up the side stairs and after a moment, he follows. “I doubt your clothes will fit me.”
“No but we have some work clothes for the teenagers helping on the cleaning and decoration. I’d offered to wash these, so they’re folded on my radiator.”
My room, when we get there is cosy and warm. I point to the folded tracksuits and T-shirts. “There should be some towels there, too.”
Leaving him to change, I go to the bathroom to dry myself and change into a hoodie and leggings. In the fluster of the moment, I seem to have done this all wrong. I should have sent him to the bathroom across the hall from my door and I should have changed in my own room. A bit late for that now.
When I come back, he’s in a grey flannel tracksuit. It’s a bit tight across the shoulders and chest. Now he’s not in baggy clothes, he doesn’t seem so hulking anymore. He’s big, to be sure, tall, broad shoulders and wide chest, but his stomach is flat and his hips and legs narrow.
Grabbing the damp towel he’s draped on the radiator, he tips his head forward letting his hair cascade down and rubs it with the towel, then ties it back in a man bun. When he notices I’m back, he strikes a mock modelling pose. “Arms and legs are a bit too long for this tracksuit, but miles better than wet jeans.”
He’s funny. Not the joke-cracking, attention seeking, ‘look at me’ kind of funny. But the kind, gentle, subtle kind of funny. Inviting you to laugh at him.
I see why Philomena thinks he’s sexy. He is a bit. Maybe more than a bit. Can’t explain why, but he is even with the wrong clothes and too much hair.
He must catch me watching him because his face colours.
Oh dear. This is exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do. Now, I’ve given him the wrong idea.
“Tea?” I offer quickly.
“Please,” he says sounding a little surprised.
Another mistake. I should have let him go home. But now I’ve offered tea, I can hardly take it back. There’s a small kettle in my room for sleepless nights when I don’t want to go down a long corridor and two flights of stairs to the kitchen.
Another mistake.
We should have gone to the kitchen because, in my room, it feels a bit…well…the wrong idea.
