‘Yes, they’re a thing now.’
‘I know, I know,’ he says, glancing quickly across at me, I think to confirm I’m actually being serious. ‘Well, the menu would certainly be a doddle.’
‘I know, I’m putting all the pressure on myself here. But it’s agreatidea, isn’t it?’ I say, thinking of what Irene stated about me lacking confidence. ‘We could do a kind of street-party theme, you know?Some cute bunting in the bar area. Gourmet-like sausage rolls, or whatever. Fancy-pants trifle for dessert?’
James laughs and I cringe. I’ve said something daft, but I’m not sure what.
‘What?’
‘It needs to be sophisticated,’ he says slowly. ‘But it could be fun, trying to do that. Make a street-party Michelin star-worthy. I mean, mostly we do like a Cabernet night or wines of the Wachau, or something like that,’ he continues. ‘But this idea is playful. Be fun to cater for, that’s for sure.’
‘You like the idea?’
‘I think it’s interesting.’
‘What’s the “but”?’
‘It’s Russell. He’ll need to buy into it, and he definitely has his own ideas. About everything.’
‘Leave Russell to me,’ I say confidently. ‘If you think it could work?’
‘I think it could work. I think it’s cool. It’s veryyou,’ he says.
‘Me?’ I am fishing. What does he thinkmeis? I always like to know how other people see me, since I find it so hard to see myself.
‘Well … unexpected,’ he continues, and we drive in silence for a little longer as I bask in the pleasure of a compliment of sorts.
‘I loved Skye,’ I say.
‘You did?’ he replies, changing gears as we come out of a tight corner a little fast and he veers slightly out of the lane. I grab the hand-rest and try to conceal my fear by looking out of the window, but the car immediately slows.
‘I did,’ I say, breathing out.
‘Perfect,’ he says, and I sneak a look at his face and, even though we’re on another bend, he steals a quick look at me before turning back to the road.
Then he looks again, and I’m totally blushing.
And just as I think he’s nearly perfect, Phil Collins comes on the radio, and James turns it up. Though perhaps I can forgive him for that.
It’s not quite midday when we turn down the windy little forest road towards the estate, but I don’t want the drive to end. Silenceis usually an uncomfortable place for me. I have this fear, if no one is speaking. This nervous apprehension that it’s because something is coming. It’s because they’re thinking about something they don’t want to talk about. And although I recognize this is entirely self-centred, I can’t help but worry they’re thinking about me. That’s how it was, growing up; my mum was the master of ominous silence.
I knew it was a way to keep people out. Keepmeout. Stop me from asking questions like ‘Where has the television gone?’ or ‘Why is there a hole in the front fence?’ The silence kept me away from the kitchen, where she pottered, clearing away evidence, hiding the truth.
‘The silence is easier than explaining something bad happened, I guess,’ twelve-year-old Heather had whispered to me, as we headed out for one of our curfew-free Saturdays, pockets stuffed with extra pocket money. Money that came in huge windfalls when Dad was particularly bad, or none at all when he was better. I called it my ‘fuck-off allowance’.
But this – as we drive and I stare out at the rolling hills on one side, and the dark water on the other – this is a very different kind of silence.
14.
We pull in at the front of the cottage, but James keeps the car running.
‘Out you get,’ he says.
‘Don’t you need to get changed too?’ I ask.
‘Nah, my whites are in my locker. Anyway I’ve got to park this at the back of the house.’ He smiles. ‘You know it’s a reduced service, right? So it’ll be an easy week,’ he says. ‘Thanks for coming today.’
And then he reaches across and touches my hand. I feel it immediately, that wonderful energy of mutual attraction – and now I’m sure it wasn’t in my head. He lingers there for a moment and we smile shyly at each other, then he pulls his hand back.
