Charlie didn’t seem to have noticed. ‘He’s fine. My dad’s a talker. Whether you want to know about his golf match or not, he’s going to tell you.’
‘I think over-chatty is better than under.’ As a chatty person herself, she was always going to think that.
They went quiet for a bit while they both concentrated.
‘Hey!’ said Regan, when Charlie sprinkled her with a light dusting of brilliant white from his roller.
‘Whoops, sorry.’
‘I look like I’ve got rampant dandruff,’ she said, inspecting her shoulders. At least she was wearing an old T-shirt.
‘Sorry. What I was coming over to say was, you can tick “Helping out your dad” off your lottery list when we’ve finished.’
‘Yeah. I will.’ She didn’t like to say that she’d already ticked off ‘Get new hot boyfriend who doesn’t nag or wear button-up pyjamas’. It was a little premature because she had yet to have confirmation of the last two points, butit had made her feel happy to put a great big tick next to it. She wasn’t sure how many others she’d be able to tick off, but it was fun and it was definitely motivating her to get her life back on track – and out of the Nissan Micra lane for good.
They laughed a lot while they decorated. The conversation was easy and everything felt right. She was happy doing something mundane because she was doing it with Charlie.
‘How’s the business plan coming on?’ He paused to wait for her response, his bicep taut as he held the roller. Regan remembered the cheesy firemen calendar she’d once received as a secret Santa gift and thought how she’d very much like a calendar where every month was a picture of Charlie, preferably with decreasing amounts of clothing as the year went on, finishing with December and a strategically placed Santa hat.
‘Regan?’ he prompted.
‘Sorry. Miles away.’ She gave herself a physical and mental shake. ‘The market information you gave me was brilliant. They want stalls selling stuff that’s quirky, shiny and vegan.’
‘Apart from the vegan that could be your dad then.’
‘Very droll.’ She waved his comment away. ‘I’ve had this idea about using the leftover fruit and veg that they’re chucking away but I—’
‘For like jams and chutneys?’ He said it so effortlessly, like it was completely obvious, and yet she’d been mulling it over for a couple of days and only come up with cauliflower cheese and rhubarb crumble – both with questionable sell-by dates and neither of which she knew how to bake.
‘Yes! That is exactly what I’m, um … thinking. Well,I was thinking chutney but jam is a great idea too.’ She broke eye contact. She at least wanted to claim a bit of it as her idea.
Charlie was looking pleased. ‘I love it. It’ll be low cost and once the fruit is in a jam it’ll last for ages because the sugar preserves it. There’s nothing like that locally. And people love home-made produce. I really think you’re on to something here.’ He waved the roller and another splodge landed on her shoulder, making it look like she’d taken a direct hit from a seagull. ‘Whoops, sorry. Again.’
Regan didn’t care about the paint splat. She was grinning; this really was a terrific idea. ‘And chutney and jam are vegan … right?’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s one box ticked. Now I need to work on the shiny and quirky.’
Charlie got back to work. ‘I guess the quirky will be determined by whatever is being chucked out that day.’
This guy was a genius. ‘Yes, because the other day it would have been cauliflower and rhubarb!’
Charlie gave her a look that said Brighton wasn’t quite ready for that level of quirky.
After their decorating marathon, where they got one coat finished on everything, including Regan’s T-shirt and the toaster – well theywereonly enthusiastic amateurs – they headed back to Charlie’s with an Indian takeaway partly paid for by the ten pounds her dad had given her whilst peering suspiciously at his new-look kitchen.
Regan was keen to check out Charlie’s place and also hopeful for a bit of bedroom action, given that their initial attempt had been thwarted by Cleo’s chair and there hadn’t been any other opportunities since. When a male voiceshouted hello the moment the key was in the lock, she feared her plans may be derailed. She’d incorrectly assumed Charlie lived on his own.
‘It’s only Beanstalk,’ said Charlie, leading her through to a small kitchen. It was a nice little house. Classic two up, two down, but modernised and stylish. ‘Hi, Beanstalk,’ she called.
‘Evening, Reg,’ came back the reply.
‘Beanstalk moved in a couple of weeks back. My parents didn’t like me being here alone what with …’ he tapped the back of his head. ‘They were threatening to force me to move back home, which would most likely have ended with me battering them both with Dad’s golf clubs, so having Beanstalk move in here was a happy compromise for all of us.’
They decanted the food onto plates and sat in the kitchen at possibly the smallest table she’d ever seen. ‘It’s a garden bistro set,’ he explained.
‘I like it.’
