“That’s one way to spend a Sunday morning.” I just about managed to get the words out before he kissed me.
“Definitely. Let’s go eat.”
Stockport, the town where we were, had a historic area known as the Underbanks, because the cobbled, winding road went under the River Mersey at one point. The area was full of independent shops and cafes, as well as bars and restaurants that would open later. We headed there, taking a chance on the fact that it was early in the morning, and neither of us looked like who we were, so after we’d dropped our luggage in our cars, we headed there to seek sustenance.
The same girl as yesterday was on reception, only today she gave us a big smile. Yesterday when I’d checked in, she’d barely looked up. Today was different and I did wonder whether she’d recognised us, but I was still too drunk on the orgasms I’d had to care.
We walked, not holding hands, down to the Underbanks, following the old-fashioned style signposts, to Lowryesque, steep, cobbled, narrow streets that led to a wider, shop-ridden pedestrianised road. Vintage clothes shops and rare magazine boutiques were dispersed in between artists’ studios and independent cocktail bars. A large market hall, Victorian in style, stood in front of a square which was being set up for a Northern Soul event, a temporary stage in the process of being erected.
I wished I could stay. I loved events like this. I’d grown up in a large village in the south of England, and we’d had a community where I’d thrived, where everything was about the people rather than what they owned – although there had been Mr Ospret who always had to go one better with what anyone had.
We meandered across the square, hoping to look anonymous. Most people were busy setting up or looking a tad hungover. Some both.
The café we headed for had been used in a recent TV serial, based on a book by a best-seller crime writer. I’d almost auditioned for the part, until I’d realised that the filming would clash with other stuff I was already committed to.
It was almost full, just a couple of tables remaining, including one tucked away in a corner. The waitress didn’t bat an eyelid when she sat us down, passing us menus without making eye contact, distracted by another party that had just walked in.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order.” The last word was said as she was walking away.
I smiled at Ryan. “I guess we’re not a priority.”
He grinned back. “As long as we get fed, I’m happy with that.” He put the menu down. “We never finished our questions.”
“I know. I think we should save the next one for when we next meet up.” This was also my way of asking if we’d be hooking up again.
His eyes flashed with something I couldn’t read. “Agreed. What are you having?”
We ate. Drank coffee. Talked. People watched. When we finished, we paid the bill and wandered back through the square, down another street lined with buildings that could’ve been out of a history book, then dropping down a steep narrow street with an entrance to the old town dungeon, directly opposite a couple of cute cocktail bars and then a house plant shop that was just opening its doors. It felt trendy and vibrant, and I wished for the rest of the day to explore. But I didn’t have the luxury of that time. I had to be back in Norfolk for a seven o’clock start tomorrow morning for the final week of filming there. After that, we just had studio scenes to shoot, and the series would premiere in March.
We said a quick goodbye in the car park, managing to sneak a quick kiss when we were sure no one was about besides a man in a suit who looked like he definitely didn’t want to be seen.
I drove away first, trying not to look back in my rear view as Ryan got in his dark grey Audi that didn’t look like a typical footballer’s car. Previously, if we hadn’t made the arrangement to meet, I wouldn’t have been overly worried. This time was different.
By the time I got to Norfolk I had a message waiting on my phone from Ryan.
Three words.
See you soon.
Nils & Daphne
Still October
CHAPTER11
Ryan
“Libbie,please don’t do that to your sister.”
Managing not to laugh was hard. Watching our big, formidable goalkeeper being owned by two little girls, however, was the best thing I’d seen this week.
“But Zara’s…”
“But Zara nothing. Zara just wants to play.” Nate’s tone was stern, the same sort of voice he used with his defenders when they were fucking up.
Libbie’s lip stuck out and her eyes looked like they would fill up with tears. “But they’re my toys!”
“They were your toys when you were two. You’re now five and you’re too grown up for toys for two-year-olds. Either teach Zara how to play with them or go and find something else to play with.” Nate went over to his youngest daughter, who was sitting on the floor surrounded by much loved dolls, looking oblivious to the disagreement she’d caused.
