He replied without looking up. ‘Which part?’
‘Dealer’s choice.’
The sigh that passed through his lips was so heavy, it blew a stack of receipts off the coffee table and onto the floor, the wafer-thin slips of paper swirling in the shafts of morning light as they danced down to the greytufted rug. I slid to the ground from the sofa, both of us reaching for a long receipt hiding by the leg of the coffee table. His fingers brushed against mine and a flicker of electricity ran through me. Only static, I told myself as I snatched my hand back but if Callum felt anything, he didn’t show it.
‘I don’t really know where to start if I’m honest,’ he said. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘How about the beginning?’ I suggested.
He shuffled his pile of receipts then placed them on the coffee table. I added my handful on the table, crumpled and creased, next to his, smooth and even.
‘You know what? It’s not that interesting and you’re probably wanting to get on.’ He slapped his hands against his thick thighs, the sound cracking through the silence of the room, and reset his face to a bland neutral. ‘No need to worry about any of that, I’ll sort it out.’
‘I wasn’t worried,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said.
Hmm. OK. If he didn’t want to talk about it, I didn’t want to talk about it. I rose to my feet, digging my hands deep into my coat pockets.
‘Is there anything you need to know about the flat before you go?’ Callum asked and I shrugged.
‘You tell me. It’s your flat.’
‘I could give you the tour,’ he offered, a little less brusque this time. ‘Since you’re here.’
‘Why not?’ I replied. ‘Since I’m here.’
‘The shower can be a bit difficult but you’ll get the hang of it.’
He held open the door to a comically small bathroom, leaving it up to me to decide whether I would straddlethe toilet or wedge myself between the wall and the sink when he decided to join me inside.
‘Difficult how?’ I asked, the sink digging into the small of my back. No one wanted to straddle a toilet with company present.
‘When you turn it on, it’ll either be really hot or freezing cold. You have to work out the right balance.’
He mimed twisting the two taps, cheeks turning red when he looked back to me and realised his hands were at exactly the same level as my chest. Slapping his arms down by his sides, he stepped swiftly out of the tiny room.
‘You’ll work it out,’ he said, visibly flustered. ‘It’s only a shower, doesn’t take a brain surgeon.’
‘Good to know,’ I replied, tempering a smile. ‘So, what’s taking you to Paris? Dave said you’re a chef?’
‘Hoping to be.’ He closed the bathroom door, sealing his embarrassment inside. ‘Right now I’m only a cook but I’ve been accepted into a culinary school in Paris to study French pastry. Six-month course with a six-month internship at the end if I qualify. After that, who knows?’
‘Which explains the need for a flatsitter,’ I said and he nodded. ‘A six-foot pastry chef moving to Paris. You might be my roommate’s dream man.’
‘Six-four,’ he amended before adding, ‘I don’t suppose she’s a massage therapist called Caroline?’
‘An interior designer called Desi. And she gives massages like Vulcan death grips.’
‘Then I’ll pass.’ Holding out an arm, he directed me down a short hallway. ‘What is it you do? Dave said something about the hospital.’
‘I’m a brain surgeon,’ I said, holding back a laughwhen he tripped over his own feet, blinking at me in disbelief.
‘You’re joking?’
‘Generally speaking, we’re not a profession noted for our sense of humour. Brains are fascinating but not all that funny.’
Callum hadn’t taken his eyes off me since the words left my mouth but in place of the usual look of confusion, there was something else. He looked … impressed?
