‘I have no clue why I said jazz. I’m not a fan either.’ But last week we did hip hop and prior to that it was pop and he vetoed R&B the week before.
‘I don’t mind what you put on, as long as it’s not rock, alt-rock, indie rock or anything else that might make me think of a certain someone.’
I can’t even say his name.
‘That kind of rules out all my favourite songs,’ Dan points out.
‘Fuck me, how long is this going to go on for?’ Rach mutters. ‘You’d better be over him by the time these guys do their wedding playlist.’
‘Billie Eilish?’ Amy suggests, ignoring Rach, while I feel a pang of anxiety at her words.
‘Fine,’ Dan replies, and a moment later Billie’s new album begins to spill dreamily out of the speakers.
I breathe a sigh of relief and relax.
Rach reaches across and pats my hand brusquely but consolingly. Amy goes one further and tops up my wine glass.
I love my friends.
It’s late Saturday morning before I see Tom again. I’ve just clambered down the stairs with a mop, bucket and vacuum cleaner and I’m all hot and sweaty because I had to walk up the hill to collect my car first. I leave it on the street outside Amy and Dan’s place during the summer because their road is quiet and I don’t have to pay for parking.
The downstairs apartment has been deathly silent allweek. I have occasionally heard Tom moving about, but rarely. To my knowledge, he hasn’t turned on the TV or radio or played any music and I’m curious to know what he’s been doing down there.
As I barge my way out the front door, trying not to chip the paintwork around the frame like I did last weekend, I spy him coming up the hill from the direction of the beach. He’s wearing light-grey shorts with checkerboard Vans and a pristine white T-shirt, and why do I suddenly feel nervous?
‘Hello,’ I call in an attempt to sound friendly, trying to pop the boot of my blue Honda Civic hatchback.
The head attachment of the vacuum cleaner knocks out of its socket and falls to the ground as I’m wrestling it into the back, then the mop handle slips and, in my attempt to catch both it and the wayward vacuum hose, I drop the bucket carrying all my cleaning supplies.
I swear under my breath as bottles, sponges and dust cloths scatter.
Tom jogs the last few steps and swoops down to pick up rolling cans of oven cleaner and fly spray.
A car crawls by and the driver glares at me through the open side window.
‘Sorry!’ I call after them, sliding my tote bag off my shoulder and thrusting it into the boot.
Tom bends down to collect the dust cloths, handing them over. His muscles are long and lean and exceptionally well defined.
‘Thanks,’ I mutter, feeling my face growing warmer.
‘Why don’t you park on the drive?’ he asks.
‘Because you’re staying downstairs.’ I wipe my brow,wishing I’d tied back my not-quite-shoulder-length wavy hair.
‘But I don’t have a car,’ he says as I try to arrange the equipment in the boot so it all fits.
His voice is deep and there’s a subtle lilt to his accent. I wonder where he’s from.
‘That’s a first,’ I admit, shoving the mop handle through the central hatch between the rear seats.
Where’s the furniture polish?I peer under the bumper. The woman who owns the holiday cottages I manage insists on her wooden tables gleaming.
I’m diverted by another car crawling past, hating the fact that I’m holding up traffic. There’s only just enough room for me to pull up here and for people still to be able to get past. If an emergency vehicle or a delivery van needed access, I could be in trouble.
‘Anyway, there’s room for two cars on the drive,’ he points out.
‘My guests usually have kids, a dog or both, so they don’t want me going in and out through the gate all the time,’ I say distractedly, searching the ground.
