Charlie’s smile couldn’t be any warmer. ‘You’re welcome, I’d have hated to see those mood boards go to waste.’
Nell slides her arm around George’s waist and as she tilts her face upwards he comes in for a kiss. Then she beams at us. ‘See, I’ve got my very own solicitor to snog now, I’m liking how that feels. And Mr Hobson is rivallingmewith his matchmaking skills.’
Sophie’s looking so smug, it’s has to be about more than the fact she just nabbed herself a castle. ‘It’s a great alliance.’ She sends me a wink. ‘You see, Clemmie, thereismore to love than matching shirts.’
I get the feeling Plum and I are arriving late to this party and that Charlie and Sophie have known for days. But there is one thing I need to add because George and Nell’s shirt fabrics are practically identical. ‘Pale grey checks, Sophie. Just saying.’ As for me feeling so relieved it’s George not Charlie, that makes no sense at all. If I don’t up my game with the flat it’s not even as if I’ll be around. And as Nell just reminded us, Charlie will always be in love with his wife. If he was ever going to move on he’d have done it years ago. Stupid of me not to think of that earlier.
Nell’s grinning at me. ‘This isn’t the end of the Singles’ Club; I love all those members too much for that. We’ll get straight onto those breakfast events I mentioned, Clems.’
Sophie’s wagging her finger at me. ‘Oh my, that reminds me, I’ve been collecting names for a Mums and Bumps afternoon garden party at Seaspray. There’s thirty of us mums, I’ve said you’ll do a week next Thursday?’
This is Sophie, getting carried away again. All I can think of is how often Tilly and Marcus ask to pee, and how many kids thirty mums will have in tow in the school holidays. ‘That’s a lovely idea, but with one bathroom up two flights of stairs how it would work?’ If I was Sophie with her bulldozer business drive, I’d probably stay quiet and let them wet themselves. But however much I want to try out this market I couldn’t do that and live with myself.
She’s shaking her head at me. ‘That’s all sorted.’
‘Sorted how?’ However gutted I am at the lost opportunity, other than rolling in a bank of portaloos off the harbour I can’t see a way around this.
Charlie’s chipping in now. ‘I’m opening up the ground floor flat for the afternoon. You know Sophie, she won’t take “No” for an answer. She’s a damned good business woman too, it’s not often I meet anyone who’s good enough to teach me about negotiation.’ He’s folding his arms, resting his shoulder on the wall, with a very thoughtful look on his face. ‘It’s a great idea of Sophie’s, the garden’s lovely, we don’t use it enough. I’ve sourced some bunting; you just have to choose the colours.’
Talk about done deals. ‘Apple green, gold, cerise, peacock blue, please. To go with the flat.’ I’m going to have to stop my heart squishing when I see that look of his.
He isn’t stopping there. ‘The Harbourside have some tables and chairs in their store they don’t use any more, so I’ll blag those too.’
There’s no answer to that. ‘Lovely, in that case I’ll stick it in the diary and we’ll talk about food over the weekend.’ It’ll only be a few cupcakes and who doesn’t love making those.
‘And while you’ve got the diary out …’ Charlie’s still leaning. ‘Save Saturday morning for me.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Okay, will that be breakfast, eleven o’clock puddings, or a speculators’ club lunch with tap dancing auctioneers?’
That makes him grin. ‘Only you, me and Diesel. Oh, and bring your Converse.’
After the last time, that’s just what I don’t want to hear.
34
In Charlie’s car
Close shaves and salad plates
Saturday morning
After a late night with myLaura’s Summer Puddingsevening, despite a full ten minutes out on the balcony on Saturday morning letting the sea mist seep over my face, I’m still zombified. An eight o’clock start with Charlie is too early, and the excuse of missing the traffic isn’t helping my head any. After three cups of coffee, and a glass of yesterday’s gooseberry fool I can open one eye. Two bowls of soft buttery sponge and fruit from the leftover apple pudding topped with cold custard do the rest. Then Diesel bounds, Charlie walks, and I stumble along to the quayside where we locate his car, which is one of those pricey jobbies that’s sleek, shiny and chunky all at the same time. It’s a sign of his love for Diesel that he lets him jump straight onto the leather back seat. I clamber into the front, ease myself back against the deep, cream upholstery, then squint at my skirt seams and let out a relieved sigh when I find my dress is on the right way out.
Charlie jumps in and sends me a querying glance. ‘Why are you peering on the floor, have you lost something?’
I send him a grin. ‘Just checking my ankle boots match.’
‘Is there a chance they won’t?’
I have to be honest. ‘They don’t always. But they do today.’
‘So we’re good to go?’
Considering the way the heady mix of body spray and newly showered man is making my head spin since he closed the car door, I wouldn’t be that upbeat. ‘As soon as I’ve got my music on. If you’re dragging me off to some mystery destination at the crack of dawn, your penance is my playlist.’
‘Let me guess. “Boum!”? Alternative eighties?’
I laugh because although we hear it most evenings, the French tunes seem like they almost belong to another life. ‘No, this one’s for chilling, not working. Adele, Rag’n’Bone Man, Ed Sheeran.’ After three months listening to Radio 1, for the first time since I was eighteen, my playlist’s from the here and now.
