Keef makes the hang loose sign, waggles his hand at Bill and goes all Australian. ‘Rippa, mate, that’s beaut, well done Ivy-leaf, that’s the best news we’ve had on Ramsay Street all day.’ He pauses then he qualifies that as he pulls Bill in for a hug and pats him on the back. ‘Even better than the boiler part.’
Bill’s still grinning as he turns to me. ‘So, are you up for a quick trip to the shops, Store-girl?’
‘Sure.’ It’s nice to be asked and I’m desperately trying not to mind how long he’ll be disappearing for. Realistically, he stokes the fires and fails to mend the boiler quickly. We can completely manage without him and that disgustingly amazing smile of his. And it’s coming back to me now. When he really smiles it’s not just creases in his cheeks – there are dimples too. And eff, shit, bollocks for what those are doing to my back-flipping stomach. And obviously his first thought is the presents he’s going to take with him for Abby. ‘The Deck Gallery? They had nice things.’
He wrinkles his nose. ‘I wasn’t thinking of St Aidan, Pom Pom, I meant are you coming to London?’
Fuck. I try to ignore that my insides just left the building. And that my voice has turned to a squeak. ‘Really?’
‘Didn’t you say you had business to sort out there? This way you can. Merwyn can come too, we can share the driving if you want, I’m sure Libby can manage her own Instagram for one day, we’ll be back before you know.’
Seeing as the sea in Yorkshire is made from melted igloos, and I come from a family that only recently succumbed to oven chips, items like wetsuits never featured in my childhood. So the nearest I ever got to surfing was doggy paddling on a float in the local swimming pool which dated back to Victorian times. But the surge in my insides at the thought of this trip to London is so enormous, in my head I’m upright on my surf board, and riding one of those huge waves you see on YouTube, the height of a house, that stretches for miles, and goes on forever. I know it’s stupid, it’s every kind of irrational, I’d always promised myself I’d never get my hopes up. Yes, I know all of the above, that my chances are totally zilch etc. etc. And yet I still feel like I won the lottery. Better actually. Everybody knows money only takes you so far, it’s no guarantee you’ll be happy. What I’m feeling now is a happy rush that’s closer to ecstatic. Or beyond.
And all the time I’m riding thisMAHOOSIVEwave, I’m working my way backwards trying to find another reason for him asking. And I just can’t think. And then suddenly, there’s a flash in my head, and it hits me. ‘You want me to take my Corsa because it’s easier than the Landy?’
And shit shit shit, because we’re talking dimples again. Bill just laughs and says one word. ‘Rumbled.’
That brings me crashing down to earth again faster than a tumbling wave. Which, once I pick myself up … and spend quite a while having imaginary CPR due to the fake water in my sodden lungs … is actually no bad thing.
Three guesses who the lifeguard is? I really promise when January comes I’m going to reassert my grip on reality. For now, I’m a bit stuffed.
