He pulls a face. ‘On balance, probably not.’
I give a silent phew to that. But I’m still steeling myself here, remembering it’s for Jen and everyone at Kittiwake Court too, and not just for me. ‘In that case could you possibly keep an eye on Diesel later? George was going to look after him, but we’re going to need him at the meringue night.’
Ross gives a sigh. ‘I’m not dissing George, he’s a great solicitor – but he’s not exactly a domestic goddess.’
‘So?’
Ross blows out his cheeks. ‘Just saying. He’s more likely to smash your plates than wash them up.’ He pauses to let that sink in. ‘It’s probably better all round to leave Diesel with him as planned and let me give you a hand?’
It’s the last thing I’d want or choose, but I’m also out of other options. And there has to be a way of making this feel less awkward. ‘I can only accept your help if there’s something I can do in return.’ Not that I’m in a position to make conditions, but I do have my limits. ‘But please not filing at the surgery.’
I thought it would wear off, but as the weeks went by I actually felt worse about rubbing up against him in that little office, not better. Possibly since the close encounter the other night in the hall here, or maybe it’s the salty air. But my weakness for muscles in threadbare denim seems to have kicked into overdrive lately.
‘Fair enough.’ His lips curve into a smile. ‘I’m about to move the sheep at Walter’s place. I could do with an extra pair of hands right away if you’ve got an hour to spare.’
‘Now?’ I’m staring at my nails, wondering if they’ll survive. I mean, how many sheep is he talking here? But I do have a soft spot for the babies; I saw lambs on my best-ever school visit. Obviously not counting the music department trip to see Avril Lavigne.
It’s as if Ross has read my mind. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to grapple the rams, it’s more to open and close the gates.’ He’s frowning and blinking. ‘Unless you’ve got other plans—’ he coughs, ‘—or Tinder commitments.’
‘Not Tinder. Not today.’ My voice is tiny, because it seems so insignificant and shallow beside what he’s doing. ‘Twelve ’til three thirty was actually set aside for me to get ready.’ I catch hold of my ponytail and flick it back over my shoulder.
His voice rises in shock. ‘It takes three and a half hours?’ Then he lets it drop. ‘Sorry, of course it does, I know that already. So, some other time then.’
If I run out on this he’ll come tonight regardless, because that’s what he’s like. And I’ll just feel shit about it. We’ve both got our weaknesses. I’m the woman who spends hours every day making sure my appearance is beyond reproach. He’s the world’s most reliable man who can’t stop himself from leaping in to help people, whatever the cost to himself.
There’s only one thing for it. ‘I washed my hair yesterday evening, I’m going to have to step right out of my comfort zone and make do with a much more minor spritz and style for now.’ It’s one day. I’ll survive. It never needs to happen again. I reach across for the Crusty Cobs box. ‘If we eat lunch on the way, I’ll make up the time later.’
His smile widens to a beam. ‘Croissants!’
I’m suddenly thinking of his car upholstery. ‘Unless they’re too messy?’
‘My car’s full of mud, I don’t care about pastry flakes.’ His smile fades to a frown. ‘You aren’t expecting pristine seats, are you? You don’t mind sitting on straw?’
‘I can live with it.’ Which sounded way too long-term for a five-minute drive.
‘Great, I’ll get us some coffees-to-go from the kiosk on the quay.’
I look down my bare thighs all the way to the rhinestones on my flipflops. ‘I’ll grab some trainers. And longer trousers.’
Ross’s eyes snap open. ‘No need to spend too long getting ready.’ He gives a cough. ‘Shorts will be fine.’
And just like that, the Saturday I’ve meticulously timetabled down to the last minute has been turned entirely upside down.
Ten minutes later we’re bumping along the Rose Hill road, Diesel’s fur flattened to his face by the wind as he sticks it out of the back window, heading for Walter’s farm.
17
On the way to Snowdrop Farm, High Hopes Hill
Bare legs and wild skies
Saturday lunchtime
‘Not too much hay in the footwell then?’
This is Ross finally making conversation as we wind our way up and out of the village and turn off onto a bumpy lane behind the surgery. Thanks to the croissants we’ve been munching, we’ve driven the whole way without having to talk at all. But that isn’t to say we’ve been sitting in silence. Far from it – the speakers in the car doors have been belting out Pink Floyd all the way up from the harbour car park.
I’m shouting to be heard over the number 13 volume. ‘Definitely no complaints about the dirt.’ He practically works in a field, it would be more of a surprise if it were spotless. Plus, you can’t beat pastries eaten in the wild. And I’m not a moaner, but I can’t let his choice of backing track go without comment. ‘But listening toDark Side of the Moonis like falling into a time warp. And not in a good way.’
