‘You don’t understand. She could’ve worked for the CIA.’
‘Stop being so negative, Olivia. She’s your grandmother. Just let her be happy for you.’
Even if I can get her to that point, I’ll still feel crappy because her happiness will be built on lies.
‘So your flight was good?’
‘Very nice. Smooth,’ Gran adds, tightening her cardigan. My grandmother isn’t a slave to old lady fashion. She might like her knitwear, but she’s pretty hip. How many ninety-two-year-olds have Instagram accounts?It’s for the local chapter of her horticultural society, but still.Her red hair has long since turned white, and she wears it in a classic short bob. She’s not so steady on the old pins, as she likes to say, so she’s recently given up heels for flats. Today’s pair are cherry red. She wears a pair of silver-grey pants and a scarf to compliment her startling blue eyes because, as she also says, a scarf will hide a multitude of sins.
‘The tea was awful,’ she says, reaching out to pat my hand, ‘but they served a nice butty.’ A sandwich, for those unfamiliar with the Yorkshire dialect, which clings stubbornly, interspersed with a more American flair.
‘How’s the business, love?’
‘Yeah, it’s going great.’ Or at least it will do now.
‘Lots of people lining up to sign up for this app thingy, then?’
‘Our numbers are growing steadily.’
‘Lots of people falling in love?’
‘That’s the plan. Or part of it, at least.’
‘Is that where you found your fella, is it?’
‘No. Not online. We met through work.’ Conversation between us isn’t usually so stilted. So circuitous. Blunt in the extreme is more my gran’s style.
‘It’s a nice car, is this.’ Her gaze roams the buttery leather interior before she adjusts her purse on her lap, leading up to her interrogation, I realise. ‘Have you told your mother yet?’
‘I called and left a message. It’ll probably take her a week to realise I left one.’
‘Maybe you should just bark at her. Aye, like Lassie.Little Livvie is up the duff, woof!’
My heart sinks. ‘It’s not . . . I’m not—’
‘You’re not in the family way, love?’ Her tone is soft, her eyes almost penetrating. ‘Because that would be okay.’
‘I promise.’ I shake my head, which feels like the opposite thing I should be doing.
‘ ’Cause you don’t have to get married for that these days.’ I look down at her hand over mine, spotted and papery with time. ‘You don’t ever have to be beholden to a man. You’ve got a bit of cash in the bank and more coming to you when I shuffle off this mortal coil—’
‘Gran, please. Don’t say that.’
‘I’m not immortal.’ She says this like she doesn’t mean it. Like “come on, death. I dare you to have a go”. And the sensible money would be on her.
‘Your mum would be okay with that, too. Even if she couldn’t say it.’ My mom is someone very special but not great with people.
‘Okay, so this is a whirlwind romance, is it?’ Sceptical. That tone was sceptical. ‘Are you going to tell me where you met this rich bugger, then?’
‘I thought we’d wait until we get to the hotel. Beckett booked us an early afternoon tea.’
She sniffs, unimpressed. ‘I hope he’s not ugly.’
‘What? Gran, why would you say that?’
‘Well, he seems to have gone to a lot of trouble and expense. I just wonder if he’s overcompensating for summat.’
‘He’s not overcompensating foranything. Promise. I’m sure you’ll love him.’ If he gets strep throat or some other illness that will prevent him from talking.
