I shake my head. ‘The covers are pink – that’s all I know.’
His dazzling smile reappears. ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he sighs. ‘I find fangirls hard to live with.’
He’s not getting a smile out of me for that playful comment.
Leading him to the kitchen, I ensure there’s a safe buffer zone between us. I am slightly ahead, opening random cupboards like an anxious estate agent. ‘This is the kitchen. Fridge. Sink. Oven.’
He gives me a nod of approval. I hope he’s considered my minimalist approach to work surfaces and my neatly organised cupboards.
I point him towards the bathroom door whilst standing far back. ‘Open the door.’
‘After you,’ he says with a grin.
Shaking my head, I gesture for him to go first. He pokes his head inside. ‘Tidy – I like it,’ he says.
While he’s surveying the bathroom, I open the door to Eva’s old room. ‘Here you are. I know it doesn’t look big, but it has a double bed, a desk and a wardrobe.’
‘Maybe this beautiful room will help me to start writing again,’ he says, striding in, running his fingers over the desk, and gazing out of the window. ‘Is that our garden down below?’
‘It’s a private communal garden shared by all the houses in the crescent.’
He nods. ‘Do you use it much?’
I shake my head and refrain from telling him that I actively avoid human contact when I’m not working. ‘Miranda said you had writer’s block.’
He carries on looking out of the window. ‘Yeah, it’s been a while.’
I hurry away, as I don’t want to get into a deep conversation about his creativity or lack thereof.
He enters the living room.
‘Take a seat,’ I say, gesturing for him to sit on my sofa. I turn around my comfy chair so I’m facing Oliver.
Miranda and Frank may think this is a done deal, but I need to assess this chap myself. Last night, I wrote a list of questions in my little notebook, which I’ve retrieved from my handbag. It is now on my lap with a bookshop-branded pen.
He eyes the sofa with suspicion. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sofa this size.’
The two-seater sofa is tiny and uncomfortable. ‘It came with the flat. It was designed for a family of mice.’
He smiles and sits down, filling almost the entire sofa with his tall, athletic frame. Lenny walks in and leaps onto the arm of the sofa next to Oliver, as if they are old friends.
‘Okay, I have some questions,’ I say after glaring at my cat.
‘Fire away,’ Oliver says. ‘Did you get this grilling from her, little guy?’
I ignore his attempt at friendly banter. ‘I can see you don’t mind my cat. Do you have any pets?’
His smile fades. ‘I love cats. I had one, but she died of old age a few months ago. She was called Figgy Pudding, and she was my best friend.’
He gets a big tick as I like people who refer to their pet as their best friend.
‘Is your cat just called Lenny, or does he have a full name?’
This gets him another tick, as true cat lovers give their feline friends first, middle, and last names. ‘His full name is Leonard Frederick Wilson Spartapuss.’
Oliver nods. ‘Impressive. My cat was Figgy Pudding Bojangles.’
I find myself giving him an extra tick for giving Figgy an amazing surname.
