I watch him flick his floppy fringe, and I notice a mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘I agree with you about not cooking breakfast in my underwear, but does that mean I can cook lunch and tea in my boxers?’
‘That is not funny, Oliver.’
Leaning back slightly, he studies me with a crooked smile. ‘So, did I pass the interview?’
Glancing down at my notes gives me a shock. My page is a sea of ticks. That’s unsettling.
‘You didn’t completely fail,’ I say, trying to sound indifferent.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘I didn’t say yes,’ I mutter, but it’s too late. Lenny lets out a purr of approval and climbs on Oliver’s lap.
‘Lenny says yes,’ Oliver says with a wry smile.
‘Fine,’ I say, rising to my feet. ‘But if you sit in my chair you’re out.’
He grins. ‘Message received.’
As I walk towards the kitchen, I hear him mutter to Lenny, ‘Is she always this fun?’
11
‘Oliver is thrilled about moving in,’ gushes Miranda, before handing me a coffee. ‘This morning, he wouldn’t stop talking about your flat and that gorgeous chair by the window. He reckons sitting there and watching the world go by will cure his writer’s block.’
My shoulders and neck feel as though someone has inserted rods of iron into them. Yesterday, I made it abundantly clear that the chair by the window was mine. I set the hot cup of coffee down for safety. ‘That’s my chair,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘He has the sofa.’
Miranda’s eyes widen dramatically, and her mouth forms a perfect O shape. ‘He’s a writer, Nelly. The view out the window will inspire his books. For goodness’ sake, show the poor man some kindness. He’s in a dark, creative time.’
‘I made it clear last night that the chair is mine.’
She gestures towards the romance display table. ‘Oliver is an international best-selling author who has been struggling for some time to write. You need to do all you can to help him create those wonderful romance books of his.’
‘Oliver has a desk in his bedroom. If he’s desperate to write, he can do it in there.’
With a flutter of her false eyelashes, she offers me a saccharine smile and tilts her head in a patronising way. ‘If I were in my thirties, single and sharing a flat with Oliver, I would do whatever he wanted.’ Her eyes brighten and she giggles like a lovesick teenager.
I can’t listen to this. Grabbing my coffee, I go and calm down in the science fiction and fantasy section. It takes a good hour of shelf tidying to bury my agitation over Oliver James wanting to use my chair.
As I tidy up the display table, I sense someone staring at me. Looking up, I see a young man with black curly hair and blue eyes, wearing designer glasses with thick, square frames. A feeling of familiarity washes over me. I recognise him from somewhere. A friendly smile breaks out across his face. ‘Penelope Blake,’ he gushes. ‘It’s you. Wow – I didn’t expect to find you here.’
I blink several times. He knows my old name. My brain frantically tries to remember who he is.
‘We were at the old swimming club together. Our mothers used to sit next to each other when they watched us train,’ he beams. ‘Don’t you remember me – Henry Stevens?’
I can feel my eyes widening with surprise. My mind has become awash with memories of Henry, the skinny little lad who was my friend at the swimming club and gave me his sweets after training. We used to laugh and fool around when the coaches weren’t looking. I remember Henry left before my world turned upside down. ‘Henry? Is that you?’
‘Yes, it’s me. Do you remember eating all my sweets?’
I giggle. ‘My dentist and I both blame you for my boiled sweet addiction.’
He laughs. ‘We would sit in the sports centre café before training, and you used to hide my bag. I would then get in trouble for being late.’
‘You gave me unnecessary feedback on my crawl stroke.’
He grins. ‘My mum said you were a bad influence.’
We both chuckle. ‘How are you doing?’ I ask. ‘You moved away – right?’
