‘All the time.’
‘I would have been a footman,’ he gushes, ‘Opening doors, carrying all the coal upstairs and cleaning the silverware.’
I smile. ‘I would have been in my scullery maid era, scrubbing the floors and washing dishes.’
He chuckles. ‘I would be good at bowing and saying, “Yes, ma’am.” I also would have made sure you were doing your job properly.’
I giggle. ‘I would not take orders from you, Oliver.’
‘You would look good in one of those maid caps.’
‘Careful.’
‘Let’s talk about our favourite music,’ he says, changing the conversation. ‘I’m a huge Coldplay fan.’
‘Wow – me too,’ I say, in shock from behind the pillow wall. I can’t believe we like the same band.
An hour later, we are still talking across the pillow wall about albums and our favourite Coldplay songs. We have both agreed thatParachutesis our favourite comfort album; the song ‘Clocks’ is a timeless classic, and we had a lively debate about the best order for an imaginary Coldplay playlist.
Our Coldplay discussion comes to an end, which makes me feel sad. I hope we can carry on talking.
‘What shall we talk about now?’ he asks, making me feel like an excited child who has been allowed to stay up late.
This is an opportunity to find out more about him.
‘Miranda tells me your father lives in Cornwall…’ I remember her also telling me about his wealthy father and his playboy lifestyle.
‘Yes, Dad loves Cornwall. He and Mum used to go there a lot on holiday… before she got sick.’
‘I’m sorry, Oliver.’
‘She’s been gone a long time, but I still miss her a lot.’
Mum and Dad’s faces appear in my mind. ‘I can relate to that.’
‘It’s not easy losing a parent.’
‘How is your dad?’
Oliver chuckles. ‘Dad is doing great. He still can’t surf properly, and he’s terrible at paddleboarding, but he’s good. He does a lot of work for charity when he’s not working.’
‘Has he found anyone special?’
‘He says his marriage to Mum was enough for him. He has a lot of women who are friends, but there’s no one special.’
This is different from what Miranda told me. Perhaps relying on Miranda to tell me the truth about a situation is not a good idea.
‘It was Mum who got me into writing,’ explains Oliver. ‘She was a novelist.’
‘Really?’ I wasn’t expecting that.
‘She wrote under the pen name of Penny Groves.’
I stare in shock at the pillow wall. She was a prominent romance author in the nineties. I always noticed her book covers in shops when I went shopping with Mum. Penny wrote Regency romance, and her covers were always dramatic, showing a man on horseback rescuing a pretty woman in distress. Mum hated romance books and always mumbled things under her breath when I pointed them out to her.
‘Your mum was Penny Groves?’
‘Yes, that was her. When she died, I decided to carry on the family tradition of writing romance novels.’
