When I’d asked her Friday morning how she’d feel if I invited Alistair to hang out at with us at the food market on Saturday, her head had shot up from her iPad.
“Ali from next door?”
“If you want him to,” I’d said, already knowing her answer. Nearly five months of living a wall away and I hadn’t been able to work out my daughter’s fascination with him.
Maybe there was an ancient curse in my female bloodline, to always be drawn to atrocious men. Because it wasn’t my love of a clean house that suddenly had me washing the dishes every morning – eight a.m. on the dot – at the window that offered a perfect view of the dirt-track road where Alistair took his morning run.
He was a fine specimen of a man, that was my reason. I’d probably be just as distracted if Callum Macabe moved in next door. Well, maybe notjustas distracted – Callum didn’t wear round little glasses that slipped down his nose – but ninety per cent as distracted.
Teddy’s face had brightened. “I think Ali needs a friend. Maybe we could be his friends.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her there was more chance of an octopus crawling its way out of the sea and inviting itself to dinner than there was of Alistair and me becoming friends. Otherwise, I never would have agreed to this ridiculous scheme.
As it was, he made my stomach fizz like a can of shakenCoke. Could you imagine how bad it would be if I actually liked him? I’d never survive with my dignity intact.
We were too different. He was clever, successful and serious. Whereas my only goal was to make it through the day without sobbing in the bathroom.
Besides, I wasn’t sure he’d make a very good friend. He clearly had his own issues. But after what he’d confessed to me in the car, I respected him a little more. I understood wanting to make your own way in the world. And I believed he’d actually be committed to helping me win the Cairn & Crust competition, because it also helped him.
His goals were selfish, which was fine. If my twenty-eight years of life had taught me anything, it’s that men could be selfish in ways women rarely could be.No, I had enough selfish men in my life.
I’d only agreed to this for Teddy’s sake. I was already mentally spending the money in my mind. And yeah, maybe a small part of me hoped Cameron would see I was happy and thriving emotionally without him.
So, I’d just told Teddy, “Gotta get ready for work.”
I only worked a half-shift on Friday afternoons, so she came with me. She hadn’t seemed to mind my change of topic. “Can I bring my colouring book?”
Rounding the kitchen table, I’d smoothed her tangled curls. “Of course you can, sunshine.”
Daisy had decided to play ball and, despite the cooler weather, I’d wound the windows all the way down. Granny Pat always said Daisy was supposed to be driven windows down and music up. I was belting out a Madonna song that was older than Teddy and me put together, ignoring how close the petrol dial was to the empty line, when Teddy finally allowed herself a little smile but still refused to sing along. My heart squeezed.
It was enough. A tiny step in the right direction.
The end of my braid was damp from rain by the time I parked in the small gravel car park outside the village hall, and hid Teddy’s colouring book beneath my jacket as we ran down the high street, just in time to miss the torrential downpour that followed. Then, I set her up on a table in the back corner by the window, next to a group of hikers.
I tried not to bring Teddy to work with me too often during the school holidays. Too many bad memories of sitting on an uncomfortable bench in the pub where my mum worked, the smell of stale beer always lingering in my nose. I’d hated it. Even more so when I became a teenager. My body had quickly started to look like a woman’s and, while Mum was busy, drunk men would stray over to my table, notice I was doing homework, then try to chat me up anyway.
The thought that I was following in my mother’s footsteps kept me up at night.
My shift at Brown’s was moving at a snail’s pace. Out on the street, tourists made the most of the quick reprieves between rain showers, moseying between shops beneath the square saltire bunting that whipped in the wind like mini battle flags.
“What’s that yer keep looking at?” Jess lowered the binoculars she had pointed at Queen’s Cakes across the street.
“Nothing,” I said, dropping my phone below the counter, out of sight. Schooling my expression into something that read,I’m fully present in this conversation, not ogling my grumpy next-door neighbour, not at all.
I’d snuck more glances at Alistair’s photo in the past hour than I’d made coffees. When I’d requested a selfie the other night, never in a million years did I think he’d actually send one. He was far too serious for that. More likely towrite a strongly worded letter to the Oxford English Dictionary demanding the word be removed before he’d partake in such a trend.
I’d been metaphorically patting myself on the back for winning that round when the notification pinged throughthatphoto. I’d dropped the phone like a hot potato. He wasn’t smiling, obviously. But he’d been staring down the barrel of the camera like he could see into my soul. Lips firm, bare collarbones proud. Damp, messy hair that softened the hard edges of his face. I’d never seen him anything other than perfect and for some reason that single damp curl against his forehead made me want to shout through the wall:As an unbiased third party, trust me,you should always wear your hair this way.
Then I’d shoved my phone beneath my pillow, and rolled onto my side, only to pull it out thirty seconds later, using my thumb and index finger to zoom in on that curl until my eyes had memorised its exact circumference.
Maybe Heather was right, I just needed to have sex. Because a wet curl on the head of a man who’d been outwardly rude to me for months shouldn’t have tied my stomach in knots.
“Maybe yer should take some pictures of yer latte art again,” Jess suggested, lifting her binoculars once more, assessing the after-lunch line starting to form outside the new bakery. It was unnerving how far it already stretched down the street.
“If you think it will help,” I agreed, moving to the bean grinder and releasing the coffee into the portafilter. My rings clacked against metal as I poured the shot and began steaming the milk.
I really could use the practice. When I first started at Brown’s, it had been all about the cakes with a fairlystandardyou’ll take your coffee how we serve itmenu. I’d started the latte art one day purely out of boredom, following a YouTube tutorial, tongue between my lips as I followed the step by step on how to make a milk tulip. It had taken me a few days to get it right, then one of our customers had taken a picture and tagged us on her socials.
