“That’s true.” She hands me spray so I do the last parts of the counters.
“So … just … thank you. Is what I’m trying to say. She needs this.” She stops her fiddling hands and looks at me. “Thank you, Reilly.” Her face softens and the warmth I’ve been missing is back. Her gaze lingers on me as she steps into the back, turning lights off and ensuring everything is locked up.
“What are your birthday plans?” I call out to her.
“Not much, quiet dinner with Mum and Dorothy and a couple of drinks with the girls at the weekend. Probably at some horrendous bar or club,” she yells back from the kitchen. The thought of her out without me stabs me in the chest. I’ll organise table service in SkyLounge. If she’s going out I want to know she’s safe, and if I happen to be there, so be it.
My heart is beating at the idea of meeting her out and spending the night together. I’m trying to get my shit together but lose all composure when she steps back out into the shop. She’s wiped her face clear but her curls still wisp around her forehead. The room is dark but the lights from the fridge make her glow, and as she walks past me I get a breath of coconut which I feel inside me.
“Can I take you to dinner on Friday?” I blurt out.
She shuts her eyes as if she’s considering the implications of going for dinner with me. Her shoulders drop and she turns to face me head on. I can’t stop myself from tucking a stray hair behind her ear, cupping her face.
Would it be too forward to lean in and kiss her?It absolutely would.
The silence between us drags as I wait for her to gather her thoughts. She steps back, putting space between us so I have to drop my hand. It clenches at my side, begging to keep the warmth of her skin.
“Elton.” I don’t like that tone, that’s the tone of a rejection. “It’s not a good idea. It’s too complicated. I have no time for complicated right now.” She gathers her coat and folds it in front of her body, creating a shield between us. Squaring her shoulders, she holds herself proud as she says to me, “We don’t trust each other. And now, with Neive involved … I won’t put her in the middle of this. She’s been through enough. I’m sorry.”
I nod, understanding what she is saying. “No. I’m sorry. Stupid crap from my past got in my head.” My meltdown wasn’t unfounded. Well it was, but it isn’t unexplainable. “I’m not trying to make excuses, just explain myself. Look, we’ve both made our mistakes, and now we can move past them. I can’t stop thinking about you, Reilly. One dinner, so we can make sure we’ve truly given this a go.”
Reilly slowly shakes her head, but she can’t hide the regret and disappointment written across her face. Her eyes are screaming at me to not give up.
“Think about it, Reilly. I’m not willing to give up on this yet.” I lean down and place a soft kiss on her cheek.
Making our way out of the bakery, I check where her car is while she locks up. Only over the road, but still too far away in my opinion. I walk her to the car and open her door. She nods in thanks.
I watch her drive away as I pocket my hands and groan. When I get back in my own car, Neive is waiting with a sly smile on her face, sipping on a berry-red smoothie.
“Not a word,” I warn my niece.
“Reilly’s favourite flowers are dahlias,” she tells me. I nod my thanks but choose to say nothing.
I glance back at the bakery with its dilapidated sign and dirty window. Reilly deserves better. I could give her better. If only she would let me.
FOURTEEN
Reilly
I’ve always liked my birthday. I never feel the need to make a big fuss, but I enjoy the opportunity to reflect on the year and look at where I am in my life and where I’m going.
Mum and Dorothy wake me up with cake, as is tradition. Dorothy has been with us since I was a child, I couldn’t imagine life without her. After moving from London to Bournemouth with not a lot to our name, Mum found this little two-bed terrace house to rent just outside the city centre. The next day, when we were surrounded by the chaos of boxes and suitcases, Dorothy knocked on the door with a lasagne and Mum burst into tears.
“If you’re going to cry you can do it over a lasagne!” Dorothy had exclaimed. She helped herself into the flat and into our lives. She had recently turned fifty and at the time both her sons had gone to university, so she adopted us as her little family to care for.
Cake for breakfast started on my eighth birthday. We had been in Bournemouth six months, I was still the new kid in school, still trying to find the right friends. Not only that, I was also the one with a single mum. Nowadays, no one bats an eyelid but in the nineties very few kids had a single parent – there were always a few divorced parents but still both would normally be in the picture. And if they weren’t, it was known; not by kids, they didn’t know and didn’t care, but even at eight I could see the stares and the whispers at the school gates. I wouldn’t get out of bed. I had bundled myself into a makeshift fort on my bed and was refusing to go to school. I had a thing for theatrics as a child.
“If you’re going to be sad, you can be sad while you’re eating cake!” Dorothy said as she handed me and Mum forks. We sat in bed eating after blowing out my candles through tears, talking about my year and what my plans were as an eight-year-old.
I didn’t understand at the time. I was too young. I thought Mum had been the reason we moved away from my father, and it was her fault he couldn’t come to see me. How wrong I had been. I still remember Dorothy bursting into the room with a large bright pink cake covered in sprinkles and eight perfectly placed candles.
Things have changed a little since then. I can now get myself out of bed in the morning, and we are all a little more civilised at the little kitchen table, with cake on plates. Mum normally treats us to a bottle of champagne. But today, this champagne is a little more delicate and lacks the tang of the supermarket’s own brand we normally go for.
“You can thank your admirer for this and the large bunch of flowers.” She gestures to an obscene amount of purple dahlias next to the front door. I knew immediately who they were from. I’ve never seen anything like it. The petals are a dark maroon purple, and the heads are huge. They are my favourite, and onlya man like Elton would be able to find out-of-season flowers so quickly.
My heart aches. I can’t give in. He’s not right for me. Men like Elton are used to getting what they want. Throwing money around with no concept of what’s appropriate.
“I assume you will be accepting an invite to dinner on Friday with Mr Elton?” Dorothy says while reading the card that came with the flowers. I snatch it out of her hand as I try to hide my smile.
