Page 88 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

Several pairs of those expensive shoes had sat alongside her more ordinary footwear on the rack a few years ago.

Looking up, she found herself staring into the face of her ex-husband, Si.

34

‘What d’you want, Si?’

‘I thought we might go for a drink.’

A drink? After all this time? He’d never contacted her once since their divorce. Not so much as a Christmas card.

She wanted to say no, but then she never had been able to say no to Si. Instead, she said, ‘I don’t think so.’

She stepped past him, intent on walking on towards the station, but he caught hold of her arm and pulled her back. ‘One drink, Jo. What harm could it do?’

She looked at his face. His deep-brown eyes, chiselled jaw, impossibly long lashes. There was still something boyish about him and he was undeniably attractive. And his clothes – she’d forgotten how stylish he was. But he was, she thought now, a little too perfect. A little too groomed. As if he was an actor playing the role of ‘handsome man about town’.

‘Well…?’ he said impatiently.

He hadn’t changed then.

‘I have to get home.’

‘Come on. For old times’ sake.’

‘No, Si,’ she said. She pulled her arm out of his grasp and fought the urge to punch the air with it. No, Si. She had actually said no to him.

Something in the air shifted between them. Si said, ‘Aren’t you a little bit curious to talk to me again after all these years?’ and his tone had softened. It was less demanding now – more cajoling.

And she had to admit that she was curious. Why had he sought her out now after all this time? What did he want? Because he had to want something. He wouldn’t randomly tip up in her life, not after so long.

‘No, Si,’ she said again, relishing how good it felt to say no to him. ‘I told you, I have to get home. I have to ring Gemma.’

‘Gemma!’ He sneered. ‘Okay, fine. Although it seems a shame when I’ve come here to see you. And you do look like you could use a drink. Bad day in the office?’

He always had been able to read her moods, she thought. It was one reason why he’d been able to manipulate her so easily in the past. And he was right; she could use a drink. If she just went home now, she’d spend the entire evening either brooding on what had happened at work or wondering what Si had wanted.

‘One drink,’ she heard herself saying. ‘And I mean it, Si. One drink.’

‘Fine by me. I know a little place…’

‘No, Si. I’ll choose where we go.’

She was surprised by how assertive she sounded. Si looked surprised too, but he acquiesced and said, ‘Sure, Jo. Whatever you like.’

She led him to Wetherspoons on Deansgate. Partly because it was on her way to the station, but mainly because she knew he’d hate it; he was a snob, was Si. The kind of man who prided himself on never setting foot in a ’Spoons. Probably too worried about the leather soles of his precious Loakes getting tarnished on the sticky carpet.

‘Mind that patch,’ she said as they walked towards the bar. ‘I think someone’s spilled their beer.’

They hadn’t, but she enjoyed the frown on Si’s face, the way he steered clear of the spot she’d indicated. What had got into her? She wasn’t normally like this.

‘So why now, Si?’ she said, when he’d bought their drinks and they’d settled themselves in a quiet corner. ‘After all this time.’

He looked like a fish out of water. For the first time in all the years she’d known him, she sensed that she was more comfortable than he was. It was a delicious feeling, one to be savoured. All those times he’d taken her to places that were a bit too posh, a bit too upmarket, and she’d sat there, conscious that her clothes weren’t quite right and she didn’t know what to say.

‘There was an article,’ he said, ‘in the Yorkshire Post. You ran a little event. I read it and thought it would be lovely to catch up.’

‘It wasn’t a little event,’ she said. ‘It was a festival. A Scrabble festival.’