Page 15 of Second Chances at the Board Game Café

He hadn’t wanted to be railroaded – damn, he was doing it himself now – into a hasty decision, but it seemed her mind was made up, so he’d nodded and said sadly, ‘Very well, if that’s what you want.’

That seemed to annoy her, as if she’d wanted him to put up a fight. She’d launched into a ferocious verbal attack on him, telling him it was all his fault.

When she’d calmed down, he’d said, ‘Have you finished letting off steam?’

Then he’d asked if she’d been using him, if all along she had just wanted him to sort out her house and garden.

No, she’d assured him. There had been attraction. Initially, at least.

That had been some consolation, he thought now as he turned left into his street and began to rummage in his pocket for his key. His time with Fay had been the closest he’d ever come to a proper relationship, and life without her felt empty. He’d always liked routines, but this had become more extreme, as he tried to fill every second of his time to assuage his loneliness. He played board games on a Thursday, went to rail museums on a Saturday and spent the rest of the week, when he wasn’t at work, redesigning his model railway in the dining room. He made perfect little trees made out of cocktail sticks and green kitchen scouring pads, and he created rolling hills and tunnels for his trains to pass through, and even a golf course with real sand in the tiny bunkers. All the while he pushed away the thought that he’d never meet anyone. He’d never be a husband. Never be a dad.

Harry unlocked the door, and stepped into his hallway. That was one of the worst things about living alone: coming home to an empty house. No-one called out, ‘Have you had a good evening?’ or went to put the kettle on.

But in general, he’d resigned himself to his single state. Perhaps people like him weren’t cut out for relationships. He wasn’t confident about his looks, but it was more than that. He didn’t know how to be charming. He lacked the confidence to chat up a woman. He winced, remembering his pathetic attempt to talk to that beautiful seamstress in the queue in the board game café. He’d asked her about the flavoured syrups, of all things. What was wrong with him?

She’d said her name was Taylor, and he’d been about to say that that was such an appropriate name, considering what she did for a living. He’d been quite proud of that line, but then that suave chap in his flashy clothes had swept in, jumping the queue. Harry had watched him order another coffee, then hand over a tenner, before pocketing his change without putting anything in the tips jar. Then he’d steered Taylor the seamstress away with a practised hand in the small of her back.

‘Oh, Harry,’ Emily had said. ‘I think you’ve been gazumped.’

Harry took off his shoes now, still irritated as he recalled the man in the electric blue suit. He hung up his jacket – grey, like so many of his clothes – and remembered what the ornithologist had said about how many male birds had vivid plumage to help them attract a mate. Was the flashy blue suit the human equivalent of those brightly coloured feathers? Was that where Harry was going wrong?

Of course, it wasn’t only about the clothes. That chap could have been a male model with his well-defined cheekbones and his chiselled jaw and his perfect hair. No woman, especially not a woman like Taylor, was going to look twice at Harry with the likes of him around, but nevertheless, maybe it was time to rethink his wardrobe. For too long, he’d sought to blend into the background. If he was serious about meeting someone, perhaps he needed to give himself a makeover. The following Saturday, he decided, after his planned visit to the National Railway Museum, he would stop off at one of York’s gentleman’s outfitters.

8

Her first night in a real bed in a bedroom of her own for the first time in – how long had it been exactly? She couldn’t remember. Years, anyway. She imagined she’d have a long lie-in, sleep till ten at least. She’d suggested as much to Max, hoping to plant the seed of ‘Don’t wake Mum in the morning’.

But instead she woke at ten past six. She was buzzing. Buzzing because the house looked like a shop. Well, it had been a shop, so little wonder.

As a child, she’d been terrified at the thought of starting school, until she’d walked into the classroom on the very first day to see that the teacher had set up a little shop in one corner. Her nerves had evaporated, being instantly replaced by sheer joy at the thought of playing shop. That memory came back to her suddenly now, as that same sense of excitement began to course through her veins, and she knew exactly what she was going to do.

Her sewing business would no longer be hidden away in an upstairs flat. It would be on display, showing off her skills and perhaps even her creations, for passers-by to see.

She could picture it now, in her mind’s eye: her table in the window, with her trusty Janome sewing machine on top, and her tailor’s dummy beside it, dressed in different outfits each day to show off what she could do. She didn’t make many clothes these days – there wasn’t time – but she could display things from her own wardrobe. She’d make a sign, something subtle, outlining her services. Put bunting across the top of the window in a variety of colourful fabrics; she had loads of scraps left over from various projects and it wouldn’t take long to run up.

She wasn’t naïve enough to think that this set-up would suddenly transform her business from one of making curtains and replacing broken zips to a fully fledged dressmaking enterprise, but perhaps over time it would attract the occasional new customer to her door wanting her to make them a made-to-measure garment. Perhaps.

Suddenly Taylor couldn’t lie in bed a second longer; her legs felt restless, itchy almost. She wanted to get on with things, to put her ideas into action.

She donned her dressing gown and an old pair of slippers, and crept out onto the landing. Every floorboard she trod on seemed to creak more loudly than the last, and the stairs were as bad. Max was a light sleeper; it would be a miracle if he slept through this.

Sure enough, the kettle had barely boiled when a small voice said, ‘Mum,’ startling her from her daydreams about bunting and mannequins and a customer saying, ‘I don’t suppose you could run me up a dress in this fabric, could you? I don’t have a pattern, but I was thinking a fitted waist, flared skirt and sweetheart neckline.’

‘Morning, Max. How did you sleep in your new bedroom?’

‘I didn’t,’ he said grumpily.

Taylor’s excitement of a few moments earlier began to wane. ‘Why didn’t you come to me?’

He sighed. ‘You were happy about having your own bedroom. I didn’t think you’d want to share.’

‘Oh, Max.’ She looked at his sad little face as he stood in the doorway, his hair dishevelled, one pyjama leg rolled up above his knee, and the shirt half tucked in.

He’d taken the news about the move surprisingly well; she credited The Railway Children for that. She’d packed up all their stuff whilst he was at school, and hired a man with a van to shift everything, including their furniture, to the new house.

As Tarquin had promised, the place had had a bit of a makeover. The manky carpets and the rubbish from the backyard were gone. The whole place had had a coat of paint – bright white, unfortunately, which made it rather stark, but it would soon look homely, once she’d unpacked all their things. There was no sign of the mould, and the water stain on the kitchen ceiling had vanished too; Taylor just hoped they’d fixed the leaky pipe that had caused it. The whole house looked much better than when she’d viewed it, and she was certain she’d made the right decision to move here. The icing on the cake had been how well Max had coped with the whole thing.

‘Would you like a hug?’ she asked him now, hoping he’d say yes.