Love...Maybe Page 19

  ‘Well, hi there.’ He gives me a lazy grin. ‘Nothing like an impromptu pyjama party, is there? I take it you’re not from the cleaning agency?’

  The sudden silence is complete and utter bliss. But to my horror, I suddenly feel close to tears.

  ‘No, I am not your bloody cleaner.’ My voice is dangerously shaky. ‘I’m staying in the flat below, I’ve got a stinking cold and Barry Manilow has been torturing me for two hours solid. If I hear ‘Mandy’ one more time, I will not be responsible for my actions. Okay?’

  ‘Oh.’ His face tenses. I can almost see the man-thought-bubble above his head: Help! Hormonally challenged female alert!

  But instead of backing off, he actually takes a step towards me. ‘Can I help at all? Apart from ejecting Barry, obviously.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Anything I can get you? Painkillers? Hot toddy? A lifetime subscription to Noise Pollution Weekly?’

  In spite of everything, I laugh. ‘Even a glossy magazine and a massive bar of CDM wouldn’t do the trick today.’

  ‘CDM?’ He looks mystified.

  ‘Cadbury’s Dairy Milk?’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ He nods, as if it’s incredibly important. ‘I’ve got none of that, I’m afraid. Isn’t Rufus at home?’

  ‘He’s away. At a conference.’

  Tears prick my eyes. Pressure is building in my throat. Oh God, what if I break down right here?

  ‘Sorry, got to go,’ I mutter, before fleeing back down the stairs.

  It’s not just feeling so grotty that’s making me emotional. Or even my confrontation with an unexpectedly sympathetic Tarzan lookalike.

  It’s the thought of that photo.

  I take a big shaky breath. Perhaps the picture found its way into the drawer by accident. Because these things happen. And there’s absolutely no reason to imagine anything more sinister, is there? I give my nose a huge blow, which echoes wincingly loudly in the cavernous stairwell, and reach for the doorknob.

  Closed.

  And it’s a Yale lock.

  Eek!

  Desperately, I rummage through my pockets.

  Several hardened tissues and a hair tie. But otherwise, empty.

  Slowly, I turn my back to the wall and slide down it, exhausted, picturing the key sitting smugly on the hall table.

  Dropping my chin on my knees, I stare hopelessly at the wrought-iron banister.

  What now?

  One thing’s for sure. I will not be running back upstairs to beg for help from Rudolph Knickers. It’s just not my way.

  But how …?

  Five minutes later, I’m picking my way in bare feet across the frosty grass at the back of the building, hugging my dressing gown around me and wishing to God I’d paused to get dressed before storming out to tackle the Barry problem.

  Yes!

  The tiny bathroom window is still open a crack after Rufus’s early morning shower.

  I lean up and push it wider, frowning at the smallness of the gap. People call me ‘petite’ – I’m five foot two – but it’s not the length of me that’s the issue here. Honestly. Where’s your bodycon dress when you need to be a torpedo? And how do I get up there in the first place? I need something to stand on …

  There’s a shout from above.

  ‘Doing a spot of gardening? Bit nippy for that, isn’t it?’

  I breathe a heavy sigh.

  Great. I’ve been spotted by comedy Tarzan.

  Smashing. Could this day get any better?

  When I don’t answer, he loses interest and disappears.

  I drag Rufus’s bin over to the window and size it up, wondering how to mount it. Luckily it’s full, so it should be fairly stable. I start by placing my hands on the top, either side, and sort of sliding on, ’til I’m spread-eagled across the top. Now, if I can just get – very carefully – into a kneeling position … whoa! Wobble alert!

  ‘Could you do with some help there?’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of long, muscular legs in washed out blue jeans.

  I grit my teeth. ‘No, thank you. I’m fine. I just need to get up on this bin and then I’ll be through the window in a jiffy.’

  I’m hoping he’ll go away. But when I flick a sideways glance, he’s still standing there, arms folded, watching me with a patronising smile, just waiting for me to come a cropper. And my intricate manoeuvring is now further complicated by the fact that I have to keep stopping my robe from riding up and treating him to an unfettered view of – well, everything.

  ‘There’s something you should know,’ he says.

  ‘What? That I’m going to make a complete hash of this?’ Nerves make me far more waspish than I mean to be. But I’m on a knife-edge here, can’t he see? ‘Please don’t interfere, okay? I’m going to do this.’ All by myself!

  He shrugs and mercifully shuts up.

  Somehow I manage to rise, very gingerly, from a kneeling position. Then I balance on the bin lid, arms outstretched like I’m auditioning for Kate Winslet’s part in Titanic. I’ll show him I’m not some pathetic girly girl who can’t deal with life head-on!

  It’s all going very nicely.

  Then I make the fatal error of flashing him a smug, well-what-do-you-think-about-that? sort of look.

  Bad move.

  He’s standing there, arms folded, feet planted firmly on solid earth like his legs are great historical oak trees needing to be saved or something. He’s still smiling, but there’s a definite hint of admiration in those deep blue eyes.

  For some reason, I’m covered in confusion and I get a serious wobble on.

  Then before I know what’s happening, I feel myself gripped round the thighs. And in one breath-catching second, I’m thrust onto his shoulder and he’s hoisting me up, level with the window.

  Panting, I scrabble my upper body through the gap. And that’s when I hit a snag.

  Oh God.

  Wedged.

  The shame of it.

  Breathing in desperately, I try to wriggle forwards but it’s no use.

  ‘Push me.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Push me!’

  I close my eyes at the sheer indignity as two large hands make contact with my rear end. He inserts me firmly through the hole, like one of those plastic shapes in a toddler’s early learning game.

  I grope for the toilet seat (mercifully in the ‘down’ position) and he holds onto my legs until I shout that it’s okay to let me go.

  Then I stand on the toilet seat and lean out of the window to mutter an awkward thanks. I’m starting to feel terrible for taking my bad mood out on a perfectly innocent, well-meaning guy. I wouldn’t have got in the flat if it hadn’t been for him.

  ‘Hey, no problem.’ He waves cheerily. ‘But why not ask for the spare key next time? Much easier and less chance of getting wedged.’

  That’s when I realise he’s not waving at all. He’s actually dangling something.

  Presumably Rufus’s ‘in case of emergency’ key.

  Flushing to the roots of my hair, I duck back in and slam the window shut.

  Next moment, the bell goes.

  I could pretend I’m out. But I’m guessing it’s Tarzan and there’s no fooling him.

  I yank open the door. ‘You could have told me you had a spare key.’

  ‘I did try.’ He grins sheepishly. ‘But you seemed hell-bent on proving something and I didn’t want to stand in your way. I’m Alex, by the way.’

  I stare at the hand he’s offering.

  ‘Miranda.’ I reach out to shake it. ‘I’m having a bad day. Sorry.’

  ‘And I made it much worse by blaring my music.’

  ‘Yes. What’s with the Barry Manilow, anyhow?’

  ‘Not mine. It was here when I arrived.’ He grins and leans against the door frame, arms folded. ‘After a long shift, I find blasting it out strangely therapeutic. But don’t tell anyone.’

  ‘There’s no accounting for taste. I assumed you were a
bored, menopausal housewife.’

  He laughs. It’s a deep, rich sound that cheers me instantly. ‘Well, I’m perfectly at ease with my feminine side.’

  A vision of Alex’s toned, muscled and decidedly un-feminine body slides into my head, rendering me temporarily wordless.

  ‘Look, I’ve got cold remedies upstairs if you need them,’ he says.

  ‘Oh. No, you’re all right.’ My cheeks feel uncomfortably warm. ‘I mean, I’m all right.’ I laugh a little awkwardly.

  ‘Right, well.’ He straightens up. ‘If you need anything, just knock.’

  After he’s gone, I feel strangely restless.

  I don’t feel ill enough to go to bed. So I wander around Rufus’s artfully bare living room, then collapse onto the sofa and stare for a long time at a huge watercolour of a big black circle on a white background. It’s probably symbolic of the way our planet’s going if we’re not careful. Or something like that.

  Suddenly realising I’m freezing, I go in search of the thermostat to turn up the heat. But no matter what combination of buttons I press, it always zips back to seventeen-and-a-half degrees. No doubt a magic number, arrived at by Rufus after much thought and experimentation into energy consumption.

  I sigh and go in search of a rug and my book. I’d forgotten Rufus doesn’t have a TV. He’s of the firm opinion that watching too much television turns our brains to mush. I’m sure he’s got a point but what’s life without the soaps? I sigh once more at my serious lack of vision. Why do I always feel so lowbrow and ignorant compared to Rufus? Actually, he’s so incredibly principled and smart, he probably makes most people feel that way.

  I try to get into my book, but for some reason, I’m finding it impossible to concentrate. My nose is completely blocked, my head feels like it’s full of wadding and I keep shivering one minute and sweating the next.

  I wish I’d taken Alex up on his kind offer of a cold remedy.

  During the long afternoon, I call Rufus twice. But on both occasions, his phone goes straight to voicemail.

  When I hang up the second time, I decide there’s not much point being there. With Rufus away and the flat really not much warmer than mine (despite my cranky heating system), I suddenly long to be tucked up in my own bed, watching crap TV.

  Decision made, I get up to pack. And at that moment there’s a rap on the door. Shaking out my hair and pinching some colour into my cheeks, I go to answer it.

  There’s no one there. But on the doormat lies a copy of my favourite glossy magazine and a huge bar of CDM.

  I stare at them and my heart does a little swoop of pleasure.

  Alex.

  He must have gone out specially to get them for me.

  I feel stupidly, giddily grateful. I’ve got to thank him. It’s only polite.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’ He looks genuinely pleased to see me at his door. ‘Don’t worry. It’s Kings of Leon this time. I trust that’s acceptable?’

  ‘Very.’ I nod my approval. ‘Listen, I just wanted to thank you.’

  He smiles and ushers me in. ‘It was the least I could do, having single-handedly ruined your day. Coffee? Hot lemon?’

  My cheeks are glowing instantly with the warmth blasting out from the heating system. Rufus would say it was extremely wasteful of resources. Perhaps I should point out to Alex that if we all did our bit and kept the thermostat down a few notches …?

  Oh, bugger it.

  I’ll just enjoy the sensation of being properly warm for the first time today.

  ‘Have a seat.’ I can hear him moving around in the kitchen. ‘I’m making lasagne. Would you like some?’

  I slip off my shoes and curl up on the giant, squashy sofa.

  Hmmm. Dilemma.

  Do I stay in Rufus’s cold, bare flat, have a boiled egg for tea and go to bed at nine o’clock? Or do I sink deeper into this gloriously comfy sofa, in this cosy and colourful (but rather chaotic) flat, while Alex makes me coffee then cooks lasagne for dinner? (I could always go vegetarian tomorrow.)

  ‘That’s really nice of you,’ I call back. ‘I’ll stay. If you don’t mind.’

  He brings in the coffee, then drapes himself across the armchair opposite with his own mug and studies me.

  ‘So I haven’t actually asked,’ he says, reaching over to pick a cushion off the floor and throw it onto the sofa. ‘How do you know Rufus?’

  The directness of his question takes me by surprise and, for some reason, I find myself blushing.

  ‘We met when he was handing out leaflets in a campaign to stop airport expansion. And we’ve been together ever since. Five months in all.’

  ‘Great.’ Alex nods cheerily. ‘He’s certainly an – interesting guy.’

  I smile. ‘Yes, he is. I guess most of us would like to think we could change the world. Make a difference. But Rufus actually gets out there and does it. I don’t know where he gets the energy.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t know the guy that well but he certainly seems switched on about the environment.’

  ‘Oh yes, he is.’ I smile, feeling a surge of pride. ‘There’s not much he doesn’t know about protecting the planet. He’s out of my league, really. To be truthful, I’m not actually sure what he sees in me.’

  Alex looks as if he’s about to say something. Then he changes his mind and lopes off to the kitchen to stir a pan.

  ‘How’s his conference?’ he shouts through.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Hasn’t he called, then?’

  ‘No, but he’ll be busy. He’ll phone me when he has the time.’

  There’s silence from the kitchen, which irritates me ever so slightly.

  ‘We’re not the kind of couple who need to live in each other’s pockets,’ I call after a while. ‘I’d absolutely hate that.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. As long as the trust is there, of course.’

  I frown in the direction of the kitchen. What’s he driving at? I’m getting the niggling impression he’s not overly keen on Rufus, but I really can’t imagine why.

  Actually, now I think about it, Alex reminds me a little of Bone-Idle Ben. His place was always a bit of a tip, with books and clothes strewn everywhere because he couldn’t be bothered to tidy up. I wander into the kitchen with my empty cup.

  ‘Rufus believes in eating roadkill whenever he can,’ I murmur, glancing into the pan of minced beef Alex is stirring.

  He laughs. ‘Does he? Wow. Good for him. And do you – erm – enjoy plucking pheasants and the like?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t do it. I leave that up to Rufus. To be honest, it would put me off my food if I had to eat something that had been squashed to death on the road,’ I admit, thinking how shallow I sound.

  He nods. ‘Give me nice cellophaned packs of meat from the supermarket any day. Pass the pepper mill, will you? Are you any good at making cheese sauce?’

  ‘Absolutely brilliant,’ I say solemnly, without missing a beat.

  He laughs and supplies me with a pan and the ingredients, and I set to work, grating cheese and singing along to Kings of Leon.

  Alex peers into my pan and nods approvingly. ‘I sometimes heat up leftovers and have them for breakfast. Does that count as recycling?’

  I shake my head. ‘The energy you use in the reheating process cancels out all the benefits.’ (It’s amazing what you can come up with off the top of your head.)

  ‘Damn. Never mind. Here’s a fascinating fact, though.’ He turns to face me, wooden spoon aloft, and says, ‘Did you know that standing on one leg while eating dinner can help save the earth’s valuable resources?’

  ‘Really.’ I throw him a sceptical look.

  ‘No, honestly, it works. I tried it. You eventually fall over, have to be hospitalised, and Bob’s your uncle. Flat’s empty. No heating required.’

  I start to laugh. Then I feel bad because I’m being disloyal to Rufus.

  ‘These are a waste, though,’ I say seriously, pointing at the empty supermarket bags lying on the coun
ter. ‘I hope you recycle them.’

  I have this sudden urge to defend Rufus and his principles to Alex. Although I’m not sure I like how prim and stern – and smugly superior – I sound. Just like Rufus! (I quickly bat away this rogue thought.)

  ‘Ouch. You’ve got me there.’ Alex gives me a sideways grin and grinds pepper into the lasagne sauce. ‘I do my best to recycle but it’s probably not enough. I promise I’ll try harder with the bags in future.’

  He takes my criticism so well, I have to smile.

  ‘Mate of mine’s great at saving water.’ He empties a can of tomatoes into the pan and gives it a rough stir. ‘He wears his boxers four days in a row. Forwards one day, backwards the next, then inside out for two more.’

  ‘Oh, ha flippin’ ha! I expect he saves on aerosols as well by not bothering to use them.’

  Alex nods. ‘He smells a bit but at least he gets two seats to himself on trains.’

  ‘Have you really got a mate who does that?’ I ask curiously.

  ‘What do you think?’

  I shake my head.

  His smile is infectious. I know he’s gently taking the mick out of Rufus and all he stands for but I can’t help finding it funny.

  Over lasagne with excellent home-made garlic bread and green salad, we continue the environmental theme – and he tells me about this amazing eco-bra he’s thinking of developing.

  ‘It’s got a huge amount of potential,’ he says, sloshing red wine into my glass.

  I take a swig. ‘When you say “huge”, are you talking DD or even larger?’

  He wags a finger at me. ‘Now, now. Don’t get clever. This is serious.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ I sober up, playing along.

  ‘So anyway, this bra has tiny wires running through it that produce energy from the bouncing motion of the breasts.’ He mimics the action to give me a clearer picture. ‘Cunning, eh?’

  ‘Devastatingly brilliant.’ I raise my glass. ‘Why not insert an inbuilt pocket for a mobile, then when you’re out jogging’ – I repeat the bouncing boobies action – ‘you can simultaneously be charging your phone?’

  ‘Wicked.’ He nods slowly as if he’s considering it.

  We’re having such a laugh that next time I look at the clock it’s after eleven.