Promised - Page 6/61

We roamed, we sat, we drank good coffee, we roamed some more, we had lunch, we drank more good coffee and we roamed again, finally falling through the front door late Saturday evening with a fish and chip supper from the local chippy. Then on Sunday, I helped Nan stitch together the patchwork quilt that she’s been making for a soldier based in Afghanistan. She has no idea who he is, but the local oldies group all have pen pals out there, and Nan thought it’d be nice if hers had something to keep him warm . . . in the desert.

‘Have you got the sun tucked away in your socks, Livy?’ Nan asks as I walk into the kitchen ready for work on Monday morning.

I look down at my new canary-yellow Converse and smile. ‘Don’t you love them?’

‘Wonderful!’ she laughs, placing my bowl of cornflakes on the breakfast table. ‘How’s your knee?’

Sitting down, I tap my leg and pick up my spoon. ‘Perfect. What are you doing today, Nan?’

‘George and I are going to the market to buy lemons for your cake.’ She places a pot of tea on the table and loads my mug with two sugars.

‘Nan, I don’t take sugar!’ I try to swipe the mug from the table, but my grandmother’s old hands work way too fast.

‘You need fattening up,’ she insists, pouring the tea and pushing it across the table to me. ‘Don’t argue with me, Livy. I’ll put you over my knee.’

I smile at her threat. She’s promised it for twenty-four years and never followed through. ‘You can get lemons at the local store,’ I point out casually, plunging my spoon into my mouth to stop me from saying more. I could say so much more.

‘You’re right.’ Her old navy eyes flick to me briefly before she slurps her tea. ‘But I want to go to the market and George said he’d take me. We’ll speak no more of it.’

I’m desperately holding back my grin, but I know when to shut up. Old George is so fond of Nan, but she’s really quite short with him. I don’t know why he sticks around to be bossed about. She plays all hard-hearted and uninterested, but I know George’s fondness for her is quietly returned. Gramps has been gone for seven years and George could never replace him, but a little companionship is good for Nan. Losing her daughter sent her into dark depression, but Granddad took care of her, suffering in silence for years, silently coming to terms with his own loss and hiding his own grief until his body gave in. Then there was just me – a teenager left to hold it together . . . which I didn’t do a very good job of in the early days.

She starts to top up my bowl with more flakes. ‘I’m going to Monday club at six, so I won’t be home when you get in from work. Can you sort your supper out?’

‘Of course,’ I say, holding my hand over my bowl to stop the flow of cornflakes. ‘Is George going, too?’

‘Livy,’ she warns sternly.

‘Sorry.’ I smile as I’m attacked by annoyed eyes, and she shakes her head, her grey curls swishing around her ears.

‘It’s a very sad situation when I socialise more than my granddaughter.’

Her words kill my smile. I’m not getting into this. ‘I need to go to work.’ I stand and dip to kiss her cheek, ignoring her sigh.

*

I jump down from the bus, dodging people as I hurry through the chaos of rush-hour pedestrian traffic. My mood reflects the colour of my Converse – bright and sunny, as does the weather.

After navigating through the back streets of Mayfair, I push my way into the bistro, finding it jam-packed already, just like it was last Monday when I started working for Del. I don’t have time to chat with Sylvie or apologise to Del again for the fiasco on Friday. My apron is thrown at me, and I swing into action, immediately clearing four tables of empty cups before the vacated seating is snapped up by more arriving customers. I smile, deliver quickly and clear the tables even faster. I really am a natural at this service-with-a-smile business.

Come five o’clock, my yellow Converse aren’t feeling so bright any more. My feet are aching, my calves are aching, and my head is aching. But I still smile when Sylvie slaps my backside as she passes me. ‘You’ve only been here a week and I already don’t know what I’d do without you.’

My smile widens as I watch her push through the swing door into the kitchen, but it soon falls away when I turn and come face to face with him again. I’m not particularly big on fate or things happening for a reason. I believe that you’re the master of your own destiny – your own decisions and actions are what influence your life course. But unfortunately, the decisions and actions of others impact this course, too, and sometimes you’re powerless to prevent it. Maybe that’s why I’ve closed myself off from the world – shut myself away and rejected any person, potential situation, or possibility that may take the control away from me. I’m perfectly happy admitting it to myself. Someone else’s poor, selfish choices have already affected my life too much. What I’m not happy about is my sudden inability to continue with my sensible strategy, probably when it’s most important that I do.

And the reason for this lapse in strength is standing in front of me.

The familiar feeling of my heartbeat increasing should tell me all I need to know, and it does. I’m attracted to him – really attracted to him. But what’s he doing here? He hated my coffee, and while I’ve been making endless perfect cups of the stuff all day long, I suspect that may change now.

He’s just staring at me again. I should be annoyed but I’m in no position to ask him what the hell he’s looking at because I’m staring at him, too. He’s displaying his usual impassive expression. Can he smile? Does he have bad teeth? He looks like he has perfect teeth. Everything I can see is perfect, and I know that everything I can’t will be, too. He’s dressed in a three-piece suit again, this one navy, making his blue eyes brighter. He looks as perfect and as expensive as ever.

I need to speak. This is silly, but it takes Sylvie to swing the kitchen door into my back to knock me out of my trance. ‘Oh!’ she exclaims, steadying me by clenching my arm. She scans my startled face, worried when I don’t respond or make any effort to move. Then her gaze shifts and her mouth gapes a little. ‘Oh . . . she whispers, releasing her grip, her eyes flicking from me to him. ‘I’ll just . . . um . . . empty the bins.’ She deserts me, leaving me to serve him. I want to yell for her to come back, but once again, my tongue is tied and I’m bloody staring.

He braces his hands on the counter, leaning forward, and that lock of hair falls onto his forehead, diverting my eyes just north of his. ‘You’re watching me very closely,’ he murmurs.

‘You’re watching me, too,’ I point out, finding my tongue. He’s really watching me. ‘You’re not doing very well at keeping away.’

He doesn’t entertain my observation. ‘How old are you?’ His gaze drags slowly down my body before returning to my eyes. I don’t answer, but I do frown as his eyebrow arches expectantly. ‘I asked you a question.’

‘Twenty-four,’ I answer quickly, when I really wanted to tell him to mind his own damn business.

‘Are you involved with anyone?’

‘No.’ I stun myself with my willing answer. I always claim to be in a relationship when any man shows his interest. It’s like I’m under a spell.

He nods thoughtfully. ‘Are you going to ask me what I’d like?’

By that I’m hoping he means what he’d like to drink. Or am I? Does he want to pick up where we left off? I start twisting the antique sapphire eternity ring that Granddad bought for Nan, an obvious sign of my nerves. It’s been in the exact spot for three years after Nan gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday and has been a source of twiddling ever since. ‘What would you like?’ My confidence of Friday night is nowhere to be found. I’m a wreck.

His piercing blues seem to darken slightly. ‘An Americano, four shots, two sugars and topped up halfway.’

I’m stabbed by disappointment, which is ridiculous. What’s also ridiculous is that he’s returned after claiming my coffee was the worst he’d ever tasted. ‘I thought you didn’t like my coffee.’

‘I didn’t.’ He pushes himself away from the counter. ‘But I’d like to give you the chance to redeem yourself, Livy.’

My cheeks heat.

‘Would you like to try to redeem yourself?’ He’s completely poker-faced, totally serious.

I should search deep to find that bad bone that Nan keeps telling me about and tell him where to go, but I don’t search very hard. ‘Okay,’ I say instead, turning towards the wretched coffee machine that I know is going to let me down. I would undoubtedly do a better job if I wasn’t under such close scrutiny.

Sending a little mental prayer to the coffee gods, I start with the first of four shots, working hard to regulate my broken breathing. I undertake my task slowly and accurately, not caring if it takes me all night. Stupidly, I want him to enjoy this one.

In my peripheral vision, I see Sylvie’s curious head pop through the swing door, and I know she’s desperate to know what’s going on. I can feel her grinning, even if I can’t see it. I’d like her to come out and break the awkward silence, give me someone comfortable to speak to, but I also don’t want her to. I want to be alone with him. I’m drawn to him, and I absolutely cannot help it.

When I’m done, I top up his takeaway cup and secure a lid before turning to deliver it to him. He’s sitting down again, and I immediately realise my error. He’s not even tasted it and I’ve already cocked up.

He focuses his blues on the cardboard cup, but I speak before he does. ‘Would you like a proper cup?’

‘I’ll take the takeaway.’ His eyes lift to mine. ‘It might taste better.’ He’s not smiling, but I get the feeling he wants to.

Walking carefully, even though the risk of spilling is minimal with a lid, I approach him and hold out the cup. ‘I hope you enjoy.’

‘So do I,’ he says, taking it and nodding at the sofa opposite. ‘Join me.’ He removes the lid and slowly blows the steam from his coffee, his already kissable lips seeming to invite me in. Everything he does with that mouth is slow – from talking to blowing steam from hot coffee. It’s all so very deliberate, and it makes me wonder what else would be. He’s beyond beautiful, if a little stand-offish. He must turn heads everywhere he goes.

He cocks a brow and indicates the sofa opposite again. My legs move forward of their own volition to take a seat. ‘How is the coffee?’ I ask.

He takes a slow sip of his Americano, and I find myself tensing, bracing for him to spit it out. He doesn’t. He nods in approval, taking another sip, and I relax, stupidly relieved that he doesn’t seem disgusted. His eyes lift. ‘You may have noticed that I’m quite fascinated by you as well.’

‘As well?’ I ask, confused.

‘It’s rather obvious you’re fascinated by me.’

What an arrogant prick. ‘I suppose lots of women must be fascinated by you,’ I retort. ‘Do you invite them all for coffee?’

‘No, just you.’ He leans closer and the look in his eyes practically takes my breath away. I’ve never been the subject of such intense focus. It’s too much.

I break the eye contact and find myself looking away, but then I remember something and force myself to confront his intensity. ‘Who was that woman at the party?’ I ask, not the least bit embarrassed to enquire. He came right out and asked me what my relationship status is, so I have every right to know his. She looked far too familiar to be a business associate. I’m not holding my breath, but I’m still hoping he is single. The idea that this man is available is ridiculous, and so is the fact that I want him be – I want him to be available . . . for me.