One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [171]
He crouched and spread the photos on the coffee table. I approached cautiously. All were of pale, new pieces of furniture – lime, perhaps: chairs, small tables, lamp bases, bowls, all in the same style, all with very clean lines. One or two of the smaller pieces were held by a girl.
‘You made these?’ I picked one up.
‘Yes, I told you in France,’ he said impatiently. ‘Also tried to interest you in a terrible old garnet ring, but, hey…’ he muttered in an undertone.
‘What?’ I frowned.
‘Nothing.’
I shook my head, confused.
‘I know you told me you were making things, but why didn’t you show me the pictures?’ I hadn’t really been listening, though. Had been thinking I looked so old compared to the girl. Me, me, me.
He shrugged. Shuffled them back together and stuffed them in his wallet. ‘Because they’re not as good as I’d like them to be. Yet.’
‘I think they’re very good.’
‘One or two are all right, but your standards are high, Hattie.’
I glanced up, surprised. There was an edge to his voice. It sounded like an accusation. Was he suggesting I’d be critical?
‘You’ve got years of experience in the trade. I’m just a new boy.’
‘Hey – not so many years!’ I joked, or tried to.
‘No, not so many. You’re thirty-nine.’
‘Yes.’ I said, taken aback. Thrown even.
‘And I’m thirty-two.’
I boggled. ‘Thirty-two? Are you? I thought you were much younger!’
‘I know.’ He gazed at me unblinking. Then he threw his head back and laughed: that glorious, abandoned throaty laugh. His eyes, when they came back to me were still amused. Quizzical. ‘How much younger?’
‘Well, twenties… late twenties at the most!’ I blustered, genuinely astonished. Seven years. Only seven years. Not so much, surely?
He leaned forward and parted his hair at the temples. ‘Grey – see?’
I peered. ‘A bit. But you’re blond; hardly shows. Not like me.’ I almost bent my head to part and display my own roots: thought better of it.
‘But… why didn’t you say?’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Well…’ I was flummoxed. ‘For obvious reasons! Women don’t – you know – advertise it.’
‘You didn’t want me to think I’d landed an old maid. And I didn’t want you to think I’d done nothing with my life.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’m thirty-two years old. I’ve got a stall off Camden Passage. What d’you think I mean?’
‘Oh, but…’
‘You’re only a few years older, but you’ve got a ritzy shop in Fulham, have had for ages. A proper business, written up in Interiors. You own your own house, I rent a room in Crouch End. We come from different backgrounds and mine has nothing to offer but a disabled sister.’
My mouth dropped in astonishment. ‘But you’re you!’ I wanted to add: all sort of blond and gorgeous and funny. Instead I spluttered stupidly ‘You’re Ivan!’
‘And you’re you. Smart and sophisticated and savvy and beautiful – you’re Hattie. With landed gentry at the Abbey. My mum runs a café.’
I felt overwhelmed. Here we were, the pair of us, with what felt like cupboards full of skeletons, rows of hangups, yet on opening the cupboard door, others might give it a once-over, a cursory nod and say, looks OK to me. I’ll take it.
Would he? Is that what he was saying? Would I do? And was he asking?
I felt my heart beat very fast, as if it were making a run for it. But I was afraid. I loved everything about this man. I loved the way he moved so effortlessly through life, striding on cheerfully in an uncomplicated manner. This little room seemed brighter already. When he’d gone, I knew I’d be back to carefully threading my way around it, avoiding invisible land mines, everything becoming much harder. I leaned back on the windowsill. He was perched on the arm of a chair. We regarded one another in silence.
At length I reached into my pocket.
‘I’ve just reread your text to me in France.’
‘The one you didn’t answer.’
‘Because I misread it. Some of it was missing. I didn’t know what it said. I glanced at it: ‘Got you a flight from Nice in hour. I’ll take back lorry. xx’ I raised my eyes slowly. ‘You’d do that for me? Drive