The Summer of Second Chances: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Maddie Please
it looks incredible in here,’ Bryn said as he put the crate down on the table. ‘You’ve done a great job. You’ll have the place ship-shape in no time. Very nice.’
‘Gorgeous,’ I said, looking at the muscles in his arms. ‘I mean, this cottage could be gorgeous. Actually it’s been rather enjoyable. Cleaning the kitchen. I didn’t think I’d ever say that but – well, I’m rather pleased with it so far.’
‘You’re working wonders,’ he said and I felt a disproportionate sense of pride. I had worked wonders, and I’d done it on my own too, at no cost.
I felt a bit silly and fluttery and quite lightheaded, but that might have been because I hadn’t really eaten anything since the grim breakfast sandwich.
He turned round and I quickly began to put things away.
‘Thanks,’ I said, lining up the tins of tomatoes with some precision so I didn’t just stand and gawp at him.
‘Any time.’
‘I would offer you a cold beer or something but…’
‘But you don’t want to? It’s fine,’ he grinned.
‘No, it’s not that at all, I haven’t got any,’ I said, flustered.
‘I have, if you fancy a quick one?’ he said.
I could almost hear the brain cells responsible for double entendres jiggling about like a crèche of unruly toddlers.
‘I’ve got an awful lot to do,’ I said.
‘Maybe later?’
I began to line up herbs and spice jars and made a lot of umm noises. Then I unpacked various different sorts of oils. Olive, vegetable, sesame, walnut…there were quite a few. Plus five different types of vinegar. What did I need that lot for? Did I think I was going to be on Masterchef?
‘Keen cook, are you?’ Bryn said, picking up the champagne vinegar and reading the label.
I took it from him and put it into the cupboard. ‘Oh, you know…’
‘You could have me for dinner one day.’
The brain cell toddlers jostled about a bit more.
‘I mean, you could invite me over.’
Ah. ‘Perhaps when I’m settled.’
‘I love fish fingers,’ he said. He had a wicked grin and very white teeth against his tan.
I opened the fridge door and put a few things inside. The freezer was empty apart from some novelty ice cubes. I hesitated, my head on one side trying to make out exactly what they were. When I realised they were ice boobs I shut the freezer door very quickly, I didn’t want him to see them and think they were anything to do with me.
Quick think of something else. Something dull.
Mobile phone contracts. Changing electricity suppliers. Mulching.
‘You can’t refreeze fish fingers,’ Bryn said, ‘you’ll be ill.’
I turned round. ‘I wasn’t going to.’ My tone was that of a stroppy fifteen year old.
Bryn went out and brought in a couple more boxes that he dumped under the table. From memory they were filled with casserole dishes and some Waterford crystal wine glasses. From the tinkling sound as Bryn put the box down there was now one fewer.
‘That doesn’t sound too good,’ he said, ‘sorry about that.’
He opened the top of the box and delved about for a second. Suddenly he snatched his hand out with a gasp and stood hanging on to his arm as blood seeped out between his fingers.
‘Sod it, that was a bit of a mistake,’ he yelped.
He sat down rather heavily on one of the kitchen chairs and closed his eyes. I watched fascinated as the colour drained from his face.
‘Not very good with blood,’ he said after a moment, ‘especially my own.’
I galloped up the stairs to find the first aid kit that I had, mercifully, unpacked earlier in the day and put into the bathroom cabinet.
When I got back he was bent over, head almost touching his knees, still clutching his arm and obviously feeling a bit wobbly.
‘So stupid,’ he said, ‘sorry.’
I hesitated for a moment, looking at the curls that nestled into the nape of his neck and fighting the overwhelming impulse to wind them around my fingers. To cover up my hesitation I went into brisk and efficient mode and dabbed at him with wet kitchen roll and antiseptic wipes. Once I got rid of the gore we both realised it was just a long scratch from a piece of broken glass, easily solved with a large plaster. Gradually the colour returned to his face and he gave an embarrassed grin.
‘Sorry about that. You must think I’m a right idiot.’
‘No, not at all, I’m sorry you hurt yourself. It was my fault, not packing things properly.’
He pressed the plaster down hard onto his arm and looked up at me.
‘Like I said, I’ve got some beer in the fridge next door and some cold roast beef. Do you fancy a roll?’ he said.
Why did everything seem to be laced with innuendo this morning? It was like living in a Carry On film.
‘No, thank you. Now if you are feeling better I must get on,’ I said, trying to sound brisk and busy. I found the cloth and re-wiped the draining board. Then, as he was still looking at the contents of my cupboards, I began polishing the kettle. Something I am not known for.
He must have realised that I wanted him to go.
‘Well if you change your mind, you know where I am. I’ll go this way, if that’s OK?’
Bryn went out of the kitchen door and loped across the garden in his CAT boots. I ran the cold tap and splashed some water on my face. What the hell was the matter with me? I had no business feeling like this. I was behaving like a silly teenager. Just because a man was good-looking and had muscles and an amazing smile and lived next door. Of course it meant nothing. Well it should.
Over the next few weeks I scoured Holly Cottage from top to bottom. There wasn’t an inch of grubby paintwork that I didn’t clean, not a single scuffmark that I didn’t try to remove. The bathroom in particular took several cans of elbow grease. It looked as though one of the previous tenants had enjoyed more than a few adventures with unusual hair-dye shades. Behind the roll top bath were splashes of blue, green and magenta. Impossible to remove but if I was going to redecorate I needed to make some sort of effort. And it kept me busy, that was the most important thing.
I didn’t want to think too hard or too deeply about anything. I didn’t want to compare my new home with my old one. I didn’t want to think about what I was used to and what I now had. Above all, I didn’t want to think about the future.
One morning I realised it was nearly three weeks since I had seen Bryn. I wondered where he had gone. Even when I went out into the garden and made a half-hearted attempt at cutting the grass he didn’t appear. The mower I found in the shed wasn’t up to the task any more than I was. I found that very disappointing, as our gardener had been a wizened old man who produced sleek lines in the turf with apparently no effort at all. I’m no expert in these matters but I think the blades on the mower were bent or something. Perhaps it was the wrong sort of grass? At its best the machine spat clumps of moss over my feet and occasionally lumps of earth. I found an old strimmer