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My eyebrows meet in the middle. ‘I am immune,’ I say, keen to put their minds at rest. That I’m in denial is of no consequence. I realise the importance of repelling Becker, and not just because he’s a player. It seems Becker didn’t succeed in his attempts to settle his grandad’s worry when it comes to me, so it’s imperative that I do.
My eyes cast between the two old folks, as they slowly turn their attention towards me again. They’re looking sorry for me. ‘What?’ I shift nervously on my heels. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Oh, dear me,’ Mrs Potts breathes.
‘Oh my God,’ I say in frustration. ‘Really, no “oh, dear me”.’ I sound desperate. I am desperate. I will not go there.
‘Yes, dear.’ Mrs Potts places a pacifying hand on my bare arm and rubs soothingly. ‘Anything you say, dear.’
‘See?’ Mr Hunt mumbles, starting to drag his heavy feet across the tiles to the kitchen door. ‘Immune,’ he scoffs.
If he wasn’t so unstable and old, I’d drag him back and make him listen to my denial until he’s convinced, but this little episode has exhausted me. My shoulders drop, and I give up, watching as Mrs Potts catches up with the old man and slips her hand through his arm. ‘I feared the worst,’ she says quietly, like she doesn’t want me to hear. But I do hear. Perfectly.
‘Oh, Dorothy,’ Mr H replies, opening the door and gesturing for her to go first, a perfect gentleman, even though he still has to hold on to her as she takes the lead. ‘The worst is yet to come.’
The door shuts.
And I’m alone.
‘No “oh dear me”,’ I yell, looking around the kitchen for something to take my frustrations out on. I settle on the table and march over, giving it a firm slap, imagining it’s Becker’s face. What does this even mean? Will they sack me? Send me packing before the worst comes? And what did they mean when they said the worst is yet to come, anyway?
Woof!
I swing around to find Winston at my feet. If I wasn’t totally sane, I’d suspect the happy pant he’s got going on right now is him agreeing with the two old people. ‘Don’t you start,’ I warn. Totally sane? I’m talking to a bloody dog.
Woof!
‘What?’ I ask, like he might answer. Funnily enough, he doesn’t, but he does trot across the room and nuzzle at a leather dog lead hanging off the back of the door. ‘You want to go for a walk?’
He barks and nuzzles the lead again, his tail wagging good and proper. I crouch and scratch his ear. ‘Just let me peel some carrots for Mrs Potts,’ I tell him. ‘Then we’ll go for a walk.’ I could do with the fresh air, that’s for sure. I need to clear my head and prepare my reassurance speech for Mrs Potts and Mr H.
Standing and brushing down my dress, I go on the hunt for some carrots. I open cupboard after cupboard, finding no carrots. ‘The pantry,’ I realise, heading to the tallest cupboard and pulling the door open. A wire racking system greets me, and I begin to scan the baskets, bending as my searching gets further south. ‘Bingo.’ I spot a sea of orange next to a sea of spuds and grab a few, raising and shutting the door.
‘Oh dear.’ The soft words come from nowhere, and my feet leave the floor from fright, the carrots tumbling from my hands.
I’m raging already, and I haven’t even clapped eyes on him yet. ‘You startled me.’ I push the words through a tight jaw as I slowly pivot to confront him. He’s leaning up against the worktop, looking all yummy, his glasses on. He’s staring at me, his hazel eyes particularly green, as he munches his way through an apple. He seems to have composed himself after our little . . . moment in the library, and his little . . . chat with his grandad. The man I heard sounded like he was in emotional turmoil. This man looks far from it. Did he speak to his therapist? Maybe he’s had . . . his words suddenly register in my startled mind.
Oh dear.
Oh shit.
Did he listen in on that little episode between his grandfather, Mrs Potts and me?
‘So, you’re immune?’ he says, like he’s read my mind.
My cheeks burn up, but I ignore his question and fire one of my own. ‘What do you want?’
He shrugs and inhales deeply, looking down at his feet, which are still bare, annoyingly. He starts to casually scuff them on the kitchen floor, like he knows I’m rapt by them. I rip my eyes away and return them to his pouting face. Stupid. It’s always a lose–lose situation when I’m in Becker’s company. There’s nothing I can look at that lowers his sex appeal, so I have to rely on his ‘charm’ to deter me. And I’m willing it on right now. All of it. I’ll take every bit. I know it’s coming, so in an effort to move things along, I cock my head to prompt him to say more.
