‘Three. Definitely three coats,’ I decide later, eyeing thegreen wall from my vantage point opposite, half-way up a set of step ladders.
Aidan’s busy covering an adjacent wall, using a paintroller, which he keeps exclaiming is a brilliant invention. He studies thegreen wall. ‘Two. Definitely two.’
‘What would you know? You’re just an amateur,’ I point outcheekily.
He grins, his eyes twinkling in that way that sends my poorheart all aflutter. ‘Er, excuse me. I’ve just had a crash course in paintingfrom the master.’ He coughs in a sarcastic way. ‘And you know what I’verealised?’
‘What?’
He shrugs. ‘There’s nothing to this painting lark.’
‘Er, you’ve missed a bit.’ I point with my brush.
‘Where?’
‘In the corner?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He sniffs. ‘Well, no one’s perfect. I bet evenPicasso had his off days.’
He adopts a hang-dog, hurt expression, and I start to laugh.‘Picasso? So you’re comparing yourself to the great masters now?’
‘Well... you should always aim high.’
I snort. ‘You aimed a bittoohigh there.’ I pointabove his head and he groans, realising his roller of powder blue paint hasgrazed the white ceiling. I twist on the step-ladders, holding my brush in theair, laughing at his gloomy expression.
I wobble a little and make a grab for the top of the ladderto steady myself. But I can’t get my balance, and I find myself stepping offthe ladders altogether, one foot landing squarely in a bucket of white paint.
‘Oh.’ I stare down in horror.
And now it’s Aidan’s turn to crease up, laughing.
*****
Over the following month, the cottage sees quite atransformation.
Aidan has taken some time off work so that he can give theplace a facelift, but also to make sure plans for the fete are on track. AndI’m really enjoying helping him with the cottage. I even start working on somecrockery for him – plates, bowls and mugs – to match his lovely new blue andwhite kitchen. I’m planning to give it to him as a house-warming gift once thecottage is finished.
All of my Sunday afternoons during the rest of March andinto April are spent at Hollyhock Cottage, painting or helping Aidan to choosefloor coverings, bathroom fittings and furniture. And we seem to be growingcloser all the time.
Then one Sunday in early April, when I go over to thecottage, I find him tackling the jungle of a garden. I make us some lunch whilehe works on, and when it’s ready, because the day is mild, we decide to eatoutside. Over moussaka and Greek salad – and a lager for him and a glass of whitewine for me – he starts telling me about his university days.
I’m feeling so relaxed in the spring sunshine, sipping mywine, and Aidan’s making me laugh with stories of his misspent youth. But thenhe turns to me, and without any warning, declares, ‘I want to know all aboutyou now, Kenzie.’
I stare at him, taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’
He shrugs. ‘I’ve bored you senseless with all my stuff. Youeven know the name of the hamster I had at the age of nine.’
I nod. ‘Fluff Ball.’
‘Exactly. But I know nothing about you. Did you even have apet when you were little?’
‘Um... no, I didn’t, actually.’
‘So tell me something else I’d be fascinated to hear.’
I swallow, feeling uneasy at the turn the conversation hastaken. ‘I don’t know.’ I laugh nervously. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘You could tell me where you lived before you came toSunnybrook?’
