‘It’s a delicate balance of communing with my subconscious mind and then frenzied writing to get the stuff that’s in there onto a page.’
‘Hmm…sounds like an excuse for slacking off to me.’
I prickled, even though I knew that I was the one being defensive and purposefully exaggerating. I took a deep breath and swallowed my first waspish response, giving him my second one instead: ‘That’s because you’re not creative. Stop judging and get on with that coffee, you heartless banker.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He gave me a little salute, filled the pot and set it to percolate.
I opened a cupboard to grab a couple of clean mugs, going up onto my tiptoes to try to reach. His warmth flooded my back as he saw what I was doing and reached easily over my shoulder. He smelt of warm cotton and mint, and he was sosolid; I wanted to turn and nuzzle into his chest. I planted my hands on the counter as he pulled down the mugs, thinking that would keep me out of trouble. All it did was mean that we were standing extremely close together in my little kitchenette until one of us decided to move.
Neither of us decided to move.
The lull in conversation made the tension between us obvious. We were both acting our little hearts out, pretending everything was normal. Or as normal for us as it ever was.
I should be the one backing away though. I was the one who had friend-zoned him, and he was behaving now, so I should do the right thing.
‘I think you should take that one.’ I pointed to the mug in his left hand.
He lifted it and read the words out loud. ‘A woman’s place is in control?’ His mouth ticked up at the corner and he glanced at me. ‘Suits me fine.’
The heat in his dark eyes made my bones turn to lava.
‘Which leaves me with “boss lady”,’ I announced unnecessarily.
‘Perfect,’ he agreed and turned away to finish making the coffee.
If only. If only I was in control of this, if only I was the ‘boss’, but I couldn’t undo the kiss I’d laid on him and the way it had left me craving more. I just had to hope that today he reminded me of all the reasons it wouldnotbe smart to kiss him again.
The address was in Brooklyn Heights at a grey tower block that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Deptford. Inside the building was echoey and smelt of bleach. We took the stairs as it was only four floors up and I suppressed my ingrained habit to let Noelle go first. That way I wouldn’t be tempted to watch her bottom, or the way her summer dress floated around her thighs, as she climbed in front of me.
Best behaviour. Best behaviour, was my mantra. I was not here to notice the curve of her hips or the way her hair smelt of citrus fruit or read into that moment in the kitchen when she’d most likely been waiting to see if I was going to keep to my word or pounce on her.
We reached the apartment. Noelle was breathing heavily from chasing me up the stairs, her chest heaving in a very distracting—
Best behaviour, Stephen.
I rang the buzzer a couple of times. We could hear the TV coming through the door, but no one was answering. ‘Shall we write a note?’
‘Maybe. Let’s try once more,’ Noelle said. She was so good at keeping me going. That pep talk at Coney Island, when I was tired of traipsing around after the man who’d abandoned me, had been just what I needed. And it was the reason I’d brought her with me for this too. Or part of the reason. The other parts being made up of needing her inquisitive brain and…just wanting to be around her.
I banged on the wooden door this time, the blue paint tacky in the heat. Finally, the volume of the TV dipped, and a woman appeared. Her hair was faded blonde, cut in a wiry bob around her face. She wore a tank top and long shorts and a pissed-off expression.
‘Yeah?’ If this was the woman my father had lived with, I had a feeling that she wasn’t going to be terribly helpful.
‘Sorry for bothering you – would you happen to be Lorna Smith?’
Her eyes narrowed, her hand tightening on the doorjamb. ‘And who are yous?’ Her New York accent was thick. The kind I was familiar with from films.
Noelle stepped in, introducing herself. ‘I’m a writer and we’re looking for a man called Trevor. We heard he lived here a while back?’
‘Why? What’s he done? And why is a writer looking for him? You gonna do his autobiography. Ha. I could write that. Born in England. Grew up to be a fucking jerk. Will die a fucking jerk.’
And there it was. This was the other side of the coin I was used to hearing about him. Charming ladies’ man on one side. Despicable human being on the other. I’d definitely heard more of the latter growing up.
‘Wow,’ Noelle muttered, ‘that’s some character reference.’
‘Isn’t it just,’ I agreed distractedly. I was too busy trying to figure out what Trevor had seen in her that was anything like my mother – but then he hadn’t stuck around with my Mum and it sounded like he hadn’t stuck around with her either. Perhapsanytype of woman was his type? Was that how it was for me? I appreciated that all women were attractive in their own way and I’d never really had a ‘type’, although I’d noticed recently that curvy redheads held a special fascination for me.
Lorna sneered at our comments and then her eyes narrowed on me with suddenly renewed interest. ‘Oh my fucking God. You’re his boy, aren’t you? The one he left behind in London?’
