She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand and straightened up. He let his arm fall away because there was no excuse to keep it around her now she wasn’t as upset. Despite how much he wanted to; how natural it felt. ‘I’m sorry about your dad. I never realised.’
‘Why would you?’ He shrugged a shoulder. ‘More importantly, why are you getting yourself so worked up about what I think, full stop?’
‘Of course I care what you think. Whywouldn’tI?’ she countered.
‘Because…you don’t even know me. Why be worried about what I think? I could be the worst kind of arsehole imaginable. What does it matter?’
She chewed on her lip, frowning at him, her green eyes glassy with leftover tears. ‘It matters because… I don’t know. You make it sound so simple.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Not for me. My brain just…won’t shut up about stuff like that.’
‘What stuff? Like other people judging you? Getting embarrassed?’
She gave a tiny nod. ‘All of the above, plus anything else I can possibly worry about when it comes to being around or interacting with people.’ Her eyes dropped from his again, a pink flush crawling over her cheeks. She fumbled for her glass and took a few sips again and he leaned back into the sofa, giving her a bit more space, sensing she needed it.
‘That doesn’t sound very fun,’ he commented softly.
‘No. It’s not really. I’m trying to get better with it but it’s hard. That’s why I ended up drinking too much. I find it easier to talk to people – especially in big groups – when I’m a bit tipsy. But then I gettoodrunk and start making an idiot of myself – likethisnow. It doesn’t really help. Turns out social anxiety is only exacerbated by alcohol.’
‘Social anxiety?’
‘That’s the clinical name for the particular brand of dysfunctional human behaviour I exhibit.’
He bit his tongue on his first response, which was to tell her she wasn’t dysfunctional at all and tried for something he wasn’t great at: tact. ‘You honestly just come across as a bit shy.’
‘That’s the understatement of the year.’ She gave a laugh and then shook her head and lowered her voice, so she was mostly talking to herself. ‘I can’t believe I’m telling you all this. I must still be drunk.’
‘You probably are a bit. D’you want some food? Can you stomach anything yet?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe you should try.’ He stood then and walked into the kitchen. ‘I made some extra pasta in case you were hungry. It’s nothing fancy,’ he told her over his shoulder.
‘Thank you. That’s really kind of you.’
‘It really didn’t put me out. Least I could do after locking you in a cupboard, right? C’mon. Come sit at the table.’ He wanted to move them somewhere he wouldn’t be so tempted to hug her again, as well as give her some breathing space from the conversation. He could see how much she was suffering and, like he’d said to her before, he’d only thought she was a bit shy. She seemed fine with him most of the time.
He supposed he wasn’t really the best judge. Since he started getting recognised people tended to react to him in extreme ways – some were overly familiar, like their knowledge of him from the screen and the newspapers was enough for them to act like they knew him. Then there were the ones who automatically assumed he was going to be up himself, so acted completely aloof. And then there were the ones who got a bit shy. Star-struck. He hadn’t thought she was even that. Just normally shy. She’d always treated him…yeah, just normally. And he liked that. It made him comfortable with her.
That must have been why he’d slipped up and admitted that Cassandra wasn’t his girlfriend. Denying the relationship didn’t really put the PR stunt at risk in general because – bizarrely – with so many people, it only made them more convinced it was a secret and increased its appeal. But he didn’t get that impression with Lila. He couldn’t imagine her gossiping about him and he hadn’t wanted to lie to her.
And she obviously felt comfortable with him too. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be admitting this stuff to him – albeit, in a semi-drunk and regretful state. Had that time in the storeroom really short-cut them to this overly familiar place? She’d been scared and he’d been stressed and worried about Siobhan. It had all been heightened emotion. And now, here they were again, like fate had drawn them together to experience another odd moment in time, just the two of them.
Except he’d always thought he didn’t believe in fate.
He pulled the bowl out of the fridge and set it on the table with some clean cutlery and another glass of water, before taking the seat opposite. She sat down, her cheeks flaming red again, and hovered the fork over the pasta.
‘You’re not allergic to nuts or lactose or anything are you? It’s just pesto from a jar mixed in with it. I’m no chef.’
‘No. It’s great thanks.’ She speared one piece and chewed on it for an age, like it was a piece of leather, staring at all the others as though it was a prison sentence. Did she feel she had to say yes to eating? Or was it just because she was forcing herself to eat to try and absorb the alcohol. It would probably help if he wasn’t sitting opposite staring right at her, given she’d just admitted she was chronically shy – no, she had social anxiety.
‘So, howissocial anxiety different from being shy?’
She swallowed suddenly; her eyes raised to his face again. That rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights expression.
‘I’m not questioning what you’re telling me,’ he barrelled onwards, like the steamroller he couldn’t help being. ‘I’d just like to understand, if you don’t mind talking about it?’
