‘What, as in . . .’
‘A drink, with me. Hot or cold, coffee or wine, I’m open to both.’ He unfolded his arms and put his hands in his pockets, suggesting the vaguest hint of nerves, which was endearing.
No one remembers the meek, Bob! Be bold! Be open!
This was certainly a novelty, and a lovely distraction from her battle over the flat, worrying about Clodagh, and the other tiny pigeon pecks of irritation and concern that had left their mark.
‘Are you married?’ She was direct. At seventy she’d figured out the value in it and could not cope with anything that wasn’t entirely straightforward.
‘Not any more. Divorced for a while now. Two daughters, both married. Five grandchildren. Oh, about to be six, actually! My youngest is pregnant and due in a few months – all girls so far! They will be the death of me.’ He tried to pull a face of disdain, but his eyes beamed with something that looked a lot like love. ‘A Londoner, born and raised in East Ham, made my fortune, moved out to Essex, where I have a farm. Virgo, pescatarian, likes sea air, country walks, swimming, reading the papers on a Sunday, and music – can’t imagine my life without music. Hate food waste, airs and graces, rudeness, inconsiderate drivers and the tiny little strips of plastic with a tiny arrow thing on the end they put under the lid of milk bottles and orange juice, which I can’t grip because of my inept fingers and cause me no end of frustration. I have an unfounded fear of quicksand, which I thought was going to feature far more in my adult life than it actually has, and littering. Drives me crackers.’
‘What music do you like?’ This was the thing that had caught her attention.
He exhaled and looked into the middle distance. ‘Everything from The Rolling Stones to Beethoven. When you’ve lived a good, long life, you collect music, don’t you think? I love songs that remind me of certain days, particular people, life-changing moments both good and bad. You reach a certain age and understand that you’ve curated your own soundtrack.’
She smiled then, so powerfully reminded of her dad and the soundtrack of his life that played regularly in her head.
‘Cold.’ She nodded.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You said hot or cold. I’d prefer cold, the drink.’
‘Well, that’s great!’ He clapped his palms together, his face smiling.
‘I’m Lilly, by the way.’
‘And I’m Alfred. Alfie.’
‘When would you like to go for our cold drink, Alfie?’ She tested his name out loud. It sounded nice. He seemed nice.
‘I say no time like the present, unless that’s a phrase that bothers you?’ he asked with mock caution.
‘No, I rather like that one. It’s go-getting and purposeful, both things I greatly admire.’
‘In that case, I think we are going to get on splendidly.’
She began to pack away her easel and painting paraphernalia, wondering what Glenda would make of her rather rash decision to go and have a drink with a complete stranger!
... women can’t afford to be so forward, not without being seen in the wrong light ...
This memory she scrubbed from her thoughts, and she smiled at Alfie, a pescatarian who had made a fortune and lived on a farm.
Apparently.
1973 – aged 17
Lilly hadn’t slept much. Partly because every dream, every minute, when her mind threatened to slip into the world of slumber and imaginings, left her in a state of high agitation that saw her toss and turn on her narrow mattress as she pictured Wilkie. His thighs held a particular fascination for her, trying to imagine what it might feel like to place her hands on them or to feel them pressed against her. The slight curve to his full bottom lip that she wanted so badly to kiss. And his conversation: easy, smart and curious, seeming to match her word for word, thought for thought.
You from Yorkshire?
No . . . Basingstoke . . .
I’ve never been.
You should go.
I don’t like to leave London.
