‘These were not cheap,’ I said, appalled. I looked down at my colourful cowboy boots, currently full of water and covered in bits of dead leaf.
‘That’s worse,’ he sighed. ‘God, it’s freezing.’
‘Don’t put the jumper on,’ I said automatically and saw him roll his eyes.
‘Fine… Do you want a towel or something?’
I nodded, because like hell was I dragging myself home soaked to the skin like this. He ducked through the door and I hesitated a second before following after him. While he worked his way through the cluttered interior, I raised my eyebrows and took in the state of the boat.
Every inch of the place was covered in the same two faces. Mostly the one face. Suddenly the dolls made sense, even if their likeness was questionable. Princess Diana beamed down at me from every available surface. A few Prince Charleses – including a life-size cut-out by the window, which had probably been what scared Ian so much – but mostly Diana reigned supreme. The walls held commemorative plates and plaques, shelves of figurines and yet more dolls, both plastic and china. A glass cabinet held mugs and an entire tea service sporting the ill-fated royal couple, and there was Union Jack bunting crisscrossing the ceiling. The two gold chandelier fixtures were hung with Diana Christmas ornaments and the far wall, beyond which my rescuer had gone, was covered in ‘art’ depicting the people’s princess. Cross-stitch, diamond paintings, paint by numbers, collage and even a tapestry.
‘… love what you’ve done with the place,’ I said looking away from an eyeless cardboard Diana mask. ‘Very… subtle. Understated.’
A tea towel hit me in the chest. I was unsurprised to find that it commemorated the royal wedding.
‘Thanks…’ I started to dry my hair, watching the man as he lingered in the far doorway. ‘Any chance of some dry clothes?’
‘I’ll see if I can find some that’ll fit you,’ he muttered, starting to open some cardboard boxes piled behind a rickety shelf stacked with Diana saint candles and bobble heads.
I pulled a face at the implied slight to me and my hips and he must have seen because he huffed a laugh. ‘Because you’re taller than me,’ he clarified. ‘Even without those stupid boots,’ he added, under his breath, the ghost of a smile teasing at his mouth.
It was the truth, I realised. I was fairly tall at five foot eleven and that had always made me a bit insecure. At school it was an accepted fact that you had to go out with a boy taller than you were and that rule had stuck with me. I’d been pleased to find out Richard was three quarters of an inch taller than I was. He’d measured. The stranger was at least three inches shorter than me, maybe more.
He fished some joggers and a sweatshirt out of a packing box, tossing those over to me. He indicated the doorway behind him. ‘Fire’s in the kitchen… you can change in the bedroom and then come through. It’s the only door that locks, in case that matters.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and crossed the museum of Diana into the bedroom on the left. Inside was a neatly-made-up single bed, covered in a familiar bedspread. The one I’d taken off the bed in my flat. A shelf over the bed contained several very worn Anthony Horowitz paperbacks, including the Sherlock ones I’d read with my aunt as a teenager and still loved. So at least he had good taste in books if not décor. A Princess Diana Funko Pop figure looked down at me, with a watercolour of the boat itself propped against it. Even in the picture the boat looked slightly sad and lonesome. Though the art was good, in my uneducated opinion. Better than the Diana craft kit stuff anyway.
I stripped down to my underwear after locking the door. Although my bra and knickers were soaked through, it felt rude to wear a stranger’s clothes without underwear, so I kept them on. I expected the clothes to smell musty but, after a tentative sniff, I found that, although they were obviously old, they were freshly washed and still smelled pleasantly of detergent and something woodsy, like pine or cedar. Figured my angry rescuer with the lumberjack arms would use some kind of foresty-smelling man-soap. I picked up my swampy boots and rolled my wet clothes into a ball before leaving the bedroom.
As I went into the kitchen I asked, ‘Do you have a…’
The words died in my throat because my rescuer was still getting changed. As in he had yet to find a shirt and had also stripped off his jeans. The lack of underwear in the bundle of borrowed clothes now made sense. Because he didn’t appear to wear any.
He had his back to me, an impressively broad back, though pale from lack of sun. My eyes slid over the dip in his spine like it was a ski ramp and landed squarely on his bum. A soft landing at least, I thought, somewhat hysterically. It was a very nice bum, but on a verynotnice man, I reminded myself. I was still gaping at him as he pulled a fresh pair of ragged jeans up. He turned around while doing up the fly and caught me staring.
‘… plastic bag,’ I managed to finish, weakly.
For a moment he just looked at me and I wondered what was so interesting about my wet-rat hair and the fact I was wearing his wrinkled clothes. He was probably going to say something sarcastic. I folded my arms around myself for warmth and realised I was, as my mum would put it, ‘smuggling peanuts’ – aka nipping like crazy. Wonderful. I clasped my arms tighter and cleared my throat.
He ducked his head and quickly found a tatty bag for life to offer me. I stuffed my clothes into it, feeling my face burn with embarrassment. Had he noticed me staring at his bum? Why had I not knocked? Although, to be fair, the kitchen was behind a curtain, rather than a door. Still, I wasn’t normally one to gawp and I didn’t want him thinking I was. Even if I had definitely been gawping.
He picked up a jumper from a pile of clothes in a plastic laundry bag on the floor. I recognised it as one I’d made for Richard – green cable-knit-effect crochet. Richard had begged me to make it and then worn it maybe twice. The sleeves were a little too long on the man in front of me, and he rolled them up to expose surprisingly delicate wrists and long, nimble fingers.
Oh my God, I was staring again. What was wrong with me? I was acting like I’d been in a nunnery for the past three years, instead of in a committed relationship. Committed on my end at least. The thing was, though, that however snappy this guy had been since we’d met, he was, objectively speaking… kind of hot. In a Gabriel Oak, brawny sheep farmer kind of way.
Damn Aunt Lou for exposing me toFar from the Madding Crowdat such a formative age.
I wasn’t about to let him know that, though. He already thought I was an uncoordinated idiot in ridiculous boots, unreasonably obsessed with jumpers. I didn’t need to give him the added advantage of knowing how nice his bum was. If he’d never been in a double-mirror changing room, there was a chance he didn’t know.
‘You have um…’
I nearly jumped when I realised he’d come a lot closer while I was thinking of shepherds and their bums. He frowned, hand wandering towards my face, waiting to see if I’d bat him away. When I didn’t, he plucked something from my wet hair. Probably a leaf or something. I managed to catch my breath as he backed off, the heat from his fingers practically glowing on my cold cheek.
‘Oh good, it’s just cellophane,’ he muttered, voice rasping a little as he turned away and tossed the scrap into the kitchen bin. ‘I was worried it was a condom.’
Lustful atmosphere officially shattered. I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or disappointed. To distract myself I looked around at the tiny kitchen-diner.
The collection of memorabilia in the kitchen area was still obvious but slightly less overwhelming. Limited to towels, oven gloves and a tablecloth on the little table by the bench seat. Over the bench was a familiar blanket – my Moroccan tile blanket. My heart clenched to see it there. The blanket that Richard had cheated on me… on.
