Page 48

“I was going to make a cup of tea.” She holds her mug up before she glances at the cup in my hand. “Great minds.” She smiles, and I soften.

We head to the staffroom, and I can feel the energy radiating from her so strongly that I want to pull the tab on her that says Go and just listen to her as she reels off whatever she wants to say to me.

And I can’t blame her for it after the way I left things on Sunday and have avoided her since. But what do I say? How can I explain what’s going on without letting her in even further, without exposing a part of myself I don’t want anyone to know about?

She lasts until we reach the staffroom, and seeing it’s empty, she takes the leap.

“I came to see if you were okay,” she begins.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I focus on my tea.

“I just got the feeling on Sunday, when we left the suit shop, that you weren’t okay, and then we haven’t really seen each other this week, and I wondered if I’d done something or said something, because, as you know, I have this terrible habit of saying and doing things and not really thinking about them, and before I know it, I’ve upset someone. So I was just wondering if I’ve said or done something to upset you.”

This is the last thing I want: for Alice to think this is her fault.

“You haven’t done or said anything to upset me,” I assure her.

“Okay.”

I wait for her to breathe a huge sigh of relief, pat me on the back, and say “This is good news and such a relief,” but she does none of those things. She just stands with this sad look on her face.

“Are you okay?” I ask when it’s clear she isn’t going to say anything else.

“Not really.”

I stop making my tea and lean back against the worktop.

“You’re not okay, Owen, and I’m worried about you as a friend.” She adds the friend part quickly, and it makes me wonder how much she’s been thinking about our shopping trip and my strange reaction afterwards.

“Look, I know I got a bit weird on Sunday after we left the suit shop,” I begin, crossing my arms. “And I can assure you it had nothing to do with anything you said or did. It was something else, which I don’t feel comfortable talking about.”

I brace myself for her to scowl, to be offended by my admission that I don’t want to talk about my feelings, something some people feel happy to divulge to anyone, anytime, and anywhere.

Instead, her expression softens.

“In that case, I totally understand and just want you to know I’m here for you in whatever capacity you’ll allow me to be.”

What the hell does she mean by whatever capacity?

“You sound like a counsellor,” I say for want of anything better, because I’m completely thrown by this turn of events.

“I’d be the worst counsellor in the world,” she says. “Can you even imagine? My poor patients wouldn’t get a word in edgeways. I’d probably talk them to death, or they’d decide they were perfectly sane in comparison to me and didn’t need a therapist after all.”

I let out a chuckle because she’s probably right.

“I also wanted to say that I really appreciate you agreeing to help me, but if it’s all too much, then it’s fine. You have the receipt for the suit, which I’m sure they’ll refund you. Or I’ll pay you for the suit and you can keep it, but don’t ever visit my grandma wearing it because if you sit on her sofa, no one will be able to find you.” She stops, possibly seeing the confusion on my face. “I’m joking,” she points out. “The suit looks nothing like my grandma’s sofa.” Her mouth softens, then hardens again as her eyes swim with something that could be sadness as she adds, “I’ll go to Sydney’s wedding by myself and confess to making you up.”

I’m a little dumbfounded.

There’s a part of me that wants to agree, to cancel the whole thing and return my life to the way it was before Alice Sutton bulldozed her way into it.

But then I think about Smithy and Romana and how they’ve been so excited to meet Alice. I think about how good Alice and I looked in our matching outfits and how I’ve waited years to wear a brown tweed suit. I think about Smithy’s worktops and the fact that they’re never going to get oiled.

But most of all, I think about Alice telling her best friend she made me up. That I don’t exist.

“But I do exist,” I tell her.

Alice smiles and clasps her hands to her chest. “And I, for one, am so glad you do, Owen Shea.”