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“Why don’t you make the first move?”
“What?”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Carly. If you like this bloke as much as you say you do, then why don’t you just ask him out on a date? You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
My face flushes. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. It would be too embarrassing.”
“Why? A lot of men like assertive women; I know I do. Look, if you’re getting cold feet, you can always take the subtle approach. Ask him out to a gig or something. Tell him you’ve bought two tickets and your friend cancelled. You can make it sound casual, but trust me, he’ll get the picture.”
I fall silent, deliberating. Perhaps Mark’s right. Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I should take control of my destiny and shoot for the stars.
“So, are you going to do it?” he presses.
“I’m still undecided.”
“Don’t spend too long deciding. Remember, I’m rooting for you, Carly. You only live once.”
The rest of the afternoon flies by and come five o’clock, I’m starting to feel really fired up about everything. On a sudden impulse, I take a trip to John Lewis in Bond Street to pick up some wool and new crochet hooks. I’ve decided to make Nick a scarf as a little thank-you present for his generosity. Initially, I’d toyed with the idea of crocheting a hat, but as I only have three days until my next appointment, I figure a scarf is probably better. Plus, the weather’s taken a turn for the worst, and Nick could certainly do with something nice to keep him warm.
Once I’ve finished in John Lewis, I run across to Marks & Spencer to pick up some ready meals and my favourite chocolate layer cake. Then I hop on the Tube and head for home.
“What’s your word count, Dad?” I shout as I hang up my coat in the hall.
“Three thousand and fifty.”
“Bloody hell. Sounds like you’ve really got your mojo back.” I drop the bags on the floor and stick my head into the living room. Dad’s huddled over his laptop with a satisfied grin on his face.
“Did you have a good day, my dear?” he asks.
“It was okay. Listen, did you manage to sort out that stuff with your bank?”
“Yes. The mortgage is up to date and I’ve reinstated my direct debit, so there shouldn’t be any more problems.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you sure?”
“If you don’t believe me, I can show you the bank statements.”
“Okay, okay, I believe you. Right, I’ll just drop these bags off and put the kettle on. Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please. Oh, by the way, your mother phoned to ask what we’re doing for Christmas. She’s invited us to spend it with her and Michael.”
“Jesus,” I grimace. “Is it Christmas again already? Where has the year gone?”
“Tell me about it. So, what shall I tell her?”
I run my fingers through my hair. “Umm …Tell her yes, we’ll go, if that’s what she wants.”
“You don’t sound too keen.”
“No, it’s fine. It will save us having to cook. Remember last year’s fiasco?”
“I’ve done my best to blot it out.”
I put away the shopping. When I’m done cramming everything in the fridge, I race upstairs to the bathroom to freshen up. I wet a washcloth and wipe off my foundation. As I turn off the taps, my eyes fall on the empty paper dispenser.
“Dad, what’s going on? There’s no toilet paper!”
“I know, we’ve run out. Sorry, I should have phoned you to buy some.”
