Page 11 of Love at First Sight

No!I text back.ABSOLUTELY NOT!

‘Jessie, watch!’ Henry calls, showing me hissuper cat speedrunning from one end of the park to the other.

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, speedy!’ I say. ‘You went so fast then, sparks were coming off your shoes!’

‘Really?’ Henry says, proudly.

‘Don’t catch fire. Or else you’ll get a burned bum.’

‘Watch me again,’ he instructs, and he does some more fast running, which I applaud with gusto. Every kid needs at least one person to act like the world revolves around them; one person who is totally delighted by them. I try to be that for Henry. Ali is too, obviously, but with her being away for a few weeks a couple of times a year, and then having long days closer to home on set, I think I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t act as proxy.

‘That was even better!’ I yell.

Oh god, what am I going to do about Cal? Are wanted posters really the best way forward? I’m doubting myself now. India hasn’t texted back, which means either a) she has taken my word as gospel or b) she has ignored me and is pinning up posters right this second. Maybe I should get my tarot done or something, see if somebody with a third eye or a sixth sense can read my future and tell me what to do to get what I want. Which is, for the avoidance of any doubt, the chance to see Cal again as soon as possible, so I can put my number in his phone and have him puthisnumber inmyphone, and also to establish a date on purpose and/or potentially a plan for the rest of our lives.

No biggie.

After Henry’s twenty-eighth fast run he puts his hand on his knees and says, ‘That was hard work. Can I have an ice pop as a starter at home? For cooling me down?’

Henry has recently learned about courses in restaurants, and insists on having his tea served as starter, main and pudding. When we get home he’ll make a menu, and I have to take his order.

‘Ice pops aren’t really a traditional starter,’ I tell him. ‘But youcanhave one for dessert. And maybe do a glass of milk with ice for starter? To get cool that way?’

‘Good idea,’ Henry replies. ‘With a straw, though.’

‘Oh, of course,’ I say, with all the seriousness he deserves for such negotiations. ‘One glass of milk with ice and a straw, coming right up.’

We amble home, both sweaty from the early summer heat and ready to relax for a bit. Once we’re through the front door, Henry kicks off his shoes and puts away his bag, negotiating an episode ofHot Wheelsto ‘help my brain relax’. I give him his iced-milk starter, and then get on with supper.

As I’m prepping, my phone lights up. Weirdly I think,Cal?But obviously it can’t be. I look at the screen. It’s Dad. I know he’s going to be cancelling brunch tomorrow, just like he aways does. I can feel it. I open up the message.

Can’t make tomorrow after all, it says, sure enough.Rain check?

I sigh and tell him sure, no worries, because I’m a coward who can’t stand up for herself. I’ll bet his new fiancée, Simone, is back early from Cardiff, and so he’schosen her. Still. At least he’s let me know with some warning. Once I sat in a restaurant for forty-five minutes waiting for him before he texted, so this is progress. I guess. I wish I had a guy to go home and complain about him to, who could take me out instead to cheer me up. Urgh. I wish that guy was Cal.

4

The week passes in the usual routine of Henry, gym, setting up coffee dates with Dad only for him to cancel, and continued encouragement from India to put up wanted posters for Whole Foods man, which I insist she forgets about because I am flip-flopping on the hour, every hour, about what it all means. Sometimes, the more I think about it, the more I really do think mystery man was simply a push from the universe to set up Stray Kids. I’ve pulled up the planning documents on my laptop a few times this past week, looking through all the notes I’ve made over the years, editing them into something more cohesive, all because he made it seem possible with his enthusiasm for it. And then other times, like now, as I walk to the butcher’s, I pass men on the street mentally scanning their faces into ‘Cal’ and ‘Not Cal’ categories, feeling a wave of disappointment that they are all ‘Not Cal’. It’s so frustrating, and makes me feel pathetic. But it also makes me feel like I have to fight for what I want and not give up. I don’t know. Like I said: it’s confusing.

‘Look what the cat dragged in!’

This is how I am greeted by Leo, my butcher. He stands behind the shop counter, chef’s whites and blue-stripedapron smeared with meat juice, and offers me a smile that makes me blush from how genuine it feels. He’s a flirt, Leo, all short sandy-blond hair and greeny-blue eyes that remind me of a puppy’s. He always – butalways– leaves me in better shape than he finds me. I like to keep my banter skills sharp with him, with the added bonus of getting a little special extra slipped into my bag. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s a good time, a ray of sunshine. And very good at his job too – behind him a row of trophies and medals gleam, reminding us all that his meat is award-winning. So to speak. Anyway. He flirts with everyone, even my dad.

‘How do,’ I say, slipping in behind the bloke Leo is finishing serving.

‘Thirty pounds and eighty pence,’ Leo tells him, handing him a bag. ‘In fact, let’s just call it a straight forty, shall we?’ He looks over at me and winks before returning his attention to his customer. ‘Just kidding. A level thirty is golden.’

When we’re alone Leo asks: ‘Right then, gorgeous. You here for me, or my wares?’ He spreads his arms out, whether to show off himself or the meat counter I’m not sure.

I sigh with a smile. ‘Bit of both?’ I say. ‘I don’t really know what I want, to be honest.’

I put my forearms on the counter to lean against it, and Leo cocks his head sympathetically.

‘That bad?’ he asks.

‘Not bad,’ I say. ‘Just …’

‘Not good.’

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