Page 58 of One Last Try

She’s desperate to talk aboutthatgame. The one where I broke Owen’s leg. I can feel it in the way she hesitates and casts her eyes over to the bar to scout him out. Bryn obviously senses it too, and steers the conversation away to life in Wales, and once Cerys gets started on that, nobody can shut her up.

“I used to be a tour guide at Caerphilly Castle,” she says. “Did that for about thirteen years. School groups, biddy tours, you name it. What primary school did you go to, Mathias? You might have had me as a guide. You know, I once gave a tour to King Charles. Mind you, this was in the early nineties, long before he was king.”

And while Cerys chats away, Isobel, the older child who I suspect is autistic too, tells me about her special interest—ASMR blind bag videos on YouTube. I have no idea what any of it means, but she seems genuinely shaken that an old person such as me enjoys YouTube. The younger kid, Rafael, is still very much in his everything is poo, farts, bums, and willies phase. It started out funny, but there’s a limit to the number of times you can hear the word bumhole during dinner before it gets old. That limit is four, I’ve decided, and Rafael has exceeded this threshold at least tenfold.

I’m so overstimulated I feel like I’m walking the tightrope edge of losing my shit, or curling up into a ball and weeping. I keep stealing glances at Owen, but he’s rushed off his feet busy, and can’t spare me a second look.

I just need to be alone so I can think about him and what happened—or nearly happened—in the showers earlier, but I can’t see any way out of the situation that doesn’t involve me pushing to my feet and storming away. Though it wouldn’t be the first time.

A teenager I’ve never met wearing a Little Thatch apron clears our plates and brings out the dessert menu. Less than five minutes later, and before the server’s returned to take our order, Owen is beside the table. He hands me a takeaway box. It’s warm on the bottom.

“Right, everybody say goodnight to Mathias. He has an important Zoom meeting in . . .” He pretends to look at his watch. “Two minutes.”

Nobody’s buying it, but I don’t deny his claim, and they don’t insist I stay. I seize my opportunity and whip out my wallet to pay my share.

Cerys waves me away. “Absolutely not. Not every day I get to buy Mathias Jones a roast chicken dinner. I can’t wait to tell Jo about this, she’ll be beside herself with jealousy.”

I thank Cerys for her generosity, and bid everyone else a good evening. I promise Isobel I’ll look up what blind bags entail and agree to make her one for the Sunday after Easter, and I whisper “poo-poo pee-pee” to Rafael. Then I head back over the road.

Dessert is bread and butter pudding with custard. I turn the TV onto some YouTube video about 3D printers—my next research project because I think it’d be really cool to have a 3D printer—grab a spoon, and settle down in the dining room. There’s a message from Sim on my phone. She’s read the one I sent last night.

Call me when you get a chance. I’m free until 4, and then after 6:30.

I call her and put my phone on speaker.

“Babes, hi.” She answers on the second ring.

“Alright?” I reply.

“Soooo.”She draws out the word. “You’re staying in Fernbank Cottage, then?”

“I’m so sorry. I feel like I’ve wasted so much of your time.” I cut a decent chunk out of my dessert and shovel it into my mouth.

Ho. Lee. Fuck. It’s perfect. I have to hold back my groan so that Sim doesn’t think I’m touching myself. The bread and butter pudding is biblically good, and the custard is one up from that.

“Not at all, babes. It’s what I’m here for—what you pay me for.” That’s not true. Not by any stretch of the imagination. “I’m just happy you’re settling in okay. So how are things with you and Owen Bosley? Are you friends yet?”

I swallow my mouthful and smother my smile. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Aw, could it be my baby’s all grown up?” she jokes.

“We’re the same age.”

“I’m forty-two,” she reminds me, and something churns in my gut. Owen’s forty-five. Is that too big an age gap? Fifteen years?

I suppose it doesn’t matter that much. If we’re only ever fuck buddies and nothing more, what difference will it make?

Sim keeps talking, unaware of my inner panic. “Actually, if you have become friends, being seen in public with Owen could do wonders for your image. If people see that he’s forgiven you for the accident, maybe they will too.”

“Bye, Sim,” I say, but I make no move to end the call. In fact, I scoop another mouthful of bread and butter pudding into my face.

Fuuuuuck,it really doesn’t get better than this.

“Oh, Matt, don’t go yet.Celebrity Traitorscalled and they want to know if you’ll consider starring in it.”

I’m smiling again. Not that I plan on doing any TV programmes like that, but it’s nice to see the offers coming back in.

“Call me whenCelebrity Pointlesscome knocking.”

---