Page 7 of The Winter We Met
Our landlord had let us redecorate and we’d added personal touches. A bookcase to the left was filled with Oliver’s thriller novels, along with my miniature Buddha and a small lotus flower ornament. On the coffee table sat one of my scented candles. It was burning and smelt of nacho cheese. Oliver had bought it for me as a joke so I forced him to suffer the extremely creamy fragrance. We’d also hung a vibrant watercolour print by a local artist who painted riverside wildlife. The local waterway ran straight through Amblemarsh and Springhaye.
‘I couldn’t concentrate and I was so looking forward to it.’
‘Honestly, you remind me of my parents,’ he said with what I could tell was forced cheerfulness. ‘Time together was always interrupted by their phones and them mutteringit’s work.’
I tossed the phone onto the cushion next to me, got up and went over. I put my hands on his shoulders and stared into his face.
‘Fine. You have my full attention. I’m all yours.’
He stared back into my eyes for a moment and his shoulders relaxed. ‘Too late,’ he said after a few moments, with a superior air. ‘The episode is over.’ Oliver strode over to the open plan kitchen and switched on the kettle.
I followed him to the breakfast bar. ‘Don’t be grumpy,’ I said, poking him in the ribs, my finger pushing against muscle.
‘Stop it,’ he said and reached for teabags.
I could tell he was working really hard to keep a straight face and poked him again. He roared, turned around and tickled the air with his fingers. I bolted over to the window and hid behind the curtains. Buddy barked and claws scrabbled on the wooden floor.
‘It is safe to come out?’ I asked in muffled tones, failing not to laugh. ‘Why don’t you tell me how the series ended? You can even have some of those chocolate chip cookies I baked.’
‘I’m already eating them.’
A curious nose snuck through the gap in the curtains and nudged my pyjamas.
I stroked Buddy’s ears and left my hiding place. Sure enough, Oliver was back on the sofa in front of two mugs of tea and an open Tupperware box. I headed over and collapsed next to him. Our shoulders rubbed comfortably together as I pulled up my blanket once more.
‘You’re nothing but a big bully, Oliver Hart.’
‘And you’re nothing but a scaredy cat, Jess Jagger – although you are a fantastic baker.’ He offered me the box and I pulled out a cookie. Then another. We sat munching.
‘Were your parents really that bad?’
‘Time with them was rare enough but even when they promised a family night in I never got their full attention.’ He smiled. ‘But I’m over it.’
I slipped my hand into his and squeezed, aware of the bravado underneath, the boyish smile reminding me of the one time we’d kissed. It was shortly after he moved in and had too many bubbles to celebrate. He’d smiled at me like that and one thing had led to another. I took my hand away, cringing at the memory. Not so much at the kiss that had warmed me from head to toe, that had got my heart racing and my fingers running through his hair… no, it was our mutual embarrassment when we’d sobered up and drank coffee together the next morning. He’d acted as if nothing had happened. I’d felt a little wounded that he felt so mortified, at least I’d been prepared to joke about it.
I stared at the little Christmas tree in the corner, by the window. Multi-coloured lights twinkled and hid the straggly branches. Oliver had picked it up for half-price, the second year we lived together, before we both got pay rises at work and could have afforded something bigger. Oliver put it up every year on the 1stof November and religiously bought me an Advent calendar on the 1stof December. His face was a picture the first time I’d bought him one too and each morning he’d excitedly shout out what the picture was behind the door. After too many mulled wines he’d once mumbled about Christmas never being celebrated much when he was little. It was then that I’d begun to realise our very different childhoods actually had common ground in buckets.
‘Blissful silence,’ said Oliver and he stretched as he did every day when he got in from a shift of shaking cocktails and cleaning tables. My days were visually overcrowded, with dolls and bears and electronics whereas it was Oliver’s ears that took a beating due to his job in Misty’s, a music bar a twenty-minute walk away from our flat.
‘Do you think we’re weird?’ I asked eventually.
‘Definitely.’
‘I’m serious. We’re both thirty next year. Neither of us has settled down. We’re living the carefree life of a pair of twenty-year olds. Work aside, I’m only responsible for looking after Buddy and a couple of cacti. The most concrete personal commitment either of us has made is buying a second-hand car each with long-term payment plans. Most of my friends have kids now – or at least a forever partner. Usually a mortgage and—’
Oliver put down his drink and turned to me. ‘What’s brought this on? We’re both doing fine. Some might say commitment is overrated, in business or life.’
I studied his face. As usual, he gave nothing away when we neared the subject of any kind of past relationship in his life.
‘But maybe if I had a partner to put down roots with, then I’d be able to look after Gran.’ My voice wavered. ‘I wish I could take away all her upset. As I’ve become more senior at work Angela’s been very fair about raising my salary, but I’m going to have to save hard for several years to have my own place. If only I could afford to buy… I don’t know… a bungalow, especially adapted for her needs. I’d rent a room to you and—’
‘Jess,’ he said gently, ‘even that wouldn’t work. She needs someone around the whole time. As it is, you and I struggle to make sure one of us is here most of the time for Buddy. Increasingly Alice struggles to get dressed and washed. On bad days she wouldn’t be able to make herself lunch. With your frequent phone calls and visits you already do the very best you can.’ He rubbed my arm. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort this out, the three of us together.’
I liked the way he rubbed my arm. Oliver’s reassuring presence had filled a gap in my life when I’d moved out of Gran’s.
‘You’re very good to me.’
He took another biscuit. ‘Yes, just don’t take advantage. It’s still your turn to clean the toilet this weekend.’
