Page 92 of One More Day
‘Oh, Charlie. We all make mistakes,’ she reminds me. ‘We’re all just messed-up, selfish, crazy miracles who don’t get it right all the time. We get caught up in bullshit, we take our eye off the ball, we get swept along with pleasure and forget who and what is most important to us sometimes.’
I take a deep breath. I watch Rose’s features glow in the light of the fire.
‘Being here has made me realise I can still be the person I want to be,’ I tell her, only now understanding how true that is. ‘Being here I can learn how to start again. I hope that you too can find the strength to start again if that’s what you’re looking for.’
She sinks back into the sofa across from me. We are closer than ever, and I want to touch her so badly.
‘That’s what I’m looking for, Charlie,’ she whispers. ‘That’s what I want more than anything.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rose
I glow from the inside out when I see the look on Charlie’s face when he comes into the kitchen for dinner, after snoozing on the settee while I cooked.
My mother always preached that we should use our imagination when cooking from what’s left over in the fridge, and although I’ll never match Charlie’s talent for cuisine, I’m very proud of the rather delicious meal I’ve made from fried chicken, a dash of cream, a generous glug of white wine and a mix of hearty winter vegetables. With some fluffy rice and savoury garlic potatoes on the side, it looks very impressive – as does the small round table which I brought to life with a centrepiece made from candles and glittering pine cones left over from my Christmas wreaths.
The lights are low, the room is warm, the food looks, smells and – I hope – tastes delicious. And to top it all off, I have the company of this wonderful man for another few days. I would pinch myself if he wasn’t standing right in front of me.
‘Well, aren’t you the dark horse?’ he says, pulling out a chair as I serve up. ‘Rose, this looks and smells amazing. Chicken à la king?’
‘I have absolutely no idea, but if that’s what you want to call it, let’s run with that.’
He picks up his cutlery, his eyes glued to the plate in front of him.
‘Chicken à la Rose,’ he jokes, shooting me a friendly glance before tucking in. I wait with bated breath on his opinion.
As I watch him from my seat across this dainty round table, I allow myself a moment to revel in a small but very satisfactory sense of achievement. Charlie has been so kind to me, and although I give out a lot of energy in my day job, doing my best to make my clients feel like they’re in good hands, it’s been a very long time since I did something as simple as cook for someone else with such care and attention.
I’m used to eating out with friends, or grabbing a sandwich on the run, but I’d clearly forgotten just how good it feels to prepare and then share a meal with someone in such an intimate, caring way. Someone I genuinely enjoy being around; someone who seems to bring out the best in me.
I’d forgotten how such a small gesture can fill us up, and how, with some effort, we can bare our souls on a plate to those we care about. Seeing the delight on Charlie’s face as he enjoys the simple dish I’ve prepared makes me glow unexpectedly.
‘This is magnificent. Honestly, Rose,’ he says as he heartily tucks in. ‘Wow. It’s delicious. I honestly don’t know when I was last cooked for like this. Thank you. I really appreciate it.’
I feel a warm and fuzzy rush inside as we eat together, locked away here on this magical snowy evening in December. As our conversation naturally flows, neither of us can deny that something big is happening between us and it’s moving at lightning speed. We are falling deeper and deeper into each other’s hearts.
‘So, tell me more about your family, then?’ Charlie says to me.
I launch in happily, telling him about my beautiful, selfless mother who I can only ever see as wholesome and strong, no matter what life has thrown her way.
I joke about my sister Sarah, whose relationship with her husband is cardboard cut-out perfect compared to my messy, inconsistent love life, but then my mood dips to a much lower level when I speak of my dad.
‘My dad and I … well, we don’t talk much any more,’ I say, as a huge lump settles in my throat. ‘He’s the type of person who cuts no corners. If he has something to say he says it with no filter. Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s shocking, but he feels so sad for me that he can barely look me in the eye these days.’
Charlie sits back in his chair. He looks so relaxed, so at ease, so unbelievably sexy and exotic in the flickering candlelight.
‘Ah, Rose,’ he tells me as he tops up our wine. ‘We all love different people in different ways – that’s what I think, anyhow.’
I’m all ears.
‘For example, growing up, my mum was totally focused on Helena and unashamedly so,’ he explains further. ‘I may aswell have been invisible as far as she was concerned, but then my sister had a car accident that totally changed everything.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
He pauses. He swallows his food. He takes his time. The pain in his eyes is excruciating.
‘She had a boyfriend. A lovely lad, Colin, and they’d been on their first proper date to the cinema. Helena had whiplash, they said, and Colin walked out unscathed, but a few weeks afterwards, she had what doctors called an ischaemic stroke because of a loss of oxygen to the brain. She was only seventeen.’
