Page 31 of The Matchmaker
“Because I don’t have any money!” I half exclaim, half moan. “That’s why I’m talking to you. You’re supposed to tell me what a brilliant idea this is and give me a big fat check and maybe a free pen.”
“We don’t really do checks anymore,” he says, unaffected by my glare. “I’m sorry, Katie. But I’m telling you now, you’re not going to get anything for something like this. You have to think smaller.”
“We can’t go smaller. No one’s going to pay attention if I just put up some bunting and have a barbecue.”
He gives me a helpless shrug, and I sit back, abandoning my good girl posture for a sad girl slump as my blazer stretches uncomfortably around my shoulders. Anushka let me borrow it for today, saying I needed to look the part. Fat lot of good that did me.
“Okay,” I say. “Second plan. You and me. Bank heist.”
He gives me a look, and we fall into silence, mine decidedly sulkier than his. “How’s Maeve doing?” he asks after a while.
“Fine,” I say, still a little sore he didn’t just hand over a burlap sack with a dollar sign on it. “She had a fall a few weeks ago.”
His brow furrows in concern, but I wave it off. “She’s grand. It wasn’t that bad. She just got extra grouchy afterward because she was embarrassed.”
“I’m glad to hear she’s alright.”
“Yeah. Bad bruise on her hip, though.” I twist a lock of hair around my finger as I remember the ugly purple splotch of it. “Her doctor said it’s probably going to keep happening. She’s not doing her stretches enough because she’s stubborn and infuriating and…”
And even if she did them, it probably wouldn’t help that much.
I don’t finish the sentence, turning my gaze toward the window. It started raining in the last few minutes, a heavy, spitting kind that hits against the glass as though trying to break through. The storm has officially arrived.
“Can you at least ask about the loan?” I ask. “Or enquire or whatever it is you do.”
“Of course. You know I will.”
“But you don’t think I’ll get anything.”
“Not a cent,” he says, as his phone flashes with a silent alarm. He turns it off, his gaze softening as he takes me in. “I’m sorry about the pub, Katie. I really am.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I know.”
“Give me a call if it doesn’t work out, okay? I know you’re scared to move—”
“I’m notscared.”
“But us city folk aren’t so bad,” he finishes. “And a job’s a job.” He drains the last of his coffee and grabs his coat, looking out the window in dismay. “You get the bus in?”
I nod. “There’s one in thirty minutes. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“It’ll pass. It’s just a shower.”
He leans down to hug me and then he’s gone, rushing out the door with a newspaper over his head as he tries to escape the deluge. I wait another ten minutes for the rain to ease before resigning myself to the fact that it won’t and am barely two steps out of the door before I’m drenched through, my rain jacket doing nothing to keep me dry as the wind whips around me. It only gets worse when I get down the road and see how packed my bus stop is, and I make a snap decision, diving through the door of the nearest restaurant and wishing I had just stayed at the damn café.
The hostess gives me a suspicious look, but I pretend to browse the menu until she’s distracted by an actual customer, when I then try to sneakily locate the toilets so I can hide for a few minutes. It’s a nice joint. Trendy décor, soft jazz music playing. The kind of place where the menus are small and the wine bottles have corks and not just screwcaps. Feeling distinctly out-of-place, I slip behind a waiter carrying an admittedly delicious-looking cheese plate toward the back of the room only to stop in my tracks when I spot a familiar face.
Callum.
He sits alone at a small table, scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t look up, or feel me watching, or know I’m there at all. And I know I should turn around and walk out again, but I don’t move.
Granny loves signs.
There is no such thing as a coincidence in her mind, only fate and omens andque sera, seras. And while I’ve never really bought into any of it, it’s her I think of now as I squeeze my way between the other diners and drop into the seat opposite him.
He looks up as soon as I do, an expression of relief switching to confusion when he sees who I am. “What are you—”
