Page 43 of The First Time I Saw You
I recognise Charlie’s knock and open the door.
‘Vegetable lasagne,’ he says by way of greeting from beneath his hood. He is holding the glass dish with a pair of pink oven gloves.
I can’t help but smirk at him – this blunt-speaking, broad-shouldered man wearing something so feminine.
‘Do you mind if I put the match on?’
I shake my head as he hangs his coat on the back of a chair, grabs the remote and flicks on the new flat-screen. My kitchen is instantly filled with sounds of a football stadium as England take on France. I’m not particularly interested; it’s the wrong-shaped ball.
We haven’t talked much since my outpourings of last week; our contact seems to be restricted to food deliveries and his overseeing of Handy Huw’s handiwork.
They managed to get the rotovator in, and between them, the lawn has been completely dug up and levelled, and the turf arrives tomorrow. I had mentioned that I had been thinking about getting fake grass.
‘Fake. Grass?’ Charlie had said scornfully.
‘What do you mean by fake?’ Huw had asked, his hairy belly hanging over his dirty shorts. ‘Like a different type to what’s local?’ His Welsh accent had softened the words, making them inoffensive and gentle. The more time I spend at home, the more I can feel my own words slipping back into their native tongue, the accent I had been so determined to lose, cuddling up against my new life like a faithful dog.
Helen had never had the same lilt as Mum and me; she and Ian had moved to Wales the year before he met her. Mum had met him at the school Christmas fair while he sold home-made Christmas tree ornaments; he was personalising them on the stall with a wood burning pen. I remember her saying what a lovely idea and look at how he is with his daughter. So nice to see a father and daughter together like that. We didn’t know that Helen had had to stay up until midnight most days that week engraving the patterns, so he could make money from the stall.
The lasagne is delicious, and we eat in companionable silence. I tear a piece of garlic bread away, the butter running between my fingers. I get up to wipe my hands just as my phone rings.
‘Go on, Harry,’ Charlie yells at the screen just as I pick up my mobile.
‘Hello?’ I answer; it slides from my grasp and smashes on to the newly tiled floor. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ I crouch down but I know it’s beyond repair, the innards spilling out of the shattered screen.
‘You said you needed a new one with a better network,’ Charlie says matter-of-factly. ‘Yes!’ he exclaims at the TV as a goal is scored.
‘I know, but—’
‘At least it’s happened now before your website goes live.’
‘I suppose.’
I wipe the butter from my fingers, then try to reassemble some of the parts, but it’s no use. The phone is knackered. I slide out the SIM card and return to the table.
Charlie takes a sip of non-alcoholic red wine and grimaces. ‘You should get a better number for your phone.’
I load my fork with lasagne. ‘Why? I’ve already put this one on my website.’
‘But you can choose one that’s easier to remember . . . something catchy, something accountanty.’
‘Accountanty?’ I query. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
He shrugs and changes the subject. ‘When’s your sister coming?’
‘Next week,’ I answer with my mouth full. His lack of concern for etiquette has rubbed off on me and I feel more relaxed about table manners and manners in general. And that is a very good thing. Because I have just broken wind. Loudly.
‘Have you just?’ he asks, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
‘No!’ I lie, my cheeks burning with the embarrassment of it.
‘You have. I can smell it.’
‘I haven’t, I—’ Another blast escapes from my seat. Charlie sits back and folds his arms across his chest and raises his eyebrows.
‘It’s Bean,’ I say, looking at my food, unable to meet his gaze.
‘That’s a good name for it, you know: “Beans, Beans, they’re good for your heart, the more you eat the more you—”’
