19

“It’s very unusual for her to be out at this time,” Abi noted. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, my gran is not one of those knit-all-night old ladies who want to be home by 6 and in bed by 8.” Abi shrugged. “In fact, that sounds more like me than her.”

Steven found that amusing, but quickly hid his laugh and held up a hand to apologize.

“She likes getting out there. Spending time with men, drinking, partying—”

“I need to meet this woman.”

“But …” Abi continued, confusion etched her face as she gestured around the living room and shrugged, “not at this time and not without telling me.”

Steven shifted on the couch, throwing one arm over the back while cradling his wineglass in the other, his legs folded, his posture relaxed. “You were out all day,” he noted. “Maybe something came up. You said she doesn’t have a phone—”

“She has one, she just doesn’t give out the number. In fact, she called me before.”

Steven paused, the lip of the wineglass inches from his mouth, expectation on his face as he looked at Abi. “And? What did she say?”

“I didn’t give her a chance to speak.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe I missed something important.”

“She’s probably out there having fun and you’re getting worried for nothing.” Steven leaned forward, holding out his free hand and gesturing for her to sit down next to him.

Abi nodded, relented. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Sounds like a tough woman,” he said as Abi settled down next to him, instantly feeling at ease as she sank into the soft material, the natural groove in the old sofa pushing them together like magnets. “What could have possibly happened to her?”

“Good point. There isn’t a mugger in the world that could get the best of Martha Ansell.”

“There you go, that’s the spirit. He moved his wineglass from one hand to the other and then wrapped his free arm around the back of the sofa, his hand coming to rest on Abi’s arm, applying gentle pressure to encourage her to move closer.

There was a break in the conversation as they both sat in silence, listening to the sound of one another’s breathing, contemplating the day behind them and the night ahead. Steven eventually broke the silence, seemingly compelled to keep the conversation going. “My gran was nowhere near as adept,” he said. “I mean, she was a great woman, and she had her own skills. She played the piano in her youth, and she was as sharp as a tack until the day she died, but she was useless with technology. She once called the phone company to say she needed a new phone line installed, and when they went to her house, she gave them an old iPhone.”

“Gran basically raised me,” Abi said. “In fact, she’s the reason I got into freelancing. She was my motivation, my drive. It was thanks to her that I got a computer and the internet before anyone else in my class. Back in the days when it took several minutes to connect, and everything shut down whenever someone called you.” Abi laughed. “I was shy at school so the internet, and my Gran, made me the person that I am.” She arched her neck to look at Steven’s face. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but it’s definitely something.”

“It’s a good thing,” Steven exclaimed, “of course it’s a good thing. You’re smart, creative, fun—I mean, I’ve only known you a couple days, but I’d say your gran and your crappy old dial-up modem did a pretty good job.”

“Thanks.”

Steven leaned over, kissed her on the top of the head, and then slowly stood. “Anytime.” He groaned as he rose to his feet. “Now, if you’ll point me in the right direction and excuse me for a moment, I need to use your toilet.” He beamed at her as he placed his wineglass down on the coffee table and then straightened some creases out of his trousers.

“Upstairs, first door on the left.”

“I’m not going to discover anything untoward, am I? Maybe find your collection of BDSM magazines or discover you have a secret addiction to painkillers.”

“No chance,” Abi retorted as Steven wandered off in search of the toilet. “I keep my drugs and porn mags in the garage.”

Abi searched frantically on her phone while Steven was in the toilet, checking Facebook, Twitter—hoping her grandmother was safe and well, but also hoping that she wouldn’t appear just as things were getting heated with Steven.

Martha never approved of Abi’s boyfriends, but neither did Abi. Her last few relationships had been a product of circumstance and boredom. She had grown tired of being alone, weary of sleeping by herself night after night. She worked too much, socialized too little, and simply didn’t have time to date, so she often settled for men she didn’t like, men that were dull, arrogant, annoying; men who didn’t have the best personal hygiene, were sexist pigs, or, in some cases, blatantly cheated on her.

The relationships never lasted and, in most cases, Abi found herself introducing the men to her grandmother simply because she knew that Martha would give her the confidence that she lacked to end the relationship. Martha was Abi’s catalyst for change, the kick up the ass that she often needed but always avoided.

Steven was different. He was kind, sweet, caring, handsome; he seemed to genuinely care for her, and while it was impossible to know what the future held. he also didn’t seem like the cheating sort.

Although, as her gran had said numerous times in the past, “Most men are cheating bastards, the rest are just bastards.” The words, and the cheeky, sardonic way that her grandmother expressed them, made Abi snigger. She was still sniggering when Steven returned.

“You’ve either just found some funny cat pictures on Facebook, or there is something hilarious about the way I pee. Please tell me it’s the former.”

“It is, of course it is.”

“Phew,” he said, wiping an imaginary line of sweat from his forehead. “I have this niggling fear that I’m doing something wrong, only everyone is either too polite or oblivious to tell me.”

Abi met his comment with a blank stare, an eyebrow raised.

“I should explain,” he added, “before you call the men in white. When I was younger, I used to wipe my backside standing up.” He held up a hand, silencing Abi before she spoke. “I know, weird. But, apparently, like a quarter of the population do that. The other three-quarters do it sitting down, which is what I do now. But because no one speaks about it, these two groups never meet, everyone assumes that their way is the right way, or the normal way, and they get on with their lives.”

“That can’t be right,”

“I shit you not,” Steven said with a firm nod, before adding, “pardon the pun. And the imagery in general, I know this is not a great topic for a second date.”

“It’s interesting, interesting is always good.”

He shuffled next to her on the couch, picked up his wine. “Also, I was in my twenties before I realized that the way I put on a sweater is weird. I sort of like ball it up and then throw it over my head.”

“That does sound weird.”

“I would give you an example, but I don’t want you swooning when I take my top off. I could lose you for the night.”

Abi laughed and shoved him lightly on the arm, shaking the wineglass in his hand. “Good call. We wouldn’t want that.”

“So, now I have this fear that someone is going to come up to me and tell me that I’m peeing wrong, or I’m eating wrong, or sleeping wrong.” He drained the wine in his glass. “Imagine being—told at thirty-seven that you’re basically not … humaning properly.”

“Good word.”

“Thank you. Feel free to use that one with your clients. Do you not have that?”

“Not really. I mean, I’m an anxious person, I’m worried of a lot of things, but …” She shook her head, still grinning. Her eyes were fixed on his face, but he was staring out into the yard, his mind seemingly elsewhere.

“I’m weird, I know,” he said, distantly.

“Not weird. Quirky, I think is a better word. At least that’s what people tell me.” She laughed, but he didn’t reciprocate. “Everything okay? I haven’t embarrassed you, have I?”

Steven turned to her. “No, no. If anyone has embarrassed me, it’s me. I just …” His eyes returned to the patio door and the yard beyond it.

It was dark outside, the thick grass that covered the garden and the swaying trees that stood near the perimeter fence were only just visible, black silhouettes caught in the silvery glow of the moonlight. Everything else was just a reflection of the light inside the living room, emitted by a lamp beside the couch and the flickering flames of candles on the coffee table.

Abi watched the dark trees dance, her blurred reflection staring back at her. “What is it?” she asked, feeling the warmth of the evening immediately drain out of her.

“I don’t mean to scare you or anything.” His eyes were fixed on the patio door still. “I just—I could have sworn I saw someone in your yard.”

Abi’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach; her body tensed. Her hand gripped the wineglass so tightly that she felt it flex in her palm.

“Maybe I’m just being paranoid. It might have been my reflection or just a tree. But—” He turned to her and seemed to note the horror on her face. “I should check it out.”