The One You Really Want

A letter had been pushed through the letterbox. Nancy, arriving home from work, bent to pick it up and carried it through to the kitchen. The house was empty. Rennie had whisked Carmen down to Nice for a couple of days and Rose was spending the weekend with William at his home in Westonsuper-Mare. Nancy dumped her bag on the kitchen table, filled the kettle at the sink then messily tore open the envelope with her name on it.

Except it wasn’t a letter, it was an invitation. As the kettle behind her came to the boil, Nancy gazed at the thick white card and felt the first stirrings of annoyance. Bloody hell, this was all she needed.

‘Dear Nancy,’ said the invitation. ‘You are cordially invited to a picnic in Fitzallen Square on Friday at six o’clock. No need to RSVP. Just be there, please.’

It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be. And it was already two minutes past six. Irritated, Nancy slapped the invitation down and stormed through to the sitting room. Bloody Jonathan, up to his stupid tricks again. Why couldn’t he accept that she wasn’t going back to him? She’d told him not to come down to London but that was Jonathan for you, he’d never been able to admit defeat.

There was no sign of him outside in the darkening square but Nancy knew he’d be there waiting for her, somewhere out of sight behind the clump of trees and bushes to the left of the wooden bench. She had, in effect, belittled his attempt to woo her with two hundred pounds’ worth of flowers, so now he was going that bit further, upping the stakes, making a more extravagant gesture that would no doubt include vintage champagne, smoked salmon and, knowing Jonathan, crystal glasses and fine china plates.

God, what an idiot he was. Checking her watch - ten past six - Nancy wondered what Jonathan would do if she simply ignored the invitation. How long would he stay out there, waiting for her to turn up?

That was one possibility. The other was to march over there right now and tell him in no uncertain terms that he was wasting his time. Which to do? Which to go for? Raking her fingers agitatedly through her hair, Nancy realised she couldn’t bear the thought of Jonathan sitting out there all evening with his ridiculous picnic, waiting for her. She had to get rid of him now. Once he was gone, she could get on with having a bath and washing her hair in peace.

Dusk was falling as Nancy crossed the road and clicked open the gate. Reaching the wooden bench she turned left and saw the picnic area exactly where she’d known it would be. There were balloons tied to the lower branches of the trees in the mini-glade and candles flickering in glass holders, and a green and red tartan rug had been laid out on the grass.

Moving towards the rug, Nancy heard a rustling of leaves and saw Connor step out from behind the cluster of trees.

Adrenaline zapped through every fibre of her body. Nancy, her mouth dry and her brain a whirl of confusion, really wished she hadn’t stormed out of the house without first combing her hair and repairing her end-of-a-long-day-at-work make-up.

‘In a way.’ Nancy couldn’t begin to figure out what was going on. ‘But only so I could march over here and tell him to fuck off back to Scotland.’

‘Well, that’s good. The reason I didn’t sign the invitation was in case I lost my nerve and ran away. Then you wouldn’t have known it had come from me.’

Lost his nerve? Connor was always so utterly laid back and relaxed it was impossible to think of him as being nervous. Yet he was looking ill at ease, his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, his hair more rumpled and his eyebrows somehow less . . . assured than normal. And he was scuffing the ground with the toes of his Timberland boots like a teenager. Her heart banging against her ribcage, Nancy said, ‘Where’s Tabitha?’ and wondered if at any moment Tabitha would leap out from behind the bushes shrieking, ‘Here I am! Surprise!’

Connor shrugged awkwardly and said, ‘It’s over. Tab’s fine. She’s going to live in New York. This was kind of her idea, actually.’ He indicated the picnic. ‘All this.’

Horror and shame seized Nancy by the throat. Had Tabitha finished with Connor and somehow managed to persuade him, against his will, to make some form of clumsy play for her instead? Out of pity? Oh God, oh God.

‘Look, there’s no need,’ Nancy blurted out, her skin crawling with embarrassment as she backed away from the picnic, the candles, the cake. ‘I don’t know what Tab’s trying to do here, but—’

‘Ah shit, I’ve got this all wrong again.’ His Irish accent becoming more pronounced, Connor shook his head in despair and said urgently, ‘Wait, you can’t go, it isn’t what you’re thinking at all, I’m just making a complete balls-up as usual. Listen to me,’ he pleaded, taking a couple of steps towards Nancy. ‘It’s not what Tab’s trying to do here, it’s what I’m trying to do. It’s just that according to Tab I did it all wrong last time so this time she gave me some advice on how to make it go a bit better.’

‘All this.’ Gesturing helplessly at the balloons, the rug, the candles flickering in their holders, Connor said, ‘She knows how much I like you, but I told her you weren’t interested in me because when I asked you out before you said no. Tab said I had to make more of an effort, do something . . . you know, romantic. So that’s what I’m doing, but to be honest it’s not really working out all that well. I’ve never tried anything like this before. Tab said it would be great, but now that you’re here to see it, I feel a bit stupid.’

OK, breathe, just try and breathe normally. Feeling light-headed, Nancy said, ‘I heard you telling Mia I wasn’t your type. In your office at the club. You sounded pretty certain then.’

‘Oh God.’ Connor slammed his hand against his forehead. ‘I just told her that to stop her sticking her oar in! You know what Mia’s like. I wanted to do it by myself, without my bossy daughter scaring you witless with her high-pressure sales pitch.’

‘Just did. Saw us together outside Charing Cross police station,’ Connor shrugged, ‘and that was it. According to Tab it was blindingly obvious. One of those girl things, I suppose. Anyway, that was why I took her advice with this whole making-an-effort malarkey.’ Scratching his head and pulling a face he said, ‘Which just goes to show how bloody daft I am.’

‘You made me a cake. I think that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.’ Unable to hold back any longer, Nancy closed the distance between them and threw her arms round Connor. Her hair was uncombed, her lipstick was worn off and she looked a fright but it didn’t matter. She kissed him anyway.

Breaking into a broad smile, Nancy kissed him again for good measure before dragging him over to the rug. ‘We’ve got to try this cake. I haven’t even seen it properly yet. I can’t believe you actually made it yourself.’

Nancy surveyed the lumpy white icing, thickly slapped on all over and studded with Maltesers and fruit pastilles for that elegant finishing touch. The cake itself was round, six inches in diameter and decorated with a red satin ribbon like a gaudy bride-to-be’s garter. Struggling to keep a straight face, she said, ‘What kind of sponge is it?’

He’d actually made her a cake. Picturing him getting into a flap in his kitchen, inexpertly weighing out flour and cracking eggs, Nancy’s heart swooped with love. Since he’d forgotten to bring a knife along, she flipped open the Swiss Army penknife on her keyring.

Taking the penknife from Nancy, Connor drew her to him once more. ‘OK, that’s my cover well and truly blown. I’m rubbish at cakes. But I do have other talents, I promise.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m still impressed.’ Feeling she could afford to be magnanimous, Nancy said, ‘You remembered that I like Maltesers.’