Chapter Nine

Private phone calls are practically impossible in our tiny flat, especially if they’re taking place between nine and ten on a Saturday night when Mam is watching Dynasty. She refused to leave the room when Andrew called so the conversation was short.

He made no apology for being a no-show the night before, nor did he offer an explanation. Instead, he offered to take me out to lunch the next day. It wasn’t likely to be a grand affair, but I still wanted to look nice.

When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I realised that meant I needed to rethink my choice of outfit. My favourite green dress clashed horribly with my hair, making me look like a dead ringer for a Christmas elf. Thankfully, my second favourite dress looked much less festive. I teamed it with a wide silver belt, slipped on some strappy sandals and headed out the door.

Andrew was already waiting, revving the engine of the junky Cortina to keep it running. When I slipped into the passenger seat he greeted me with wide eyes and a look of alarm.

I held off pulling the door closed. If the next words out of his mouth were as grave as his expression, I was ready to leg it back to the house.

“What happened to your hair?” he asked, aghast.

I wound my super chic side pony tail around my hand. “I dyed it,” I uttered. “Do you like it?”

“No,” he replied. “Was it supposed to turn out like that?”

“Not really,” I replied coolly. “But you can’t always get what you want, can you?”

The Bridge End café wasn’t exactly the flashiest place in town. It was nowhere near a bridge either. It was located on a busy street right in the middle of the shopping precinct.

It had been there forever, and its longevity was reflected by the tired décor. The gingham tablecloths were mismatched and ratty, the vinyl floor tiles were lifting and the lace curtains were discoloured, but the food was good. It was also cheap, which explained why it was one of our favourite haunts.

Before we even sat down, Andrew ordered two Cokes. I chose a spot near the window, discreetly brushed some crumbs off the table and gave the cutlery a quick wipe with a serviette.

“This is posh,” Andrew said, squaring up the small vase in the centre of the table.

A dusty plastic carnation could never be posh, but I agreed with him anyway. “Flamingo Harry’s was good the other night,” I said, changing the subject. “They had a live band.”

His smile was strained. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Where were you?”

“Playing my Atari, mostly,” he replied. “I got up to level eight. It’s dead addictive.”

Feigning apathy, I reached for a menu. “By yourself?” I quizzed. “Mandy wasn’t there either.”

Andrew let out a pissed off groan. “Not this again, Fiona,” he complained. “I told you before, I’ve had nowt to do with Mandy bleedin’ Brewer.”

My first instinct was to apologise for jumping to conclusions, but I managed to hold back. It didn’t matter whether I’d lost out to arcade games or another woman, he’d still blown me off.

“You could’ve called,” I mumbled.

Andrew’s shoulders slumped. “I just needed some time away, Fi,” he confessed.

“From me?”

I had to wait for an answer. An unenthusiastic waitress made her way over to our table, scuffing her feet as she walked. “Ready to order?” she asked, offloading two bottles of Coke onto the table.

“Not yet.” Andrew’s eyes never left mine. “Give us a minute.”

She moseyed away without another word paving the way for the tense conversation to continue.

“You’re doing my head in,” he told me. “I’m sick of wedding talk all the time.”

The annoyance I felt was overshadowed by confusion. I purposefully kept the wedding talk to a minimum around Andrew. He had no interest in bridesmaid dresses or bouquet designs so sharing those details with him would have been an aggravating waste of breath.

Then it hit me.

The subject of the wedding wasn’t the irritant. Marriage was the topic of conversation that had sent him running. I hounded him every chance I got, desperately seeking assurance that he was on board with our plans.

I wanted a loving marriage, a pretty home and a handful of kids. It was a set of goals that made Gill and other likeminded modern women cringe, but they were my dreams and they were valid.

“We have to want the same things,” I said for the umpteenth time. “It’s important.”

Andrew reached for my hand and gave my fingers a light squeeze. “You’re like a broken record. Just tone it down a notch, Fi.”

I pulled away, but he didn’t seem to notice. He picked up a menu and called out to the waitress.

I used the time it took for her to scuff her way over to pull myself together, refusing to show the hurt I was feeling.

She pulled a notebook out of the pocket of her apron. “What’ll it be?”

“Two chips and eggs,” replied Andrew ordering for both of us.

“I don’t want chips and eggs,” I protested.

He frowned. “But that’s what you always order.”

“Maybe it’s time I tried something new.”

Andrew picked up the menu and studied it again. “Maybe we should both try something new.”

Clearly, we weren’t talking about chips and eggs any more but I didn’t ask for clarification. Marrying this Atari addicted man-child who may or may not be cheating on me would be the biggest mistake of my short life, but I took my mother’s advice and battened down to weather the storm.

I hate it when he orders food for me.

I hate the ugly blue jacket he always wears.

I hate his ugly car.

His friends are idiots.

Book of the week: A Recipe for Romance

Honeymoon Fund: £63.00