*His mother had been nearly incandescent with joy when Roger had told her they were both invited to Lindy’s for Bonfire Night. She’d tried to hide it, of course, assuring him she knew they were just friends, and saying how kind it was for Lindy to include her. But Roger had seen the bright hope in her eyes, and he decided to do nothing to dampen it. Let his mum think he and Lindy were soon to be an item. It didn’t do any harm, and Lindy wouldn’t find out.
Although, scratch that, she probably would. Ellen would undoubtedly say something significant at some point. Still Roger decided to let it lie, for his mother’s sake, and perhaps even a little bit for his own. Hoping felt kind of nice, even if he wasn’t doing it actively. He was too sensible for that, and like Chris had explained, he was firmly friend-zoned.
They’d had their usual Monday banter in the office kitchen—Roger’s reply had been he’d been washing his hair instead—and then Chris had asked about Lindy.
“Still in the friend zone?” he’d said with a commiserating smile, and Roger had shrugged.
“I’m not actually entirely sure of my location in regards to the woman in question,” he’d said after a moment. He was thinking of Lindy’s hand on his three times—yes, he’d counted—at the pub.
“Oh, yeah?” Chris’s eyes had lit up with interest. The smell of his Lynx aftershave was overpowering and Roger’s instinct was usually to make his escape as quickly as possible, but now he realised he wanted Chris’s insight, as dubious a thing as that undoubtedly was. “What’s been happening?”
“She’s been quite…tactile,” Roger said, and Chris stared at him, nonplussed.
“Tactile?”
“As in touchy. Touchy-feely.” Words he hoped would never come out of his mouth again.
“Ah.” Chris nodded knowingly. “Does she seem like she’s doing it deliberately? Maintaining eye contact while she gives you a feel?”
Roger’s mouth drew up in slightly prim distaste. “The touching in question was her hand upon mine,” he felt compelled to clarify. “And no, I wouldn’t say it was deliberate. More…unthinking. There was no eye contact involved.” Although that was at least in part because he hadn’t been making any.
“Ah-hah.” Chris gave another knowing nod. “Sorry, my man, that doesn’t look good.”
“What?” Roger was startled by his certain-sounding assessment, although he tried not to show it. “Why have you reached that conclusion?”
“Because she’s decided you’re not a threat,” Chris said simply. “Firmly friend-zoned, man. Firmly.”
Roger had stared at him in growing dismay as he realised the nascent hopes he’d only begun to cherish were already being turned into ash. “So what you are saying,” he answered slowly, “is that if a woman unthinkingly touches or squeezes your hand—it’s because she sees you as an impossibility in terms of romantic affection?”
“That’s it exactly,” Chris agreed sagely. “Sorry.”
Roger had managed to draw himself up. “At least I know where I stand,” he said as he took the teabag out of his mug and flung it rather disconsolately into the sink.
Now he was walking with his mother up to Willoughby Close, the reminder of his friend status weighing heavily on him. He’d been stupid to think even for a moment of anything else; he’d already got this message, loud and clear, and yet still he’d started to hope again. He was, quite clearly, an idiot.
Toby set to barking as soon as they came up to number two, and a few seconds later Lindy opened the door. She looked fantastic as usual—her hair in tumbled waves halfway down to her waist, her jumper one of soft blue cashmere, paired with a long, swishy black skirt.
“Come in, come in,” she said, sounding almost exuberant, and Roger followed his mother into the cottage he remembered as being homely but surprisingly simple and even plain.
Toby capered around frantically as they divested themselves of hats and coats, and his mother effused about how kind Lindy was to invite them. Roger placed the bottle of wine he’d brought—quite a nice red—on the island in the kitchen area and Toby finally settled down, retreating to his bed by the windows.
“What a lovely little cottage,” Ellen exclaimed. “So cheerful.”
It was cheerful, with the wood burner going merrily and a colourful patchwork afghan across the back of the beige sofa, the aroma of chilli scenting the air. Yet Roger couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Lindy had not imprinted her personality on any of it, and he couldn’t help but wonder why. He thought about asking, but he had no idea how to frame the question. Why does your home look so bland when you’re so vibrant?
No, better simply to sit on that one.
His mother was still chatting to Lindy, and so Roger took the opportunity to stroll around the room, noting a black-and-white photograph on the wall behind the wood burner. It was a candid shot, or what seemed like one, with Lindy and two older people whom Roger supposed had to be her parents.
They were caught mid-conversation, all laughing or smiling, Lindy’s hair whipping across the front of the frame, while the background, what looked like some large, significant building—had been artfully blurred. It was all quite wonderfully done, capturing the sense of immediacy and joy, three people caught up in themselves in the best possible way, so even the Taj Mahal—Roger recognised it belatedly—faded into insignificance. He was still staring at the photo when Lindy came to stand beside him.
“My parents,” she stated simply.
“They look as if they were lovely people.” He meant it sincerely, and Lindy flashed him a quick, grateful look.
“They were. Truly, the best.” She let out a little sigh. “I was so very lucky, you know? Sometimes it’s easy to forget that.”
“Yes.” It occurred to him that he had not really considered feeling the same about his father—he’d had a wonderful man in his life for the first twelve years of his childhood—how many people could say that? He had been lucky, too. Blessed, even if, in later years, it hadn’t always felt like it.
Blessed, too, Roger realised, to have had such an amazing mother. Ellen had selflessly put him first, accepted him absolutely, and loved him unconditionally for as long as he’d been alive. How many people could say that? Really, all the usual quibbles and complaints aside, he was a fortunate man indeed.
“Anyway…” Lindy shook off the moment of melancholy with characteristic cheerful vigour. “The chilli is ready—we can eat first, and then do sparklers?” She turned back to Ellen, who was inspecting the quilt over the back of the sofa with a bit too much concentration. How many private moments was his mother going to try to give them? Roger wondered. It could start to become noticeable, if not downright awkward. But then he was plenty used to awkward, and he could certainly handle a little bit from her.
Lindy started dishing up the chilli, and Ellen insisted on helping, taking the jacket potatoes, steaming in their crispy golden-brown skins, out of the oven. At Lindy’s bidding, Roger opened the wine and poured three glasses. Soon they were all seated at the little table as night settled softly on the back garden, and really, it was all quite cosy.
“Tell me all about yourself, dear,” Ellen said once they were seated, and Lindy shot Roger a questioning look that he was astute enough to pick up on. She was wondering what his mother knew about her already, and of course the answer was absolutely nothing because Roger had never said. Unfortunately he could not discern whether that was a good thing—he’d been discreet—or a bad one, because he’d seemed indifferent.
Gamely enough Lindy explained about her job in Manchester—Ellen was thrilled she’d been an accountant like he was—and then about her parents dying. She used the same matter-of-fact tone Roger always did, but it didn’t fool his mother.
“Oh, you poor thing. You poor, poor thing.” She shook her head sorrowfully, her face crumpling in sympathy. “Of course, no one wants to hear they’re a poor thing, I know. I’m sorry, dear. I’m sure Roger has told you about his own loss?”
“And yours, as well,” Lindy replied quietly, and Ellen inclined her head in acknowledgement.
“It’s been hard on both of us, there’s no question, but at least we’ve had each other.”
While Lindy hadn’t had anyone. Roger glanced at her, amazed at how serene and confident she seemed, when she’d experienced such a devastating loss at such a young age. How did she do it? How did she stay so warm and approachable when life surely should have taught her to be wary? Perhaps that was a question he’d work up the courage to ask her one day.
*
Lindy had been intending to do the sparklers after supper, but it was clear Ellen was starting to flag even before the meal was over. She’d barely touched her chilli or potato, giving Lindy a small smile of apologetic regret.
“I’m sorry, dear. It all looks delicious. It’s just I don’t have much of an appetite these days.”
“No worries,” Lindy said quickly, but her heart ached. Ellen looked as if she were fading right before their eyes, her skin papery and pale, everything about her diminished, although there was still a determined sparkle in her eyes that Lindy liked.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am that Roger has agreed to participate in the performance,” Ellen said after supper as Roger took her arm to help her over to the sofa and Lindy made coffees. “To think we’ll waltz together! It makes me so happy.” She shot Roger a rather adoring look that made Lindy smile, as much as seeing her son’s strained response. This was hard for him, she knew, both because of the overt emotion and the nature of loss.
“Not just waltz, but foxtrot, rumba, and samba, too,” she reminded Ellen. At last Monday’s class she’d gone through the basic choreography of the routine she hoped her six mostly willing pupils would learn—it involved one minute of each dance, with a switching in and out of partners as they moved in a graceful hexagon around the ballroom. Ellen had been thrilled, Maureen grudgingly approving, Simon and Olivia mostly oblivious, and Helena worried but excited. Roger’s one comment had been: “I can appreciate the geometrics of the endeavour,” which had made Lindy laugh.
“I think it’s going to be an amazing night,” Lindy said as she handed Ellen and Roger their coffees before settling in the squashy armchair opposite them. Toby slunk round to lie docile and pleading at her feet and she gave him a quick, loving stroke.
“I’m already planning what I’ll wear,” Ellen told her as she took a tiny sip of coffee. “I have the most amazing dress—I wore it on a cruise years ago, before Eric died. Do you remember, Roger? When we cruised the fjords? You were only eight or so.”
“Yes, they were quite interesting,” Roger replied.
“It’s purple, one-shouldered, with sequins. A bit much, I know—”
“I love it already,” Lindy assured her. “And if you can’t wear something fabulous for a ballroom dancing extravaganza, when can you?” She gave Roger a teasingly severe look. “I hope you’re going to get in the spirit of things, as well?”
He looked as startled as a deer in headlights, or maybe more of a moose, blinking for a few moments before he found his voice. “I do not think I would look fabulous, as you say, in purple sequins.”
Lindy let out a laugh, nearly spitting out her mouthful of coffee, and Roger gave her a small smile.
“How about a tuxedo?” she suggested. “With satin lapels? A ruffled shirt? A hot pink cummerbund?”
“Why not all three?” he parried back, and she nodded approvingly.
“Now you’re talking.”
“Roger does have a tuxedo,” Ellen said. “From his university days. Do you remember, Roger, you took that lovely young girl to the May ball in your third year?”
Roger gave a terse nod, and Lindy tried not to feel a silly twinge of jealousy at the thought of this long-ago girl.
“I remember,” he said.
“I think it’ll still fit,” Ellen continued musingly. “You haven’t gained a pound since your uni days, I’m sure.” She turned to Lindy. “He bikes to work every day. He keeps very fit.”
“Mum,” Roger protested, and then fell silent. Lindy did her best not to laugh. Was Ellen trying to elucidate all of Roger’s finer points? She didn’t mind. In fact, she was well aware of many of them already.
They continued chatting for a few more moments, but then Ellen put her coffee down, and she rested her head back against the sofa pillows, and in mid-sentence Lindy realised she’d fallen asleep.
“She does this quite a lot now,” Roger said quietly as they both watched Ellen sleeping. “Falls asleep in the middle of something, even a meal. I was pretending not to notice, but…”
“At some point reality body-slams you,” Lindy finished. “I’m sorry, Roger.”
“We’re making the most of our moments.”
She nodded, taking a sip of coffee, not wanting to get too emotional for his sake. Watching Ellen sleep, seeing how translucent her skin was, how twig-like her wrists, it was hard not to realise she was a woman with only months left. Lindy just hoped Ellen would be able to stay strong for the Christmas performance in six weeks’ time, but she had her doubts, none of which she wished to articulate to either Roger or Ellen.
“Should we wait until she wakes up, to do the sparklers?” she asked quietly, and Roger shook his head.
“She could be asleep for hours. I can wake her up now, take her home…” He half-started to rise, but Lindy stayed him with one hand.
“No, no. Let her rest. And I’m sure she wouldn’t want to disrupt the evening for anyone.” She almost thought of saying something flirtatious about how she thought Ellen was trying to set them up, but she decided against it. She had no idea what Roger’s reaction to such a statement would be. “We can do the sparklers, at least,” she said. “It’s probably better if Ellen doesn’t—it’s so cold outside.”
“All right.”
Lindy went to fetch the sparklers she’d bought in Witney, as well as a box of matches. Roger quietly opened the French windows and they slipped outside to her tiny garden, the night dark and thick all around them, the wood at the bottom of the garden no more than a humped shape of trees in the darkness.
The air was sharp with cold, the grass beneath Lindy’s boots crunching with frost. In the distance, if she strained her ears, she could hear the sounds of the crowds gathering at the village green for the huge bonfire, soon to be followed by fireworks.
“Are you sorry that Toby’s keeping you at home?” Roger asked, and she shook her head.
“Not a bit of it. This is much better than braving crowds and standing in the cold for the better part of an hour.” She handed him a sparkler, her fingers brushing his. “And I prefer a simple sparkler to the whole dazzling show,” she added. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Lindy struck a match and then lit both their sparklers in turn. The hiss and flare as it came alight and began first to sputter and then glitter always felt magical to her, a memory of childhood, of the wonder of small things, of simple joys, sparks against a night sky. She felt a rush of happiness as well as an ache of sorrow—to be able to stay in this moment, to keep it forever…
“Come on,” she said, and stepped further into the shadows of the garden, holding her sparkler alight like a fizzing torch. Roger followed her, their sparklers snapping and glittering as they stood side by side, their breath making small puffs of frosty air in the perfect stillness, their sparklers held in front of them. The moment felt crystalline, precious and fragile, as translucent and fleeting as a bubble.
Lindy glanced at Roger—he looked so serious, so thoughtful, as he gazed at his sparkler popping and fizzing away, and yet she had no idea what he was thinking, or even what she was thinking. She knew she longed for something more, but she wasn’t sure what it was or if she was brave enough to try for it. Thirty-five years old, fifteen of them spent alone, and trying for romance, or even just a deeper friendship, felt frankly terrifying. Letting someone in that much, letting them hear that cry for help in the middle of the night…
That was both appalling and wonderful. Frightening yet needed.
And yet, despite the fears and uncertainties catapulting through her, she wouldn’t trade this moment for the whole world.
Their sparklers died out and they were left in darkness, surprising in its totality after the bright lights that had been blazing right before their eyes. Lindy turned instinctively back towards the house, and Roger must have as well, for they bumped into each other as they moved, and then their extinguished sparklers fell to the ground and his hands were on her arms as they did an awkward, shuffling dance that bore little resemblance to anything Lindy taught in class, and yet felt far more exciting.
She let out a breathless little laugh and Roger’s hands tightened on her arms as their bodies bumped—and she thought, she knew, he was going to kiss her. She could almost already feel it—how his lips would be soft and cold, and she felt as if there were trumpets blaring inside of her, as if fireworks were cartwheeling behind her eyes, all in anticipation of that wonderful, wonderful kiss.
The kiss that didn’t happen.
Roger let her go and stepped back quickly, muttering “Sorry” under his breath, and Lindy refocused on the darkness and saw how severe he looked and realised she must have misread the moment entirely. Disappointment swamped her—enough disappointment for her to realise just how much she’d wanted him to kiss her. She’d wanted it with a yearning she felt soul-deep, one that was shot through her whole body like flecks of gold embedded in rock. She wanted it—and she didn’t get it.
Roger started back towards the house, and after a few seconds of tortured deliberation, Lindy followed.
She might have been trying to convince herself she just wanted to be Roger’s friend, but in that moment she knew otherwise. She was halfway—or more—to falling in love with him.