Waking on Sunday morning in Ricky’s bed, Charley reached out for him, expecting her hands to feel his smooth bare skin, but her fingers slid across an empty space, although the sheet was still warm. A faint smell of brewing coffee drifted through the open door. She stretched slowly, luxuriating in the pleasure of not having to get up and knowing that in a moment Ricky would bring coffee, and get back into bed. Sunlight poured through the thin, cream blinds suffusing the whole room with a soft light. She heard Carlo pad into the room and seconds later, a cold, damp whiskery nose nudged at her arm. She patted the bed and the grey lurcher lumbered up and settled down next to her, taking up more than his fair share of the bed – way more – so that when Ricky walked in a short while later, in his boxers and with a mug in each hand, he couldn’t even get into bed.
‘Off!’ he said to the dog. ‘That’s my place!’
Instantly appealing to Charley, Carlo flattened his ears, raised his eyebrows and gave her a plaintive look from his soulful brown eyes.
‘Nice try,’ Ricky informed the hound, and handing Charley her coffee, ‘but she doesn’t want you any more than I do! Out!’ Ricky pointed to the open doorway.
Carlo sighed exaggeratedly, then reluctantly sloped off the bed as if he were being cast out into the wilderness for ever.
‘Poor Carlo. He hates it when he can’t be with you,’ said Charley. The lurcher was never more than a few feet away from Ricky, faithfully following him at heel whenever he so much as got up to leave a room.
Ricky shot her an amused look. ‘There isn’t room for all three of us,’ he reasoned, standing beside the bed. ‘You can have the dog, or you can have me.’
‘You,’ replied Charley, pulling back the quilt.
Later, they took Carlo for a long run on Clifton Downs, as they usually did on Sunday mornings. Holding hands, they walked along the gravelled track in an easy silence, the sharp tang of freshly cut grass floated on the warm summer air, while the dog ran around them joyously, in wide sweeping circles, a broad grin on his face. The sun warmed their backs and cast a single shadow of the pair of them on the ground in front of them. The Downs were weekend-busy, with dog-walkers and families out enjoying the sunshine. They passed a small group of dads having a kick-about with a dozen or so little kids, based around a mini pop-up goal. Charley could see Carlo eyeing up the ball, clearly keen to join in the fun.
‘Leave it,’ ordered Ricky firmly and, obediently, the dog gave the players a wide berth. But then one of the kids spectacularly mis-kicked the ball and it flew over and walloped into Ricky’s back.
‘God, I’m so sorry!’ called out one of the dads.
‘No worries!’ replied Ricky, turning and reaching for the ball with his foot. Charley expected him to kick it back, but instead he proceeded to skilfully dribble the ball back towards the group.
‘Tackle him!’ yelled one of the dads playfully, and the biggest of the kids made a valiant effort, but Ricky neatly flicked the ball to one side and easily evaded him, and then he carried on until he was close enough to the pop-up goal to shoot. The ball flew into the back of net.
‘Woo-hoo!’ cried Charley, and Ricky raised his arms in mock triumph as the dads and kids broke into wild applause. He’d make a great dad, thought Charley, loving how the small boys were all looking up to him. She didn’t even know if he wanted kids. She’d always avoided asking him. It was such a loaded question, but a brief fantasy of her and Ricky, complete with a couple of small children, slipped easily into her mind. They were here, on the Downs, and Ricky was running along behind a little girl on a bike, his hand on the saddle, keeping her balanced, while Charley walked behind them pushing a toddler on a trike. The fantasy was so clear, so real, that it took her an effort to pull herself out of it. Ricky, meanwhile, was solemnly shaking hands with the boy he’d outmanoeuvred and then, looking endearingly abashed, he came back to join her.
‘Awesome goal!’ said Charley.
‘Well, there wasn’t actually a goalie,’ he pointed out, ‘but thank you.’ Then he leant down and kissed her.
‘Well, I think you’re being overly modest,’ she told him as they walked on.
‘Trust me, I’m not. Those lads would run rings round me in a match. In fact, Carlo could probably beat me in a full-on tackle.’
Josh had been a big football fan, glued to the sports channels at weekends and playing five-a-side on Wednesdays, but the game had always left Charley cold. She realised she didn’t even know if Ricky even supported a team.
‘Of course I do. I’m Italian!’ he told her. ‘It’s practically the law. We play the best football in the world!’
‘So who do you support then?’ she asked, before adding hurriedly, ‘And please don’t be offended if I’ve never heard of them.’
‘Italy,’ he announced dryly.
Charley mock-grimaced and shook her head. ‘Sorry, never heard of them.’
Ricky didn’t even deign to reply.
They’d sort of effortlessly slipped into the routine of going out for a late brunch on Sundays after walking Carlo. Usually to a dog-friendly café where the lurcher would sprawl patiently under a table, sleeping off his morning run. The café was pretty full, and while Ricky queued to order their food from the counter, Charley grabbed a table, stowed Carlo underneath, and indulged herself with a little people-watching. A very young couple seated immediately opposite her – students, she reckoned – spent their time on their phones, barely talking to one other. Occasionally one or other would say something, or they’d screen-share something and then laugh. They seemed happy enough. Behind them, a middle-aged couple argued animatedly, but not acrimoniously, with each other, whilst behind them a much older couple sat at a table strewn with the Sunday papers, reading in companionable silence. Surrounded by couples, all enjoying each other’s company in such varied ways, got Charley thinking that maybe Angie was right; perhaps she shouldn’t compare the way she had loved Josh with the way she loved Ricky.
At the table immediately next to hers a frazzled young father was trying to persuade his toddler to eat a yoghurt. Good luck with that, Charley thought, watching the little lad clamp his lips tightly together and shake his head so furiously the wooden highchair wobbled. She watched him adoringly for a moment. He reminded her of Finn, except that Angie always let her kids feed themselves, which, she’d explained to Charley, not only taught them how to use a spoon and fork, but also cut down on food battles. Watching the stubborn toddler, Charley was itching to tell the father to back off, but it wasn’t her business; the little one wasn’t her child. She sighed and looked away. The various scenarios playing out around her led her to reflect on how different her Sundays had been with Josh. They’d never gone out for brunch. On Sundays, they’d wake up, make love, and have a lie-in. Eventually they’d get up and slob around the flat while Charley cooked Sunday lunch, usually roast chicken, Josh’s favourite. Occasionally they’d go to Pam’s for lunch and come back laden with Tupperware boxes of leftovers and slabs of her home-made cakes from tea. Carlo thumping his tail at her feet signalled Ricky’s return. He slid nimbly sideways into his seat, balancing a tray laden with coffees, OJs and scrambled eggs on brown. Just at that precise moment, the little boy at the next table launched himself into a full-blown tantrum, violently thrashing his legs, kicking the tray out of Ricky’s hands, and with a deafening crash, the entire contents hurtled onto the table.
‘Jason!’ bawled the father.
There was a split second of silence where everyone in the café turned round to look, and then poor little Jason burst into tears.
Charley leapt up to right the cups and glasses while Ricky turned to help the young dad. Flustered and apologising profusely, the poor man was struggling to unclip his now hysterical child from the highchair.
‘It’s not a problem,’ Ricky assured him. ‘It was an accident. Here, let me help.’ And he gathered up the family’s belongings and stashed them in the buggy, and then pushed it to the door, leaving the man with both hands free to carry his rigid, screaming child out of the café. Charley watched them, thinking how natural Ricky looked pushing the buggy.
‘Don’t have kids,’ was the dad’s passing shot as Ricky opened the door for him. Ricky just laughed and turned to Charley and threw her his warm, easy smile, and at once something clicked in her brain. She’d always wanted kids and had always assumed she’d have them, until Josh had died. But now, here she was, over thirty, her biological clock ruthlessly ticking the years away, and with them the chance of her becoming a mother. Secretly, Angie’s last two pregnancies had really distressed Charley; the jealousy she’d felt had hurt, physically hurt. She didn’t begrudge Angie her children, of course she didn’t, but it didn’t stop her being swamped by the immature feeling that it wasn’t fair that her friend had four kids while Josh’s death had left her not just widowed, but childless too. For the second time that morning, Charley had cast Ricky as a potential father and it occurred to her that staying with Ricky meant she could have children. Even as the thought solidified in her mind she chastised herself – it would be wrong-headed, and selfish, and absolutely no basis for a lasting relationship. She finished piling the crockery and glasses, and the sodden remains of the now very scrambled eggs, back on the tray. One of the waiters had come over to finish clearing up the mess. ‘Could we have the same again, please?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, of course.’
Ricky was taking his wallet out of his pocket.
‘No, I’ll get it this time.’ Charley picked up her bag to get her purse.
‘It’s on the house,’ the waiter told them. ‘For being so understanding.’
Ricky shrugged the compliment off. ‘These things happen.’
‘Yes, but not everyone would have taken it the way you did. Some people would have been really difficult.’
Ricky merely smiled and calmly put his wallet away and sat back down opposite her.
‘He’s right,’ said Charley, as the waiter went off to get their brunch order. ‘Nobody else got up to help the poor bloke.’ She indicated the rest of the customers who’d studiously ignored the man’s plight and left him to it.
‘Perhaps I have built-in sympathy for dads dealing with kids on their own,’ said Ricky. ‘I get so many of them coming into the bike shop.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because people think it’s a kind of “dad thing” to sort out the bikes. Sometimes it’s because the parents have split up and it’s the dad’s turn to have the kids for the weekend. There’s a whole bunch of them that come in quite regularly.’
‘Regularly? What on earth for?’
Ricky raised an eyebrow in mock offence. ‘It might surprise you to know that some people are really into bikes! And they get their kids into biking too and jazz up their rides. They buy them bike bags, funky bells, flashing lights for the wheels—’
‘Please tell me you don’t sell them those ghastly glittery tassels!’
‘No, I draw the line somewhere! But I do supply a fine line in snazzy handlebar grips. I’ll put a sparkly rainbow pair on your bike if you like.’
‘Over my dead body!’
Ricky laughed. ‘They’re a nice bunch, though. Some Saturdays I do so many running repairs it’s like I’m holding a bike club – fixing bent forks, tightening brakes, mending punctures. And the kids are great. They always want to help. They love wielding spanners.’
Having seen Angie’s kids mucking about with their plastic hard hats and toy tool boxes Charley could testify to the truth of that statement. She could just imagine little Finn on his knees in the bike shop solemnly handing Ricky a spanner and helping him fix the stabilizers on his little jungle bike.
‘I bet you don’t even charge them, do you?’
‘Yes I do!’
Charley impaled him with a look.
‘A little,’ he confessed.
‘Maybe you should run workshops? Get people to pay you to show them how to fix their bikes.’
Ricky laughed.
‘I’m serious!’ continued Charley. ‘I mean, look at me, I couldn’t even fix a puncture.’
‘I’ll show you. We can do it this afternoon, if you like?’
Charley could think of least a dozen things she’d prefer to do with Ricky. ‘Maybe not. I can think of better things to do…’ she hinted provocatively.
He laughed at her, holding her gaze, and smiling deeply into her eyes and she reflected that she did love him. She genuinely did. She just wasn’t in love with him, but maybe, as everyone said, that kind of love might develop. Or perhaps having kids would trigger it? He’d be a wonderful dad, you only had to see him with children to know that. So maybe she’d fall in love with Ricky as a father, because of the way he was with their kids? Would that be such a terrible risk to take?