11. Chilean Merlot
Powerful-bodied with a mellow aftertaste.

“I am not going to change my mind.”

“But why can’t I?” Charlie glared at Sarah, his bottom lip stuck out in belligerence.

Sarah held his yesterday’s lunch box at arm’s length and turned on the hot tap, sighing in exasperation. “Because you don’t need it.”

“Luke’s got one.”

“Luke’s at high school and travels on the bus. When you’re at secondary school I’ll get you one.” Somehow, she thought. At the moment she could barely keep up with the groceries.

Charlie remained unmoved. “I’m the only person at school who hasn’t got one now.”

She rinsed and scrubbed. “I know that isn’t true.”

“It is true.”

Sarah shook the drips from the plastic and picked up a tea-towel. “Kieran hasn’t got one, nor has Matthew, nor, I am quite sure, has Connor.”

“I was talking, said Charlie, with deep disdain, “about the people I like .”

Sarah packed cling-filmed sandwiches and crisps. Added a Kit-Kat and an apple. Topped it all with a paper napkin that would come back untouched.

“Well, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to wait. Luke didn’t get one at your age and even if I wanted to buy you one, mobile phones are very expensive.”

Charlie kicked at his school rucksack which was in the middle of the kitchen floor. “That’s what you say about everything.”

“I’m afraid it’s true.” And whose fault is that, she wanted to shriek at him. Who left us with no money and only a third share in the roof over our heads?

“I bet Dad would get me one,” Charlie said, watching her carefully.

She snapped the lid of the lunchbox shut, banged it down on the table with unnecessary force and turned on him. “You ask him, then,” she said, “when you see him.”

She was immediately suffused with shame. Paul had made no effort to get in touch with the kids for three weeks now. She knew she should try and phone him, tell him how Charlie, in particular, was missing him. But she shrank from the call – unsure how well she could cope with hearing his voice. Perhaps if he’d had a good day at the bookies or casino he would buy Charlie a mobile – hell, he might buy them all one – but just as likely he’d be morose and aggressive or full of bluster about tomorrow or next week, how that would be the big one…

It must be easier, Sarah thought, if your husband was a straightforward bastard. If he stayed out every night, if he beat you up…

Even Gaynor didn’t know the full extent of the problem

– she knew they’d had financial difficulties at the end but she thought Paul’s business had gone down. She’d assumed that the final straw for Sarah was finding out Paul was sleeping with a blonde cashier from the amusement arcade. Funny, thought Sarah ironically, that somehow that was less shaming than the fact that he’d poured the housekeeping for a week into a fruit machine first.

She thought about Richard. He would never do anything like that, she was sure, though what he would do was anyone’s guess. She couldn’t figure him out. Each time he’d taken her out he’d been lovely – attentive, kind, interested in all she had to say – but between times it was like he’d had a huge burst of regret, realised he’d made the most terrible mistake and just wanted to run for cover.

She wouldn’t see him for days and when he did appear he would be behind a newspaper, looking like a rabbit caught in headlights when she went to speak to him. I don’t need that, she said to herself in the mirror as she tried to comb her red wiry hair into some sort of shape with which to hit the school run. I don’t need it at all.

She looked hard at her face. It wasn’t only her hair – rising joyfully to weeks of neglect – that was totally out of control. Her eyebrows needed plucking, there were all sorts of extra lines around her eyes, her skin, always pale, looked white and washed out. She had none of Gaynor’s casual glamour or Claire’s look of cool efficiency. What did he see in her? And if he saw anything, why didn’t he see it all the time?

She yawned. Bel had climbed into her bed at five this morning after a bad dream and she’d only dozed after that. It would be one a.m. before she’d be able to crawl back beneath the duvet. Whatever had possessed her to get involved with this bar?

Because there hadn’t been much choice. This way she had a job and a home for the kids. And it was a job she’d enjoy, normally. If she didn’t have the children to worry about. If she wasn’t so tired…

She rubbed at her temples, flipping open the bottle of painkillers on the bathroom shelf and checking the contents. Her period was starting, she felt bloated and heavy. Oh, for a day in bed!

Bel appeared, Scarface in her arms. Sarah made herself smile. “Teeth?” she asked. “Time to go in a minute.” Luke had already slouched off to school, Charlie had disappeared to some corner to mull over the unfairness of life. Sarah had a wine delivery at nine and the butcher arriving shortly after. Then Claire would want to discuss the Specials for the week and no doubt feel the need to run through the accounts in a way that, for all Sarah understood, might as well have been delivered in Swahili.

She wondered whether Claire was regretting going into business with her. She was always friendly and kind but Sarah sensed a contained impatience about her, a disappointment, as if she was slightly bewildered that the Sarah she had got was not the Sarah she remembered from hotel kitchens of the past. This Sarah was more tired and anxious, more inclined to bad temper and forgetting to reorder the tortilla chips when they ran out.

This Sarah, she thought, as she shepherded Bel and Charlie down the stairs and across the empty wine bar, was not the same person at all. This Sarah – who had once run catering operations for the great and good, who had stepped into Claire’s family hotel kitchen and organised a whole wedding breakfast for a hundred and fifty guests when the chef threw a tantrum and walked out – was now just a single mother of three, barely keeping her head above water.

“It will get easier,” Claire had said, sounding reassuring, the only time Sarah had voiced doubts. Claire had her eye on the future. She saw a chain of wine bars, an empire of stripped floorboards and beautiful people and the money rolling in. Gaynor encouraged her in this fantasy, and why wouldn’t she? For Gaynor it was a game – an entertaining diversion, something to take her mind off the fact Victor no longer seemed to give a damn. She hardly needed it to pay the electric bill.

Out of the corner of her eye, the answer-phone was flashing behind the bar. Early, thought Sarah. Was that Gaynor now, in a state over the latest Victor instalment? Claire in overdrive making more adjustments to the week’s rotas?

She almost stopped to listen but in the end kept Bel and Charlie moving. If it was Paul, euphoric from a night at the roulette wheel, she’d never get them to school.

“When are we seeing Dad?” Charlie asked at the traffic lights.

“Soon, I expect.” Sarah gave him the bright smile she knew didn’t fool him any longer.

Charlie looked out of the window. “Where is he, anyway?” he asked in his best offhand tone, that didn’t fool her, either.

“Away working, I think,” she lied valiantly. “We’ll give his mobile a call at the weekend, shall we?”

Charlie didn’t reply.

“Mummy,” said Bel from the back seat, “can we get another cat so Scarface has a friend?”

The large tom was on the bar when she got back. “Get upstairs or out, you,” she said, shooing him off. “If you must live with us, you’ve got to be civilised about it!” He sauntered over to the fireplace and began to wash himself. Sarah moved behind the pumps to the phone and answer-machine and pressed Play.

One new message, the robotic voice intoned, received at six-fifty-two a.m. Wednesday, September fourteenth…

She idly straightened an ashtray on the bar, frowning as a set of crackles and indistinct mumbling came over the speaker.

What? She hit Replay, bending over the machine to listen to the message more intently.

Her heart began to thump as the words became clearer.

“You won’t have that winebar much longer you fucking bitch. I am going to get you…”

“Keep calm,” Gaynor said. “It could be directed at any of us.” Her mind raced through possible candidates. She could see from Claire’s worried frown she was doing the same.

“But I’m the one who lives here,” said Sarah, agitated. “On my own with three children. I don’t like it.”

“Let me listen to it again.” Gaynor replayed the message. They all leaned towards the machine straining to hear the words. It was a male voice, sounding slurred, maybe drunk. Gaynor half thought she recognised something in the raspy tones but they’d listened to it so many times that maybe it had simply grown familiar.

“Could it be anything to do with Paul?” Gaynor asked gently. Sarah was still white.

Sarah shook her head. “I’ve thought about that. I don’t think so – it’s not his voice and really it’s just not his style. I mean he’s not that hostile to me. I know it was pretty acrimonious at the end but even so…”

“It could be anyone,” Claire said, calmly. “Someone we’ve thrown out or upset.” She turned to Sarah. “Remember that drunk bloke you refused to serve the other night?” Gaynor could see she was trying to be reassuring. “Could be someone like that. Still drunk.”

“What about the father of that girl who burned herself?” offered Gaynor.

Claire shook her head. “No, he had a much more cultured voice. And he was just upset at the time – he’s never been back to us, has he?”

Gaynor thought about it. “Anyway,” she remembered, “the first call had come in that morning, hadn’t it?”

“First one?” Sarah looked at them both in turn. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t want to worry you,” said Claire. “It just said ‘you old dog’ or something. “I didn’t take it too seriously. We were busy with the breakfasts.”

“I wish I’d known! And why so early in the morning all the time?” Sarah frowned. “Those calls with the breathing. They were left at four or five a.m.”

“Night worker?” Gaynor mused. “Or unemployed – sits up drinking? Claire’s right – he sounds pissed to me.”

“Well whoever it is, I’m frightened,” said Sarah.

“We’ll deal with it,” said Claire, firmly. “I’ll phone BT. They must be able to do something.”

“He’d withheld the number again,” Sarah looked doubtful. “Like before.”

“They must still be able to trace it if they want to.” Claire was already dialling. She nodded meaningfully at Gaynor. “Get the coffee on.”

* * *

“Try not to think about it,” Gaynor said ineffectually as she handed Sarah a cappuccino. “We’ve done all we can now – we’ll have to leave it to the phone lot and the police.”

Sarah tore the top from a sachet of sugar and poured the contents on to the milky froth in her cup. “You really think they’ll do anything?”

Claire frowned. “They’d better! BT know the number. They won’t give it to us but they said if the police ask for it, then they’ll pass it over. The policewoman I spoke to said they’d look into it. I expect they’ll track him down and warn him off.”

Sarah stirred her coffee. “I want to know who it is.”

Claire paused at the top of the stairs. “And we’re going to find out.”

“Tell me about Richard anyway,” said Gaynor when Claire had gone down to the kitchen. “Has he got his act together yet?”

Sarah shook her head. “Not exactly.”

Gaynor grinned encouragingly. “You mean you still haven’t…”

Sarah pulled a pile of glass cloths towards her and began folding them. “It’s not that simple. He’s very, well he’s sort of…”

“What?”

Sarah ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know really. Ah – customer!” She nodded her head towards the end of the bar.

Gaynor turned and felt a jolt in her solar plexus. Sam was settling himself on a stool and unfolding his newspaper. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the torchlight procession three weeks before. Every time she thought about how they’d parted, her toes curled. She’d been careful to walk around the roads behind Sam’s cottage instead of past it, missing their conversations but too embarrassed to go through yet another apology for her behaviour.

“One of your fans, is he?” murmured Sarah. “Only ever seems to come in when you’re here…”

“He didn’t know I was,” Gaynor said, too quickly.

Sarah raised her eyebrows. “I was only joking. I expect he spotted your loveliness when he walked past.”

“Can you serve him?” said Gaynor in a low voice, trying to huddle round the corner by the optics.

“No, I can’t – I’ve got half a ton of mushrooms down there waiting to be soup. You’re the barmaid.”

“Please.” What must he think of her? Women weren’t supposed to get half-pissed and go round propositioning men. What was it about alcohol that sent all her inhibitions flying out the window?

“See you later.” Sarah picked up her pile of folded laundry and headed towards the stairs. “Good morning,” she said to Sam brightly as she passed.

He looked up for a moment as Gaynor approached. “A coffee please,” he said, smiling briefly and turning over a page of his paper. “A white one.”

Gaynor filled the steel filter head with ground coffee, wondering what to say as she slotted it into the machine and waited for the coffee to drip through. Breathing in the aromas she frothed up some milk, slowly arranging sachets of sugar and an individually wrapped biscuit, taking her time selecting a teaspoon, delaying the moment when she would have to face him.

But he hardly looked up as she put the cup and saucer in front of him. His eyes flicked only briefly in her direction. He said, ‘Thank you,’ in a pleasant voice and pushed a five pound note towards her.

Now what? she thought as she got change from the till, caught between relief and disappointment. She’d have to make the first move. She wanted to. Suddenly she wanted him back, wanted his attention, his caring. She wanted to talk to him, wanted him to be her friend.

She put the coins down next to his tobacco. “How are you?” she asked, self-consciously. He put down his newspaper, picked up the pouch next to him and began to roll one of his tiny cigarettes. The sleeves of his brushed cotton shirt were rolled back. She found her eyes drawn to the tightly curled hairs on his brown forearms. “I’m OK,” he said easily. “How about you?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Again.”

He finished rolling, dabbed the paper with his tongue, spent some seconds coaxing his old Zippo lighter into life then looked at her with a slow smile. “No harm done,” he replied eventually, “as long as you’re all right.”

She picked up a clean ashtray and wiped it unnecessarily. “Oh I’m all right. Bit mad round the edges, you know.”

He gave a grunt of amusement. “Aren’t we all.”

“How’s Brutus?” She put the ashtray back and began to wipe the equally-clean bar.

“A brute. He brought half a herring gull for my dawn offering.”

“Ugh.” She took a deep breath. “Can I come by and see him sometime?”

Sam smiled. “Sure. You can come and see me, too, if you like.”

But in the end she stayed at Greens all day. She felt she needed to be with Sarah, who was clearly still worried by the abusive call. So after they closed at lunchtime, she broke with tradition, donned an apron, and sat on a stool in the kitchen shredding cabbage and grating carrots for coleslaw. Sarah threw her a grateful smile.

“This is what takes the time,” she said, chopping onions further down the huge steel table. “People don’t realise how much there is to do even when you’re closed.”

“Perhaps we should make more of it,” said Gaynor. “You know, that you prepare everything yourself.”

Sarah laughed. “Blakes Frozen Foods was parked right outside the other day, delivering to the chip shop. Claire was outside on the pavement telling him to move on in case anyone thought it was us!”

She looked at the clock and ran a hand through her hair. “Oh God! I’ve got to get the kids in twenty minutes and I haven’t even started the soup yet.”

Gaynor swept the last of the raw vegetables into a large bowl and pushed it towards Sarah. Then she picked up a wooden spoon and brandished it. “Tell me what to do…”

Cooking was quite soothing, she thought, as she stirred the creamy concoction of mushrooms, adding a dash of sherry as instructed, resisting the temptation to have a snort herself. What with Victor always in London, she’d got out of the habit at home. She wondered idly what Sam ate. Was he the sort of man to produce meat and two veg every day, just for himself? Or did he survive on cheese and crackers the way she did when left to her own devices? Turning the heat down low on the large hob, she heard Sarah and the children come in overhead. She felt better for seeing Sam. The thought of going to visit him again gave her a warm feeling inside. She could talk to him...

“Come up and have a cup of tea!” Sarah’s voice called from upstairs. Gaynor went up to the flat where the two younger children were already sprawled in front of the television. Bel jumped up when she saw her. “Do you want to play shops?”

“Mummy’s a bit stressed,” the little girl confided as Gaynor paid 2p for four tins of baked beans and got a handful of change. She smiled angelically as she packed the shopping into a crumpled Tesco bag. “It’s that bloody winebar.”

Gaynor stifled a laugh. “You shouldn’t say that,” she said. “Bloody is a very, very rude word. If they hear you say it at school you’ll be in big trouble.”

Bel handed her the plastic carrier. “Luke is very naughty,” she explained. “He says it ALL the time.”

He wasn’t saying much today. Gaynor engaged Luke in a series of grunts when he slouched in from the bus-stop.

“Will you answer properly!” Sarah said sharply. In reply, Luke grabbed the remote control, causing his brother to kick and bellow, while Bel shrieked encouragement.

“I am so sorry.” Sarah shook her head as she drained a steaming saucepan of spaghetti in the small kitchen. “It’s absolute bedlam at this time of day.”

Gaynor smiled. “It’s OK. It makes a nice change.”

It was true – she found herself enjoying the family noise, the sounds of the TV, the kids scrapping, Bel singing to herself as she rearranged her imaginary window display. She watched as Sarah gradually calmed the chaos and began to relax. Gaynor’s own house would be in perfect order, but silent and empty. Eating with Sarah and the kids, reading to Bel, lounging on the sofa watching Neighbours with Charlie felt good.

“Hey, we’ll domesticate you yet,” Sarah said, smiling, as Gaynor carried the supper dishes to the sink. She had Bel on her lap. The child was snuggled into her mother’s shoulder and Sarah had her arm around her. Stretching out the other one, she leant up and squeezed Gaynor’s hand. “Thank you.”

“I’ll call the police again tomorrow from home,” said Claire quietly to Gaynor as they got ready to open that evening, while Sarah was still upstairs with the kids. “Try and make sure they do something. Are you OK?”

Gaynor nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Claire had seemed warmer since Gaynor had come in shame-faced to apologise for her outburst at the end of Folk Week. She’d nodded at Gaynor’s embarrassed explanations of why the girl burning her hands had affected her so much. “Families are difficult, aren’t they?” was all she’d said, but since then Gaynor had noticed a new concern in her voice. Yet, they didn’t talk like she and Sarah did. There was still something private about Claire – something that stopped Gaynor asking too much. “How’s Jamie?” she tried now.

“Oh, he’s fine.” Claire moved around the front of the bar, lighting the candle on each table. “I hardly ever see him! And Victor?”

Gaynor switched the lights on over the wine racks.

“Hardly see him, either.”

Claire gave a short laugh. “What are we like! Here – I’m putting that new Shiraz on the Specials board tonight. See if you can shift some?” She came back behind the bar and rummaged in a box next to the fridge. “Oh, and if those two buffs come in droning on about letting wine breathe again, I’ve got this.” She held up a small funnel-shaped object. “As recommended by Michael Winner in the Sunday Times! Michael Caine’s supposed to have one too.”

“What is it?”

“An aerator! Ah, the very chap to try it on…”

Claire grinned as Neville Norton, already flushed, pushed open the door. “Good evening, sir, would you like a glass of your usual claret – with our new innovative oxygenating service?”

Neville blinked across the bar, bemused, as Claire selected a large glass and poured wine through the little plastic gadget. It sprayed out like a small fountain, sending forth a shower of fine red droplets that filled the glass at a rate that was clearly too painfully slow for Neville. He was visibly twitching. Gaynor laughed. “That’ll go down a storm at last orders when there’s twenty people waiting.”

Claire laughed too. “They also do one that plays God Save the Queen!”

It was busy for a Tuesday night. Most of the front tables were filled with couples or small clusters of friends. A table of fourteen – an impromptu night out for the ‘Fishing Club’, they told Gaynor – hadn’t booked, but came in on the off-chance. Claire had to disappear downstairs to help Sarah and Benjamin in the kitchen, leaving Gaynor alone to man both bar and restaurant.

“I’m sorry,” said Claire breathlessly, coming up to hand round starters while Gaynor served the small crowd that had appeared at exactly the same moment the kitchen buzzer sounded. “It was dead last week. Ah Jamie! Just at the right time…”

Claire’s boyfriend – still in his suit from the train – was despatched behind the bar. Gaynor, carrying stacks of dirty dishes downstairs, paused and smiled at him. He looked young and tired. “Long day?” she asked.

Jamie yawned. “I was up at five.”

But he still got home to see Claire in the evenings. Didn’t feel the need to live in town half the week to recuperate. As she came back up to the bar, Gaynor wondered how long it would be before Victor suggested staying up in London permanently. She knew many people would think she had a blessed life, with her lovely home and no money worries and this bar, and she herself sometimes felt guilty for not being happier, but…

“…and a white wine and soda.”

“Sorry?” She looked up to see a young couple looking quizzically at her. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, realising she’d been staring into space. “What was it you wanted…?”

“Takings are well up this week,” said Claire, deftly emptying the till, when the last customer had left at the end of the evening. “That big table left you twenty quid, Gaynor.”

“Stick it in the pot,” said Gaynor. “You two share it.”

“Don’t be daft.” Sarah leaned over the bar and pulled the tip jar towards her. “There’s lots in here – we’ll split it between all of us. Here Benjamin…” she leant out and pushed a couple of notes into the boy’s hand as he came past, with his crash helmet under one arm. “We like it when Gaynor’s waitressing don’t we – all the blokes cough up double.”

“Charming,” said Claire, smiling, as Benjamin left after gravely thanking them all. “Nobody ever tips me, then!” She pushed a wad of notes into a cloth cash bag. “I’ll just go and put this in the safe. Then shall we have a drink? Jamie will be fast asleep by now and I’ve been sent some new samples to try.”

Sarah pulled the blinds down and turned the lights low. The three of them sat on stools at the bar, a bottle of Australian Chardonnay, a white Rioja and a Chilean Merlot lined up in front of them.

“Ugh,” said Gaynor, sipping, swirling and putting down her glass in disgust. “Tastes German.”

“I rather like it,” said Sarah, swilling the Chardonnay about.

“That,” said Gaynor, prodding her, “is because you have no taste. You liked that awful Rosé stuff they sent us. It’s all sweet and fruity. All these new world wines are the same.”

“Yeah, it’s nothing special.” Claire wrinkled her nose. “But it’s what people like. I was reading Wine Buyer Monthly. Guess what the top-selling supermarket wine is?”

“Liebfraumilch!”

“Worse than that!”

“Nothing’s worse than that. Ummm...Bottled cat’s pee?”

“Lambrusco!”

“Ugh! Yuck! Wouldn’t clean the loo with it! This is nice, though.” Gaynor poured a large glass of the Rioja.

“Didn’t even know there was a white one.”

“It’s quite expensive…”

“I’ll just finish this, then.” Sarah giggled as she poured more of the Australian white into her glass.

“I don’t care about white wine at all, really,” said Claire, opening the Merlot. “Apart from champagne, of course.”

“Of course!” Gaynor put her glass down and looked at Sarah. “Are you getting pissed there?”

Sarah giggled again. “Maybe – I hardly ever seem to drink these days. Funny, isn’t it – surrounded by the stuff all day. I suppose it’s like working in the kitchen. Puts you right off food. All this booze and I barely touch it.”

“Doesn’t have that effect on me,” said Gaynor, taking another mouthful of Rioja.

“We’ve noticed!” Claire grinned and took a sip of her own wine.

“It’s odd, isn’t it,” said Gaynor, “how different we all are. Claire here, so efficient and you, Sarah...”

“Yes?” Sarah raised her eyebrows, her face mock-threatening. “Be careful now.”

“No, really.” Gaynor waved her glass around expansively. “I mean we are really different people and Claire and I didn’t even know each other to start with and we’ve all got such varied lives and situations yet…” She looked around the dimly-lit bar, breathing in the warm, smoky, end-of-night aromas, feeling a sudden rush of love and appreciation. “We work ever so well together, don’t we?” She suddenly wanting to hug them both. “We…” She paused, struggling to think of the right word. “We… complement each other…”

Claire smiled.

“Yes,” grinned Sarah. “I think that T-shirt really goes with your eyes…”

Gaynor kissed them both as she left and stepped out into the dark street. “You sure you’re going to be OK walking?” Claire asked. “My car’s just up by the church.”

Gaynor nodded. It was nearly 1 a.m. but if Sam’s light was still on, she’d take it as an invitation. Victor was away of course and she didn’t feel like going home to a cold, empty house just yet. She felt keyed up, slightly drunk, and she wanted someone to talk to.

Sam didn’t look particularly surprised to see her. While he went to put the kettle on, she told him about the funny calls.

“Will the police do anything?” she called, as she sat on his sofa, wriggling her toes. “Oh, my bloody feet. I hope I’m not going to get varicose veins with all this standing.”

Sam came in from the kitchen. “Depends who you get, what else they’ve got on their desk, how much fuss you make.”

“Sarah’s pretty rattled by it.”

“I expect she is. I know it’s not much comfort if she’s on her own there, feeling scared, but it’s very unlikely, the sort of profile to make a call like that, would actually do anything.”

“That’s what I told her, but you know…” She shrugged.

“Yes, it’s nasty.” He handed her a cup of tea.

“I should have brought you some wine.”

“Hardly ever drink it and you look like you’ve had quite a bit already.”

“Not that much. A couple of customers bought me one

– I had a couple more when we were clearing up…”

“I do hope,” she said later, with a smile, “we get interviewed by some strapping young constable. I like a man in uniform.”

“Authority figures, eh? From what you’ve told me about your father, hardly surprising.”

She grinned at him. “I wish I’d seen you in yours.”

“It was very ill-fitting.”

She looked at his hands wound around his mug, at his shirt, the way he trailed his fingers down Brutus’s spine as the handsome grey cat jumped on to the arm of the sofa.

She was in that peculiar place again, where she knew exactly what she was saying, but was touched by that sense of abandon only several large wines could bring. “I expect it would still have done it for me.”

He turned his head to look at her.

She took a mouthful of Darjeeling. “Sorry – you don’t want me to flirt with you, do you?”

He smiled ruefully. “It’s very appealing.” He looked down again as he stroked Brutus, who was now stretched out along the length of his thighs. “I’m attracted to you too, Gaynor. When I first met you, I didn’t think you were my type at all.” He looked up and grinned. “You scared the life out of me! But once we talked properly – once I got a glimpse of the real you…”

He was serious again. “When I talk to you – for the first time in a long time I feel alive inside. I’ve missed you in the last three weeks. I’d started to look forward to you coming round – hoped that you would. You’re such a funny mixture

– sophisticated woman and wayward child. I want to look after you, protect you.”

Her heart was beating hard – she wanted to curl up with him, feel his arms around her again, his voice making soft soothing sounds as she buried her face in his shoulder. He went on stroking the cat, his voice even and measured.

“But you’re married and, frankly, I’m afraid. I don’t want to be falling for you – don’t want to feel need or be out of control. It’s so long since I’ve been near a woman there’s all sorts of waking up to do and I can feel it happening already but I don’t want to come round like Rumplestiltskin only to find you reconciled with your husband and me sitting here with a cat for company feeling bitter and lonely. That’s why I can only be your friend. I can give you a cup of tea and a hug when you’re down, but nothing more.”

She felt a lump in her throat. She wanted him to hold her hand. She wanted to lean out and take his. She tried to keep her voice steady but heard it wobble. She said: “But, sometimes, I think I might want more.”

He smiled at her sadly. “But sometimes, Gaynor, we can’t have everything we want.”