Читать книгу My Perfect Stranger: A hilarious love story by the bestselling author of One Day in December - Kat French, Kat French - Страница 10

Lucille and Mimi stared at Honey with slack mouths and trembling hands.

‘So I’m afraid that unless someone steps in and buys the place, the shop will be closed down. The home too,’ Honey finished. She’d waited until the end of the day to tell the ladies, knowing they’d need some quiet time to digest the news.

‘They can’t do this to us!’ Lucille cried, her face anguished.

Honey smiled sadly. ‘There’s still six months yet, Lucille. Let’s hope for a miracle.’

‘Over my dead body are they closing our shop.’ Mimi squared her fragile shoulders, which were swathed today in the palest lime green cashmere twinset. As was often the case, Lucille had coordinated her outfit with her sister’s and had arrived this morning sporting an identical twinset in a complementary shade of lemon. Lemon Meringue and Key Lime Pie. Both ladies had knotted long strings of beads around their necks and large rings sparkled on their fragile fingers. Their outfits sang of sunshine, summer days and sweet spun sugar, but their faces told a far more melancholy story. Lucille’s big blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and Mimi had a look of fierce defiance that would have caused Emmeline Pankhurst’s heart to swell with pride.

Lucille turned to her sister with a flicker of hope. ‘Do you think we should fight it?’

‘Why ever would we not?’ Mimi said, looking from Lucille to Honey.

Honey frowned. Much as she hated the idea of closing the shop down, the idea of actively protesting hadn’t crossed her mind until now. Was there any point? For all his official talk of periods of consultation, Christopher had made it sound like a cut and dried decision last night. He’d probably been offered a sweetener to keep him onside, a golden handshake to make sure he didn’t allow anyone to rock the boat. He certainly hadn’t seemed overly concerned by the plight of the residents. ‘Dispersed’ was the word he’d used, and one Honey had carefully avoided when she’d tried to explain to Mimi and Lucille how the residents would be rehomed at other places.

‘Rehomed. We sound like a bunch of unwanted dogs,’ Lucille said, wringing her slender hands in her lap. ‘No one wants old animals so they get put down. Is that what’s going to happen to us, Honey?’

The wretched expression on Lucille’s face tore at Honey’s heartstrings. She wished she could offer her friend some genuine hope, but at that moment there wasn’t much to offer beyond a hug and a cup of hot, sweet tea.

‘What if they can’t place us together, Mimi?’ Lucille said, and Honey took the violently trembling cup and saucer gently from the older woman’s grasp for fear of it spilling on the ivory sunray pleats of her skirt. The sisters had shared connecting rooms in the home with their own bathroom for the last seven years, building a life of sorts amongst the residents and voluntary work in the shop. The idea that they might be placed apart from each other was awful, like adopted siblings being split up to maximise their appeal.

‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ Honey soothed, hoping with all of her heart that it wouldn’t.

‘It won’t,’ Mimi said, ‘because I won’t let it, Lucie. I promise.’ Ever the protective big sister, even at eighty-three, Mimi sat beside Lucille and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘And Honey will help us organise ourselves, won’t you, duck? People will listen to you more than us.’

Two pairs of eyes turned up towards Honey, one pair cornflower blue and brimming with tears, the other brown and bright with rebellion. Something in Honey stirred, a resolve to stand up and fight for her friends.

‘Of course I will.’ She sat on Lucille’s other side and put her hand over the older woman’s clasped ones, trying not to notice their frailty. ‘Of course I will. We have six months. It’s plenty of time to work something out.’

‘Our angel,’ Lucille smiled. ‘Where would we be without you?’

‘You don’t need to think about that,’ Honey said. ‘I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you without an almighty fight.’

Honey let herself into the house an hour or so later, still mulling over the conversation with Lucille and Mimi. She hadn’t considered the idea of trying to campaign to save the home, and she certainly hadn’t anticipated the idea of being the poster girl for it – yet it seemed that she might have to, because everyone else involved was at least eighty and looking to her for help. The responsibility weighed as heavy as the shopping bags in her hands as she awkwardly bumped the front door closed with her backside and flicked her eyes around the hall for any new signs of Hal’s presence. She glanced towards her neighbour’s door, half expecting him to throw it open and yell at her about something, but it remained resolutely closed and quiet. She huffed softly and opened her own door, hauling her heavy shopping up onto the kitchen work surface in the tiny kitchenette. The woefully small kitchen hadn’t concerned Honey in the slightest when she’d viewed the flat, mainly because her cooking repertoire didn’t extend much beyond cheese on toast or microwaved tomato soup. Rooting through the bags, she pulled out the only item she’d really headed into the store for in the first place. Whisky. As someone who never touched the stuff, the wall of whisky choices she’d found herself faced with had been bewildering. Did Hal have a preferred brand? Was he a single malt man? Given the amount of it that he seemed to drink and the hefty price tag on the decent stuff, Honey settled for the supermarket’s own blend. Hal probably wouldn’t taste it anyway when he knocked it back without it touching the sides. He seemed to use it more for anaesthetic than pleasure. Picking up the bottle and screwing up her courage, Honey opened her front door, crossed the hallway and knocked tentatively on Hal’s door. Nothing. It didn’t surprise her.

‘Hal?’ she called his name lightly. Neighbourly. ‘Hal, it’s me. Honey.’

He didn’t reply, and there were no sounds of life behind the stubbornly closed door, but he was in there, she was sure of it. It was pretty obvious from the way he’d practically begged for her tequila yesterday that he wasn’t planning on leaving the house anytime soon. Unease crept through Honey. Couldn’t the man just grunt or something, make some acknowledgment that he was alive at least? What if he’d drunk all the tequila and passed out cold? God, what if he’d hit his head?

‘Hal.’ She threw more power behind her voice, aiming for friendly, but immediately knew she’d failed and come over all officious and girl guide again. Glancing back towards her own open door, she sighed with resignation and leaned against the wall.

‘I’m not going away until you answer me, so you may as well make this easy on both of us, rock star.’

Silence reigned, and Honey slid her weary bones down the wall to sit outside his door, the bottle of whisky beside her. ‘I’ll just sit out here then,’ she said, her elbows on her knees, chin cupped in her hands. ‘I guess I’ll just drink this whisky myself then,’ she said after a few minutes, not enjoying the manipulative nature of her comment but glad to be well and truly out of girl guide territory. And besides, it worked. Honey let out a long, slow breath of relief as the sound of movement on the other side of the door told her that he was at least alive.

He was close to the door now, she could hear him breathing.

‘What will it take to make you give me that whisky?’ he grumbled.

Honey raised her eyebrows, nodding philosophically into her hands. That was how it was going to be then.

‘Ah you know. Nothing much. A bit of neighbourly chat, maybe?’

More movement from behind the door, and then his whisky and cigarettes voice again, only lower this time. Closer. As if he were sitting on the other side of the door.

‘I don’t chat.’

‘No?’ Honey said casually, not even sure why she was trying to engage him in conversation. She felt like someone trying to entice a kitten into their home with a saucer of milk. ‘Maybe you could just listen then, because I’ve had a pig of a day and I could do with offloading.’

‘So what, you thought you’d bribe your blind neighbour with whisky to make him listen? Don’t you have any friends?’

Honey half smiled. Was it masochistic that she enjoyed his grouchiness? Glancing at her watch, she tapped the face with her fingertip. ‘Something like that. Ten minutes of your time and you get the whisky.’

His exaggerated sigh was unmissable. ‘I’m not opening the door.’

‘Whatever. Just don’t go and do something else while I’m speaking.’

His harsh laugh told her that her comment had struck a chord. ‘You mean I can’t go back to screwing the horny blonde in my bedroom? I could keep it quiet.’

‘In your dreams, rock star.’ Honey wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘So … I just had to tell two old ladies that they might be homeless soon.’

A pause. ‘It’s not just my life you’re intent on screwing up then,’ Hal said.

‘It’s not my fault.’ Honey knew he didn’t care, but felt the need to make him understand anyway. ‘I manage the charity shop attached to the home they live in. They volunteer in the shop most days. They’re my friends, and I feel like shit.’

‘Did you tell me already why you’re making them homeless?’

‘I’m not the one making them homeless. The home is under threat of closure within six months because of lack of funds, the shop too. I’ll lose my job, and all of the residents will lose their homes. None of them are a day under eighty.’

‘Look on the bright side. They’re old. They might not make it through the next six months.’

Honey sucked in a sharp breath, taken aback by his harshness. ‘You weren’t kidding when you said you don’t do chat, were you?’

‘If you were looking for Oprah you knocked the wrong door, sweetheart.’

The term of endearment landed soft and hard at the same time. Hal had managed to deliver it with a heavy side order of sarcasm that stripped out any potential kindness. But something made Honey wonder how it would feel to hear him say it under different circumstances, in a different tone of voice.

‘Is it too soon to ask for that whisky?’ he asked into the lengthening silence following his last remark.

Honey glanced at her watch. Three minutes. Seven to go. ‘Yup. Want to tell me about your day instead?’

‘Fuck off, Honeysuckle,’ he shot back, just as she’d expected that he would. Had she needled him on purpose? Potentially, and if she had it had backfired, because the way he’d said her name made it sound like … She let the pause extend this time.

‘Come on then, Mother Teresa. Tell me some more about this job you’re about to lose.’

‘It’s not so much my job I’m worried about. Well I am, obviously, but it’s Lucille and Mimi mostly, and all of the other residents.’ She paused and bit the inside of her lip. ‘They want me to spearhead a big campaign to fight the closure.’

She thought she heard him half laugh. ‘I hope you’re photogenic for the newspapers. Will you wear your girl guide uniform?’

‘Do you have to be such a cock all the time? This is the most serious thing that’s ever happened to me.’

She heard him sigh, deep and melancholy, and then the soft thud of something against the door, most probably his forehead as he leaned against it.

‘You don’t know how fucking lucky you are if this is the worst that life’s thrown at you, Honeysuckle.’

His voice was close to her ear, and she let the side of her head tip against the door. Against his voice. If the door were to magically disappear, they’d have found themselves sitting shoulder to shoulder, his mouth against her hair.

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to be insensitive,’ she whispered, feeling a fool and checking her watch and finding that they still had five minutes to fill.

‘You weren’t insensitive. I was being a cock. It’s kind of been my way since the accident.’

It was the most genuine thing he’d said to her since she’d met him. ‘Want this whisky now?’

‘Does that mean our therapy session’s up?’

The ghost of a smile tipped her lips. ‘I’ll let you have this one on the house, rock star.’

‘Does that mean you’ve written me off as a hopeless case, Honeysuckle?’

Unexpected prickles of awareness stroked over the back of Honey’s neck. He’d practically whispered in her ear, sexy and velvet soft words softened with the hint of a smile. If the guy was ever inclined he could have a killer career on the radio, his voice had the capacity to stop a woman in her tracks. Even a woman who didn’t especially like him.

She found herself smiling too. ‘The jury’s out, Hal. Maybe I’ll come by again tomorrow to fill you in some more on my soap opera life.’

‘It’ll beat the shit out of Coronation Street. Do people really watch that bollocks?’

Honey laughed lightly. ‘You mean you don’t?’ As soon as the words left her lips, she wanted to suck them straight back in again. ‘Shit Hal, I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Twice in five minutes is pretty rubbish, isn’t it?’

‘Just give me the whisky and I’ll forgive you.’

Honey could still hear the trace of humour and breathed out in relief. He was a hard man to read; angry when it seemed unreasonable to be so, yet cool about things that might well have flared the temper of someone else in his position. She could hear him moving behind the door and drew herself up onto her feet, the whisky in her hand. She wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving obstacles in his path a second time.

As he opened his door and leaned against the frame, she found herself reassessing his appearance. He was as dishevelled as yesterday, maybe more so. A washed-out, rumpled grey t-shirt hung over his chest, in places not quite meeting the waist of his slouchy dark jeans. His dark stubble told her that today was another day when he hadn’t had a hot date with his shaver, and his slightly too-long hair looked as if he’d pushed his hands through it all day, or else spent the day in bed with that horny blonde he’d alluded to.

‘Hey, rock star.’

Hal didn’t speak for a second, silent and inscrutable until she started to feel disconcerted, as if he were staring at her behind those glasses, which of course she knew he wasn’t. What was going through his head? Did she need to do something?

‘You smell of strawberries again.’

Of all of the things she’d expected him to say, that wasn’t it.

‘It must be my shampoo,’ she murmured, bewildered, touching her hair by reflex with her empty hand. ‘It’s strawberry scented.’

He nodded slightly, as if he’d sussed that much already.

‘What colour is it?’

‘My shampoo?’ she said, thrown. ‘It’s kind of pink, I think …?’

He sighed, and if he could have rolled his eyes, she felt sure he would’ve.

‘Your hair, Honey,’ he said. ‘What colour is it?’

‘Oh … blonde. It’s blonde.’ For information that would be readily available to a sighted person, it felt absurdly intimate.

He nodded again with a half smirk. ‘Figures.’

‘Cheap shot, rock star.’

He shrugged. ‘You made it too easy.’

‘I’m considering taking my whisky home with me.’

‘I know where you live.’

The idea of him leaving his flat and coming into hers made her itch with panic, and she held the whisky out uncertainly until the glass touched his hand.

‘Here.’

His fingers curled around the bottle, brushing hers, silencing them both.

‘Thanks,’ he muttered ungraciously, drawing it into his body as if she might take it away from him.

‘I’ll … I’ll go then,’ she said, waving towards her flat even though he couldn’t see the gesture.

He nodded, in that silent, brooding way that was fast becoming his trademark.

Stepping backwards, wavering in the no-man’s-land between their two front doors, Honey watched his stillness and wondered again what he was thinking of.

As she reached her doorway, she lifted her hand, an automatic gesture of goodbye even though he wouldn’t be aware of it.

‘See you tomorrow,’ she said softly, and for the third time that evening she wished she’d been more considerate with her words. Being around this guy was turning out to be a minefield.

He raised the bottle and inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment of her words, and Honey clicked her door closed.

Hal stood for a few moments longer in the hallway, glad of the fresh supply of whisky. The scent of her lingered in the hallway, and he inhaled until his lungs were as full as they could be. She was chaotic, and she was blonde, and she was the first person to not walk on eggshells around him since the accident eight months ago. He pushed his door to and unscrewed the cap on the whisky.