Читать книгу My Perfect Stranger: A hilarious love story by the bestselling author of One Day in December - Kat French, Kat French - Страница 11

‘I’ve found you a pianist!’

Honey looked at Tash over the glass-topped counter in the charity shop. She’d burst through the door about two seconds previously, her wild red curls snatched back and merry eyed with news. Dressed in off-duty sweat pants and vest, she was a world away from the air-hostess glam of her professional life. She grinned as she leaned both elbows on the glass and cupped her chin.

Honey shot a nervous glance towards Tash and inclined her head imperceptibly towards Mimi, who was sorting through a bag of brooches nearby. Too late.

‘Why do you need a pianist, Honey?’ Mimi said, glancing up and smiling at Tash with her pearly white dentures.

‘I don’t, especially,’ Honey said, aiming for off-hand and counting on Tash to change the subject. She’d expected the whole pianist idea to die a silent death once they were all sober, and the last thing she wanted was for Mimi and Lucille to know about her less-than-scintillating sex life too.

‘Only my Billy is a dab-hand at tinkling the ivories,’ Mimi said, polishing a glittering flower brooch and then holding it up to the light for inspection. ‘I’m sure he’d help you out if you’re in a fix, dear.’

Tash snort-choked on the coffee Lucille had just placed in front of her, and Honey screwed up her eyes tight against the vision of Mimi’s octogenarian boyfriend tinkling her ivories.

‘He’s got magic fingers, he makes all the women in the home swoon,’ Lucille chimed in as she pulled up a stool on Honey’s other side. Honey passed her hand over her lips in case she threw up in her mouth a little at the idea of Billy and his magic fingers. She wanted to kill Tash for mentioning the subject at all in front of Mimi and Lucille.

‘I don’t think Billy would be suitable for this particular gig,’ Tash laughed.

‘Don’t dismiss him because of his age,’ Mimi sniffed. ‘He’s quite modern for an older man. He knows some up-to-date things too.’

‘How can I put this, girls …?’ Tash sighed and placed her cup down delicately. ‘This is a very, umm, intimate gig. As in an audience of like, one.’

Mimi and Lucille frowned in tandem. ‘You mean you’re looking for a pianist to play just for Honey?’ Lucille said.

‘Er, hello, I am actually here,’ Honey grumbled. ‘Now can we change the subject, please?’

‘Not to play for Honey,’ Tash said, completely ignoring her friend. ‘To play with Honey.’

‘You play the piano, dear?’ Mimi said, turning her big brown eyes to Honey. ‘How did I not know that? Billy will be thrilled. You can duet.’

‘Look, I don’t play the flippin’ piano, okay?’ Honey said, picking her cup up and draining it, then gathering up the empty cups and taking them into the kitchen in order to end the conversation. She realised her tactical error a few minutes later when the trio lapsed into suspicious silence on her return; the conversation had clearly carried on perfectly well without her. Surely Tash hadn’t gone into detail about the piano man mission to Lucille and Mimi?

Lucille patted Honey’s hand. ‘We think it’s marvellous that you’re doing something about your little problem,’ she whispered the last few words conspiratorially, and Mimi covered her other hand with her own liver-spotted one. ‘Pianists are definitely good with their hands. Take it from someone who knows. Even at our age, my Billy can …’ she tailed off and shrugged her slight shoulders, thankfully drawing a veil over the finer details before she and Lucille drifted away to help customers.

Honey shot Tash a murderous look, which she ignored with a cheeky grin.

‘So, as I was saying. I’ve found you a pianist.’

‘Tash, I don’t want one. Not really. It was a joke.’

Tash frowned and shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. It wasn’t, and it isn’t. Anyway, you can’t back out now, because I’ve set you up on a date with him.’

‘What? No.’ Honey didn’t like the way this conversation was headed. ‘Who is he, anyway?’

‘Deano. You’re gonna love him,’ Tash said. ‘He’s one of the girls I work with’s brother’s flat mate. Or was it her brother’s friend’s flat mate?’

‘You’ve never even met him, have you?’

Tash looked shifty. ‘Well, not exactly myself, but she showed me a picture and he’s hot.’

‘So you’ve set me up with some randomer you’ve never met called Deano. He doesn’t even sound like a pianist to me.’

‘Oh, he is. For deffo. Well … a synthesiser, but that’s practically the same thing, isn’t it?’ Tash held up her hand to silence the protest on Honey’s lips. ‘And here’s the best bit. He’s in a band.’

Honey stared at her friend. ‘So. To clarify. You’ve set me up on a blind date with a bloke you’ve never met who’s in a band and isn’t even a pianist.’

Tash nodded. ‘Friday night, half past eight at The Cock.’

The Cock Inn was the less desirable of the two pubs in the small market town of Greyacres. Honey shook her head.

‘No way, Tash. I’m not doing it. You’ll have to go yourself.’

‘No can do. I’m seeing Yusef on Friday, a property developer I met on a flight to Dubai last week. He’s hot and loaded and he wants me bad ways. Besides, Deano’s into blondes.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Tash, who does he think he is? Rod bloody Stewart? Does he think I’m some sort of groupie? Is he expecting to buy me a pint and a bag of scratchings and then shag me in the alleyway behind The Cock?’ She shook her head. ‘This was hardly the idea, was it? You promised me Michael Bublé.’

‘I’m trying, okay?’ Tash said, all big green eyes and pouty lips. ‘Just meet him for one drink, yes? Gina said he’s a laugh and he’s lonely.’

‘Lonely?’ More alarm bells rang in Honey’s head.

Tash cleared her throat and ran her fingers through the strings of beads hanging on a stand on the counter.

‘Mmm. He broke up with his girlfriend or something. Details, Honey, details. All you need to know is he’s hot and available.’ Tash picked up her car keys. ‘Don’t let me down, Honeysuckle. Live a little. Be in The Cock Friday night at half past eight, okay?’

Honey pushed open the door of the house at just after six that evening, weighed down once more with shopping for both herself and her grouchy neighbour. She’d decided against more whisky. A bottle a day seemed a dangerous amount to encourage Hal to drink, or to enable him with at least. She was pretty sure he wasn’t leaving the building himself any time soon and he didn’t have a second supplier, so she was pretty much his whisky tap. That knowledge came as something of a relief because he couldn’t drink more than she gave him, but on the flip side it was a responsibility she didn’t especially want. How much was too much? A bottle a week? Every three days? She was pretty certain Hal’s answer would be every day if she asked him, which she wasn’t about to do. So she’d brought him different things today. Orange juice. Milk. Cereal. Bread. Cheese slices. Ham. Cans of cola. Crisps. Chocolate bars. Her shopping for him resembled a cross between stuff for a kids’ tea party and a welcome pack at a holiday cottage. She’d wandered the aisles looking for things that came in easy portions, hampered by the fact that she didn’t have a clue either what Hal liked or how someone visually impaired dealt with food preparation. On impulse she’d picked up a couple of bags of chips from the local chippy too, and after nipping into her own flat to deposit her junk and her jacket, she schlepped across the hallway to Hal’s door.

‘Hey, rock star,’ she called out, tapping her knuckles lightly on the wood. Silence, and after a little while, more of the same. No great shock there then. ‘Come on Hal, I know you’re in there. I bought you stuff.’ She turned her head so that her ear was close to the door. Still nothing. She counted to sixty and then tried again. ‘Please? I’ve got takeaway, and it’s burning my fingers, so if you could just …’ She stopped speaking at the sound of movement in the hallway behind the door.

‘What is it today? Meals on fucking wheels?’

Honey raised her eyebrows at his closed door. ‘Hello to you too, neighbour. Open the door?’ She felt him deliberating in the lengthening silence. ‘Please? It’s only a bag of chips, but they’re good.’

The door inched open just enough for Hal to put his hand out.

‘That’s not exactly polite, is it?’ she said, holding on to his food. He gestured with his middle finger in a way that left her in no way confused about his irritation, and then opened his palm for a second time. Honey flicked her eyes at the ceiling and then gave up, placing the wrapped packet in his hand.

‘I have some too,’ she said through the gap. ‘Want to invite me in and we can eat together?’

‘Not unless you bought more whisky.’

Honey sighed and slid down the wall beside his door. ‘I guess I’ll just sit out here and eat them then.’ She ripped a hole in the top of her paper parcel to eat them the old-fashioned way, as if she were sitting down on the seafront watching the waves instead of on the Minton-tiled floor of her own hallway. As hallways went, it was quite pretty, square and airy with a big sash window and original flooring, but as views went it wasn’t spectacular. On the other side of the door Honey heard Hal settling on the floor too, and through the inch or so gap heard the tear of paper.

‘Mind out. They’re hot,’ she said, blowing on her singed fingertips.

‘I’m blind, not stupid,’ he muttered. She almost apologised and then thought better of it.

‘No need to be snarky, I was only trying to help.’

The chips were at that perfect stage, piping hot in their paper and Honey had asked the girl behind the counter to be heavy handed with salt and vinegar. Hal lapsed into silence beside her, and the regular sound of crinkling paper told her that despite his grouching he was eating his food.

‘Saved the world yet today then?’ he said eventually. Honey chalked it up as progress in their relationship that he’d initiated conversation and chose to let his sarcasm slide.

‘Not today. Sold two pairs of shoes and a cardigan with a hole in the pocket though, so all’s not lost.’

‘Wow, your life is one long thrill ride. How the fuck do you cope?’

Honey rooted around in the crinkled corners of her chip packet. ‘I get by. How’s your dinner?’

‘Gourmet. I’m just glad you didn’t attempt to cook again.’

‘You don’t know how right you are,’ Honey confessed. ‘I’m crap in the kitchen.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘You first.’

‘Me first what?’

‘You tell me something I don’t know, and I’ll tell you something you don’t know.’

Hal grunted. ‘You want to play drinking games, lady, you have to supply more whisky.’

Honey shrugged. ‘I’ll go first then.’ She cast around for something interesting. ‘Er … I’m wearing red cowboy boots?’

‘Dull. Something more interesting please.’

‘Well, that was rude.’ She frowned and considered alternative facts. If he’d found her boots dull, it was a sure fire bet he’d find the rest of her outfit even duller, with the possible exception of the colour of her knickers. Well, she did want to shock him out of his superior sarcasm mode …

‘My knickers are bright red and say Sunday even though it’s Tuesday, and I’ve got a hot date on Friday night.’

She was rewarded with something that sounded like a half laugh on the other side of the door.

‘May I suggest you go for more alluring underwear for the occasion? Or accuracy, at least?’

‘Oh, he won’t be seeing my knickers. I haven’t even met him yet. It’s a blind date.’ Honey sucked in her breath. ‘Fuck! Hal, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

Surprisingly, he opened the door a fraction more. ‘Don’t say sorry. The fact that you keep putting your foot in it is the best thing about you.’

Honey smiled at the strange, small compliment and cracked open a can of cola from the shopping bags. ‘Drink?’

‘It’s not whisky, is it?’ he said mournfully, knowing full well that it wasn’t.

Honey pushed the can into his hand when it appeared around the door. ‘Nope.’

She heard him take a drink, and when she closed her eyes she could see him sitting behind the door, feet spread, knees bent and his elbows propped on them, his Adam’s apple moving as he tipped his head back and swallowed. Hmm.

‘So who’s your date?’

His question brought her out of her Diet Coke moment with a bang. ‘Some guy called Deano. He’s in a band and likes blondes.’

‘Wow.’ Hal whistled. ‘I underestimated you. You’re a groupie with bad taste in knickers.’

‘I’m not a groupie,’ Honey bristled. ‘I didn’t arrange the date, my friends did. They’re on this weird crusade to set me up with a pianist, because …’ The words dried up in Honey’s mouth. This talking through the door thing was a dangerous game. The physical barrier had the bizarre effect of removing the usual conversational barriers.

‘Finally she tells me something interesting. Carry on.’

Honey stared at the ceiling. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘All the more reason why you’re going to.’

Honey screwed up her nose. ‘Honestly, it’s stupid.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ he said. ‘Tell me, Honeysuckle. Why are you dating pianists?’

‘Tell me Hal, why do I suddenly feel like Clarice Starling in Silence of the Lambs?’

‘I’ll let you live as long as you answer the question.’

Honey puffed out hard. ‘I’m dating pianists because … because my friends think my sex life needs spicing up, okay?’

Hal laughed. Actually laughed. And then he stopped, and said, ‘But why a pianist? Aren’t they all dull as fuck?’

Honey scrubbed her hand over her forehead. Why was she telling him this stuff? It felt akin to being on a therapist’s couch.

‘I don’t know any pianists yet to tell you whether they’re dull as fuck or not. I’ll let you know after Friday night.’ She paused. ‘Although strictly speaking, Deano plays the synthesiser, not the piano.’

‘I’m going to ask you again, Honey, real slow,’ Hal said. ‘Why pianists in particular?’

‘Jeez, Hal! Do we have to do this?’

‘Stop avoiding the question. I’m your poor blind neighbour and you’re my only contact with the outside world. Have a heart.’

Honey gasped at his blatant manipulation. ‘That’s not fair and you know it.’

‘Life’s not fair. Take it from someone who knows. Why pianists?’

‘Christ, Hal!’ she burst out. ‘Because they’re bound to be good with their hands, okay? My friends have this crazy-ass idea that a pianist will make the perfect lover for me because they’ll be all skilled and clever and sensitive.’

Hal replied to her outburst with deafening silence. And then, ‘How old are you, Honey?’

She sighed. ‘Twenty-seven.’

He was quiet again, and then, ‘No fucking way. You’re twenty-seven years old and you’re still a virgin?’

‘No! No … I’m not a virgin. That’s not it at all. I’ve had my share of men, thank you very much.’ She spoke without thinking, and then half wished she hadn’t because now she’d backed herself into an even more excruciating corner. She shook her head, rolled her eyes, and decided to just get it out of the way fast.

‘Look. I happened to tell them that I don’t orgasm during sex and they went all batshit crazy on me. I tried telling them it’s no big deal, it’s just the way my body is, but they don’t believe me, and now they’re trying to set me up with men they think will prove me wrong and make me scream louder than Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.’ She paused to breathe. ‘There. Happy now? My name is Honeysuckle Jones and I don’t orgasm. Is that interesting enough for you, or would you like more?’

She slumped against the wall, hot cheeked and suddenly exhausted.

After a few seconds, Hal spoke, and he sounded incredulous. ‘You mean you don’t come during sex, or you don’t come at all?’

This was turning into a carbon copy of her conversation with Tash and Nell. ‘At all. At. All. Can we talk about something else now, please? It’s your turn to tell me something I don’t know about you.’

She could almost hear Hal shaking his head. ‘Surely you can make yourself come though? On your own?’

Great. They were going to discuss masturbation and they barely even knew each other. ‘Hal. Let me spell this out.’ Honey crossed her arms over her chest. ‘My body doesn’t orgasm, not for me or for anyone else. It’s a basic, physical fact, one to which I have become well adjusted and believe it or not, am totally fine with. It doesn’t make me frigid; I still enjoy sex perfectly well. I’m pretty damn good at it, if you must know.’ Her chin jutted defiantly in the air.

He was laughing again, she could hear him. It made her glad and mad at the same time.

‘I’m sure you are, given that you’ve had more than your fair share of men and all.’

Terrific. Now she sounded like a slapper. ‘I didn’t say more than my fair share and you well know it.’ She could hear Hal screwing up his chip wrapper. ‘Pass me your rubbish. I’ll stick it in the bin outside, save it stinking out your flat.’

Would he open the door? She could hear him moving, and she balled up her chip paper and pulled herself up too. After a few moments of hesitation, the door slowly opened and Hal stood there, louche as always in his uniform of old jeans and t-shirt, his dark hair rumpled in a rock star sexy kind of way.

‘Thanks for dinner, Strawberry Girl,’ he said softly, holding out his wrapper. She took it and pushed it into hers, digesting the nickname with a half smile and pinpricks of pleasure down the back of her neck. She was almost relieved that he didn’t know that her cheeks were as pink as her shampoo.

‘I picked up some things for you from the supermarket,’ she said, bending down to the carrier on the floor. ‘Bread.’ She held out the loaf until the cellophane touched his fingers and he took it from her wordlessly, laying it carefully on the table in his hallway.

‘Ham.’ She passed the packet to him, his fingers touching hers before he placed it on the table alongside the bread.

‘Orange juice,’ she murmured, the warm brush of his fingertips stark against the cold carton.

‘You realise you’re taking the element of surprise out of this by telling me what they are, don’t you?’ he said as he accepted the cheese from her. His hand stilled over hers for a second. Did his thumb slide over the pulse point of her wrist?

‘Yeah, well. I don’t want you drinking Domestos and blaming me,’ she murmured, passing him the other items one by one, watching his hands. He had good, strong hands.

‘That’s the last of it,’ she said as he placed the milk down on the table. ‘If there’s anything special you want me to get, let me know.’

‘Whisky?’ he said, hopefully.

‘Sometimes, Hal,’ she said, gently.

He nodded and breathed in, a sigh somewhere between acceptance and resignation.

‘You better go in,’ she said. ‘Coronation Street starts in five minutes. I know you’d hate to miss it.’

Hal’s mouth quirked at the edges. ‘You know it.’

Dark stubble covered his jaw, and on impulse, Honey reached out and touched it. ‘You need a shave, rock star.’

Hal stilled at the contact, and Honey felt his jawbone stiffen beneath the softness of the few days’ beard growth. They stood there for a few long seconds, his face warm against her palm, neither of them letting go of their breath. To a casual onlooker they’d have looked like lovers saying goodnight.

‘Maybe you could put a razor on that list of yours then,’ he said eventually, and Honey let her hand slide away.

‘Noted,’ she whispered.

‘Night, then,’ he said, then stepped backwards and clicked his door shut. Honey stared at the pale wood, then at her still-tingling palm, and then moved across the hallway into the safety and solitude of her own flat.

Hal leaned his back against his closed door, the scent of her on his fingers when he scrubbed them over his jaw. What the fuck was it about Strawberry Girl? In his world, women smelt of expensive perfume, died a million deaths at the idea of chips, and their polished sexual routines included a perfectly executed orgasm on cue. Or women in his old world, at least. His world of fast cars and glamorous women, and a job he loved with a passion bordering on obsession. He’d only ever wanted to be a chef, and he’d worked bloody hard for more than a decade to build his reputation to the point of being able to open his own restaurant almost three years previously. Hal wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d enjoyed the trappings of his success – the celebrity clientele, the awards, the sparkling reviews from notoriously hard-to-please food critics. His life had been big, and full, and busy, and thrilling.

And now he was here, alone in this godforsaken place, and the only remotely interesting thing about his door was the girl living on the other side of it. A girl who he now knew wore knickers with the day of the week on, and who said the first thing that came into her blonde head without thinking, and who’d lived her entire life without experiencing the mind-numbing bliss of great sex. He briefly wondered whether Deano the synthesiser player would be the man to show her different, and then just as briefly hoped not. No one should have their first orgasm with a man called Deano.