Chapter Two
In theory, I’d met Callum McClay twice. In reality, it was more complicated.
According to Desi’s sister, Stella, we’d both been at her wedding to Dave, where I’d spent the majority of the day convincing a very drunk, Speak Now-era-obsessed Desi that she really should rethink her maid of honour speech and not use it as an opportunity to list every perceived infraction Dave had ever committed.
I failed, spectacularly, and after she went on to make a woman cry in the toilets by passing judgement on her shoes, I’d made the executive decision to take Desi home and we missed almost the entire night do.
The supposed second time was two years later at the Brit Bat ceremony of Stella and Dave’s firstborn, a child inexplicably named Lemon Marge Kaplan O’Brien.
It was a much smaller affair than the wedding, and even though Stella had checked the guestlist and insisted Callum was there, I couldn’t remember anything about him at all.
But as I stood in the middle of the living room, staring into a pair of unamused blue eyes, there was a certain similarity between this man, with a shadow of stubble covering the lower half of his face, and the clean-shaven person whose erratic social media I’d been casually stalking ever since I heard Dave had a friend who was moving to Paris and needed a tenant for his Clapham flat.
Instagram Callum hadn’t seemed quite so tall and Instagram Callum was facial-hair-free with close-cropped hair, but when the man in front of me took a cautious side-step toward the wall to turn on the overhead light, I realized he was absolutely, positively my new landlord.
‘Callum,’ I said, the red rash of rage that had been slowly creeping up my face flourishing into a scarlet stain of humiliation. ‘You’re Callum McClay.’
He inclined his head politely.
‘Pleasure to meet you. Laura Pearce, I’m guessing?’
About five minutes too late, I spun on my heel, facing the bare, beige wall behind a navy-blue IKEA sofa, covering my eyes with my hands for good measure.
‘I am so sorry,’ I said, babbling all the words at once.
‘I didn’t know you were here. Dave gave me the keys and said you’d already moved out so I came round to measure up so I could order some bits in the New Year sales, not that I need many bits, I know the flat comes furnished and it’s very nice, you know I’ve always liked a Klippan, very underrated, I’d say, design classic in fact—’
‘OK, I think I’ve got it,’ Callum interrupted before I could talk myself into a hole in the ground. ‘Dave doesn’t pay attention, I’m not leaving until the twenty-seventh. Didn’t you hear the shower running?’
More sheepish than a rack of lamb, I turned back around, keeping my eyes trained on the ground.
There was still so much of him on display, including a not insignificant rug of dark, curling chest hair and a surprising amount of muscle for someone I’d been reliably informed was moving to Paris to train as a pastry chef.
Were pastry chefs usually this solid? Was there any call for this degree of burliness in the kitchen?
‘Earbuds,’ I explained, pointing to the little white balls of plastic peeping out of the rich brown rug underneath his coffee table. ‘Noise cancelling. They’re very good. Most noise cancelling headphones don’t really cancel out everything but these ones go right in the ear and—’
‘Do feel free to stop talking,’ he cut in.
‘Do feel free to put some clothes on,’ I replied.
For the first time since I’d walked into the flat, he smiled. Just a little, head ducked, lips crooked up at one side like he didn’t want to commit to it, but his blue eyes lit up and crinkled at the corners, and I found myself wondering how devastating a full-on grin would be.
But there wasn’t time to find out.
Two seconds later, a commotion sounded outside the flat and Callum’s expression flatlined. Keys in the door, voices in the hallway, shoes scuffing on the mat.
‘Shit,’ he said, looking around in a panic, still clutching his privates in his hands.
‘Shit,’ I echoed as the living room door swung open towards us.
‘Hello, hello, hello, don’t mind us, we’re only burglars!’ someone called and for the want of a better option, I yanked my bobble hat off my head and tossed it to Callum, who caught it in one hand and placed it over his crotch with the other.
Two smiling faces burst into the room, a man and a woman, both of them turning into statues the moment they laid eyes on the scene inside.
‘Good God!’
The woman covered her face, cheeks the same shade of scarlet as her tailored wool coat.
‘Cal,’ she said in a high-pitched voice. ‘You’ve got company.’
The man at her side didn’t seem nearly as distressed, his smile broadening at exactly the same rate his companion’s disappeared
‘Are we interrupting?’ he asked. ‘Sorry, son, I told your mother we should’ve called first.’
Son. Mother. He had the same shade of reddish brown hair as Callum, she had a similarly shaped mouth, and they all shared the same shortened vowels and soft Scottish burr that warmed up their accents. These were Callum’s parents.
‘You’re not interrupting, I was just leaving,’ I said, turning towards the door to make a hasty exit but neither of them moved, blocking off my escape route.
‘Oh no, you mustn’t go on our account.’
Taking advantage of my stunned state, Callum’s dad stepped towards me with open arms and before I could duck underneath them to make a break for it, he wrapped me up in a bear hug and squeezed every ounce of air out of my lungs.
Desi was right, this flat was going to be the death of me but not in any way she might have predicted.
‘Aye, she’s a bonny one, Cal,’ the older Mr McClay exclaimed. ‘Not exactly how I’d imagined it but we’ve all been dying to meet you.’
‘You have?’ I replied, face smushed against his itchy jumper.
‘Dad, don’t,’ Callum started as his father released me from his vice-like grip.
‘I really do need to get going,’ I squeaked, stumbling out of his arms and gasping for breath. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Fight, flight or jump head first through a triple-glazed window? Whatever it took to get out of that flat.
‘Nonsense, you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to sit down and tell me all about yourself while Cal finds his trousers.
’ His dad took a seat on the sofa and patted the open spot next to him.
‘No need to run off on our account, hen, we can’t stop long, only popping by on our way back from the airport.
We’re just back from our holidays. I’m sure he told you we’ve been away. ’
‘You’d be amazed at what he hasn’t told me,’ I replied with a Care Bear stare at Callum.
When I didn’t join him on the sofa, Callum’s dad grabbed my wrist and gave it an encouraging tug. I crumpled down at his side and he threw his arm around my shoulders, pinning me in place.
‘I know she’d love to stay,’ Callum said when I crumpled down at his father’s side, ‘But she really was on her way out, weren’t you?’
‘I’m trying,’ I replied through gritted teeth, held fast by his father.
‘Try harder.’
‘Callum George James McClay.’
Everyone in the room snapped to attention. His mother’s voice flicked a switch in me I didn’t know was still operational after all these years, the very specific tone of a parent who was not angry but disappointed. She wasn’t even talking to me and I still felt guilty.
‘You were raised better,’ she said. ‘That’s no way to talk to your girlfriend.’
I stared at his mother, she stared at her son, he stared back at me. Only his dad sat back, relaxed, perfectly happy with the situation.
‘Me?’ I said, pointing at myself. ‘I’m not his girlfriend?’
All of a sudden, Callum let out a loud laugh, too big, too forced to be real.
‘She’s joking!’ he said between guffaws. ‘Loves to joke, this one, has me in stitches. Classic.’
They all turned in my direction, his mum and dad examining me with open curiosity as though they’d just been introduced to an entirely alien concept, like Pepsi Max Wild Cherry or Morman wife TikTok, and Callum, his beseeching blue eyes open wide and staring at me with an intensity that could’ve set fire to a wet paper bag.
I opened my mouth to correct him but something in those eyes stopped me.
They were so dark, the sapphire depths contrasting sharply against his pale skin, and suddenly my intended words of protest dissolved on my tongue.
‘Classic,’ I croaked instead. ‘Always the joker, me.’
‘Hilarious, I’m sure.’ His mother sniffed, reappraising me in a way I did not care for in the slightest. ‘So. You’re the girlfriend.’
‘Apparently,’ I replied. ‘But most people call me Laura.’
His father looked to Callum, arm firmly wrapped around my shoulders.
‘I thought you said her name was Caroline?’
Callum bit his lip.
‘I did. It is Caroline.’
‘Then why would she say it’s Laura?’
There was so much to not enjoy about the situation.
His father’s fingers digging into my non-existent bicep, the way his mother kept raising a hand to her chest as though she was one snide comment from fainting clean away, the fact Callum was still naked, but when he winced and mouthed the word ‘please’ in my direction, I found myself backing him up again.
‘My name is Caroline,’ I said. ‘I was just having a laugh.’
His father let out an accepting chuckle but his mother held my gaze as I took stock of her, the same way she’d analysed me moments before.
Neatly coiffed hair, little silk scarf knotted around her neck, the unmistakable look of a woman who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt there was something fishy going on.
But my brand new boyfriend’s shoulders sagged with relief and I shot him a tight smile.
At least the people pleaser in me was satisfied, even if his mother wasn’t.