Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Because Thursday’s potion – one that helps soothe toddlers in the middle of a tantrum – requires a considerable amount of time simmering on the stove, I have time on my hands.
Of course, I could use that time sensibly – updating orders, fiddling around with my website, taking stock of my ingredients, chasing up that lost delivery.
Instead, I make Horatio a birthday card because I forgot to give him one yesterday.
I sit down at the kitchen table with my card and colouring pencils, ignoring McGruff’s accusatory looks and general sulking.
He clearly doesn’t approve. But what harm is there in one friendly neighbour writing a birthday card to another?
And so what if that card happens to be handmade with a considerable amount of thought and attention?
That’s just nice, neighbourly behaviour.
It takes me a while to decide on a subject, but in the end, I opt for my favourite view from the bench on Hampstead Heath. A place I’ve always loved. A place, I think, I may have first started developing these silly feelings for my next-door neighbour.
I abandon my colouring pencils in favour of some water-colour paints.
It’s been a long time since I’ve cracked them open.
I used to paint and draw a lot, but since the explosion of orders on WitchBay, I haven’t really had the time.
I’d forgotten how mindful this is, how it soothes away all the anxieties bubbling away in my belly, and how I can completely lose myself in it and forget, for just a moment in time, all my worries.
When I’m done, I’m pretty pleased with the effect. Sure, I wouldn’t hang it in a gallery or call it particularly skilled. But it looks nice. And it’s the thought that counts, right?
I leave it to dry and go sieve the toddler-tantrum potion, collecting up all of the gunk and siphoning it into cute little bottles with homemade stickers already pinned to their fronts.
When that’s finished, I go back to the card, write my message inside, and leave it on his doorstep.
On Friday morning, my heart is thumping with anticipation when I open my front door, only to be met with an empty doorstep.
The disappointment is crushing and a big wake-up call.
This little note-sending, gift-giving routine couldn’t last forever.
The man is busy. He has other things to do, even if he is currently madly, crazily in love with me.
So, I tuck away that sense of disappointment and, much to McGruff’s disgust, take him on an extra-long walk, romping across the Heath, up and down the hills, through the shady trees, and along the windy pathways.
After an hour and a half of this, McGruff is puffing and panting and seriously overheating.
I unclip him by the ponds and let him plunge into the water to cool off.
When he emerges, he takes his revenge by standing right up close to me and, before I realise what he’s about to do, shaking his little body, coating me with cold pond water.
I can’t blame him. And actually, although I squeal and protest, it’s pretty cooling on the skin.
I reattach him to his lead and we walk back to the flat, where I work diligently and sensibly the whole day long, with no slip-ups, no explosions, and no interruptions for heartfelt gifts.
Seriously, what was I thinking? I’ve probably scared the man away, and that is pretty impressive, considering he’s currently bewitched into loving me.
Late afternoon, McGruff and I head to the supermarket to stock up on groceries for the weekend. I have a feeling I’m going to need a lot of chocolate and a lot of ice cream. I buy as much as I can carry. Then we set off back to the flat, my arms weighed down with shopping bags.
We’re back by five-thirty, and I almost drop the four shopping bags I’m carrying – and all their contents – when I find Horatio lingering in our communal hallway.
“What are you doing here?” I say, completely stunned.
I’ve never seen Horatio home from work on a weekday before seven o’clock. The only exception was last Friday, when he picked me up in his car for our weekend away. Other than that, he’s never returned home early. Ever.
“Um…” Horatio says, scratching the top of his head. “I live here.”
“Yes, I know that,” I say, taking a step forward and then, because my arms are absolutely killing me, dumping the four bags on the floor.
McGruff immediately takes his opportunity, shoving his head straight into a bag and snuffling at the ice cream tubs. I haul him out by the collar and give him a stern wagging of my finger, then turn my attention back to Horatio.
“You’re home early? From work?”
“Yeah,” he says, coming forward to pick the shopping up for me. “Do you need a hand?”
I hesitate. Is it me, or is there a funny feeling in the air?
Or maybe that’s just me and my funny feelings.
I’m feeling awkward. It reminds me of being in school and having a massive crush on Stephen Dingham.
Stephen Dingham was dating the hottest girl in our year, obviously, and didn’t even know I existed.
That didn’t stop me from being incredibly self-conscious around him.
My tongue was always in a tangle and my feet were always tripping me up.
I unlock my front door, sliding back all the bolts, and beckon Horatio inside. He places all four shopping bags on the countertop, lifting them as if they weigh nothing but a bag of feathers.
“So why are you home early?” I ask him again, still trying to get to the bottom of this mystery.
He sighs dramatically and leans back against the counter. “I’m visiting my parents this evening.”
“Okay,” I say, hooking three tubs of ice cream from a shopping bag – don’t judge me – and cramming them into the freezer box.
“My mom wants me there for dinner.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I say, studying him over the top of the shopping bags, “I’m not always the best person at reading people, but I’d take a guess you’re not looking forward to it.”
I could be blind and still detect this. The vibes rolling off every inch of his body read: I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.
He looks like a child being forced against his will to visit the dentist.
“No, I’m not,” he says, dropping his gaze to the ground and scuffing his shoe against the floor.
He’s dressed in a suit as usual – dark trousers, polished shoes, smart shirt – but he’s lost the tie, his jacket’s hanging from his fingers, and he’s rolled up his sleeves and undone the first few buttons of his white shirt.
And while I like T-shirts, tattoos, ripped jeans, and piercings, I’m developing a strong attachment to this preppy look as well.
Why does the man have to be quite so hot?
“Why?” I say. “Why aren’t you looking forward to it?”
“My stepdad. He’s an asshole.” He raises his gaze to me, dazzling me with those deep blue eyes, and lifts his hand. “And before you say I’m an asshole, I am nothing compared to my stepfather.”
“Then don’t go,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “I’ve just bought my body weight in ice cream, and I’d happily share it with you if you want.”
He does that dramatic sigh thing again – it’s so over the top and unlike Horatio that it almost has me giggling.
“No, I have to go. For Mom’s sake.”
I walk around the counter and come to stand in front of him.
“Why is your stepdad such an arsehole then?”
“Just always getting at me, I guess. Visiting there is always an ordeal.”
I chew on my lip. He looks utterly downtrodden and depressed, which is not how someone should look on their birthday week – especially Friday night on their birthday week.
And before I know what I’m doing, my lips are moving, my tongue waggling, and words are coming out of my mouth that I probably shouldn’t be saying.
“Would it help if someone came with you? Diffused the tension a little bit? And by someone, obviously I’m offering myself as a sacrifice …
But then maybe that might take things too far,” I say, backtracking.
“Maybe me, a walking disaster, being there would just make it a lot more stressful and a lot worse–”
“It wouldn’t,” he says eagerly, interrupting my rambling train of thought. “I’d like you to come.” He nods. “I’d be very grateful if you came, if you wouldn’t mind.”
I smile at him. I can hardly say no, can I? He did come to my family-thing last weekend. And I did trash his birthday party on Wednesday.
“You owe me,” he reminds me teasingly, making it clear I don’t really owe him anything.
“Then I’ll come.”
“It will be awful,” he warns me.
“More awful than my family get-together? Come on, Horatio, that can’t be possible.”
“Trust me. It can be.”
“Well, obviously I’m amazing at dealing with parents,” I say, rolling my eyes, because obviously I’m not. “But I’ll try my best. Maybe if I distract them with my general chaos, it’ll give you some respite.”
“I think my mom will really like you,” he says.
“We’ll see,” I tell him. “What should I wear?”
I stare down at the black summer dress I’m wearing right now.
“You look lovely the way you are. You always do.”
“Such a charmer.” I sniff. “But seriously. If they’re one of those traditional couples, who are going to look at me and–”
“Molly, you look lovely.” He hesitates. “You’re sure about this?”
“I owe you, remember?”
He steps forward, pinches my fingers between his, squeezing them affectionately, dazzling me with that blue gaze.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
I bite my lip again and nod, trying to ignore all those feelings that start swirling round my body when he talks to me like that.
“You’re welcome.”
“They live in Oxford.”
“Will that mean another overnight stay and another double bed?”
“As tempting as that sounds, I haven’t got the stomach for an overnight stay. We’ll come back tonight. Just give me a moment to get changed, and then we’ll go.”
“Right,” I say.
Neither of us moves. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. Then he gives my fingers another squeeze and leaves.