7. No. 32 Sext someone #2
There’s a long and uncomfortable pause, but I refuse to be the first to break it.
I’m always the first to break it. “Beatrice, sweetheart, I have some bad news.” I can just picture the mournful look she’s probably pulling on the other end of the line, as much as her Botox will allow her anyway.
“You know I told you Cynthia had failed to invite me to her annual summer bash, which was why I was free this weekend? Well, it turns out, she hadn’t forgotten me and there must have just been some mix up in the mail. ”
“Right,” I say, shoulders slumping where I sit on my sofa. I must have known subconsciously I needed it, because Pedro is tucked under one arm while Heathcliff is curled on my lap, tail swishing slowly.
“Darling, you know I was so looking forward to seeing your little cottage and spending some time with you, but you have to understand Cynthia’s summer party is such an important event for me. I couldn’t possibly miss it.”
I hate the tremor in my lip and the way I’m physically deflating, falling back into the couch cushions so deep I’m hoping I might just disappear altogether.
“I get it,” I say, my voice quiet and not hiding the disappointment I know I shouldn’t feel because no matter what I told Cas, we both knew this was coming.
If my mother hears the defeat in my tone, she doesn’t acknowledge it. “There’ll be plenty of time for me to come and visit. And of course, you’ll come back to the city.”
Of course, because that will be easier for her. “Mmhmm,” I agree, just wanting this conversation to be over.
“You know Cynthia says there’s a man she wants me to meet.” I can hear her excited smirk. “A rich man.”
I sigh, having no energy to indulge the conversation. “Okay, well, I better get going, I’m meeting someone for café things,” I half lie.
“Okay, sweetie. We’ll speak soon, love you,” Mum chirps, breezily.
“Love you.”
And she’s gone.
“Well, I think we all saw that coming,” I huff to Heathcliff. He lifts his head from where he’s lying on his side on my lap and continues to swish his tail. “Guess it’s just you and me.”
He proceeds to crawl off my lap and climb the cat tree in the corner, hiding inside the little house on top, his back to the door. Well, that’s just great.
I’ve kind of run out of things to give Connor to do. The bloody espresso machine won’t be fixed for a while as we wait for an engineer and I can’t open a café without being able to make coffee, so I’m twiddling my thumbs.
Connor bounds in with great excitement, carrying a book he slaps down on the counter. “Can we make this?” He points to the cover of the old looking cookbook where a rather decadent looking chocolate cake sits tall and proud.
“Uh…I don’t know,” I say, head spinning from his hasty entrance and unexpected greeting. “I’d need to check the ingredients.”
We spend the afternoon making the cake, Connor doing most of the work while I supervise, and he tells me he wants to take it to his family Sunday lunch.
My chest does a little squeeze with the thought of Connor sat at a big family dining table, with August and his mum and grandparents, while I’m sat in my cottage alone.
But Connor’s continuous narration and stream of consciousness is entertaining enough, my mood lifts.
“Did you ask Uncle August about your library dreams?” Connor asks as he pipes whipped cream on the top layer of cake.
“Oh, um…” I turn my back to him and start fiddling with the stack of espresso cups. “You know, I’m not sure it’s the kind of project he wants to take on.”
I sense rather than see Connor stopping his piping and standing straight. “What? That makes no sense, he loves building custom woodwork. It’s literally his whole thing.”
“Well, I-I don’t think he wants to do this one. It’s fine, I can look for someone else.” I start wiping at the spotless surface in front of me.
“Hey,” he says a little too gently for my fragile heart to take. “You know, he can kind of come across as an arsehole, but he’s a good guy. And he’ll do anything for the people in the village, that includes you now. So if you’re nervous about asking him, you should know he’ll definitely say yes.”
I can only nod and smile at him over my shoulder, feeling sorry for the kid as he looks immensely proud of himself for saying nice things about his uncle.
In the evening, when I’ve eaten my bodyweight in cheese from the adorable cheese shop in the village and realise I don’t have any wine to wash it down with, I figure I might go to the pub to get out of the cottage for a bit.
I can sit at the bar and have a glass or two, maybe chat to the locals.
At the very least, Eli will be working behind the bar, and I can talk to him.
He’s been so kind every time I’ve seen him over the last week.
He likes to jog shirtless in the mornings and I can’t say I have any complaint about him stopping for a chat on his way past.
Thinking I should probably change from the clothes I’ve been wearing all day, I pull out my faithful jeans. The pair that look great with a simple t-shirt or dressed up with a sequin top and heels. My favourite jeans. My favourite jeans that won’t button up. What. The. Hell?
“Come on,” I groan, laying on my bed and sucking my stomach in.
It’s not been that long since I wore these, and it’s only been a week of baking and eating everything I baked and the sausages from the butchers and the cheese from the cheese shop.
I cannot possibly have grown out of these jeans in that time.
Have these thing shrunk? This is ridiculous.
The button finally goes into place, and the zip decides it’s going to be a little bitch next.
I use a hanger to help, looping the hook into the zip and pulling hard, mentally reassuring myself once they’re done up, they’ll magically fit perfectly again.
When the hanger snaps and my arms fly up to smack my own face, I flop back on the bed and swear at my ceiling for approximately one minute before dusting myself off and starting again.