Chapter Thirty-three
It’s Saturday night. My turn to give a presentation and ask for approval to hold a test run at Easter. Because whatever else I need to do, I need Evan’s approval to have customers coming to his house.
It should be easy. For someone with my TV experience, this should be a doddle.
So why the butterflies in my stomach? When I walk down the curving staircase into the Grand Hall, my knees wobble and my heart jumps around my chest, unable to settle.
That’s why I’m in my disappear-into-the-woodwork get up: a simple, black knee-length dress and ballerina shoes, hair out of the way in a ponytail.
For tonight, my work will have to speak for me.
Even so, Gethin, the old guy in the wheelchair, can’t resist a quick flirtation. “You scrub up well, girl. I was beginning to wonder if you lived your life in dungarees.”
“You’re not supposed to call women girls anymore,” Deniro reprimands him.
Ignoring his friend, Gethin moves the little joystick that operates his chair and follows me. Llewellyn waits for me at the other end of the ballroom. He’s set up a projector and a large white pull-down screen for my presentation.
Ashe is also there. She’s been following me around trying to learn more about roses.
Since making her cry that first day, I’ve been giving her lots of space to learn and expand her horizons.
Learning new things has always helped me cope with pain; that and keeping busy.
So when I went to Llewellyn’s Hub earlier to prepare my presentation, she came along and helped me.
Now I see that both of them have everything ready.
“We thought you might like to do a dry run first to get used to the hardware.” Llewellyn offers me the remote control.
“Shame on you, young man.” Gethin, still following me, wags a finger at Llewellyn. “Saying ‘hard’ to a young lady.”
We’re all getting used to his harmless flirting and innuendo. Llewellyn rolls his eyes. “Gethin, you’re getting to be as bad as Johnny Cash.”
“Me?” Gethin is outraged. “You’re the one spending hours in the café trying to teach him song lyrics.”
“Song lyrics?” Ashe asks.
Llewellyn shrugs. “Just trying to give him an alternative vocabulary.”
Gethin barks a laugh loud enough to attract the attention of the people already around the table. “Alternative lyrics about prison and cocaine?”
“Good point.” Llewellyn laughs too. It’s nice to see Llewellyn in a good mood tonight; he’s been tense and on edge all week since Nora turned up.
My own tension is still here; I stare at the complicated and no doubt expensive equipment and imagine myself fluffing my words, knocking into the trolley and sending it wheeling into the wall and causing everything to fall off and break. “So what does what?” I point at the projector.
“I’m not brilliant with technology. Back in TV, we had scores of techies to handle all this. All I had to do was look into the camera and speak.”
“Don’t worry, it’s foolproof. You can’t cock it up.” Instantly he winces, shooting Gethin an apologetic glance.
The older man throws his arms up in the air. “Don’t say ‘cock’. If you must, use the scientific word. Say, ‘you can’t penis it up’.”
I snort and Ashe giggles.
He shows me how to work everything then hands me a wireless mic, the kind that clips around the head.
“Do I need this?”
“When the room is full, thirty people can make a lot of hum. You want to focus on your presentation, not worry about being inaudible.”
I take it from him and try to put it round my head. “Actually, being inaudible sounds very good to me right now.”
“Here, let me do this for you.” He takes the headset and wraps it around the back of my head, clips the end over my ear so the mic is an inch from the corner of my mouth.
“What’s going on?”
The voice makes me jump.
Nora is right behind me.
She’s here? I’ve been so busy I hadn’t seen her and assumed she’d left.
Nora is also wearing a black shift dress, except hers is tight, shiny satin and has a few tiny black pearl buttons in front. Two have been left open to reveal a hint of shiny white bosom.
“Are you going to sing?” Nora asks me, then flicks Ashe with a pitying look. “Is this one of your sad helpers?”
Ashe goes bright red.
“Shall we try that dry run, now?” Llewellyn’s face has gone white and rigid, but he ignores Nora completely as if she’s not even here. “Ashe?” he says very quietly. “Do you have the running order?”
Ashe hands me a page; her hand isn’t altogether steady.
I’m furious with Nora but there’s not much I can say or do without making the situation worse. Even Gethin feels the tension because he’s looking down at his knees, the usual spark gone from his face.
“It’s on.” Llewellyn, still ignoring Nora, presses a button on the projector, and a blue square appears on the pull-down screen.
“Erm… Sorry, what?” I look up, trying to remember what I’m supposed to do.
“You’re flustered. Did I interrupt something?” Nora asks, eyebrows raised.
Llewellyn chooses that moment to put a hand on my shoulder and guide me closer to the projector.
“Two girls at once, Llew?” Nora looks from me to Ashe. “You trying to make me jealous?”
“Hello.”
Oh, thank God. Someone else is here, even if it’s Osian.
But when I turn, his eyes are on my shoulder – actually on Llewellyn’s hand, which is still cupping the top of my arm.
“Everything okay?” he asks, when nobody says anything.
“I think I’ve been dumped and replaced.” Nora’s voice instantly melts into a sad-but-brave tone. God! How does she do it?
Osian meets my eyes. “How’s your presentation coming? Need any help?”
“She doesn’t need help.” Nora’s voice wobbles. “My grave isn’t cold yet before she’s run over it to get to—”
“We’re still setting up,” Llewellyn interrupts. He looks only at Osian but his grip on my shoulder is hard enough to hurt.
“Aren’t they a sight for sore eyes?” Gethin suddenly pipes up. “Three beautiful women in one corner. Does life get any better?”
Nora beams at him. “Thank you for being a gentleman. You both are.” And she loops her arm through Osian’s and turns to go.
Osian leans close and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’ll be great.” Then he lets Nora drag him away. Gethin and Ashe follow.
“Dinner is served,” someone calls from the table.
Nora finds a seat at one end of the table so she’s sitting between Osian and Raff, the tall, bearded man who runs the Jack Bevan Retirement Community.
“So much for our dry run.” Llewellyn walks me to the other side of the table and sits beside me. Men don’t really show emotion. Or ask for help. You have to look a lot closer to see if they need support.
“Are you all right?” I whisper.
He exhales. “Fuck,” he says, sotto voce.
I want to agree, but you’re not supposed to slag off someone’s ex. Not even if the ex in question is a nasty, spiteful, bitch.
Not even if you know that he thinks the same.
Dissing the ex is an implied diss of the partner who once loved them.
After it came out about Marcus’s cheating, friends said things like, “I never liked him.” And, “He was a worthless scumbag.” Or even, “That liar who took advantage of you.” They were trying to show me loyalty, but it only made me feel like a fool for having believed in him once. It hurt and humiliated me.
So I pass Llewellyn the dish of steamed vegetables and smile, hoping to take his mind off the awful scene.
Shirley, the red-haired old lady opposite notices and her eyes flick briefly to Nora then she gives me a conspiratorial head shake.
“Welcome back,” I say, feeling a little guilty about that night Osian and I took refuge in her room. I’d meant to tell her about it but with everything that’s happened, I haven’t had a chance.
Perhaps seeing her makes me think of Osian and my mind goes back to how he acted ten minutes ago. That look at Llewellyn’s hand on my shoulder; an innocent move, but it had registered. And at the end, kissing my cheek. Osian has never done that before; why now?
If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d have sworn it was that territorial thing men do.
As soon as they think they have competition, they claim you.
A touch, a swift kiss, a hand on your back, a visible assertion of ownership.
I’m pretty sure they don’t even realise it – it’s just a biological response.
If my heart didn’t ache so much, this discovery of Osian’s hidden caveman would have made me smile.
“Why the hell is she still here?” someone hisses. Rhian. “How can you let her eat with us?” she demands of Haneen, who’s just sat down.
Haneen looks unerringly at the end of the table. “She’s a guest.”
“Whose guest?” Rhian challenges hotly. “Llewellyn threw her out.”
I wince because Llewellyn is right beside me.
With an uneasy smile, he gets up quietly, takes his plate and goes to sit with the professor several seats away.
“Rhian.” Haneen’s censure sounds firm despite her kind tone. “It’s none of our business.”
“She’s Leonie’s guest,” Shirley offers, unaware that Haneen was trying to close the subject down.
Leonie? I turn to her, sitting opposite me. She looks very uncomfortable. She too has watched Llewellyn move seats. When she catches my eyes, she makes a helpless gesture with her hands. “What was I supposed to do? Nora gave up her flat when she moved in with Llewellyn and now has nowhere to stay.”
“Where was she staying all of last month?” Shirley asks.
“With friends, but only temporarily. She was sure they’d get back together.” Leonie’s eyes flick quickly to Llewellyn. “So now she’s homeless.”
“And why is that your problem?” Shirley asks pointedly.
“What would you all do? Turn her away and let her sleep in a cardboard box?”
Shirley scoffs. “Women like her are never homeless. She need only wander into the nearest bar and find someone to give her a bed for the night. There are plenty of men willing to have a one-night stand.”
Like Osian. The thought slithers into my mind and won’t leave.
“That’s not nice,” Leonie says.
“Nice?” Shirley purses her lips. “That’s your trouble, if you ask me. You and Evie, generous even if it means losing your fella. Don’t think I don’t see what’s going on.”
Leonie glances swiftly towards Raff then just as swiftly back to her plate.
Shirley helps herself to a bread roll from the basket and butters it generously. “And how long is Nymphet Nora staying with you?”
Leonie shrugs. “A few days until she can find a place to rent.”
How long is a few days? As long as a piece of string, I suppose. Looking down the table, I see Nora talking and laughing but with a hint of pain. The perfect picture of a damsel in distress trying to be brave. A damsel in double distress because she’s dividing her smiles between Osian and Raff.
Raff is not single. He’s Leonie’s boyfriend. Leonie, who’s allowing her to stay on her sofa.
“Why, Leonie?” I can’t help asking.
“It’ll be okay.”
That’s all she says. It’s what I would say if someone asked me why I didn’t claim Osian earlier, didn’t hook my arm through his or beg him to help me with my presentation, didn’t ask him to sit with me… Anything to telegraph a ‘hands-off’ message to Nora.
Because women like me and Leonie don’t play the victim and use our tears as a tool. We hide our pain; it’s private and no one else’s business.
A few days, she said, A lot can change in a few days. For both of us.