27. Lucky dip fucking? #4
‘Dylan, this is not a knee-jerk reaction to your financial predicament. I wouldn’t make such a huge decision based on that.
’ She held Dylan’s face with both hands, placing a soft kiss on her mouth, inhaling deeply.
‘I am completely and madly in love with you, Dylan St John. I want to be with you…I want to wake up with you every morning and come home to you every night. I love you. I have based my decision on that. It’s like you said anyway, the avocado doesn’t stay ripe for long, or whatever. ’ Greta pursed her lips around a smile.
Dylan chuckled. ‘Hmm. Not quite what I said, but it’ll do.’
Greta’s features softened as she held Dylan’s gaze.
‘Muriel left me very wealthy, and I’m just sitting on it, surrounded by stuff and things and art I don’t really like and walls that are unfinished.
’ She winked. ‘Look,’ she tugged at both sides of Dylan’s jacket.
‘I know it’s soon to be discussing it, but by the time this place is sold and I’ve had some time at Mum and Dad’s, it will—’
‘I don’t care how much time needs to pass. I want you to come home to me, too.’
Drawing in a sharp breath, Greta paused for a beat as tears gathered on her lashes. ‘Really?’ she whispered.
‘Every day. Every night. I don’t want to reach out for you in bed and you not be there anymore.
I can’t stand it. I can’t sleep without you, G.
I can’t bear it when I can’t smell you.’ Dylan tightened her hold.
‘Hmmm…’ She pouted, eyes narrowed. ‘So I will actually be The Dylan of the House, then?’ Greta huffed a laugh through her tears.
‘Why are you crying?’ Greta buried her face into Dylan’s chest. ‘You already owe me a Westwood shirt, G. I haven’t forgotten about that, and you got snot all over that Oxfam find…
it was all bobbly after that. Let’s not add a Carhartt jacket to the list. They’re dear, these…
you’re racking up quite the replacement clothing bill. ’
Greta laughed again, the sound breaking through a fresh wave of tears. Burying her face back into Dylan, she let it spill out of her, soaking Dylan’s jacket, while Dylan held her tight, kissed the top of her head and whispered into her hair, ‘I’m madly in love with you too, Greta Vincent.’
***
‘Where’s Dyl?’ Greta asked her mum, who was weighing out flour with absolute reckless abandon.
‘She’s upstairs with your father. They’re painting, apparently.’ Elaine raised a doubtful eyebrow. ‘But I heard them muttering something about a woman on fire in a picture, so my guess is they’re in his bloody study again.’
Elaine tossed the flour into a mixing bowl, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. Dramatically spluttering, Greta waved her hand through the air as if a smoke bomb had gone off.
‘Jesus Christ, Mum!’
‘What?’ Elaine scoffed with a heavy eye roll. ‘It’s not the bloody Bake Off, darling. I don’t have time to be slowly adding this and gently adding that. It’s a carrot cake, Greta, not a cure for cancer.’
‘Well, more's the pity, Mother,’ Greta chuckled.
Greta pinched a small mound of grated carrot from a plate of ingredients, tipping her head back to drop the shreds into her mouth.
Elaine’s touch one more thing and I’ll kill you look spread rapidly across her face as she glared between her sharp fringe and the glasses perched on the end of her nose.
‘Okay, I’m going,’ Greta said, holding up her hands in surrender and slowly backing away.
She made her way upstairs, the conversation between Dylan and her dad becoming clearer with every step.
‘Did you know that Celine Sciamma and Adele Haenel used to be together, Dyl?’ Edward asked. ‘And Celine watched while someone set Adele’s dress alight for the bonfire scene!’ He laughed, clearly pleased with his film trivia offering.
‘I did know that, Eddie, yeah. She was waiting on set with a fire extinguisher!’ They both laughed. ‘Ey,’ Dylan continued, ‘did you see when Polanski won a César—’
‘Oooh, I did!’ Eddie interrupted. ‘Bloody shocking that, but it was wonderful watching Adele storm out shouting La Honte!’ He attempted his best hybrid Boltonian-French accent, and Greta smiled to herself as they both jubilantly repeated La Honte!
in unison. A sharp knock on the door snagged their attention.
‘Oh, yes, hello. I’m so terribly sorry to interrupt this private viewing,’ Greta said, leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded across her chest.
‘G!’ They both said at once, voices shooting up an octave.
‘We were, err…just, err, sorting the…’ Dylan stumbled, looking to Eddie for back-up.
‘Paint brushes!’ Eddie interjected in a valiant effort to save Dylan’s floundering.
‘I may not know much about DIY, Dylan,’ Greta said with a knowing glance at the white screen hanging from the shelves, a paused film projected onto it. ‘But this ain't it.’
While huffing out the sigh of a man gravely wronged, Edward clapped a hand on Dylan’s shoulder. ‘Bloody busted, sweetheart. We best crack on, eh?’ His tone was one of genuine disappointment.
Dylan smiled at Greta and mouthed, ‘I love you.’
Greta held her gaze as her dad groaned, pushing off his knees for leverage as he stood while muttering to himself about “never getting five minutes peace in this bloody place”.
Greta smiled and mouthed back, ‘I love you too.’