Chapter 9
DREW
Dinner at Chris and Gen’s is the promised steak, cooked to perfection on Chris’ enormous barbecue – seriously, it takes up half their yard – and a back-vintage Bordeaux blend that I’ve had my eye on since they brought it home from the winery.
Gen also made baked potatoes and green beans, both favourites of mine – probably because I drown them in butter.
‘I still can’t believe you hung out with Max Stirling,’ says Chris, sawing into his steak – you’d never guess he was a surgeon. ‘Remember that time I locked you two doofuses in the basement and you had to climb out the window above the washing machine?’
‘You sound oddly proud of that, darling,’ says Gen.
‘Well, yeah, it was top-tier big-brother shit.’
‘Chris.’
‘Oops, two pounds for the swear jar,’ he says, unbothered.
Chris and I have contributed so much to the swear jar over the years – Gen implemented it before Maisie could even talk – it’s practically Maisie’s college fund.
‘I remember,’ I say to Chris. ‘And it was more than once. Max even brought it up when I saw him. So, yeah… one of the biggest stars in Hollywood and his number one memory of you is you acting like a total douche.’
‘Drew.’
‘Two pounds,’ Chris and I say in unison. Gen rolls her eyes, which she does at least twenty times whenever we get together. I honestly don’t know how she puts up with us. Or why.
‘Little Maxi,’ Chris says with a shake of his head.
‘Well, he’s big Maxi now – literally,’ I say. ‘He could totally kick your ass.’
‘Two pounds!’ Maisie and Gen shout together, cracking us all up.
‘Yeah, yeah, sure,’ says Chris, ‘him and what army?’
‘Well, he is Captain Universe, Daddy, and the leader of the Cosmic Sentinels.’ We all look at Maisie who stares back at us, eyes wide. ‘What?’
‘How do you know about the Cosmic Sentinels?’ asks Gen. ‘You know you’re not allowed to watch those films – not until you’re older.’
Maisie’s eyes dart towards me. Shit!
‘Drew!’ chides Gen, scowling at me. Uh-oh, we’re definitely not playing any more.
‘Brother, you are in a world of trouble now,’ says Chris, chuckling.
‘In my defence, Max is her favourite actor – and the movie was rated PG. I figured that uncle guidance was close enough so…’
‘It wasn’t that scary,’ Maisie interjects.
‘Not helpful, Mais,’ I say.
‘It wasn’t.’
No guile, this kid. Honest to a fault. Only her honesty is landing me in deep shit.
‘We’ll discuss this later,’ says Gen, her eyes boring into mine like lasers.
‘Or how ’bout I put myself on time out for five minutes?’ I retort.
‘No,’ she replies firmly.
‘Ten?’
Her mouth twitches. I’m winning her over, as usual. Gen has a soft spot for her wayward brother-in-law.
‘After dinner, Drew,’ she says. Okay, so not totally in the clear. I grimace at Chris who’s as far from commiserating as possible – he’s enjoying this.
‘Sorry, Uncle Drew,’ says Maisie.
‘All good, kiddo,’ I say. ‘But you still owe me one for the set-up.’
‘Set-up?’ asks Gen.
Great, I’ll distract Gen with Maisie’s plotting and she’ll forget all about reaming me later.
‘Oh yeah. You didn’t know?’ I reply. ‘Your daughter and her new friend have been playing matchmaker.’
Maisie’s lips disappear between her teeth and she makes a big deal of cutting a single green bean into tiny pieces.
‘I did wonder about that,’ says Gen.
‘Wait, what?’
‘Sophie’s so pretty,’ Maisie chimes in, and my attention shifts to her.
‘You know, you used to be my favourite niece,’ I say, pointing at her with a steak knife.
‘I’m your only niece.’
‘Semantics.’
‘Semantics, schemantics,’ she quips, the precocious little so-and-so. Chris, Gen, and I exchange amused glances over her head.
‘Who wants a refill?’ Chris asks, holding up the wine bottle. I hand him my glass.
This is typical for our family dinners – bouncing between topics, dramatic shifts in the dynamics. It’s one of the main reasons I like hanging out here.
‘May I please leave the table?’ Maisie says, displaying her perfect manners.
Gen appraises the remnants of her meal and gives a nod. Maisie slips out of her chair, sends another contrite look my way, then skips out of the dining room and upstairs. When the door to her room closes, I’m left with zero buffer between me and Gen.
‘So…’ she begins and, honestly, this could go anywhere – from taking Maisie to see a PG-rated movie to the set-up with Sophie to an indeterminate place only Gen is currently privy to.
I glance at Chris, who’s leaning back in his chair spectating. This isn’t our first rodeo when it comes to post-dinner conversation.
‘Sophie Reid…’ Gen says, fingering the stem of her wine glass.
Shit – I was hoping it would be the Cosmic Sentinels thing and I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I’m almost positive I know what she’s about to say.
‘Maisie’s right – she’s very attractive.’
‘Well, yeah, but…’ I counter.
‘But?’
I look Gen in the eye. I can be honest with her, I know that. But what’s the truth? The entire truth.
‘Look, Sophie’s a very beautiful woman – I’d have to be dead not to have noticed – but there are a million reasons why it’s not going to happen.’
‘Name one.’
‘I’ll name three – how ’bout that?’ Gen tips her head, giving me the go-ahead.
‘First, we’ll be working together on the Hargreaves account and getting involved with Sophie could jeopardise that.’
‘That will end eventually.’ Gen’s playing devil’s advocate, but I ignore her.
‘Second, she pretty much hates me.’ Gen blinks at me in surprise. ‘Yep.’
‘What’d you do?’ asks Chris.
‘I have no frigging idea,’ I reply. ‘But today at mini golf – that was the first time we’ve ever had a normal conversation.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ says Gen. ‘Maybe she’s over whatever it was.’
‘Maybe. I think it had more to do with the girls being there – making sure they had a good time.’
‘Hmm,’ murmurs Gen. ‘And the third reason?’
This is where I will come off as a total asshole – unless… Maybe I couch it in ad speak. ‘Sophie and I are at different stages of our lives.’
‘Meaning?’ Gen presses.
‘Meaning… she’s got a kid and an ex-husband and—’
‘Sophie’s not divorced, Drew,’ she interjects. ‘She’s a widow.’
She’s what?! For a long beat, I’m stunned into silence. ‘Well, fuck…’
‘Her husband died around six years ago, right before she came to work at Emberstone.’
‘That’s… that’s rough. I didn’t know,’ I say.
No shit, Sherlock. But would I have treated Sophie any differently if I had known? Probably not. Oh, that explains why she still hangs out with her mother-in-law. They must be tight – Sophie losing her husband and Connie losing her son.
Man, that makes number three even more of a reason to steer clear.
‘You okay?’ asks Chris.
I break out of my stupor and look between him and Gen. ‘Yeah, I’m good. But I think I’m gonna head out,’ I say, standing up and starting to clear the table.
‘Leave it,’ says Gen gently. ‘Chris will do it.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ says Chris. He gets up and collects our plates, taking them into the kitchen.
‘Look, I’m sorry if Maisie crossed a line,’ Gen says softly, laying a hand on mine, ‘but I’m sure she’s only looking out for you. She’s become obsessed with romantic love lately – she thinks it’s the key to happiness.’
‘I wonder where she got that idea from,’ I tease.
‘I’m only looking out for you too.’
‘Fine, yeah. But Sophie Reid is a no-go, okay?’
‘Noted.’
We share a smile and I bend down to kiss her cheek. ‘Thanks for the celebration dinner.’
‘Always.’
‘Seeya, Chris,’ I call out. He shouts goodbye and I go into the entry where my coat is hanging up. ‘Bye, Maisie!’ I hear her bedroom door open and a moment later, her head pops around the wall by the staircase.
‘Bye, Uncle Drew. Love you.’ She makes a heart with her two hands and I mirror the gesture, then step out into the evening air.
I’d planned to get a cab, maybe find a date for later, but it’s a mild night and my head is a mess right now. I figure I’ll walk to the train station, clear my head.
Sophie’s a widow.
How did I not know that? And now that I do, what does it change, if anything?
I wrestle with these questions all the way to the station.
Then it dawns on me: I need to keep things professional between us, distance myself.
Meaning no more banter, which if I’m honest borders on flirting.
If Sophie Reid was a no-go before, now she’s nuclear waste – to be handled with professionalism and kid gloves.
A widow.
Sophie
In an unforeseen turn of events, I actually had fun today – proper, haven’t-laughed-like-that-in-a-long-time fun.
I made two more holes in one, which shocked the hell out of me – I’ve only played twice before – and gave me the win. Harlow came second, Maisie third, and Drew brought up the rear. Although my guess is he threw it, not wanting Maisie to come last.
Which led to more heart flutters and an even greater dilemma than wanting Drew in my bed and having to partner with him on the Hargreaves campaign.
I like him.
I like the arrogant American who, according to office gossip, has shagged every woman under thirty in Greater London. And since saying goodbye to him and Maisie, snippets of our day keep popping up like shots in a montage sequence.
Drew high-fiving the girls every time they sank a putt and celebrating my holes in one with a loud whoop.
Him carrying four soft drinks to our booth – two each in his big capable hands.
Asking Harlow about school and really listening to her and telling funny stories from his schooldays.
Bringing Maisie into the conversation as much as possible to compensate for her shyness.
And now I have questions – so many questions.
Could there be more to Drew than his arrogant persona suggests?
Is he a genuinely decent person?
And the most baffling of all: Is Drew boyfriend material?
Boyfriend! As if we’re fifteen and he’s the cute boy who sits behind me in Maths class.
But we’re not fifteen and we’re not in Maths class. I am a single widow with a ten-year-old. I don’t want – or need – a boyfriend. What I need is to shake off whatever spell Drew has cast over me and get a grip.
‘That smells amazing!’