Chapter Twenty-One
‘GRAND DESIGNS,’ Edward suddenly yells out beside me. It makes me jump. He’s been so silent for the past hour, I almost thought he’d dozed off. But it’s clear he’s just been staring out of the window at the passing motorway.
‘What?’ I am baffled. ‘Did you just yell out Grand Designs?’
He turns to face me. ‘Sorry.’ He half smiles, looking a bit embarrassed. ‘It’s a family tradition. We used to play yellow car – you know, where you shout yellow car if you see a yellow car—’
‘I’m familiar,’ I tell him dryly.
He grins sheepishly again. ‘Well, that developed over time into a different car game. Every time you see some dilapidated old building that Kevin McCloud would get excited over, you shout Grand Designs.’ He strains against the seatbelt, gesturing back the way we’ve just come.
‘Off the motorway there, we went past a rundown, neglected old water tower that Kevin would love to see converted into a house for a couple and their three kids.’
This is the best thing I’ve ever heard. But almost better is how red Edward’s gone while explaining it.
‘I love a weird family tradition,’ I tell him, and try to think of any I can share. But of course, I have none. Beyond not ever getting any real affection or praise. Is that a cute story to tell, or no?
‘I’m sorry I missed such a beautiful building, so full of potential.
’ I shake my head. ‘I’m sure Kevin would insist the new owners not change a single thing.
They can’t move the huge storage tanks or the neighbouring reservoir, otherwise they might endanger the integrity or the poetry of the building.
’ I’m using my best Kevin McCloud voice.
‘Yah,’ Edward pulls out his own decent impression of the presenter.
‘And of course, the pressurised potable water system is vital for the symmetry and winsomeness of this domicile, even though it will add another million to the build cost. There is a delicacy and a refinement to this water tower that must be conserved and safeguarded.’
‘Just look at the exquisite dusty, ash dingy greyness!’ I signal to come off at the next junction and then point an exaggerated finger in the air. ‘Regard the pulchritude of this unliveable new home!’
‘Pulchritude!’ Edwards sounds amused. ‘Good word. It sounds like you’re a Grand Designs fan, too?’
‘Actually…’ I stop at a busy roundabout, waiting my turn to pull out. ‘I’ve had to stop watching it. There are too many episodes now where they don’t finish the project, and that makes me itchy. I cannot have that kind of resentment in my life.’
‘That’s fair.’ Edward smiles. He checks his phone for the millionth time and this time I catch a change in his expression.
‘Oh, thank god,’ he murmurs. ‘The first responder is there.’ He checks his watch.
We’re still about an hour away. ‘She thinks Mum could’ve had a TIA, but my brother says she’s fairly confident it’s just a severe migraine.
’ I watch the road, listening intently. ‘There’s no drooping, she’s able to raise her arms, and her speech isn’t slurred.
They’ve checked Mum’s blood pressure and respiratory rate, and they’re both raised, but the responder isn’t unduly alarmed.
’ Beside me, I feel Edward sagging into the seat with relief.
Thank god.
He snorts. ‘It’s pretty obvious my brother’s not that worried anymore – he’s saying he wants us to grab some food en route, since there’s nothing in the house.’
‘That’s such good news!’ I say sincerely, glancing across at Edward. His whole energy has relaxed. ‘There’s a service station a couple of miles away, shall I turn off there?’
He nods and my stomach rumbles quietly. It’s after lunch.
Is it inconsiderate to suggest we get something to eat for ourselves, too?
What’s the etiquette when you’re driving your therapist to his mum’s house during a medical emergency but you’re starving because you only had three spoonfuls of tiramisu for breakfast since it’s the only food in the house?
It’s probably too niche an example for William Hanson to have covered in his etiquette books, but I’m guessing it would be frowned upon.
You’re not really allowed an appetite in times of crisis.
We pull off the motorway, park up, and head into an overpriced food shop. My legs ache from the drive as Edward loads items into a basket. I watch on longingly. I’m desperate to grab something to eat but hold myself back. I have self-control, I have willpower!
Maybe I could just shoplift a sandwich and mainline it in the loo?
As we retrace our steps down the high-ceilinged concourse, Edward pauses beside me. ‘Would it be weird to suggest we grab some fast food?’ Edward gives me a sheepish sideways look, gesturing towards a KFC a few feet to our left. ‘I’m starving!’
Oh, thank GOD.
‘I guess we could do that, if you think we have time?’ I offer without much enthusiasm, and he nods, as my stomach growls again; loudly this time.
We sit down with our junk food and I tuck into my wrap joyfully, too ravenous to regret my messy choice.
Across from me, Edward chews on a hot wing and we sit in companionable silence.
He looks deep in thought, and I wonder if I should ask him again about his mum.
It’s funny that I’ve told him so much about my parents and I know so little about his.
Beyond the fact that his mum makes a lovely carrot cake.
Maybe he’d like to talk about her? Maybe he really doesn’t want to talk about her.
Maybe I should be googling reassuring things to say about a stroke – something about how clever the brain is at building new pathways.
Except Google is never reassuring about these kinds of things.
He clears his throat. ‘I have a question for you, Olivia.’ He pauses.
‘Do you say could care less or couldn’t care less?
’ He looks at me piercingly and then picks up his napkin, wiping his fingers.
‘They’re now pretty widely recognised as meaning the same thing, like flammable or inflammable.
’ He sighs. ‘And I don’t want to be a snob about the way language changes, but I can’t get over how wrong it sounds to say you could care less.
Surely it undermines the point you’re making if you could care less? ’
I blink. ‘That’s what you were thinking about?’ He nods, waiting patiently, so I answer. ‘I don’t think I say either, to be honest. Mostly because I do care, I always care. I couldn’t care more if anything. It’s a curse.’
He smiles softly. ‘I can see that.’
‘And I don’t think I’ve ever said inflammable or flammable either,’ I add. ‘But that’s a lot of stupidity for one English language.’
‘English is endlessly stupid,’ he agrees. ‘Don’t get me started on bi-monthly meaning both twice a week and every other month.’
‘Oh, oh! And how is it possible that cough, rough, though, and through don’t rhyme?’ I ask, full of exasperation.
He laughs. ‘You know, any time someone says a lot, I now think about what you told me and Samira after our second session. You remember when she burst in to take you for a haircut? You told us Justin would insist a lot was one word?’
I look down. The last person I want to think about right now is Justin, never mind the embarrassing stuff he did when we were together, that I told myself was cute.
He leans closer. ‘Sorry,’ he tells me quietly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. It struck a chord because I have a friend who thinks thank you is one word.’
My eyes widen. ‘You haven’t upset me!’ I tell him quickly, my voice a little high.
‘You didn’t.’ I sigh. ‘Justin was… he was an interesting guy in hindsight, what can I say?’ I narrow my eyes at Edward.
‘But wait, how does your friend think thank you is one word? What about when they say you in any other context? Is that a whole different word to thankyou? And do they not ever say thanks?’
He puts a hand to his chin, considering this.
‘He definitely does say thanks, so I assume he thinks thanks is an abbreviation of thankyou. Which it is, of course. And – if I had to guess – I’d say he thinks thankyou and you are whole different words.
Much like, I don’t know, making and king are unconnected, separate things.
Or friend and end. Or Justin and tin.’ It’s his turn to look down at the table. ‘Sorry, I keep mentioning your ex.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s fine, but I’m not sure Justin and tin are separate things.
The man clearly has a tin head, so maybe Justin is justtin through and through.
’ Edward laughs at this nicely, so I keep going, feeling a little punch-drunk on making this man laugh.
‘I also think a lot – or alot – about how he didn’t clean his ears because he said his hair protected them from dirt.
It’s my Roman Empire. But mostly I feel uneasy about it because I don’t really know how to clean my ears myself.
’ Meeting Edward’s eyes, I add quickly, ‘I mean, of course I do wash them. Every day. But I’ve never been totally clear on what everyone else does and I think about it every time I get in the shower—’ I move smoothly past this, though I can feel myself getting pink.
It might be my imagination, but I think Edward’s blushing, too.
‘What I mean is, do you just use water to clean your ears? Or do they count as part of your head, therefore you clean them with shampoo when you’re washing your hair?
’ He narrows his eyes at this, and I immediately need to know what shampoo he uses.
His hair is so nice. I continue with my lengthy, multi-part question.
‘In which case, what if you don’t wash your hair every day?
Samira does hers every four or five days, so does she only shampoo her ears every four or five days?
’ I pause for breath. ‘Or maybe your ears count as your body, so you use bodywash? Or maybe they’re part of your face, in which case you would rinse them with facewash?
’ I shake my head. ‘But my facewash is expensive, it feels a bit offensive to waste it on my ears.’ I sigh. ‘It’s such a conundrum.’
Edward has been listening carefully, taking all of this in. He nods now. ‘Maybe Justin had the right idea in leaving them well enough alone.’
I giggle, and he joins in. ‘But seriously!’ I cry, genuinely keen for an answer. ‘What do you do with your ears? Please tell me you wash them!’
‘I do,’ he confirms, smiling. Then he shrugs. ‘Actually, I just use my shampoo all over, for everything. Hair, face, legs, arms, ears, all… of it.’
The sentence hangs in the air as I’m bombarded with mental images I shouldn’t be having. I’m realising now that talking about showering with this man was not a good idea.
But I still really want to ask him about his shampoo.
I segue quickly. ‘I might give up washing my hair altogether. This damnable new fringe is a nightmare.’
‘I like it,’ he says, and I feel a tug in my stomach.
‘You do?’ He nods and I lean closer. ‘Are you just saying that to be nice?’
Edward shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t tend to do that. My friends say I’m a little too honest at times, and with a face like mine, I shouldn’t be.’
I squint one eye at him. ‘A face like yours?’
He nods. ‘Apparently I have a – what’s the phrase?
– a resting bitch face. Fran and Jamal have both independently of one another told me I have, and not just a standard resting bitch face, but a Karen-y resting bitch face.
’ He sits back in his plastic chair. ‘My return rate for new clients is actually not too great because a lot of people think I hate them before we’ve even exchanged a word. ’
‘I thought you hated me!’ I say without thinking. I’m quite taken aback to hear Edward express anything other than total confidence in his professional status.
He cocks his head, looking at me penetratingly.
‘I know.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘I don’t.
I never have. I like you a lot.’ He pauses again.
‘And, for the record, I really respect you and your work. I’ve always been in awe of your job.
You’ve demystified counselling and made mental health support more accessible. I think you’re pretty incredible.’
I look down at the limp cold fries before me, feeling bad. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ he says neutrally. ‘Let’s blame my stern face.’
I laugh shortly, but the guilt weighs on me. It wasn’t his face’s fault. He has a nice face. It was me, all me. I made assumptions about Edward. Unfair ones.
‘We should get back on the road.’ I clear my throat, and he nods reluctantly.
‘It’s probably a good idea.’ He collects our leftovers, loading up the tray, and turns to find a bin. ‘I’ll text my brother and tell him we’re half an hour away.’ I follow him back to the car, an unsettled feeling creeping through my stomach. I tell myself it’s junk food-related.