Chapter 27
27
Two Sundays, one home and one European (!!!) win later
‘Charlotte, dear. You look…’ Mum visibly searches for a positive way to describe the stripey top. ‘Very celebratory.’
I force a smile as I add my gift to the pile on the carefully polished sideboard. ‘Well, I thought birthday.’
That’s not true. I actually thought if anything’s going to get me through the nightmare which is Mum’s annual birthday brunch, it’s Tony. Only I couldn’t invite him because, one, he’s playing today, and two, we’re miles off meeting the parents. So, I’m making do with the hoodie.
My sister’s staring with obvious disapproval. ‘Why are you wearing that?’
For the record, Eleanor is nice, generally. It’s just with me, she still plays the older sibling, patrolling my behaviour in case I embarrass her. And I almost make the sort of excuse I usually do, about needing something warm for the train, or how I’d spilt coffee on my intended outfit and the hoodie was all I had that was clean. But then I remember Tony’s voicenote reply to the thank-you photo I sent this morning, which consisted of a single flame emoji, and I smile.
‘Because I like it.’ Then I fix my eyes on her tasteful oatmeal sweater and ask sweetly, ‘Why are you wearing that?’
Mum breaks off from an in-depth discussion about the front room’s new curtains. ‘Charlotte, have you seen what Thomas is doing? So clever…’
As I crouch down, ready to inspect my nephew’s Lego empire, my aunt reaches to snap her handbag closed. She’s a second too slow, and I catch a glimpse of the Sunday supplement. It’s crumpled, like it’s been squished into the bag in a hurry, which it probably was, right as I walked in.
‘Oh, is that Monica and Gavin’s power couples in football piece?’ I ask, in a dazzlingly bright voice. ‘It’s a nice article, isn’t it? Especially that photo of Monica and the twins.’
‘Oh, yes, very,’ my aunt stutters, with a quick guilty glance at Mum.
Ah, exactly as I thought, the pair of them have been poring over that interview. I’m surprised I couldn’t hear the gnashing of teeth from the station. Mum’s clearly still upset over me letting the perfect son-in-law slip through my fingers. Which, to be fair, Gavin was. Well, apart from the cheating. Only Mum doesn’t know about that. I might not’ve signed an NDA, but I’m crystal clear on why I walked away from the divorce with the deposit for the cottage. So, I bite my tongue when Mum gives me an ‘Aren’t you brave?’ look, and focus on obeying my nephew’s instructions regarding model road construction.
I’ve graduated to being allowed to sort blocks when my phone buzzes. As I reach for it, Mum sighs. ‘Must you, Charlotte?’
I smile apologetically. ‘Sorry, it’ll be work.’
And it is Tony, only it’s not a player care request. It’s him asking:
How do you feel about meeting up?
10.41
Almost before I’ve read it, there’s another message:
No pressure. I’ve just got something I want to run by you
10.42
My aunt laughs. ‘I wish my work made me smile like that.’
She’s right, the corners of my mouth are actually aching.
Mum frowns, then remembers that we have company and exaggeratedly pouts at her friend Elaine. ‘It seems grown men can’t take care of themselves, even for one day.’
She definitely meant that to sound jokey, but it doesn’t. I try to brush it off. ‘Oh, it’s not something anyone needs. Just some good news. Something I’ve been waiting to hear for a while.’
Since we spoke by the river, apart from the handover of my laptop and my list of supposed mistakes, Tony’s been keeping his distance. And the little monster in my head has been busy the whole time telling me that’s because Tony only said what he did to be kind, of course he’s not really interested. The sane bit of my brain has pointed out repeatedly, that doesn’t fit with the number of messages Tony’s sent. And I’m now going to allow it to do a spot of raised arms, ‘What’s the score?’ style chanting while I come up with a reply that’s not off-puttingly overeager.
The best I can do is:
I’d love to. Come over to mine tonight?
10.46
Tony doesn’t reply. I’m not letting the monster have a bite at that. It’s early kick-off, Tony’s phone should probably have been off fifteen minutes ago. So, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t stay as bubbly as my pre-lunch half-glass of Cava. Which is helpful, because Dad is busy corralling us for photos, and he won’t be satisfied with anything less than manic grins. Though it looks like he’s met his match in my niece, Olivia. Dad’s trying to coax her into letting her hair down, and Livy looks positively mutinous.
I pull a sympathetic face over Dad’s shoulder. It’s one of his things, how girls look so much prettier with their hair framing their face. As a kid, every time he said it, I’d want to punch someone in the face. Which might sound like an over-reaction, but it’s really not, because it’s code for how women should be delicate and feminine, and not interested in nasty rough things, like football, just as an example. But Livy’s quite a girly girl, so I’m surprised it bothers her. And I’m even more surprised when she scowls at me, as only an angry nine-year-old can.
My brother-in-law mimes looking up at the heavens. ‘Sorry. Ignore her, she’s sulking.’
‘About anything specific, or just pre-teen angst?’ I ask, and hopefully it’s sympathetic enough, he won’t notice that I’m a tiny bit pleased. Not that Livy’s unhappy, obviously. It’s just, after playing with my nephew, it’s refreshing to see children aren’t always adorable. Perhaps that will stop me re-running what Tony said about adoption a million times a day, then having to remind myself he’s already told me he regrets saying it.
My sister leans across to straighten her husband’s collar. ‘It’s nothing serious. She was agitating to go to some make-up sale in Covenly on our way home, and we had to say no. She’s far too young.’
I pull a guilty face. ‘Sorry, that might be my fault. I let her try out an eyeshadow or two last time I babysat. I hope I haven’t created a monster.’
Based on how her lips narrow, Eleanor’s unimpressed, but she limits herself to saying, ‘I think it’s mainly coming from school. One of the other mothers is, well, not as careful as we are about social media. This beauty thing, it’s run by some model from TikTok, I think.’
Why would a model from TikTok be coming to Covenly of all places? And then my mind races as my paranoia builds. Unless it’s someone with another, and much better reason to be here.
Now, when I feel like my insides have been hollowed out, is the moment Dad shouts, ‘Happy smiles, everyone.’
Mine is going to look more like a death’s head, but there’s no way I’m going to hang around for another shot. I take my chance, while Dad’s distracted by rearranging the grandchildren, to sprint upstairs. As soon as the bathroom door’s safety locked, I pull out my phone. I know this is mad, but I can’t help it. Ever since what Tony said about trust, I’ve been stopping myself from cyber-stalking Angharad. But even with shaky hands, it only takes a second to pull up her Instagram. And I’m right. There are already nine posts reminding her followers that today’s pop-up beauty event in Covenly runs from noon until six. How convenient. She’ll have a good hour to spruce herself up before Tony arrives home with the rest of the first team.
Because that’s why he hasn’t replied, isn’t it? Of course he doesn’t want to spend the evening with me, when she’s in town. There’s a flash of raw, hair-pulling jealousy, so strong it scares me. Except it’s not fair, is it? I bet Angharad doesn’t even know I exist. It’s Tony I should be raging at. Only I don’t think I can. Because I look back at his message, and I misunderstood it, didn’t I? ‘I’ve just got something I want to run by you’ is basically the same as ‘we need to talk’, isn’t it? And what good ever came of that?
Flicking back to Angharad’s posts, I decide that Angharad can squeal as much as she likes about how Covenly’s historic market hall is super-cute, but the set-up looks pretty amateur compared to her usual carefully curated perfection. If this is a last-minute event, then I guess the two of them reconnecting is new too. And that explains why Tony messaged me when he should’ve been getting into game mode, doesn’t it? Because the new improved Tony Garratt tells women he’s moving on, instead of letting them find out from the tabloids. I guess I should be grateful.
How could I have been so stupid? Why did I say I’d love to see him? Why did I wear this top, the one that feels like he’s hugging me? And why can’t I yank the thing off, without it getting caught in my hair? Oh, and now Mum’s calling, so I can’t even sort out my lopsided ponytail, let alone wallow. Back to happy families…
I abandon my phone in the kitchen. If I’m not in the same room, maybe I won’t be so tempted to keep torturing myself with Angharad’s posts. And perhaps then, the nasty, bitter taste in my mouth will fade before I have to choke down food? But I’m only halfway through laying the table when Livy skips over, sulks forgotten, holding out my phone and calling, ‘Auntie Charlotte, you’ve got a message.’
I think she’s trying to make up for the scowl, so I force my thank you into being extra grateful. How I feel now, if I reply to whoever it is, I’m bound to say something wrong. But Livy’s looking at me expectantly, so I’ll have to at least look at it:
Tony Garratt
Great, I’ve been wanting to see you so bad-is it OK if I come straight there? Like 7.30ish?
11.46
And just like that, the heavy, grey weight has gone from my shoulders, and I’m helium-light, floating-to-the-ceiling happy. I manage to calm that down enough that my reply doesn’t sound deranged:
7.30 sounds good. BTW are you OK? Shouldn’t you be in the tunnel any minute?
11.47
I’m racing back upstairs to fetch the hoodie, when his reply comes through:
Officially, I’m doing an emergency boot change. But it’s more that it’s been no phones since I messaged you & no way could I fully focus till I’d heard back
11.48
Why he’d think there was even the slightest possibility I wouldn’t want to see him, I don’t know. But it must seriously matter to him, if he’s willing to risk the manager’s wrath right before kick-off. And obviously, I don’t want to encourage that sort of behaviour, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t make me disgustingly happy. Because I am stupid, aren’t I? But not for trusting Tony. I mean, I still think the only reason Angharad’s in Covenly is because she wants to see him. But maybe he doesn’t feel the same, if he’s planning on being with me by seven thirty. So, I promise, I’m never going to look at Angharad’s social media ever again. Because yes, I’m aware my little meltdown was the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen.