Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
The thing I can’t quite work out is if Horatio Shaw has always been a pretty nice man and we just hit things off badly. Or if he’s being nice to me now because the love potion has bewitched him into falling in love with me.
If it’s the latter, then Damien has been right all along. The previous boyfriends never loved me. If they had, they wouldn’t have cheated and they wouldn’t have lied. They’d have been a whole lot nicer to me.
It makes sense if you think about it. In fact, it’s pretty blatantly obvious.
However, when it comes to relationships, sometimes the most blatantly obvious things are the hardest things to see.
It’s like when you’re standing too close to a picture so it’s all blurry.
Not until you stand back, until you have a bit of distance, do you see the whole effect.
I mull these things over as I brew a batch of love potions the next day, catching up on the orders I should have finished fulfilling at the weekend.
Maybe I shouldn’t feel so conflicted about aiding people to cheat love.
Love and relationships are complicated and often there are a million obstacles stacked against you.
Helping to point Cupid’s arrow in the right direction doesn’t seem so bad, especially when his aim seems so damn awful and especially when it makes people happy.
And despite being bewitched, and that brief moment of whatever that was in his flat on Tuesday night, Horatio Shaw does seem to be happy in my company.
On Wednesday night he turns up with a note pad of his own and some cold bottles of beer, saying he needs some cheat-notes on the various members of my family who will be at the weekend gathering.
On Thursday it’s insanely hot and he insists I come hang out in his air-conditioned flat.
I watch TV, while he finishes up some work on his laptop, and then he digs out some ice cream from his freezer and we test each other on our cover story.
There’s no semblance of that grumpy man that used to show up on my doorstep with his endless list of complaints.
He smiles, he laughs, he’s actually surprisingly cheerful. And he’s good company.
I like him even more as each day passes and I try not to think how shitty life is going to be when the potion is reversed and he goes back to finding me infinitely irritating.
On Friday, I actually do the mature and sensible thing and spend my morning working, then, after lunch, I pack and repack my bag three times because what does one pack to a couples-only family get-together?
Half way through the third repack, something alarming occurs to me and I pick up the phone to my mum and call her immediately.
“Hello, Molly darling,” she answers promptly. “Dinner is planned for eight o’clock. E-i-g-h-t o’clock!”
“Yes, I know that,” I snap, “I’m calling about the sleeping arrangements.”
“What about them?”
“Who will Horatio be sharing a room with?”
Please not Cousin Jack, please not Cousin Jack. I cross my fingers and my toes. My cousin Jack is my cousin Eva’s husband. He’s loud, brash, and notoriously handsy – with both the male and female varieties of the species.
My mother laughs. “He’ll be sharing with you, obviously.”
“M-m-m-me?” I stutter.
“You think your cousin Jack would rather share a room with your boyfriend instead of his own wife?”
“No, it’s just that … you’ve never let me share a room with a boyfriend before.”
“The last time you brought a boyfriend home to visit was over a decade ago,” she says coolly, “you’re a grown woman now.
And your father and I have never been prudish about these things.
” I nearly choke because, spoiler alert, she has been very prudish in the past. In fact, it was Prim who gave me the birds and the bees talk.
“And I was young myself once. But,” she adds, “if your relationship isn’t that serious and you–”
“It’s serious,” I say, feeling suddenly hot, cold, and dizzy all at once. “That’s great, mum, thank you.”
I hang up before she can say more. For a good five minutes I just sit there staring at the wall, determining how we’re going to get round this, then McGruff barks in my face and I snap out of my reverie.
Probably, it was only me that even considered we wouldn’t be sharing. Probably, Horatio has a normal family and assumed that we would be. Is that why he was so willing to go ahead with this fake-dating business?
I slap my own forehead. I cannot think this way.
I pick up my phone and message him – keeping it light and breezy and casual.
Just checking you’ve packed your pyjamas.
It’s 30 degrees!
Hotel rooms can be chilly on account of the AC. I would recommend you pack some.
There, problem solved. Although then I start imagining Horatio’s pyjamas which ends up being way more perverted than it should be.
I nearly look up if it’s possible to have some very sensible pyjamas for him delivered to the flat before we go – the type of pyjamas granddads wear in hospital.
Although, it’s likely Horatio could make even those look sexy.
In fact, I bet he could make a bin bag look sexy.
Or a pair of those really small, really tight Speedos that usually make me throw up in my mouth a little.
McGruff barks again and I shake my head, wondering how I’m going to make it through this weekend.
At 5.30 I’m waiting outside our building with McGruff and my suitcase.
Horatio has insisted on driving us to the gathering.
He says, because it’s taking place in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in the Cotswolds (not a problem for those who can magically transport there), it will be quicker than the tube, trains, and taxis otherwise required.
At 5.31, the red Ferrari swerves into the space outside Heatherley Court and the passenger window lowers revealing Horatio in the driver’s seat.
He’s still in his suit, although he’s wearing a dark pair of shades over his eyes.
He slides them to the top of his head, blue eyes twinkling at me, gaze gliding down my body.
“Need a ride?”
My legs melt into jelly and it takes me a lot of effort to walk the two steps to the car and bend to peer in through the window.
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
He hops out of the car and opens the passenger door for me, pulling forward the seat so that McGruff can hop into the tiny space in the back, then he takes my suitcase and places it into the boot, as I slide into the car.
I don’t think I’ve been in a vehicle this fancy ever. The leather is smooth and luxurious-smelling, lights are flashing on and off all over the place and the music rumbles smoothly from the speakers.
Horatio climbs back into the car and knocks his shades back onto his nose.
“Ready?” he asks me.
I hook my own sunglasses into place. “Ready,” I tell him.
The car engine sounds even more impressive from inside the vehicle – like a powerful predator growling – when he revs it up and shoots us forward. We dart seamlessly through the London traffic and soon we’re cruising out on the motorway, people staring admiringly at us as we zoom past.
“Maybe if I owned one of these, I’d feel less shitty about not being able to transport,” I murmur, entranced by the lush green countryside flashing past the windows.
“Can you drive?” Horatio asks me.
I laugh. “Me? Drive? No.”
“Then that may be a problem in your plan.”
“That and the fact I will never in a million years have enough money to own one of these. I’m lucky my aunt left me her flat.”
“That’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he says, glancing my way and tugging on the gear stick.
“Yes?” I say wearily.
“Can’t you just, I don’t know, magic money up if you need it? Or create some kind of potion that will make you rich?”
“Hmmm,” I lean back in my seat, “Magicking up money isn’t possible, just like it’s not possible to magic up food or water. We can manipulate matter that already exists but we can’t create or destroy it.” I wave my hand through the air vaguely. “Something to do with the laws of physics.”
“Right,” he says.
“But there are potions you can create which I guess could help you to become more wealthy.” I tap my fingers against my lips.
“There’s this one that will make you lucky.
But it’s notoriously difficult to brew – and dangerous; I had a great-great-uncle who literally blew off his own head trying to make it.
It’s also obviously pretty illegal. It would put all the bookies and casinos out of business if it ever became widely available. ”
“Have you ever tried brewing it?”
“No, and please don’t ask me to. I rather like my head.”
“I like it too,” he says, glancing at me again, “besides, I believe you make your own luck.”
“Of course, you do,” I roll my eyes, “but isn’t it lucky you were born with stupidly good looks and hasn’t it been helpful that your step-dad works in the same industry as you? Didn’t you say banking is all about connections?”
“Trust me,” he says darkly, “my step-dad has always been a hindrance, not a help.” I go to question him about that remark, but he diverts the conversation back to potions. “So, you’re happy to break the rules when it comes to love but not wealth?”
I shrug. “I guess so. Love seems more noble and innocent. Wealth is more corrupting and nasty.”
“Did you never consider that people may have corrupt reasons for making someone fall in love with them?”
“Like what?”
“The usual. Money. Power. Sex.”
“Or much more likely companionship and family and belonging.”
He shakes his head. “Unlikely.”
“You’re very cynical. It must be your old age.” I grin.
“No, it’s experience,” he says.
“Well, before you get any ideas, I did not bewitch you into falling in love with me for money, power, or,” I glance his way, “sex.”
“Just so we’re clear, the sex is still on the table if you want it. In fact, sex on a table can be fun.”
“It sounds uncomfortable,” I tell him, turning to face the window to keep my dirty mind from racing away with new ideas. “And that was a definite rule break. Do I need to have my chaperone,” I point to McGruff snoozing in the back, “intervene?”
“No,” he says, “I can behave.”
And I really hope that’s true because this weekend seems increasingly fraught.