Chapter Fifty-Seven
The dogs shot out into the garden to do their business while Milo levered open a tin of dog food for Rambo and Cindy to share.
‘What do you fancy?’ he asked while spooning meaty chunks into two bowls.
You.
Picking up the discarded tin of dog food, I peered at the ingredients.
‘Apologies, but meaty chunks isn’t how I usually start the day.’
‘Ha!’ he gave a snort of laughter. ‘Me neither. Whiffy or what?’
‘Er, yes,’ I said, my face flaming. I was still worried about Milo thinking Rambo’s fart had been mine. ‘Shall I make us some toast?’
‘I’d prefer a fry up.’
‘Oh,’ I said, taken aback. I didn’t usually start the day on such close terms with the stove, but no matter. The thought of a Full English made my tummy rumble. ‘If that’s what you want, sure.’
‘But you’re not cooking it.’
‘Oh, wow,’ I teased. ‘Does this mean you’re taking charge of the frying pan? If so that’s great cooking progress on your part.’
‘You assume wrong,’ he grinned, as one of the dogs scratched at the backdoor. ‘I won’t be cooking a meal any time soon.’
He let Cindy and Rambo in. The dogs sat at his feet; their eyes trained on the worktop. Milo picked up the bowls of meaty chunks, then set them down on the floor. They immediately tucked in.
‘Get dressed,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you to the Starlight Arms and treat you to sausage, bacon, egg, and a mountain of toast. We’ll take the mutts with us. Afterwards, we can walk off our food babies with a hike. So, make sure you put on a sensible pair of walking shoes.’ Milo paused. Gave me a questioning look. ‘That was rather presumptuous of me. You might already have plans for today. In which case-’
‘No, no,’ I hastily interrupted. ‘No plans.’ Other than a trip to the supermarket, an appointment with the laundry basket, and then opening my laptop to look at more properties. But even if I had had an arrangement with anyone – Lisa for example – an excuse would have been given. Whether telling a fib about a twisted ankle, or claiming to have galloping dandruff, because nothing – nothing! – was going to stop me accepting this man’s invitation to spend time with him.
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ said Milo.
Hear that, Tilly? He was hoping I’d say yes to his breakfast invitation! And why? Because… well, because he likes your company. And you’re great to talk to. Witty. Interesting. Yes, absolutely. And… and… he also thinks you’re attractive. And because – truth be told – he can’t bear to let you out of his sight. Indeed. Because he’s enthralled with you. Mad about you.
‘Why were you hoping I’d say that?’ I dared to shyly ask.
‘Because I’m bloody starving,’ he answered. ‘And also, because it’s nice to have someone to chat to over the condiments.’
Oka yyy . Milo wasn’t quite on the same page as my fantasy daydream, but that was fine. There was plenty of time to wow him – but not in this naff nightwear.
‘Let me get washed and changed,’ I said, wondering what I could wear for this impromptu date.
Having wolfed down her breakfast, Cindy padded over. She gave me a look.
It’s not a date, Mum.
Well, it could turn into one, I silently retorted.
My heart leapt with excitement. Yes, Tilly. It might indeed lead to a date. A proper date. So go and raid your capsule wardrobe. See what glamour you can muster. Obviously, you can’t wear a dress. Or a skirt.
Could I possibly get away with jeans? When leaving the marital home, I’d donated much of my stuff to the charity shop. I now owned only two pairs of jeans. One in typical blue denim. The other, black. Both were a decent brand. They were jeans to dress up, rather than down. They might get ruined climbing over stiles with sharp nails poking out of warped wood. Not to mention mud. Ah, yes. Copious amounts of brown goo splattering up the legs.
The sensible thing to wear was my old joggers with fleecy lining. After all, we were still in freezing February. It wouldn’t matter if they got snagged on nails or splashed with mud.
I sighed. Joggers and a sweater it would have to be. But with makeup. Yup. Soft kohl to enlarge the eyes. Something glossy for the lips.
Hey, Milo. Do you like my lipstick? It’s called Colour Me Cupid.
It was true, I really did have a lipstick by that name. Although why the manufacturer couldn’t stick to a sensibly named colour chart was beyond me. I mean, wasn’t it easier to refer to the lipstick as red ?
And perhaps Milo would take one look at my luscious ruby lips, clutch his chest, stagger sideways, and gasp that Cupid had shot him with an arrow, and that the pain could only be alleviated by a lover’s kiss. Whereupon I’d launch myself at him and hungrily oblige.
‘Back in a mo,’ I said, tugging on the backdoor’s handle. I nearly dislocated my shoulder in the process.
‘Here,’ said Milo, stepping forward. He turned the key. ‘It helps if you unlock it first.’