City Girl in Training (4 page)

It was the first time I'd seen him in full light and there was nothing about him to suggest that my earlier assessment of him had been wrong. He was tall, he was dark. And the way my heart was pumping confirmed that he was, without doubt, dangerous. To my equilibrium, if nothing else.

But what really held my attention was the large flat carton balanced on the palm of his hand. He might be dangerous but he'd got pizza and my stomach—anticipating the promised cheese on toast—responded with an excited gurgle.

‘Yes?' I demanded, to cover my embarrassment.

‘You screamed,' he said.

‘You scared me,' I snapped back as, for the second time in as many minutes, I waited for my heart to steady. Then, ‘What do you want?'

‘Not just now when you opened the door,' he said, with the careful speech of a man who believed he was dealing with an idiot. ‘You screamed a minute or two ago—'

A minute or two? It seemed as if I'd been in the dark for hours…

‘—and since I saw your friends go out, I thought
I'd better make sure you're not just watching a scary video alone in the dark.'

‘Oh,' I said. It was just as well I wasn't trying to impress this man. He clearly thought I was a total ditz. ‘Sorry. I didn't realise the walls were so thin.'

‘They're not.' He said this with the authority of a man who knew. ‘I was at my door when you—'

He seemed reluctant to use the word again and I could scarcely blame him. ‘Screamed,' I said, rescuing him. ‘I'm sorry to have disturbed you. The fuses blew. That's all.'
All!
‘I was just going to fix them.'

‘You know how?' he said, without bothering to disguise his disbelief.

I tried to remember that he was being kind. A good neighbour. That he could have just shut his door. ‘They teach girls stuff like that in school these days,' I assured him.

‘Really?' He seemed unimpressed but he didn't argue. Didn't do that ‘I'm a big clever man and you're just a girl' thing that most men did. Instead he said, ‘Well, I'll leave you to it.' Which should have been more gratifying than it was. He took a step in the direction of his own front door, then hesitated, turned back. ‘You've got spare fuse wire?'

There had been none where I'd have expected it to be and it occurred to me that I might yet be grateful for his ‘good neighbour' act.

‘I shouldn't think so for a minute,' I said. Keeping my smile to myself.

‘No,' he said. ‘I've only seen your flatmates from
a distance. Very decorative, but they didn't strike me as the practical type.'

I considered the fragile beauty of Sophie, the cool sophistication of Kate. ‘You may be right,' I said. Women who looked like that would never need to be practical.

‘Why don't you see if you can find the blown fuse while I fetch some wire?' he suggested.

‘Actually, a screwdriver would be useful,' I said. ‘If you've got one.'

‘A screwdriver. Right.'

‘And perhaps a torch?'

He said nothing, just handed me the pizza and left me to it, which, considering the way my stomach had rumbled, was trusting of him. But I resisted the urge to open the box, grab a slice and eat it before he returned. Instead I used the time to recover my wits—and my breath—as well as find the fuse. Although why he should leave me so completely breathless was a mystery.

He was gay, I reminded myself.

And I was practically engaged to quite tall, fair-haired and safe Don. We were Philly-and-Don. Had been for as long as I could remember. Everyone considered us a couple. Except his mother, of course. How she must be enjoying my banishment.

I put the pizza down on the hall table and by the time my new neighbour returned, with wire, a small screwdriver and a torch, I'd located the fuse. ‘What blew it?' he asked, handing me the wire, his fingers brushing mine in the process. Which undid all the
good work I'd put in on my breathing while he'd been fetching it and I dropped the fuse. ‘Do you know?'

‘The cooker,' I said, bending down quickly to retrieve it. Which could have explained why my cheeks were hot.

‘I'd better make sure it's turned off.'

His passage to the kitchen was punctuated by a crunching sound as his huge feet crushed delicate pottery into the polished floor. He muttered something under his breath that I didn't quite catch. I didn't ask him to repeat it. I had a feeling that what he'd said was not for my benefit, but simply to relieve his own feelings.

‘Okay,' he said, when he returned. ‘The cooker is off. You'd better get someone to check it out before you try to use it again.'

I hadn't actually been planning a rerun of the last ten minutes, but all I said was, ‘There goes my cheese on toast.' Then, busy with the fuse wire, ‘Why did you bring the pizza with you?'

I couldn't believe I'd said that. I might as well have sat up and begged, my tongue hanging out, drooling.

‘I was paying the delivery man at the door when I heard your—exclamation of annoyance. I thought your safety was more important than eating my supper while it was still hot. I'd have been quicker but the delivery man refused to wait for his money.'

I glanced up, certain he was being sarcastic.

He used the opportunity to take the fuse from me and check it out before handing it back. It was an action that would, under normal circumstances, have
infuriated me, but I suspected the fit of trembling that swept through me had more to do with the way his fingers brushed against mine in the semi-darkness than outraged feminism.

Not that I wasn't furious; I was.

Before I could gather myself for a serious tantrum, however, he said, ‘Maybe you'd care to share it with me?'

Share? Share what?

‘I realise pizza is no substitute for cheese on toast, but it's as near as you're going to get tonight without a cooker.'

It was odd. He wasn't smiling and yet it felt as if he were.

I turned quickly away, my fingers fumbling with the fuse as I turned to push it into its slot.

It wasn't just the long fingers, it was the gravelly voice, I decided. It was terminally sexy.

The hallway was flooded with light and for a moment I was left blinking like a mole emerged from the dark. When my eyes had recovered from the shock, I realised he was holding out his hand.

‘I'm Callum McBride,' he said, rather formally. Then, ‘Cal.'

He had long, thin fingers, strong and scarred with hard use. They were the kind of fingers that looked as if they could do anything. Lay bricks, play a sonata, gentle a baby to sleep.

I just didn't get it.

Despite all recent evidence to the contrary, I wasn't totally stupid. I had friends in Maybridge who were
gay. They didn't wear placards around their necks, but I hadn't needed the facts to be spelled out in words of one syllable despite the fact that some of them had looks that would turn any girl's head. They just didn't get this kind of purely female response from me. The kind you got when a man and a woman looked at one another and wanted to rip their clothes off.

So what was there about him that Kate and Sophie could see, but that I was missing?

Then the name registered.

‘Callum? Callum McBride. You're not Gorgeous George?' I said, with a rush of relief. It was all a mistake. A huge mistake…

‘Gorgeous George?' he repeated.

‘Kate described you as tall, dark and g-g-gorgeous,' I said, stopping myself from using the ‘gay' word just in time. I'd made enough of a fool of myself for one day. And he'd probably be terminally offended, ignore me in the lift for the rest of my stay. ‘I wanted to put a note through your letterbox but I didn't know your name. From her description I assumed you must be George from number seventy-two…'

Something in his eyes warned me that my mouth was wide open and my foot was jammed right in it. It was at that point I realised that ‘Gorgeous George' was just Kate and Sophie's nickname for him. Like ‘Wee Willy'.

And now he knew it too.

‘Oh, knickers,' I said. ‘You do live at number seventy-two, don't you?'

‘That's me. Tall, dark and g-g-gorgeous?' His almost-smile suggested he knew that gorgeous hadn't been my first choice of word. ‘And you are?'

I was an idiot. Why else would his fingers against my skin be sending tiny shock waves of pleasure to my brain?

‘I'm Philly Gresham,' I said, ‘and now I'm going to the kitchen to kill myself.'

I made a move to take my hand from his, but his grip tightened imperceptibly, holding me fast. ‘Don't do that. Not until you've helped me eat this pizza.'

He wasn't offended? Apparently not. The almost-smile finally reached his eyes and as they crinkled at the corners my abdomen tightened in response. I recognised the feeling. Anticipation, excitement, a promised treat.

I like pizza, but it doesn't usually have that effect on me.

‘Purely as a penance?' I asked.

‘Oh, well, if it's penance you want, you'll have to share a bottle of wine with me, too.'

‘Boy,' I said, ‘you're tough.'

‘But g-g-gorgeous with it,' he said. And then he grinned. ‘Why don't you pick up the broken china while I go and fetch a bottle from next door?'

I tore my gaze from his face and glanced at the mess. ‘Do you think it'll stick back together?'

‘I shouldn't think so for a minute,' he said, repeating my own words back at me, his eyes alight with amusement before he turned to retrace his steps
to his own apartment. The one with number seventy-two on the door.

So, he really was gay.

Until I saw him open his front door, I hadn't realised how much I wanted to be wrong about that.

The little heart-sink moment of regret was pure selfishness, I knew. Sheer arrogance to think that he was the one missing out. I don't suppose he thought that for one moment.

Cal McBride had been, was being, kind and suddenly London looked a lot more welcoming.

Okay, as I picked up the broken china I admit that I did have a momentary qualm about Don. But only a momentary one. After all, he had his Austin to keep him company. And Cal, well, Cal wasn't interested in me as a woman. Which was actually rather splendid. Perfect, in fact. We could be true friends without any of that tiresome boy/girl stuff. No guilt.

Besides, I was hungry.

For one reckless moment I considered suggesting that we ate our supper in front of the television, to the accompaniment of that scary video. Something stopped me. Perhaps it was the sure and certain knowledge that the only reason I'd ever watch a scary video was for the opportunity it gave me to throw myself into the arms of the man in my life.

I'd been doing a lot of that lately.

Once Don had spent two or three hours in the garage working on the car, a bowl of microwave popcorn and late-night video on the sofa was about as energetic as he got.

That had to be why he'd been so slow to take advantage of the opportunities I'd kept throwing in his way. All he did was put one comforting arm around me, leaving the other free to dig into the popcorn.

To be honest, I was beginning to wonder if his witch of a mother was putting something in his food to suppress his natural urges. She grew her own herbs, drying them in great bunches in her kitchen, and who knew what they were and what she did with them?

But at least I could describe Don as ‘the man in my life' and get no argument.

Callum McBride wasn't ever going to be that. So there was no point in scaring myself to death for nothing.

Absolutely not.

‘A
NCHOVIES
!'

I'd busied myself finding napkins and glasses, showing uncharacteristic restraint in the matter of the pizza. I hadn't even peeked to see what toppings Cal had picked. I wasn't really fussy and at that moment anything would have been welcome, but I had to admit to a real weakness for anchovies.

I'd left the door on the latch and after a few minutes he returned with a bottle of red wine, so dark that it was almost purple. I regarded it with misgiving as he filled the glasses. I didn't drink much. A spritzer
when Don and I went down the pub, that was all. The only time I'd ever had a glass of red wine, I'd had a terrible headache the following day so I'd never repeated the experience. I didn't say anything, though. It would be rude. I'd just take a sip.

He nodded in the direction of the box. ‘Dig in.'

I didn't need telling twice, but flipped open the box and instantly forgot my concern about the wine as I spotted my favourite food. Cal had gone for classic simplicity. With anchovies. And extra olives.

‘You can pick them off if you don't like them,' Cal said and I realised that my exclamation could have been taken as easily for horror as delight.

‘You've got to be kidding,' I said, helping myself and catching the oozing strings of mozzarella on my fingers, taking it straight to my mouth. Okay, so it wasn't pretty, but there was no other way to eat that kind of stuff. ‘My boyfriend hates anchovies,' I said, after a long sigh of contentment. ‘This is a real treat.'

He hooked his foot around a stool, pulled it back and sat next to me. As he reached for a slice of pizza his arm brushed against my shoulder and I jumped as if I'd had an electric shock. He glanced back at me, curbing his own rush to sink his teeth into the deep and crispy crust.

‘Boyfriend?'

‘Don,' I said. ‘Don Cooper. He lives next door.'

‘No, he doesn't,' he said, before finally taking a bite out of his delayed supper. I frowned. ‘I live next door.'

‘Oh, well, yes,' I said. And laughed, but more as a
defence mechanism than from any real amusement. He was about as much like a ‘boy next door' as I was like Kate and Sophie. ‘Obviously I meant he lives next door to me at home. In Maybridge.'

‘That's—'

‘A cliché. I know.' I said it before he did. I'd been teased by my older brothers and sister for years. I'd been teased by my friends. I was beyond embarrassing on the subject. Or at least I thought I was. ‘Falling for the boy next door is the world's biggest cliché, but he moved in when I was ten and he was twelve and it's been Philly-and-Don ever since. Side by side. No spaces.' I shrugged. ‘Except for his mother. As far as she's concerned we're Philippa and Donald. Preferably with a five metre wide ditch between the little “a” and the capital “D”.'

‘She doesn't like you?' His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. As if he understood where she was coming from.

‘I don't think it's that personal. I don't think she'd like any girl who had plans to take her son away from her.'

‘She'll be glad you've moved to London, then.' The corner of Cal's mouth lifted imperceptibly. I'd have said it was a wry smile, except it stopped just short of the smile.

‘Turning cartwheels, I shouldn't wonder.' But only when no one could see.

‘What about Don? He must be pretty fed up that you're hitting the bright lights without him.'

Not nearly fed up enough. Just envious of the fact
that I'd get to see the original of his car in the Science Museum. That was my business, though.

‘He's reached a critical point in the restoration of a 1922 Austin Seven,' I explained. ‘I'm a distraction.'

‘That I can believe,' he said. With feeling.

‘Look—I'm really sorry about earlier. Your umbrella, the alarm… I'll pay for any repairs. Was it badly damaged?' He looked confused. I didn't blame him. So little time, so many disasters. ‘Your umbrella.'

‘If I ever find it I'll let you know.'

‘Oh…sugar.' I glanced at the pile of thin porcelain I'd put into a dish, hoping, against the odds, that I might be able to do something with it. Or, failing that, to find a matching replacement. But while the original break might have been reparable, nothing that fragile was ever going to survive a close encounter with Cal's feet—however elegantly shod. ‘I'm not having a very good day.'

‘No.' Then, ‘Why didn't you wait for me?'

I'd been hoping he wouldn't bring that up. ‘Simple kindness?' I offered. ‘I'd stolen your taxi, lost your umbrella and gone a fair way to shattering your eardrums. I thought you deserved a break.'

He was supposed to smile. He didn't. ‘You managed your suitcase all right on your own?'

That was why he'd told me to wait? So that he could help? After all that… ‘No problem,' I said. Wishing I'd stayed after all. Then, ‘Why didn't you tell me that you lived in the same block? When I told you where I was going? I thought…'

Actually, I didn't want to tell him what I'd thought, but he was way ahead of me.

‘I thought you wouldn't believe me. That you might think I was coming on to you.'

‘Oh…' I said. ‘No-o-o…'

His smile suggested that I was fooling no one but what he said was, ‘You took quite a risk, you know.' His gaze held mine for a moment. ‘Something that you clearly realised, if somewhat belatedly. That
was
why you were holding an attack alarm in your pocket?'

‘Mmm,' I said, noncommittally. It occurred to me that I still was. Taking a risk. It would certainly account for a raised pulse rate and curiously erratic heartbeat. Then, to cover my own confusion, I picked up the piece of broken china that bore the potter's mark. ‘Do you think I'll be able to replace this without going bankrupt?'

He continued to look at me for what seemed like for ever, before finally taking the piece of shattered porcelain, glancing at the imprint. His expression did not fill me with optimism.

‘Don't worry. It'll be insured,' he said.

That was supposed to reassure me?

‘Oh, great. I've been foisted on the Harrington girls as a charity case and on the day I arrive I blow the fuses and smash a valuable bowl.'

‘The fuse wasn't your fault, just bad luck. And you fixed it.'

‘With your help.'

‘That's what neighbours are for. And as long as it's
fixed they won't worry about the details.' He picked up a glass and offered it to me. ‘Stop fretting and take a swig of that. It'll make you feel that the world is a better place.'

I looked at it doubtfully. ‘I don't usually drink red wine.'

‘You should do one new thing every day.' He placed the glass in my hand, wrapping his long fingers around mine to steady it. Honestly, though, he was just making things worse.

I didn't normally shake like this. It had to be this extraordinary closeness that seemed more than physical, this intimacy with a stranger that not even the clinical décor of the kitchen, the bright lighting and the sheer banality of the conversation could diminish.

He just seemed to affect me that way. Make me edgy, jumpy and a little bit excited as our eyes locked over the glass.

‘I think I might have overdrawn on the “new thing” bank today,' I said, my voice slightly hoarse.

‘Trust me, Philly. You can't overdraw.'

‘No?' Maybe not. ‘Well, maybe you're right. And I do have a lot of catching up to do.'

With Don I was comfortable, easy. Best friends. As my big sister was fond of remarking, we were like a couple who'd been married for thirty years. Of course, she hadn't meant it as a compliment.

Right now, with Cal holding my hands between his, I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a precipice and that was very new, so I quickly ducked my head to drink the wine. It slid down my throat, spreading
through me, warming me. And he was right. I did feel better.

‘Gosh, that's good,' I said and took a second mouthful.

‘Liquid sunshine,' he agreed, and finally let go. The heat evaporated and I was left with the disconcerting impression that the warmth had come direct from him, not the wine. I sipped again, but the effect was diminished and I put the glass down and returned to the safer comfort of pizza.

‘You don't know the Harrington girls?' Cal said, after a moment or two. ‘I assumed you must be old school friends or something.'

‘Did you?' He'd been thinking about me? ‘Er, no,' I said. Any thoughts he'd had about me wouldn't be flattering. ‘My mother is on a committee with their mother's cousin,' I explained. ‘Or maybe my mother's cousin is on a committee with their mother…' I found myself frowning and, since it wasn't in the least bit important, I let it go. ‘You've heard of the old boys' network? Well, this is the old girls' version. I needed somewhere to stay. They had a spare room. Bingo,' I said. And giggled. Which was odd, since he'd just reminded me that I'd have to spend the next six months being scowled at by Sophie and I didn't feel much like laughing.

‘Right.'

‘Not really,' I said, lowering my voice. ‘Sophie wanted the room for a man she's got designs on.' I reached for a second slice of pizza and then, remembering my manners, glanced at Cal.

‘Help yourself,' he said, and refilled my glass.

I didn't need telling twice. ‘Do you think she might have booby-trapped the cooker to get rid of me? Sophie…' I added, when he raised his eyebrows. Good grief, what was I saying? Rapidly changing the subject, I said, ‘This is so-o-o good. Don always orders the meat feast. You know…piled high with, um, meat. Pepperoni and stuff. The kind with a single olive in the middle if you're lucky.' I took one of the olives and popped it in my mouth. ‘And no anchovies. Which is okay,' I said, quickly, realising that I was repeating myself. ‘But this makes a lovely change,' I finished lamely, and then decided my mouth would be more usefully employed in eating.

And for a moment there was silence while we concentrated on the food.

‘What do you do when you're in Maybridge? Apart from distract Don,' Cal asked, after a while.

‘My job?' That was safer territory. The kind of polite, social, conversational gambit I was comfortable with. And I gratefully followed his lead, telling him about the bank and the people who worked there. The sweet customers who brought me cakes. The cheeky ones who flirted and asked me out. The weird ones whom I wasn't sorry to leave behind.

‘Are you looking for the same kind of thing in London? Or have you got a transfer to a different branch?'

‘A transfer of sorts. Just a temporary one.' I glanced sideways at him. ‘What do you do when
you're not rescuing drowning damsels? And chasing umbrellas.'

‘I make films. Documentaries,' he added quickly, before I could get too excited and throw myself on the nearest couch. ‘Wildlife stuff.'

‘In London?' I asked, without thinking. Then, realising my mistake, ‘Oh, no…'

‘Oh, yes. I've made films in London. Urban foxes. Feral cats.' He grinned. ‘The secret life of the pigeon.'

‘Really?' I tried to sound thrilled. I'd been imagining polar bears, lions, wolves. Oh, well. ‘I didn't realise the pigeon had a secret life. I thought it did absolutely everything in the street,' I said. Then wished I hadn't.

‘Of course, I do have to do boring stuff, too. I've just come back from the Serengeti. We've been making a film about a year in the life of a family of cheetahs—'

‘That's boring?' He grinned. ‘Oh, you're teasing.'

My brothers had teased me, when they'd been at home. Don used to, but lately he'd been distracted by the Austin and I'd apparently lost the ability to spot one coming.

‘You like to travel?' I asked.

‘I can't pretend it's all wonderful, but, yes, I enjoy seeing new places. Don't you?'

‘My brothers and sister are the travellers in our family. They got to the family gene bank first and emptied the “travel and adventure” account.' Then I shrugged. ‘And I don't fly.'

‘Me neither. I usually take a plane…' His voice trailed off as I just stared at him. ‘Sorry. Not funny. So you're going to stay at home and marry Don?'

The way he said it made me sound about as interesting as watching paint dry. ‘That's the plan,' I said, firmly.

Well, it was my plan. In my head I had it planned down to the last hand-stitched pearl on my cream silk train. I was a redhead, okay? I looked better in cream than white. And I wouldn't want anyone to think I was a virgin. It was bad enough being one.

Don hadn't actually got around to getting down on one knee and asking me, but everyone assumed that we'd get married. Not that I had a diamond on my left hand. And no one was getting flustered about invitations, or bridesmaids. With my parents away for six months nothing was going to happen on that front any time soon.

‘Eventually,' I added before he asked when the wedding was going to take place.

‘Is he in engineering?' Dragged from my this-year, next-year, sometime, never thoughts, I frowned.

‘Engineering?'

‘I thought perhaps he might be an engineer. With his interest in cars.'