Conditional Love (34 page)

‘I had an affair with a client. We were together for a year. I’d hoped… Well, anyway, it ended badly. Nearly ruined my career.’ He exhaled deeply and ruffled a hand through his hair and my heart went out to him. Only Nick could succeed in summing up what was obviously a painful period of his life in one short speech.

‘I couldn’t risk that happening again, so I made a pact with myself that clients were strictly off-limits from then on.’

We stared at each other. Well, that was a conversation killer. His eyes held a faraway look of sadness and I regretted encouraging him to open up. Whatever had happened between him and the woman from Manchester, he was still getting over it. No wonder he was so awkward around women.

I scrabbled around to think of something to get the earlier light-hearted mood back. I reached for my sketchbook.

‘And now in an unexpected client role reversal, I present to you, drum roll please, my contemporary cowshed!’

It worked. For a happy few minutes we flicked through the pages, me explaining my scribbles and him asking pertinent questions. Nick was back. His love of architecture and design seemed to be strong enough to lift him from the gloom of failed relationships.

He loved it. Hurrah!

‘I knew asking for your help was the right thing to do,’ he said, pressing his lips together in a proud smile. My smile was pretty proud too; I should have acted more modestly but I was having a hard time keeping the corners of my mouth down.

‘Now if I can just take this...’ he picked up my pad and began to put it into one of his bags.

‘No!’ I squeaked. ‘I need to mount the pages properly first, arrange them on boards. I just ran out of time.’

Nick waved a hand. ‘No need. This is fine as it is. I’ll just scan in the pages I need and let you have the book back. Besides, I promised I’d get them to the client to look at over Christmas.’

It looked like I didn’t have much choice in the matter. At least it saved me a job, I supposed. And I was very busy. I glanced at my watch.

‘Have you got time for another?’ said Nick, peering into my empty cup. ‘I still haven’t managed to buy you a drink yet!’

I hesitated. I was famished. If I didn’t eat soon my stomach would be grumbling like a grumpy bear. I couldn’t very well ask him to buy me lunch as well, could I? But neither could I let him get me a drink and then go back to the counter to buy a cake.

‘No problem, I understand,’ said Nick, jumping to his feet before I could interrupt. ‘I’m very busy too. Busy, busy. Must press on in fact. I expect you’ve got a hectic few days coming up?’

My heart sank. I had been looking forward to another half an hour or so of his company. If only my stomach hadn’t got in the way.

‘Just a quiet one for me this year,’ I said bravely.

Mum would probably wake up around ten, we would sit in bed with a cup of tea and exchange gifts, which would take all of – ooh – five minutes and then we would watch telly and outdo each other in who can do the most damage to the turkey. Maybe not too hectic.

Nick and I both started to pull on our coats. Starbucks had filled up even more since I had arrived and there was hardly room to swing a scarf let alone a cat. As I struggled to do up my top button with my elbows pressed to my sides, we found ourselves nose to chin.

I laughed awkwardly, but he looked down at me with a frown.

‘I regret saying what I said,’ he mumbled.

‘Right.’

He had lost me. Did he mean about Christmas being busy? Or offering me another drink? Or – I gulped at the thought – perhaps he didn’t really like my design for the cowshed.

Was he blushing or was it just reflection off his jacket?

‘About not dating clients.’

I was most certainly blushing.

‘Oh,’ was the best I could do.

‘I don’t suppose… no forget it… it doesn’t matter.’

‘No, go on!’ I smiled at him encouragingly. ‘Please.’

He took a deep breath. ‘Well, I was supposed to be going skiing with a friend over New Year, but he has torn his Achilles tendon and has had to cry off.’

I felt my mouth go dry.

Please don’t ask me to take his place. I’ve seen Bridget Jones. I’ve seen the damage mini-breaks can do to a relationship. And I can’t ski. I’d be even worse than her.

My mind was just replaying the word ‘relationship’ and poking fun at itself for using it, when I caught his next sentence.

‘So Poppi, my intern, has asked me to go to her New Year’s Eve party. It will probably be full of students swigging Vodka Redbulls and dancing to music I’ve never heard of, but I thought in the absence of anything better to do…’

His voice petered out when he saw my face. A face which told him that if he was thinking of inviting me, he wasn’t doing a good job of selling it.

‘I thought,’ he stuttered, trying a different tack, ‘I thought I’d enjoy it a lot more if you came.’

My chest tightened and I gazed up into his eyes with a shy smile. That was such a sweet thing to say. To choose my company on New Year’s Eve, well, I was touched.

‘Plus the fact that if you did come, you’d help me increase the average age by about ten years.’

I gasped. I wasn’t that old, for goodness sake!

Nick’s face sagged and he rubbed his hand over his eyes roughly.

‘That came out all wrong,’ he said, chewing the edge of his lip.

I couldn’t help laughing. I was surprised he had ever managed to have a girlfriend if that was his best chat-up line. And I knew by now that there was sometimes a gap between what he said and what he meant to say.

‘It’s OK,’ I said.

He smiled back at me, gratefully. ‘What I mean is, that you’re funny and talented and interesting and …’ he paused to catch his breath, ‘beautiful and I can’t think of a person I would rather see the New Year in with than you.’

‘Wow,’ I mumbled, inadequately. ‘That’s probably the best offer I’ve had –’ I hesitated. All year? Well, more than a year. Marc had never, ever said anything as lovely as that. I didn’t want to sound like I’d been left on the shelf for months. On the other hand, I didn’t want him to think I was some floozy, batting party invitations off with flick of my glittery handbag either. I decided to go for a comedy answer: ‘Ooh – all day!’ I finished, fluttering my eyelashes.

‘Does Poppi know you’re inviting me?’

‘Oh yeah,’ he said blithely. ‘It was her –’ He stopped and grinned at me sheepishly.

It was her idea. Great. Why was I not surprised that it had taken the work-experience girl intervening in his social life to goad him into action? I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or mortified that I had obviously been the subject of their conversation.

‘I would love to come,’ I said, pulling the corners of my mouth down into a genuinely sad smile, ‘but unfortunately I’ve already made plans.’

A miniscule flicker of disappointment flashed across his face, before his expression closed down altogether.

Oh God! Now I’ve upset him. Should I explain, tell him I’ve arranged to spend the evening with both my parents, for the first time ever and quite possibly the last? The evening didn’t hold much promise, it certainly wouldn’t be as much fun as spending the night with Nick, taking the micky out of a bunch of students. And then at midnight… I shook my head, trying to rid it of images of Nick and me locked in a full-on snog while a circle of inebriated teenagers sang ‘Auld lang syne’ around us.

‘No problem. Silly of me to have suggested it. Of course you would have already sorted out your New Year’s Eve plans by now.’

I’d missed my chance. Anything I said now would seem like I was making excuses. Me and my stupid ‘best offer I’ve had all day’ joke.

He bent down to collect his shopping bags. I was about to do the same then remembered how we had smacked heads back in August. This situation had the same dangers written all over it. I waited a second before picking up my own bags, a smile hovering on my lips. I straightened up and caught his eye. Now he looked hurt.

Say something nice. Stroke his ego, quick, before he leaves!

‘Another time perhaps?’ It was the best I could think of under pressure.

‘Sure,’ he said in a flat voice.

As I pushed my stool in, he attempted to shake my hand and somehow our carrier bags managed to get tangled together.

‘Sorry about this,’ said Nick, frowning.

Giggling, I turned in towards him to try and free my hand. Our right arms were pressed together and my shoulder nudged against his chest. A tingle of excitement ran through me at the unexpected touch of his body. I felt the muscles in his chest flex as he moved. He was surprisingly firm and much more natural than Marc’s pumped-up physique. It wasn’t all bad, this knotted up business.

I tried tugging my hand free, but the handle of a particularly tough bag cut into my wrist painfully.

‘Let’s drop the bags,’ I suggested, after several seconds of grunting and pulling unsuccessfully.

The bags fell to the floor. Nick stooped to pick them up and handed mine back to me. My fingers closed over his. I smiled up at him in thanks and held onto his hand for an extra beat.

Oh, stuff it, it’s Christmas!

In a moment of uncharacteristic spontaneity, I lifted my chin and pressed a soft kiss onto his lips.

‘Merry Christmas, Nick.’

I dropped my eyes from his, turned into the melee of the café and made for the door before the telltale blush on my face betrayed me as not being as brave as I looked.

At the door, I risked peeking over my shoulder. He was tapping his lip with his forefinger, but his feet hadn’t moved an inch.

I don’t believe I just did that, and from Nick’s glazed expression, neither did he.

thirty-eight

The Microsoft symbol appeared on my screen again, bouncing from one corner to another as my computer got bored of waiting for me and went for a lie down. I sighed and wiggled the mouse to wake it back up.

January was always a bit flat, with clients pleading poverty after Christmas. Just as well; concentrating on anything except Nick was proving to be difficult. My brain was like a scratched record, or a damaged disc I supposed would be more up to date. I had replayed the last part of our meeting, (yes, hard to believe, but it had been a bona fide meeting) more times than I cared to remember. I relived the moment he invited me to the party, right through until I kissed him, analysing his every word, his every look and cringing at my every response.

I had blown my chance with him, that was obvious. He asked me out, I turned him down and he would never risk rejection again. Then, just to confuse the poor man, I had to go and kiss him! Talk about mixed messages. No wonder he hadn’t been in touch since.

I prodded the screen on my phone to make it update. Nothing. No messages.

At least I had made the first move for once, by kissing him. I didn’t think I had ever behaved so proactively. Shame it looked like being the last move too.

I sighed again. Nick. I couldn’t believe how good-looking he was. Why had I not noticed this before? Something to do with those rose-tinted glasses which hadn’t let me see past Marc’s testosterone-packed torso, I guessed.

Nick. Those haunting grey eyes which betrayed his every thought, his dark hair, that was just begging me to run my hands through it and that body which had pressed so fleetingly against mine. I shivered just thinking about it.

I had a quick look round to check no one was looking and typed ‘Nick Cromwell’ into Google. I selected ‘images’ and indulged my new guilty pleasure. I was ashamed to admit it but I spent quite a lot of time doing this at the moment. There was a whole page of pictures to choose from: Nick at
Grand Designs Live
, the profile picture from his own website, Nick at the opening of some restaurant in Manchester; he had even been featured in
The
Herald
.

Jess reckoned I should ring him and tell him I how I felt. I might have shown a modicum of bravery (or stupidity) by kissing him, but I wasn’t quite ready for that. She was like a dog with a bone, offering me advice and tips on how get things moving between us. On New Year’s Day, in a moment of rash honesty, I had come clean about my crush. My two dearest friends had exchanged smug looks and declared that they already knew anyway.

And now that Jess’s own love life was in tatters, she had decided to concentrate on mine, that and indulge every food craving known to woman. When I left this morning, Emma was making her grilled marshmallows on toast! I didn’t know how Jess could stomach it; the sickly smell was enough to give
me
morning sickness!

Emma couldn’t do enough for her sister at the moment. Their relationship was the best thing to come out of the whole Piper versus Policeman debacle. There had always been a strong bond between them, but they kept it well hidden behind the bickering and sniping and the battle for who was the most popular daughter. No doubting it now though, I almost felt like a gooseberry these days.

Still, Nick would be submitting my planning application this week. Now Christmas was out of the way, I was feeling quite excited about my little house. Plus I had a deadline now; that new baby was going to need a bedroom! And once the build was under way, I would have an excuse to speak to Nick every day.

Since New Year, life had more or less resumed as before. Mum had packed herself off to Malta – a better class of tourist apparently – after receiving an offer of a friend’s spare room. Dad had gone too, but not back to the States; he was spending six weeks with a golf buddy in Spain.

I was quite surprised how much I missed him. He wasn’t a hero, or a millionaire or a rocket scientist, just a nice, ordinary guy who wasn’t without his faults. I liked him and I was so glad I had given him a second chance. It was a good feeling knowing I could call him for a chat or a bit of manly advice. That was a new experience for me; the nearest I had come to it before was Mr Whelan, my great aunt’s beardy solicitor.

‘Busy, Sophie?’ Donna’s minty breath with undertones of nicotine blew softly onto my neck.

How does she manage to creep up like that? Anyone would think she was on wheels instead of those crippling stilettos!