Five Winters(84)

Either that or given him a good shaking.

“I’ll do my best to be gentle,” I said, looking straight at him. “But rejection is never easy, is it?”

Our gazes connected for a charged moment. Mine fell first, and I stood there, trying to pull myself together, wondering whether things would ever be right between us again. Possibly not.

“Well, this is all very cheerful,” Rosie said into the tension.

“Isn’t it?” said Smithy. “How’s your love life going, Rosie?”

Mark answered for her. “My sister has been swept off her feet by a tall, dark Italian.”

“I wouldn’t say he’s particularly tall,” said Rosie. “More medium height.”

“But totally gorgeous,” I said, and she nodded.

“Oh yes, he’s definitely that. What about you, Smithy? Not married yet?”

“I’m married to my job,” he said, looking happy about it. “Hence my ability to invite gorgeous women to come and stay with me whenever they care to.” He glanced in my direction, and although he was smiling, beneath it, his expression was every bit as intense as it had been on the beach in Belize two decades ago. I blushed. I couldn’t help it.

Mark was scowling. “A job’s the best thing to be married to, in my opinion. Though you’d have to like what you do for a living for it to work, I suppose.”

“Are you not happy with your work, then, mate?”

“Oh please, don’t get him started on the woes of self-employment, Smithy,” groaned Rosie. “Grace made him give up his job to become an entrepreneur.”

“Nobody can make you do anything,” said Smithy. “Not unless you let them.”

Mark knocked back more of his beer. He looked as if he were formulating how to respond to this, but before he could, there was a knock at the door.

“Could someone get that, please?” called Sylvia. “I’m just checking the casserole.”

“I’ll go,” I volunteered, keen for some respite.

When I opened the door, Gary, Richard’s fishing friend, was on the doorstep. Dressed up in smart trousers and a freshly ironed shirt, he was holding a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. Obviously invited by Sylvia.

“Hi, Gary, how lovely to see you,” I said.

“Hi, Beth.”

Sylvia was suddenly there at my side. “Hello, Gary,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Come in, come in. Are those for me? How sweet of you.”

Rosie and I exchanged glances as Sylvia ushered Gary down the hallway and into the kitchen.

“Is that what I think it is?” Rosie whispered.

“Depends what you think it is,” I said.

“A date?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, speaking vaguely because I was also listening to what Smithy was saying to Mark.

“Sometimes what’s best for us is staring us right in the face, and we can’t see it.”

Oh God. Smithy’s hints were so unsubtle. If only I could sink into the floor. Vanish in a puff of smoke. Turn back time so I’d stayed in bed this morning instead of coming to Enfield.

“Why do I feel as if I’m on the receiving end of some weird cross between a pep talk and a bollocking?” Mark complained.

“Because you are, mate,” said Smithy kindly. “Look, I’m buggering off back to Dubai on Tuesday, so I can say what I like. Don’t let life happen to you. Have a long, hard think about what you want and a long, hard look at what you’ve got, and see what syncs. Okay?”

“I’m beginning to wish I’d left you at the pub,” said Mark, but he was smiling as he said it, and Smithy laughed.

“Only looking out for you, mate,” he said, but he glanced over at me as he spoke, and what was more, I saw Rosie noticing.

All in all, I was very glad when Sylvia announced lunch was ready and it was time to troop into the dining room.

The casserole was delicious. Sylvia’s meals were always delicious. After we’d finished eating it, she tapped her wineglass with her spoon, and we stopped talking to look at her.

“As you all know,” she said, her eyes glittering with tears, “if he hadn’t been so cruelly taken from us, today would have been Richard’s seventieth birthday. Thank you for coming to remember him with me. He was the best husband and the best father anyone could hope to have. I think about him every day, and I know you all do too. Well, perhaps not you, Smithy.”

She smiled in Smithy’s direction, and there was a ripple of laughter around the table.

“He was a top bloke,” said Smithy.

“He was,” agreed Gary.

“To Dad,” said Mark, raising his wineglass.

“To Dad.”

“To Richard.”

We clinked our glasses together and drank.

But it seemed Sylvia hadn’t finished yet. She cleared her throat. “There’s something else,” she said.

“I’m hoping it’s one of your trifles, Mum,” said Mark.

“Or lemon meringue pie?” said Rosie.

“Actually, I’ve made a trifle and a lemon meringue pie,” Sylvia said with a quick smile. “I’ll fetch them in a moment. But first of all, I wanted to tell you that—”