This Could Change Everything(36)
And Lucas, watching the way Essie’s face lit up as she smiled conspiratorially at Giselle, wondered what it would take before she could relax enough to smile like that at him.
Then he jumped, because directly behind her, a huge, thuggish-looking spider was crawling up the wall. Suppressing a shudder, he murmured, ‘Jesus, it’s back.’
Whereupon Essie turned, deftly scooped the spider into her left hand and covered it with her right.
‘It does tickle,’ she confirmed as a couple of furiously waggling black legs poked out through the gaps in her fingers. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got him this time. I’ll drop him somewhere safe on the way out.’
Rain was rattling like handfuls of gravel against the sash windows of Conor’s flat. It was looking and sounding horrendous out there.
Essie would have finished work by now and was off to some party or other with her friend Scarlett. Zillah had gone out too. Conor, alone in the house, was more than happy to contemplate an evening in front of the TV catching up with a favourite box set.
And yet, and yet . . . His brain kept giving him a nudge, reminding him about the blind date who could be waiting for him over at the Red House.
It wasn’t that he wanted to go. As he’d told Essie, any friend of that dreadful pushy female in the green pleather jacket had to be the kind of woman any sane person would go out of their way to avoid.
But two things continued to bother him. Firstly, what if she wasn’t?
And secondly, the weather out there was horrendous. Could he really allow her to come out tonight expecting to meet someone, and deliberately not turn up?
That would be downright cruel, and he wasn’t a cruel person. Ironically, if there hadn’t been a violent storm, he might have been more likely to stay at home. But now he wasn’t sure he could ignore his conscience and be that mean.
He heaved a sigh and realised he was going to have to go over to the Red House. It was seven fifteen, which gave him plenty of time to shower, shave and change into something casual but decent. He would head across the square at eight, and with any luck they wouldn’t turn up, which meant he could be back here by half past at the latest.
Ditto if they were there and the blind date turned out to be as catastrophic as expected.
Either way, at least his conscience would be clear.
As he stood under the steaming shower, it occurred to Conor that there was a very slight chance she might turn up and exceed his expectations.
He towel-dried his hair, chose the turquoise shirt that apparently suited his colouring, and found himself splashing on some of the aftershave he’d been given for Christmas. By Dior, no less. Well, couldn’t do any harm, could it?
At seven forty-five, his mobile rang as he was trying to decide between his tan leather jacket and the dark blue Barbour. ‘Hello?’
‘Conor, is that you? Oh thank goodness! It’s Geraldine Marsh here, and I need your help.’
‘Geraldine, hi. What’s the problem?’ Geraldine was a regular client, an elderly lady with a quavery voice at the best of times. Conor glanced at his reflection in the mirror, pleased to note that his hair was looking good tonight. Furthermore, Essie had been right: this shirt really did bring out the colour of his eyes. OK, pay attention to Geraldine; she was probably wanting some advice about her spring planting programme, which she liked to map out in great detail . . .
‘It’s the oak tree in my back garden. It’s come down in the storm and flattened next door’s fencing. And they’re not happy about it, because it means they can’t let their dogs out. They’ve told me I have to get the tree sorted before the new fencing can go up. And if I can’t, I’ll be the one responsible when their dogs escape and go on the rampage and kill someone . . . Oh God, I can’t bear it, Conor, I’m a nervous wreck; those dogs are terrifying! Please can you come over and deal with the tree? I’m desperate.’
Conor looked again at his reflection in the mirror. All modesty aside, he’d never looked better. He should probably wear turquoise more often.
Ah well, his blind date wasn’t likely to be turning up tonight anyway. If she had any sense at all, she’d be staying at home in the warm.
It was just a shame you couldn’t scrape designer aftershave off your clean skin and decant it back into the bottle, especially when it cost more than diamonds.
‘Don’t worry, Geraldine, I’m on my way over now. We’ll get your tree sorted out.’
Overheated and out of breath from dancing, Scarlett made her escape from the crowded living room and headed up to the bathroom on the second floor. It had turned out to be an excellent party. She’d spent an hour earlier chatting to a lovely man called Dale who ran a limo service and who had regaled her with stories of celebrities behaving badly in the backs of his cars. As well as being highly entertaining, Dale had made it clear that he was interested in her and had already offered to take her out in his vintage Rolls, but sadly she hadn’t experienced that zing of attraction in return.
It was annoying, but that was how single life went. Having washed her hands, Scarlett now studied her face in the mirror and blotted her shiny forehead with a tissue. It was all about the imbalance of interest between people, wasn’t it? Tonight Dale had been a two out of ten in her eyes, but he’d regarded her as an eight. Whereas last Sunday, meeting Conor McCauley for the first time, she’d instantly been drawn to him. Out of ten, he was easily a nine. Conor, on the other hand, had taken one look at her and been singularly underwhelmed. It wasn’t his fault, nor was it hers; it was just one of those things that happened and over which you had absolutely no control. Some people loved Marmite, others couldn’t stand to have it in the same room as them. When your body made up its mind at a cellular level, you couldn’t do a thing about it.