A Passionate Love Affair with a Total Stranger (36 page)

Sam was now clutching his Scotch with both hands.

Oh, Christ
, I thought.
I've pushed it too far. He knows how I feel. He's disgusted. He wants to run. He thinks I'm insane. He –

‘Maybe we should, just to be sure,' he said.

I stopped short.

And then my hands started shaking. Not just trembling a bit, but fully shaking. I forced them down between my knees in front of me, but my forearms were visibly shaking too. I leaned forward to cover up the shameful spectacle. But, as I did, Sam reached over and plucked one of my hands out. ‘Charley,' he said gently. ‘It's fine. We'll be friends no matter what.' My hand shook even more. It was like a pneumatic drill.
STOP IT
, I roared at myself.
STOP SHAKING. STOP ACTING LIKE A WAZZOCK.
But the shaking continued.

‘I'm not stressed!' I said, as brightly as possible. But
now my teeth were chattering and I sounded like a pneumatic drill too. Sam clamped my hand hard but it made no difference – it simply started shaking Sam's hand up and down on top of it.

Like the last time, we found ourselves suddenly immobile, and for a while we just looked at each other. But, as we did, I felt something shift inside me. I was in love with this man and I couldn't go on pretending otherwise. My hands stopped shaking. I loved Sam. I was about to kiss him. What more was there? And so, without quite realizing that I was doing it, I leaned in and started to kiss him. For a split second, obviously surprised, he didn't respond. But then he was kissing me back. It was very slow, very gentle. In fact, our lips were barely touching. His closed over my top lip, and then moved down to kiss my bottom lip. His hand slid lightly around my waist and a delicious warm tingling began. It filled every part of me.

Sam kissed my lips again, more firmly this time, and then pulled away a few inches to look at me. ‘Charley Lambert,' he said softly. I looked back at him and almost immediately looked away. It was quite unbearable to be staring at each other from a gap of less than six inches.

‘That's me,' I whispered uncertainly.

Then, to my dismay, Sam pulled away and slid his hand out from my waist. He kept my other hand in his, although it felt suddenly limp. ‘Well?' he asked.

And I couldn't answer. I couldn't tell him the truth: that I had enjoyed it probably more than any other kiss I'd ever tried; that I thought I was probably quite a bit in love with him. Because I knew that in spite of the loveliness of our
kissing he didn't feel the same. He was Sam Bowes, half of the Most Beautiful Couple in Theatreland.

So I shrugged, as if to deflect the question back to him.

Sam looked depressingly happy. ‘I think it's as we thought before,' he said firmly. ‘
Nada
.'

‘YEAH,' I brayed woodenly. ‘I bet there's tonnes more chemistry when you're snogging Katia, right?'

Sam nodded. ‘Yeah. Tonnes more chemistry. I love snogging Katia. She's amazing! I could snog her all day! Well, I am doing, actually. Ha ha. Yeah, good. So, anyway, we repeated the experiment! And got our conclusion! Cheers!' He chinked my tumbler of Scotch.

I downed about four shots in one go.

I stood back to admire the Christmas tree and beamed. It was a cracker! It was not a modern, spare tree with carefully distributed burnished gold baubles and white lights, it was everything Mum and Dad would want it to be: big, mad and bushy, covered from head to foot with strange baubles, multicoloured lights, chocolate hippos, little wooden boxes and all of the other strange things Dad had accumulated over the years. I laughed as I placed his favourite wooden gecko on the top where any normal person would plant a star.

I could only imagine what crazy treasures Dad was going to dig out of his backpack when they returned next week. I was already bracing myself for the possibility of long grey dreadlocks and a beaded necklace.

Malcolm, who was wearing a pair of festive antlers, avoided my eye as he removed a chocolate from one of the lower branches and carried it off to his bed. Nothing about this bloody house was normal! I'd decided to spend the week before Christmas at home so that I could liberate Malcolm from the Joneses, sort through some of Granny Helen's stuff for Dad and generally make it festive and warm for their return, and I was enjoying being here immensely. I had yet to find anywhere in the world where I felt more at home than in my parents' house.

For the twentieth time today I drifted off into a fantasy about Sam spending Christmas at Lambert HQ.

Far from dying slowly, my feelings towards Sam had become gradually more intense. Every time he emailed me about First Date Aid I felt like my heart was in my mouth, just in case this would be The Email. But it never was. This morning's email, in fact, had been the final straw.

Chasmonger! How's my long-lost homie? I miss you. Can't believe you're not coming to the opening night tonight. Very bad behaviour, homes. Very bad.

There was a very bloody good reason why I wasn't coming. He was having a romance with Katia buggering Slagface and it would be an act of unforgivable self-harm to go to London and watch them snogging. Especially if they started up at the after-show party.

Anyway, to work. First I think we should take on more freelance writers. I don't think five is enough. These singles are just rolling in still. Shelley did us such a massive favour with that
Sunday Times
feature in Nov. Shall I put an ad up? Second, I have Big News. We are going to have our first marriage! Remember that dude Robert – the one in Belfast with the paddock full of llamas? He's been dating Jemma pretty much non-stop and he popped the question last night. AWIIIGHT! AWOOOGA! BO! And, finally, we had lunch with William and Shelley yesterday and when Shelley went for a slash William told me he was off to Tiffany's later. That can only mean one thing, Chas, my brother! Amusingly, Shelley still doesn't seem to have any idea I was William's ghost-writer. Very funny being around those two. She talked
about you loads and was quite cross you weren't coming tonight. As am I.

Anyway, how are you dude? Happy? Sad? Talk to me. Stop emailing me about bloody work and tell me how you are.

Speak soon.

Xxx

I loved that he talked about Shelley going for ‘a slash', that he still used Kriss Akabusi's ‘awiiight' after all these years; that he called me ‘brother'. In general, I just loved Sam. What I hated was the ‘we' who had had lunch with William and Shelley. It was like a punch in the face.

Our farewell that night in London back in November had been mercifully brief. Catrina from Reception at the Mandarin Oriental had obviously got so worried about ending up with a curry-scented room on her hands that she'd sent someone to remove the wrappers, which had provided me with an easy excuse to end the night and eject Sam from my boudoir. After he'd sloped off, I'd sat on the floor at the end of my enormous bed for nearly an hour with my head in my hands, trying to accept that I had to let him go.

But I couldn't. I'd been unable to eat my five-star breakfast the next morning and had mooned over him every day since.

‘Do you think Sam feels anything towards me?' I asked Malcolm. Malcolm came over and plonked his nose on my lap, sighing deeply. I sighed back at him. ‘That's not the response I was looking for, Malcolm.'

My phone beeped with a text message and I was
surprised to see Shelley Cartwright's name on my screen. Since her investor had failed to show up that night she'd cut back on her foghorn-inspired phone calls. Presumably she felt she'd now repaid me for my help – and, having seen the bill on my departure from the Mandarin Oriental, I didn't blame her.

But here she was again, economical of word, generous of bite.
I hear you are not coming to Sam's opening night tonight
, her text announced.
Why?

I smiled briefly, amused by Shelley's distinctive approach to text-messaging. But the smile was short-lived, for Shelley's question was a good one.

I sighed, and Malcolm sighed back again. Things had really changed for me over the last few weeks. I was sleeping, I was forcing myself to maintain gentle working hours and I was even piecing together a manageable little social scene. It was a daily challenge not to do too much but things definitely felt different. My feelings for Sam, however, remained unchanged. I'd tried everything to get over him, ranging from two Internet dates of my own (very bad) to a
chakra
cleanse with Mad Tania. (Not much better: Mad Tania was a raven-haired healer, East Linton's only hippie, and while her cleanse might have sorted out my
chakra
s it had done bugger-all to dislodge Sam from my mind.)

‘I can't see him tonight because it'll kill me to see him with his girlfriend,' I informed Malcolm. ‘I need to just keep on plodding on till it passes. Here in Scotland.' Malcolm looked supportive.

I made the same cock-and-bull excuse to Shelley that I'd made to Sam – that I had a prearranged christening
dinner for my cousin's baby (who hadn't actually been born yet, but that was by-the-by) – then shoved my phone into the sofa, keen for something to do that would take my mind off the situation.

I pulled over a box of Granny Helen's stuff. Ness and I had been whittling away at her possessions over the last few weeks, using instructions that Dad had left us, but there was still work to be done.

I turned the box over. ‘PHOTOS' said Granny Helen's snappy writing. I smiled. Granny Helen might not be here in body but she always would be in spirit. I imagined her now, poking my sloppy jumper (one of Dad's cast-offs) with her walking stick and asking if I was having a breakdown.

The box was filled with a bewildering array of envelopes, all stuffed with small sepia photos. Each had been marked with Granny Helen's formidable scrawl and, thanks to her careful indexing, I found a cracker almost straight away. ‘CHRISTIAN'S FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL' the envelope said. I pulled out the photos and immediately started laughing. Little four-year-old Dad was wearing tweed shorts and long socks. He stared at the camera in bewilderment in the first, but by the second he had become Dad again: a monkey. In this one he was hanging upside-down from the tree in their back garden, the contents of his satchel falling to the ground around him. In the third, he was back on the ground with a full satchel and a fearsome scowl on his face. I suspected that Granny Helen had given him a good smack on the bottom in the interim.

I dug into the box, keen for more, and pulled out an envelope that felt rather different from the others.

I turned it over. ‘JACK' the envelope stated. I raised an eyebrow.

Granddad Jack was the grandfather I'd never met. He had been a flight lieutenant in Malta during the Second World War and had been shot down and killed when Granny Helen had been six months' pregnant with Dad. It was a tragedy of which Dad spoke little; he'd never known Granddad Jack, of course, and, given his unusually close relationship with his mother, it seemed clear that he had felt the absence of a father keenly.

I opened the envelope, excited at the prospect of seeing my grandfather. But, rather than photographs, I found myself pulling out a tightly folded bundle of papers.

I didn't need to open them to know they were letters.

The first was written in a spidery hand that I'd never seen before, a sweet contrast to Granny Helen's aggressive scrawl. I paused, frowning. Was it OK to read your dead grandparents' correspondence? I asked Malcolm but got only an idle tail thump. After a few minutes' reflection I decided to go ahead. Wasn't this how people discovered amazing things about their ancestry?

‘Anyone would do this,' I told Malcolm, unfolding the papers as carefully as I could.

In the centre was a letter that had been carefully wrapped in three different envelopes. It was special. I knew that before I even unfolded it. It was weighted with some strong emotional force that seemed to warm the room before I'd even started reading.

My sweet one
, it began, in a neat, sloping hand. I smiled to think of Granny Helen being anyone's Sweet One.

Thank you a thousand times for writing to me, and for the package of Yardley's soap! What a wonderful treat, the lads were so jealous.

I have your letter in my pocket and I feel it there all day and all night, glowing warmly through my confoundedly scratchy vest and into my side. It brings me such comfort, my dear! It keeps me strong in the stillness of night when the noises about me seem hostile and fearful and I find myself longing for the familiar chink of your teacup on a saucer. It calms me when those around me turn to anger and fear and talk to each other unkindly.

I am sorry it has taken me so long to reply to you but sadly we have very little time for sleep, let alone relaxation. My lapse does not indicate a diminution in my feelings for you, Helen darling. You are on my mind when I wake up, you stay with me all day and you are there, a benign and beautiful presence, when I collapse wearily in my bed. I dream of our walks by the sea in April and our summer picnics on the downs.

Oh I do so long to get back to our life together, darling. I must go, Tompkins is calling me.

I love you and I miss you with all my heart.

Yours, for ever,

Jack

I put the letter down, moved beyond all measure. I'd never really given much thought to what it meant to be in love if you were anyone older than Mum and Dad. Somewhere along the line I'd decided that relationships in older
generations were formal arrangements based on fondness and regard. How very short-sighted I'd been! I sat staring into the distance for several minutes, quite stunned, then dug around for Granny Helen's reply.

It jolted me out of my reverie pretty quickly.

You didn't bloody write that last letter, Jack
, Granny Helen wrote, on 1 December 1941. I was a little bit scandalized: even for Granny Helen this was fairly abrupt.
Think I'm stupid? The letter was pure poetry and you, my dear, are no poet. But you're still pretty dashing and a bit wonderful so I'll let it go. You're my lovable fool.

I relaxed. This must just be how it worked: Granny Helen sent out a missile but then shot it down before it could cause any harm. I loved the thought of her telling someone they were dashing and wonderful. It was a side of her I'd never seen.

It was nice to hear from you Jack, whoever wrote the letter. I do miss you and think about you every day. It's even more quiet here than usual; most of the women in the town are out in Dunbar helping in some warehouse so I'm stuck here on my tod most of the time. Been designing a machine for making mashed potato though; got to keep the mind sharp. Too many pregnant women become useless jellies.

My sickness has passed and I'm now just eating like that fat horse that the Duries keep.

Last night I had a dream that you were standing in the kitchen playing the harp. How I laughed! I was sad to wake up and remember you were so far away. I'm counting the days to your return. No, I'm counting the hours! Come back safe, my handsome soldier. Your girl, Helen

Looking down at the letter I felt tears pricking my eyes. It had never occurred to me that my grandmother's acerbic tongue could have been capable of such unguarded affection.

But the accusation she'd levelled – that Jack had got someone else to write his love letter – had surprised me. Why had she said it? Had she actually
meant
it?

A thought was beginning to develop. Suddenly excited, I began to search for Granddad Jack's reply.

Darling Helen, of course I wrote it! Doubting Thomas! As it goes I write letters for just about everyone in my squadron. Would be lunatic to let the lads write their own letters, they'd lose their sweethearts in days. No, my dear Helen, I may not be the smartest man on this parade – I had all manner of trouble for the state of my boots this morning – but I write a damn good love letter.