Page 62 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘Like you and Ellis.’

‘She lectures me,’ says Charles. He unwinds the scarf and hangs it over the newel post before taking off his jacket and hanging it there too.

‘About what?’ I ask, leading him into the living room.

‘Everything. Nice tree,’ he adds.

‘Don’t sneer.’

‘I’m not.’ He grins. ‘I like it.’

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Wine?’

I produce a bottle of red from the cupboard. As I unscrew it, I realise that Charles is probably a cork-in-the-bottle kind of man. Oh well, this is a Lidl special, it got great reviews and they were limiting stocks to customers, so he’ll have to do his best to like it.

He makes no comment on the wine, either its taste or the screw top. I sit opposite him and raise the remainder of my glass of Baileys. ‘Happy Christmas.’

‘Happy Christmas,’ he echoes. ‘Was it good?’

I tell him how much I enjoyed being at Aunt Jenni’s and how great a cook she is and how much fun it was to talk to Mum and Dad and Adrian and Cori.

‘How about you?’ I ask. ‘Fab pic, by the way.’

‘Ellis and I had fillet steak and chips,’ he replies. ‘We didn’t talk to anyone.’

‘No turkey and ham? And not even a call to your mum?’ I’m shocked.

‘We texted. She always goes to Nick and Rachel’s for Christmas.’

As he tells me more about his family, I can’t help wondering if it’s him or his mum who’s the most distant person in it, and he laughs and says that they’re both very independent people.

‘What about your brother? Do you get on OK with him?’

‘I get on OK, as you put it, with everyone. I just don’t see the need to be in their pockets all the time. Nor they in mine. I like doing my own thing.’

‘I guess that comes with being a writer. Being solitary and stuff.’

‘It comes with my family,’ he says. ‘But the writing too.’

I decide not to follow up on his comments, as he thinks I’m inquisitive enough, but instead remark that he must be excited that his book was accepted.

‘I’m very pleased,’ he admits. ‘I was more anxious than I should have been.’

‘It’s a great book.’

‘Thank you.’ He raises his glass. ‘And thank you for being such a good beta reader.’

‘I’m an ordinary reader,’ I say as his glance flickers to the bookshelves in the alcove by the fireplace. He stands up and looks at them. My entire collection of Janice Jermyn and Agatha Christie. Dad’s Harlan Coben and Lee Child. Mum’s Patricia Scanlan and Ciara Geraghty, as well as the wide selection of random books that we all love, none Booker winners, but all great stories.

‘I liked Agatha Christie as a boy.’ Charles takes out The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and flicks through the pages. ‘I enjoyed working out who the murderer was.’

‘And did you?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I rarely did with hers,’ I admit. ‘There was always a sneaky twist, particularly in that one.’ I nod at the book in his hand, and he laughs.

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