Page 22 of Dear Daisy

I sat, taking in my surroundings more fully as I did so. The flat was beautiful, underneath the trappings of ‘small girl’; lots of bare, plain wood, lowlighters and uplighters and top of the range fitted kitchen. A good, workmanlike room softened with planks with the bark left on, the pale yellow gleam of ash contrasting with dark oak, all very easy on the eye. As, indeed, was Alex himself, wearing those brushed cotton trousers and a pale shirt with just a trace of pattern along the weave. His eyes, when they turned my way, looked dark in this half-light.

‘This place is lovely,’ I said. ‘Did you design it yourself?’

‘Yes. W-well, Ell and I d-did it t-together. But b-before Scarlet. It’s n-not the best place for a ch-child.’ He turned back to dish out the food. ‘If I’d known what w-was going to happen, I’d have b-built a bungalow.’

‘She seems happy here.’

He made a sort of sideways shrug. ‘Would you like w-wine? I’m afraid I d-don’t drink when I h-have Scarl, but d-don’t let that stop you.’

‘I’d love a glass, thanks.’

Walking carefully, as though carrying a plate of hot food was an alien experience, Alex came over and placed the risotto in front of me, and followed it with a large glass of white wine. ‘I d-daren’t drink, y’see,’ he said, sitting down opposite me. ‘In c-case Scarl gets up in the n-night.’

I raised my eyebrows a bit. I remembered both my parents getting decidedly tipsy on several occasions — oh, nothing dramatic, no tales of drunken beatings or coming home from school to find them unconscious on the sofa, just the memory of Christmas sing-songs and anniversary parties, of Daisy and I laughing ourselves silly at Mum’s off-key rendition of Hark the Herald Angels Sing, with alternative, rude, words provided by Dad. But then, there had been two of them.

‘That’s a shame.’ I sipped the wine. It was pleasant, rather than delicious. The risotto sat in front of me, heaped on the plate like a pile of soggily-hatching maggots. ‘And this looks nice.’

‘It l-looks like it should h-have “could do b-better” on a little s-sticker. Sorry, W-Winter, I should have g-got caterers in or something.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ I forked up a couple of mouthfuls. What it lacked in the Masterchef presentation stakes, it made up for in flavour. ‘No, it really is nice.’

Alex smiled that thousand-watt smile again. It made the little creases in the corners of his eyes pucker and spread the grin even further, as though his whole face smiled, not just the mouth and eyes. ‘G-good. I—’

‘Hello, Winter.’

We both jumped. I’d been far too intent on those grey eyes to hear Scarlet appearing in the corner of the room.

‘G-go back to b-bed.’ Alex dropped the smile. His shoulders dipped a bit and a resigned expression crept in, forcing a careworn expression onto his face. ‘P-please, Scarl.’

Scarlet stood in the doorway. She was wearing an all-in-one sleepsuit with, predictably, a pony pattern all over it, and her thumb was hovering around mouth-level, as though she wasn’t sure of her reception. ‘I just wanted to say hello to Winter.’

‘Hello, Scarlet,’ I said. Her eyes went from me to Alex and then to the risotto, then back to Alex again.

‘Is that the rice stuff? Can I try it?’

Alex gave me the kind of shrug that must be performed by condemned men when the hangman asks them if they’d rather have a reef knot or a rolling hitch. The shrug of a man so reconciled to his fate that nothing really matters any more. ‘J-just one m-mouthful. Then b-bed.’

Scarlet ran over, took a forkful from her uncle’s plate, made a face, and then dashed back to the door. ‘It’s ’sgustin,’ she said, assuredly. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ we chorused, and then sat in silence until we heard the very quiet sound of a bedroom door being closed.

Alex gave a deep sigh. It sounded as though he’d been holding his breath since Scarlet appeared. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why?’ I went back to the risotto. Given the size and age of the oven in the Tiny House, I’d resisted cooking any real food since my arrival, and had been surviving mostly on soup and coffee, with the odd bar of chocolate thrown in for energy reasons. The risotto was making my stomach complain about this, vociferously. ‘It’s not as though I didn’t know she was here, is it?’

He shook his head and stared down into the depths of the risotto as though he was trying to foretell the future though rice-based products. ‘No. B-but . . . it’s hard to be a g-grown up and do adult things when S-Scarl could come b-bursting in at any minute.’

I gave him a hard stare and waved my fork. ‘I’ve only come for dinner, Alex.’

A slow smile now, not the high-voltage one but something softer. ‘True. But d-do you see what I m-mean? How hard it is to m-meet anyone and then take things any f-further?’

‘I think a hundred thousand single mothers would probably agree with you there.’ I drank some more wine and eventually he dropped his eyes back to his own plate.

‘You’re r-right. It’s not just me. It’s only sometimes it f-feels that way.’

I suddenly remembered Lucy’s face, those blue eyes trying to weigh my intentions. ‘Lucy gave me a recipe to give you, but I think it might be a bit late now.’

‘Oh?’ He didn’t look up, just kept eating. ‘Th-that was k-kind.’ A grin. ‘I p-probably shouldn’t h-have p-posted on F-F-Facebook that I w-was having you ov-over.’

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