Page 42 of The Do-Over

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘It totally was. But it seems to be working.’

Her face transforms instantly into an expression of hope. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Why don’t you ask him out? The worst he can do is say no.’

‘He’s supposed to ask me out. That’s how it works.’

‘What is this, the 1950s? What happened to female empowerment? If you want to go on a date with him, then ask him.’

She suddenly looks terrified. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Thea. Anyway, I’ve got Rollo to think about.’

‘Rollo adores Ben nearly as much as you do,’ I point out. ‘Plus, I’d take advantage of the on-hand babysitting service at Mum and Phil’s while you can.’

‘I’ll think about it, OK?’

‘Do. I don’t think I can stand the way things are for much longer.’

I was half right about Ernest and George. When they climb out of the battered Volvo estate and introduce themselves, Ernest is exactly as I imagined he would be. He’s bald, with a thick white beard covering half of his ruddy face and a pot belly poking out of his overalls. His actual age is impossible to guess; he could be anywhere between sixty and eighty, I reckon. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has a second career moonlighting as Santa in a garden centre somewhere each Christmas.

The surprise is George. He may have an old person name, but he’s our age or possibly a little younger. His blond hair is a strange mismatch with his eyes, which I would expect to be blue, but are actually such a dark brown that they’re almost black, but that’s not the main thing that I notice about him. What I notice is that he’s absolutely, 100 per cent, the most beautiful man I think I’ve ever set eyes on. I mean, Alasdair was pretty good looking, but George is properly hot. As he comes closer, I notice that his eyes are framed by the kind of lashes that no man should be allowed to possess, and his full lips part to reveal even, white teeth when he smiles in greeting. His voice is soft but his grip is firm as he shakes my hand, and a quick glance down reveals that his hands are as beautiful as the rest of him, with neatly cut nails on the ends of his thick, strong fingers.

‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee before we begin?’ I manage to stammer as I reluctantly let go of George’s hand.

‘That would be perfect, love, thank you,’ Ernest replies, making me bristle slightly. ‘Tea, white with two for me. George?’

‘I’m a coffee man. White, no sugar. Would you like a hand?’

If I’m impressed by his manners, that’s nothing compared to the very graphic train of thought that is coursing through mymind as I contemplate various ways I’d like George to give me a hand. It’s like a switch has flicked in my head, and all rational thought has been turned off.

‘No, it’s fine,’ I say hurriedly.

‘I wouldn’t mind using the loo, if you have one,’ Ernest continues. ‘My bladder isn’t what it used to be.’

‘No problem, let me show you the way.’

They follow me into the house and Ernest disappears in the direction of the bathroom when I direct him, leaving me alone with George. I concentrate very hard on not looking at him as I busy myself with filling the kettle and switching it on.

‘This is quite the project,’ George observes, glancing around him. ‘Are you doing it all yourself?’

‘No, I have a partner – a business partner. She’ll be here any minute actually, they’ve just popped out for more paint,’ I gabble. What is the matter with me? Thankfully, before I have the opportunity to make a complete idiot of myself, Ernest reappears.

‘That’s better,’ he informs us unnecessarily. ‘So, Charlotte in the office informs me you’re after a certificate to say your mill is beyond economic repair. Is that right?’

‘That’s it,’ I tell him as I hand him his mug.

‘I expect it’s just a formality; sadly, most of the mills I’ve seen lately are completely shot, but we have to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, don’t we.’

‘There isn’t anything Ernest doesn’t know about watermills and windmills,’ George informs me, his soft voice making my insides quiver.

‘I come from a long line of millers,’ Ernest explains. ‘Sadly, I’m the last one as neither of my children have any interest. They say their childhood was spent being dragged round various mills, and if they never see another one, it’ll be too soon.’

‘And what about you?’ I ask George. ‘How did you get into the milling business?’

‘I started out as a regular mechanic, but modern cars are basically just rolling computers and I’m a sucker for old-school engineering,’ he says, treating me to another flash of his beautiful smile. ‘Steam engines, mills, basically if there’s heavy cogs, I’m into it.’

‘George is restoring a traction engine,’ Ernest adds.

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