Page 34 of Still Falling for You

‘Not that I approve of your interrogation methods, but my office got flooded this morning, and this was the closest place to hold the consults,’ he says sternly, and I realise he’s right. His office is just across the road.

Relief hits me like a stray missile. It was stupid of me to suggest he was lying. Now that I look back towards the table, I can see my dad’s laptop bag resting against one of the bent metal legs, and the blonde has fired up her own laptop and is now typing furiously away. It still doesn’t give him the right to be rude to Alex.

‘Go home,’ my dad orders me, like I’m a little kid. He’s never been this high-handed or direct with me. From the corner of my eye, I watch Alex passively observing the scene, seemingly bored. My chest squeezes so hard that I think I’m experiencing a cardiac event.

‘No,’ I say defiantly, not recognising the voice that leaves my mouth. I’ve never talked back to my parents before despite the fact I rarely agree with my mother on anything.

Alex grabs my wrist under the table and squeezes gently, stopping me in my tracks.

‘I’ve got somewhere to be anyway,’ Alex says dismissively, carrying a strong Yorkshire accent. I know his mum is from Yorkshire, but he’s never sounded like it; his words are usually enunciated to the point of perfection. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

Alex gathers his things. He walks past me, giving himself so much space as though I’ve developed some viral infection in the last two minutes.

‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ Alex mutters without looking atmy dad who is just standing there and silently fuming like he’s a little boy rather than a grown adult.

I have no words left in my brain because the space is filled with white noise. When I train my eyes on my hands, they’re shaking with frustration.

‘How old is that boy?’ My dad interrogates me as soon as Alex is gone.

‘He’s in my A Levels year group.’

‘I’m surprised he’s gotten that far,’ he mumbles.

‘Are you for real?’ My voice rises a few octaves, and the blonde coughs loudly. Despite her best efforts at pretending to type, it’s clear she’s eavesdropping.

‘I don’t like the look of that boy; he seems like trouble. I don’t want to see you with him ever again. I’ll call your mother to check you’ve arrived at home.’ He checks his watch which is his default sign he’s finished with this conversation. Without another word, he returns to his table.

I feel so disappointed my vision blurs for a moment. My benevolent father, my hero, has turned into a petty, prejudiced man. It’s always been my dad and me against the world.

When I exit the café, Alex is toeing a piece of rock.

Still stunned, I start apologising, but he interrupts before I get a chance to finish, like he’s not interested in anything I have to say. ‘Let’s get you home.’

I’m ready to ask whether he’s being serious, but his expression is completely shut down. I have the feeling if I said anything, he wouldn’t be able to hear me anyway.

The rain has settled into a steady drizzle, and I’m almost glad for it because it fills the space and silence that the scene with my dad has created between us. Over my sodden hood, I can’t see where we’re walking until we stop in front of a block of flats on a small council estate. The front of the building is littered with cigarette butts and a few broken bottles whose shards reflect the light from the nearest streetlamp.

I don’t ask which one of the dark windows staring blankly down at us is Alex’s bedroom. He’s never invited me to his place, and I’ve never asked, never feeling like I could. My house has been out of bounds because my mother is always there, pottering about and prying into other people’s business.

‘If you wait here, I’ll lend you an umbrella.’ His words are almost harsh, his green eyes gazing at me without any expression. A sound akin to a whimper escapes my mouth, but I can’t stop it. Why is he being like that? Have I done something wrong? At hearing it, Alex squeezes my upper arm through the soaked layers of my shirt and hoodie and says almost softly, ‘I don’t want you to catch your death.’

‘Can I use the loo please?’ I shift my weight from left to right. I didn’t want to ask, but my bladder is bursting. I can feel his reluctance, but it’s either that or I’ll have to pee in the bushes, and he knows it. Eventually, he nods.

Inside the building, the corridor is lined with old-fashioned red carpet. It’s threadbare and dirty in some places and smells faintly of dog. We walk up the stairs to the second floor.

When Alex unlocks a white door with a scratched seven on it, he beckons to indicate I can come in. I scan the small space nervously. It’s a studio flat, and the room is divided into a tiny kitchenette in the corner, a green sofa and a coffee table opposite. To my left, a corner of a double bed peeks from behind a wooden screen.

Despite all the furniture being old-fashioned and slightly weathered with age, everything is immaculately clean and tidy except for the bed behind the wall that is covered in female clothing and the contents of a make-up bag scattered around as if someone was in a rush. Alex’s lips press into a thin line at the sight of the mess.

My eyes drift to the coffee table that has a neat pile of books, some on classical guitars and others by Orwell and Hardy. On top of the pile, a pair of familiar headphones rest; I realise withoverwhelming tenderness that this is where Alex sleeps. When I inhale, I recognise the familiar smell of cleaning products and cigarettes because that’s the smell I associate with Alex.

A handwritten note on the fridge that lists a few shopping items and bills that need to be paid, including the council tax and water bill, confirms my uncomfortable feeling. The handwriting is familiar, the ticks next to some of the items on the list have an extra flick at the start. Alex is a young carer. All those phone calls with his mum make sense now.

Turning to face Alex, my mouth opens, but when I catch his look, tense and vulnerable, my words die on my lips.

He doesn’t look me in the eye when he points directly to my right. ‘Toilet’s that way.’ I nod even though he can’t see it.

The small toilet is crammed with hair and body products that I rummage through after I’ve peed. I find a can of Lynx in the only wall cabinet and when I pop the lid open, Alex’s smell envelops me. Unable to stop myself, I spray it in the air and walk through the mist, inhaling deeply.

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