Page 12 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

Stuart felt his cheeks redden. He could not disagree that he found Florence’s curves attractive even if her dress sense portrayed a personality that wouldn’t sit at all well in his house. “I didn’t send her away,” he muttered. “She wasn’t what I was expecting and I couldn’t react quickly enough.”

Then call her back. She looks fun. You need someone like her to brighten up your dull little life. It’s not as if you’ve got to marry her. It’s only for eleven months and you can put a lock on your bedroom door if you’re scared.

“Go away and stop goading me!”

The purple bottom was now out of sight and Stuart went inside.

Fifteen minutes later the doorbell rang.

“Me again! This is totally confusing. I haven’t got my reading glasses with me so I can’t see it properly. Can you help?” She was holding up her phone to show the messages they’d exchanged arranging the viewing. “You are the right house, aren’t you?”

Chapter Eight

Florence squinted again at her phone, deep lines of concentration scoring her forehead. With her eyes looking downward, Stuart got the full benefit of the mauve paint on her eyelids. Her perfume was distinctive but not unpleasant. He’d behaved badly towards her. It was wrong to judge a book by its cover. He shouldn’t have let her go thinking she’d made a mistake; everyone deserved a chance.

“My father died. I’m sorry. I’m a bit disorganised. My brain is struggling to keep up with the outside world.”

“That’s really sad.” She adopted a genuinely mournful expression. “If the room’s no longer available or now’s not a good time, I . . .”

“Now’s a great time. Come in.” He stood back to let her through the front door.

“Shall I take my shoes off?”

Stuart thought about the shabby carpets that wouldn’t look any worse if a steam-roller drove over them. Then he thought about the unnatural angle forced on Florence’s feet by the little shiny red boots. It reminded him of the ancient Chinese practice of binding girls’ feet and condemning them to a lifetime of hobbling to keep up with men, rather than allowing them to stride out on an equal basis.

“Yes, please.”

She sat down on the bottom stair, undid zips and eased her feet that were clad in yellow socks out of their prison. She flexed her toes and gave them a rub. “That feels better.”

“I’ll give you the tour.”

He took her through the house. He pointed out the things that would make living there attractive, such as use of the efficient washer-dryer he’d had to buy to cope with the amount of clean sheets and pyjamas that Eric had needed, and the high-speed internet that had allowed him and his father to each stream different programs on catch-up.

Florence was making enthusiastic comments when suddenly Stuart got cold feet. He hadn’t anticipated a lodger like this. Florence was coming across as someone who’d like to socialise and chat. Stuart had envisaged more of an introvert like himself. Someone who’d prefer to keep out of the way. Stuart was too old to bend his routines to fit around another person.

“So, which is the room you’re letting out?” she asked.

He’d spent the last few days returning his father’s sick room into something resembling a pleasant, if faded, bedroom.

“In here. The décor is a bit old and there might not be enough wardrobe space for,” he hesitated and then continued quickly, “a fashion-conscious lady. And there’s no TV.”

“This would suit me. And when I’m in, I can watch TV downstairs with you, can’t I?”

She gave him a broad smile. For some reason he’d expected her teeth to be artificially bright but they were closer to the shade of his own, off-white with a tendency to slightly yellow. Combining this with the lines on her face that refused to play hide and seek, Stuart decided she must be about the same age as him, or possibly slightly younger.

“This is the bathroom. You’d have to share it with me. It’s not one of those modern showers.”

“No problem.”

When they were back downstairs in the kitchen, Florence said, “I like it. When can I move in?”

“Don’t you need to think about it? Perhaps view some more properties?” He’d expected her to murmur something about letting him know and then, if she did decide to take it, he could tell her someone else had got in before her.

“There’s nothing else in the area that I can afford. I’m leaving my husband. He doesn’t know yet, obviously. Money will be tight.” The cheery volume of her voice dropped and she looked at the rings on her left hand.

This was happening too quickly. Even if Florence didn’t need time to think about the house, he needed time to think about her. He didn’t want someone with emotional baggage. He didn’t want someone to watch television with. He just wanted help with the bills plus he’d naively envisaged chatting with a range of people and then choosing the most suitable person. Florence was too full-on and too sudden.

He wanted to tell her that he’d made a mistake in his post and it should’ve been £150 a week. He wanted to be honest and say that they wouldn’t be compatible housemates. But either of those things would’ve felt like kicking her in the teeth when she was already down.

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