Page 26 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

If he’d known she’d seen him . . . If he’d used his common sense and realised the dish must be hot and that she had no free hand with which to knock . . . If he hadn’t been so self-centred about wanting to appear unexcited, as though having a woman round for dinner was an everyday occurrence . . . “Sorry. I didn’t realise that you couldn’t knock.”

“I thought that would have been blindingly obvious to any fool peeking out from behind a curtain.”

Stuart quashed the urge to grovel at her feet and plead for forgiveness. Instead he changed the subject.

“There’s wine in the fridge. Shall I pour?”

“I’ll do it.” She took the bottle and rolled it back and forth between her hands. “That feels good.”

“Did you burn your hands? I could take you to A and E?”

“They’ll be OK.” She was starting to calm down now. “They haven’t blistered, just feel a little bit tender.” She handed the bottle back to Stuart to be opened.

He’d forgotten to prepare for the cork but there was a corkscrew in the cutlery drawer somewhere. He found it and tried to plunge it through the foil covering the top of the bottle. When it met resistance, he pushed harder. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Was it possible to get a dud cork that wouldn’t take a corkscrew? This must look like complete masculine ineptitude. The heat rose in his cheeks. He didn’t dare look at her.

“Stop.” She touched his arm.

He looked up. Her anger was gone and she was grinning broadly.

“I’ll do it.” She took the bottle from him, peeled off the foil and unscrewed the top.

His brain was too slow to think of a witty response. Jayne was laughing; whether at him or with him, he couldn’t tell. Either way, it was better than her earlier thunderous face. She poured them both a large glass.

“I think we need it,” she said.

“Can we start the evening again, please?”

She nodded and raised her glass. “To the joy of getting to know one another all over again.”

Stuart clinked his glass against hers and they both drank deeply. Jayne suggested they eat before the casserole cooled too much.

“I’ve got plates warming in the oven.”

“Fantastic.”

He made a theatrical show of putting on Jayne’s oven gloves to retrieve the plates. Perhaps the wine gave him the courage. Florence floated through his mind. She would have appreciated his exaggerated performance. It would have made her laugh. It dawned on him that before Florence he would never have contemplated doing anything specifically to entertain people.

He put the plates on the table with the flourish of an extrovert waiter. “Ta da!”

Jayne touched one. “Cold.” She wasn’t laughing.

He looked at the dials on the oven and then closed his eyes. He managed to keep his mouth shut while he mentally cursed. “I turned the wrong dial on the oven. I am so sorry.”

Jayne took over. She turned the oven on and put both the plates and the casserole inside. In the absence of an ice bucket, she put the wine back in the fridge. She checked that everything was ready on the dining table.

“Nice new cloth.” There was a slight edge to her voice that Stuart struggled to read. “Cushions and flowers too. I see Florence is making her presence felt. She told me she was doing your cleaning.”

Which was least bad — admitting that he’d made the colourful touches specifically for tonight or pretending that Florence had her feet well and truly under the table? He played it safe and stayed silent.

As they ate and drank, the atmosphere between them thawed again. By the time the casserole had gone and they were almost at the bottom of the bottle, it felt as though they’d travelled back in time nearly forty years to an era when they drank cider underage in the local pub and could make a bag of crisps and a couple of halves last all night. Stuart was enjoying himself.

A rare phenomenon for you, bro. Make the most of it.

Jayne put her hand over his. He twisted his palm upwards and gave a squeeze in return. He had a positive feeling that, despite the disastrous start to the evening, everything was going to be fine.

He opened the second bottle of wine, this time managing the screw-top with aplomb. Jayne talked about her anxiety over Lillian.

“Most of the time she’s quite normal but I know she’s going to deteriorate, it’s just a question of how quickly. It’s like my real mum is leaking away through an unstoppable hole. Sometimes, when she’s gone to bed, I cry. I’m scared about coping with her on my own. I’m not as strong as you. Mum says you were magnificent with your dad.”

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