Hal closed his door and reached out for the whisky bottle he’d left on his hall table when he’d heard Honey come in. Every encounter with Strawberry Girl taught him new things about her. How she smelled. How she laughed. The colour of her hair, and now the dress size of her clothes. This encounter had taught him more intimate things, hints of how she tasted, of the peach-like softness of her skin, of the dips and hollows of her spine. He’d held her curves in his hands and wanted things he hadn’t wanted in months.
He tipped the bottle to his lips, welcoming the harsh spirit as mouthwash to clear away the sweetness of Honey. He’d fucked up majorly out there. It would be easy and convenient to blame it on the whisky, and no doubt that’s what he’d do when he talked to her again. Now that she’d gone, their kiss served only as a reminder of all the things that were no longer a part of his life, of the woman who’d said she wanted forever until forever suddenly meant life beside a man who couldn’t see her.
He’d loved, and thanks to the accident, he’d lost. He’d lost, and he’d lost, until there was nothing more to lose. His restaurant? Sold. His cars? Auctioned. His fiancée? She’d tried to adjust, but in truth she’d fallen for Hal’s life as much as for him and it had been too big an ask. And now he was here in this house, and his plan to adjust to life alone had already hit rocky waters because of his madcap neighbour’s search for her goddamn elusive orgasm. He shouldn’t have kissed her. He had nothing to give. In the many, many long dark days and sleepless nights since the accident, there was one thing he’d come to realise with perfect clarity. From here on in, his life wasn’t going to include romance. He wouldn’t let another woman close enough to set him aside when she decided being with him was too difficult, and equally he wouldn’t let another woman contemplate a half life at his side. He didn’t need a nursemaid and he didn’t need a guide. It was finally time to learn how to deal with this fucking nightmare on his own.
Hal made his way to bed, wishing he could turn the clock back and resist the urge to open his front door when he’d heard Honey come in that evening.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘He didn’t even kiss you goodnight?’ Tash said, looking disgusted as she stirred sugar into her coffee in Honey’s tiny kitchen. Honey shook her head. ‘I don’t think he even noticed when I left,’ she said, remembering Hal’s kiss instead. Tash had arrived five minutes earlier, a flying visit on her way to work and a long haul stint to Dubai for an update on piano man numero uno, as she’d laughingly referred to Deano when she walked through the door.
‘Piano man numero uno was el crappo, if you must know,’ Honey had said gloomily as she slid a mug towards Tash across the work surface. ‘I think it’d be best all round if we just abandon the whole stupid piano man thing altogether.’
‘No way, Honeysuckle,’ Tash grinned. ‘We’re only just warming up. Nell has someone else in mind for you already.’
Honey groaned, wondering why she stayed friends with either of them. ‘Who is it?’
‘A music teacher who goes into the school she works at, I think.’ Tash blew on her coffee. ‘Fancy Nell and Simon getting all kinky! I bet Simon’s the type who likes to be spanked. Or, oh my God, what if he buys one of those adult nappies and asks to be treated like a big baby?’ Tash looked at Honey’s grimace with raised eyebrows. ‘It’s more common than you’d think. I saw a TV show about it.’
Honey rolled her eyes, not wanting to go there even in her imagination. ‘I’m sure they’ll stay on the right side of tasteful,’ she said. ‘Anyway, good on them for keeping the magic alive.’
Tash shrugged philosophically. ‘They made a baby, so I suppose he must be doing something right.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And he makes her orgasm,’ Tash added. ‘I looked up whether it’s possible to be born without the orgasm gene. It isn’t. If you’ve got a clitoris, you’ve got the ability to orgasm. You do have a clitoris, right?’
‘Jeez, Tash! I haven’t even had my breakfast yet.’
Tash shot Honey a sage look. ‘If Simon can talk about vibrators over his organic muesli, you can discuss basic female anatomy over your morning coffee.’
‘Fine,’ Honey sighed. ‘Yes, last time I looked, I had a clitoris. Not that I actually looked, but you know what I mean.’
‘Well, there you go then. Hopefully piano man numero deux will be the one who can make it work.’
‘So now I have a broken clitoris?’
Tash drained her coffee cup. ‘Just on the blink. You need to get a man in to fix it.’
For the second time since Tash’s arrival, Honey’s thoughts strayed to the man living across the hall, and for the second time since Tash’s arrival she decided to keep her own counsel. If Tash got wind of the fact that the hot man over the hallway had snogged Honey brainless last night, she’d be over there like a whippet to find out more about him. Honey knew for a fact that Hal wouldn’t take kindly to anyone knocking on his door, morning, noon or nighttime. He’d be rude and abrasive, and for reasons she couldn’t fathom, she didn’t want her friends to take against him.
She saw Tash out of the house a couple of minutes later with a pensive glance towards Hal’s door, thankful when Tash left in a blur of kisses, red hair and promises that piano man number two would be different.
‘You, you, and you,’ Christopher strode into the charity shop early the next week and pointed his bony index finger at Honey, Lucille and Mimi in turn. They all stared in silence at their tall, wispy-haired boss in his ill-fitting suit.
‘I take it this is your doing?’ he barked, and slapped the local newspaper down next to the till. Glancing down at it, Honey saw a photo of the home beneath a headline that screamed out about residents facing homelessness.
‘Pack in this bloody claptrap about saving this place. Any more of it and you’re out the door right now, not in six months’ time. One more journalist or angry relative calls me or stops me in the street, or badgers me about it in the sodding doctor’s surgery like this morning and that’s it. You’re out. No ifs, no buts, no maybes. Out. O.U.T. Am I making myself perfectly clear?’
His eyes swivelled between the three women, who all tried to look sufficiently contrite. Over the years they’d all been on the receiving end of one or more of Christopher’s tantrums, and they all knew him well enough not to be unduly intimidated by him. Besides, at the end of the day he was on the same payroll as they were, or as Honey, in any case. The home was ultimately owned by a private company who cared very little about its residents and very much about its bottom line. Lucille and Mimi volunteered their time for free, so Christopher couldn’t fire them even if he wanted to.
‘I’m not sure you can do that, Christopher dear,’ Mimi said with an absent smile as she folded a pile of curtains.
Lucille reached into her pocket and extracted a packet of menthol sweets. ‘Have one of these, Christopher, your throat sounds sore. Have you been shouting?’
Honey glanced momentarily down at the glass counter top to hide her smile, then coughed and looked up. Christopher’s comb-over had flipped the wrong way in his agitation and now hung at an odd angle from one side of his head, and his already small eyes had narrowed into slits.
‘Are these women just senile, or are they taking the piss, Miss Jones? Because if you cannot control your staff then I’ll find someone to run this place who can,’ he hissed loudly at Honey.