Page 40 of Best Man
“It’s pretty,” I say, grabbing his arm to steer him around an old couple.
“Even so, there are just too many people here,” he grumbles. Then he pauses. “Oh, it is pretty,” he says in a delighted voice. Ahead of us the river moves past old houses with mullioned windows looking down on it. Paths branch off, leading to shops and more houses. “It’s like the Lego village,” he says delightedly. He pauses, shooting me a sideways look, and I see the flush on his cheeks.
What the fuck is going on here?I open my mouth to ask, but he diverts me by pulling me along. I realise he’s deliberately avoiding talking about whatever problem he currently has about the same time that I realise we’re now holding hands.
He pulls me down the sun-dappled path, pointing out houses he likes, and I nod and smile and I must make sense when I talk because he displays no sign of unease. That’s good because inside I’m a turbulent mess. I can’t focus on anything. It’s like I’ve been blinded by the sun and can’t see anything apart from snapshot impressions. Like the sun on the mink-brown strands of his silky hair, the brightness of his eyes, the long length of his legs and the feel of his hand in mine.
I try to remember when the last time was that I held hands. It must have been with Patrick, but I can’t ever remember feeling like this before. I search my memory banks for a name for it, but I can’t find it. It leaves me uneasy. I don’t like uncertainty. I like to be fully prepared at all times. But nothing prepared me for him.
When we get into the village with its shops and cafes, the crowd disperses a little and I watch him as he looks around with those bright eyes of his. He’s still holding my hand, and I’m aware of several disapproving looks. However, they don’t motivate me to drop his hand at all. Instead I tighten my grip as he pulls me along.
He stops, looking up at a house that has scaffolding all over it. “What do you think they’re doing to it?” he asks.
I send a cursory glance over the building. “New roof, from the looks of it, and they’re repointing some of the brickwork.”
“How do you know that?” he asks, his bright eyes set on me.
I shrug. “I told you my dad was a property developer. He didn’t just buy houses. He did them up too, and I helped him. By the time I was fifteen, I could do most stuff.” I look up at the cottage. “It’s a good feeling to renovate old properties and see them come back to life.”
“Why aren’t you doing it, then?”
The question is stark, and I flounder slightly. “Erm, well, I suppose that was just something I associated with my dad.” I come to a stop, unable to explain how, for some ridiculous reason, doing up properties seemed to edge too closely to becoming my father in my mind.
He cocks his head on one side and looks intently at me. “Shame,” he says quietly. “You need a challenge.” He walks slowly away, examining another house while I stand struck dumb. Coming to my senses, I bolt after him.
We pass an ice cream parlour, and he nods to himself and smiles. “We need ice cream,” he decides.
I shake my head. “You’re such a child,” I laugh but it falters as I catch the shadow crossing his face. “Hey,” I say. And suddenly I’ve had enough. I look around and pull him down a side street. It’s quiet in the morning sunshine and the only sound is the chuckling water running near us. “Okay,” I say abruptly. “What’s the matter? And tell me the truth.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he says evasively, and I pull him to face me.
“Yes, you are. Why the sudden bouts of quiet? You’re not quiet. It’s a completely unnatural state of being for you.”
He half smiles. “I think I need to work on that. I’m a bit loud.”
“Who said that?” I say fiercely.
“Erm, you.”
I hesitate. “Oh, well.” His lip twitches, and I shake my head. “I was wrong.”
He tips his head to one side, the shiny brown strands moving silkily against the tanned skin of his neck. “Really?” he asks mockingly. I shoot him a warning glance, and he chuckles. “Sorry. But I think Noah might have been building a boat the last time you said you were wrong.”
“It doesn’t happen often,” I say slowly. I smile at him. “I like the sound of your voice. I like listening to you talk.”
“But you like quiet too?”
“I admit I’m not loud. But that’s why it’s so good to be with you. You’re funny and quick-witted, and you liven things up around me.”
“But you’re used to older men.” He hesitates. “More sophisticated men.”
It hits me like a thunderbolt. “That’swhy you changed into that outfit that makes you look like you’ve been body snatched by Ralph Lauren.” He glares at me, and I reach up and cup his shoulders, looking into that lively face of his. “You don’t need to dress like Patrick. You don’t need to be silent, or discuss politics in a very loud voice. You don’t even need to smoke a pipe and wear a cravat or whatever idea you have of someone who is with me.”
“But that’s what you’re used to. I don’t want to embarrass you. You think I’m a kid.”
I stare at him. “I have never thought of you as a kid.” He looks at me with one eyebrow lifting slowly, and I smile. “Okay, I tried to think of you as one.”
“Why?”
