Page 8 of Strawberry Moon
“No, it’s in a fortnight. We’re just having a dummy run.”
“Sarcasm never gets sparkly young men a boyfriend.”
“You lie.”
She starts to laugh and then raises a quizzical eyebrow at my grandad who’s perched on the chair in the corner of the room. He’d look dignified if it wasn’t for the thong on his shoulder which landed there when I had my first clothes-related panic at seven this morning.
“And why are you here, Dad?” she asks. Nobody says anything, and she looks between us before slowly shaking her head. “I’m pretty sure I donotwant to know.”
“I knew you were a wise woman,” I say. I do a twirl in front of her. “Quick, tell me what you think of this outfit?”
She looks me up and down slowly, a frown appearing on her forehead.
“Well?” I prompt.
She’s obviously sorting through her words. “You look different,” she finally says.
“You had thirty seconds to answer the question, andthatis what you’ve come up with?”
“You just don’t look like you,” she says. “I like the outfit, Clem, but it might be a bit more appropriate on my bank manager.”
I look down at my beige chinos and blue, gingham-checked shirt. “Your bank manager?”
She grimaces. “Sorry, love.”
“That’sbrilliant,”I exclaim. “Just the look I’m going for.”
She looks at my grandad. He rolls his eyes. “Life’s too short to get into that conversation,” he says.
“You’re probably right.” She looks me up and down again still seeming alarmed, but then shrugs. “Whatever makes you happy, sweetheart. Shall I go and let Harry in?”
“No,” I say, waving my hands in panic. “He might come upstairs and realise that my tidying standards aren’t to everyone’s taste.”
“Your tidying standards are more suited to the tip at Bodmin,” my grandad says. He jerks his head at my mum. “Go and let the lad in, Nessa, there’s a good girl.”
She gives him an affectionate look and spares one more glance at my outfit before shaking her head and vanishing downstairs. I hear the front door open and then muttered voices.
I look at my grandad. “So? Have I got everything?”
“Clemo, I lost track of time at seven thirty this morning when you emptied your suitcase for the second time.”
I shake my head and sit down hard on my suitcase, straining to zip it up. “Fasten, you little bitch,” I say through gritted teeth. “Don’t make me hurt you,motherfucker.”
“Language,” my grandad says laconically. There’s a rustle of clothes at the door.
“That’s a ghost standing in the doorway, isn’t it?” I ask my grandad hopefully.
He offers me a grimace. “I’d like to say that, but your grandmother prefers me to try being honest at least twice a week.”
I spin around and find Harry at the door. He’s dressed in a pair of close-fitting beige chinos cropped at the ankles, a white T-shirt that shows off his muscled torso, and Birkenstocks. He looks cool and collected, his Ray-Bans in his hand. The ends of his hair are still wet, and this close I can smell his shampoo. His eyes are wide as he looks around the room and then brings them back to me.
“Erm.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I know it’s a bit messy.”
“Abit?” he says as a shirt that was hanging from the light fitting chooses that moment to fall to the floor with a softthwomp.
“Don’t mind his floordrobe,” my mum says cheerfully, squeezing past him and offering him a cup of coffee. He takes it with a smile of thanks that lights up those pretty eyes of his.
