“I used to go to the golf course with him sometimes. I don’t go out much these days,” she tells me.
“We should do something sometime,” I offer automatically to be polite. All this over-sharing makes me think she’s lonely, and my invitation seems like something one of the Sheffield kids would offer a depressed old woman. Mrs McAllister looks like a recluse. There’s no way she’d actually—
“I’d like that,” she says before taking another sip of her tea.
I smile at her, hoping she’s just being polite in return but she continues. “Jada, that’s Byron’s ex-girlfriend, used to take me out sometimes. I love Isabella like my own daughter, but Jada was a lovely girl. I really thought she and Byron would get married. They probably would have, too, but as soon as Isabella was back in town, I could tell Byron was on his way back to square one. That boy’s been smitten with her since he was ten.”
I nod my head—Keats’ mother knows her sons pretty well. Even through her depression, she notices things about them. I wonder where my mother is now. Is she dead? Does she have a new family? I hope she’s living with a lot of guilt and regret over abandoning me and my younger brother with our dad.
“We should have a girls’ day out.” The words are out of my mouth before I could think. Though, other than worrying about not clicking with Mrs McAllister during the outing, I find that I actually like the idea. Especially when her sad face lights up and I realise she’s not as old as she seems.
“That would be lovely.”
“When are you free?”
“Every day.”
“Early retirement?”
“No, dear. I was a housewife. If Keats didn’t keep me company, I would have even less to do with myself.” She takes a sip from her cup. She pauses a lot, each silence filled with a latent sadness. “He’s a good boy. I’m sure living at home with his mother can’t be good for his social life. He hasn’t had a girlfriend since Isabella—no one serious, anyway. Maybe if he got a new woman in his life, he’d get over her.”
I agree about the last part. Keats definitely needs someone to stop his obsession with “the one that got away”. But I don’t think his social life is that hindered. Plenty of women would still take Keats McAllister, depressed mother and all. Even if they didn’t realise he’s only living with her because she’s emotionally fragile, and not because he’s a freeloading mama’s boy.
The fox terrier barks again, rushing out the back door.
Mrs McAllister looks up at the sound. “Keats must be here.”
“I’ve got a free Sunday mid-May,” I find myself telling her. “We can make arrangements closer to the date. I’ll come up with something.” I take a pen and my little notepad out of my handbag—I always keep them there in case I come up with ideas for my website—and scribble my number on a piece of paper. For some reason, I want to keep my outing with her separate from my scheming to get her son.
Keats enters the house in almost comical grey and light blue tartan trousers, white polo shirt, flat cap and spiked golf shoes. Of course, on him, the outfit looks more GQ than RSL retiree—especially with his face sporting only the faintest of five o’clock shadows. I suddenly have the biggest urge to check my reflection in a mirror. The last time I looked, I felt presentable. But now, I’m worried I’m underdressed. The vee-neck of my smock should draw the eye while the skirt that balloons out should camouflage the bumps and lumps of my hip and thigh areas.
“Hey, Jess.” He checks his watch. It should tell him that he’s half an hour late for our trip to the bridal expo. He cringes. “Sorry. Golf game. I’m ready to go though. You want to take my car or yours?”
“I don’t drive.”
He raises a brow at me. “Okay. I’ll be five minutes. Hi, Mom.” He walks up to his mother and gives her a kiss on the cheek.
“Good golf game, pet?”
“Deano kicked my ass,” he says, making me wonder if he’s talking about our high school classmate, Richard Dean—the arsehole who’d coined the term, “The Fat Chicks’ Club” for Isabella and her group of friends. “The clients had fun though so…” Keats shrugs, a corner of his mouth lifting. He sees me looking at him, and repeats, “Five minutes,” before he heads to his room.
I watch him walk down the hall, disappointed when he doesn’t take his shirt off on his way there. God, I’ve missed him. I haven’t seen him since the café, so that’s a whole nine days. When I look back at Mrs McAllister, she’s watching me with a small, sad smile.
Busted.
“What do you do, Jess?”
Oh, God. Is this the daughter-in-law applicant’s interview? “I’m a receptionist in the lobby of the Styler building in the city.” And I run my own erotic website for plus-size women. But that’s a secret from everyone who knows me. “It gives me time to write,” I add because I have the sad need to impress her.
Her eyes widen with interest. “Oh, what do you write?”
I should’ve known she’d ask. “Just fiction, and advice about fashion and products.” By “fashion” I mean lingerie for bigger women, and by “products” I mean lotions, lubricants, novelty contraception and sex toys. Again, I don’t tell her this.
Mrs McAllister nods. Thank God she doesn’t ask where she can read my work.
“All right, Hay-gen. Ready?”
I look up and my breath catches. Cap off, I can see Keats has had a haircut—short all over, professional but stylish, and he’s got the cheek bones to pull it off. In jeans, light grey Cons, a dark
