‘What do you think? Be honest. Shabby chic or pile of old junk?’
He looked around the furniture, giving it a candid appraisal. ‘Actually, just chic,’ he replied. ‘Not even a hint of shabby.’
Relief flooded through her. ‘I was really hoping you’d say it was okay! I wasn’t sure.’
‘It’s better than okay, Charley, it’s really stylish,’ he assured her then, catching her eye and holding her gaze he added, ‘You’re better at this than you think you are. You should trust your own judgement more.’
She shrugged off the compliment lightly, hoping to God she wasn’t going to blush like a teenager.
‘Come and get some lunch and meet the neighbours,’ he suggested.
Carlo was waiting patiently outside her shop. ‘Not on duty then,’ she said to the dog, ruffling his ears.
‘It’s his lunch break,’ said Ricky. ‘The security department is very keen on its meal breaks,’ he added, much to Charley’s amusement.
She loved the way Ricky treated Carlo. She bet he spoiled him rotten at home, easily imagining the huge dog lolling on the sofa with his head on Ricky’s lap while he watched TV, or mournfully begging titbits from the table, and sleeping on Ricky’s bed. She found herself wondering if anyone else shared that bed. She brought herself up short, telling herself it was none of her business, and totally irrelevant anyhow.
Carlo padded alongside them as Ricky introduced Charley to some of the other tenants. They were a welcoming, friendly crowd and it made her feel like she was already becoming part of the place.
‘I usually get lunch here,’ said Ricky, pushing open the door to the deli.
The woman behind the counter smiled at him warmly. ‘The usual, Ricardo?’
‘Please.’ He nodded and then introduced Charley. She ordered a Sundried Tomato and Goat’s Cheese Artisan Sandwich and some Sea Salt and Red Leicester Organic Potato Thins – or chunky cheese butties and crisps as Tara would have called them. She was really touched when the woman only charged her mates’ rates – because she was one of the locals now. They took their sarnies back to Charley’s shop, and sat in the wicker chairs to eat them, with Carlo leaning heavily against Charley’s leg, his huge brown eyes following the progress of her sandwich optimistically.
‘He thinks you’re a pushover.’
‘He’s wrong,’ said Charley.
‘Bad luck, boy.’ Ricky patted the dog’s head in compensation.
Charley had noticed Ricky had a slight accent, Spanish or Italian, maybe. She was too embarrassed to ask him outright, so asked more obliquely, ‘What brought you to Bristol?’
Ricky paused, his sandwich halfway to his mouth, and Charley wondered if he was considering whether to answer. Or perhaps how fully.
‘Self-defence,’ he finally said.
What the hell was that supposed to mean? she wondered, and it was such an opaque response she was immediately anxious she’d offended him by appearing to pry, but then he continued.
‘I fell out with my family,’ he explained.
‘Ah,’ said Charley, thinking, join the club.
Then, despite his initial evasiveness, Ricky went on with disarming frankness, ‘There was a girl, Bernadetta. She was, is, lovely. Our families had known each other for years, and when we started dating they expected us to get married, they sort of assumed we would, but we didn’t want to, either of us. I had a big row with my parents and… I decided to leave, to go travelling. And I ended up here.’
His openness touched Charley. She honestly hadn’t been fishing to get his entire life story, knowing more than most how painful it can be to have people prying thoughtlessly, into your past life, and she felt privileged that he’d felt comfortable to share it with her.
‘Where are you from originally?’ she asked.
‘Tuscany. What about you? Are you from Bristol?’
‘No,’ said Charley and then she paused for a moment, wondering how fully she wanted to answer him. In the event she decided to match his openness with hers.
‘I came to Bristol to get married…’
‘Oh, I see,’ cut in Ricky lightly.
‘But then my husband died, shortly afterwards.’
Ricky’s face froze. ‘I’m sorry—’ he started, and then trailed off, clearly not knowing what to say.
Appreciating that the poor man was probably wishing he hadn’t asked, Charley put him out of his misery. ‘It’s all right. It was a few years ago.’
After a brief pause, Ricky said, ‘What happened? If you don’t mind my asking?’
Charley didn’t mind; nevertheless she took a moment before she replied. She’d never talked about Josh’s death before to anyone who hadn’t actually known him.
‘No… no, I don’t mind telling you,’ she started, and then she was surprised at how easily the words seemed to tumble out. ‘He had a car accident. He was a salesman and he was delivering a new car up in Leigh Woods. It was in February, and he hit a patch of ice, black ice, they said, so he couldn’t have seen it, and the car…’ She stopped and took a deep breath. Ricky waited patiently. He didn’t prompt her, or interrupt to tell her she didn’t have to say any more if she didn’t want to, for which Charley was grateful. She wanted, maybe needed, to finish telling Josh’s story through to the end. ‘…the car veered off the road and hit a tree. They took him to hospital, but he died in intensive care. Before I could even get there.’ Her entire body had tensed up and she realised it was because she’d been wary he might try to put his arm around her, or take hold of her hand, but he did neither.
He just looked up, held her gaze and said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.’
She gave him a gentle smile. ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to say anything.’
Chapter Thirty
The planning meeting for the fourth Annual Kim Henderson Memorial Prosecco Night was at Charley’s flat, as usual. Also, as usual, Tara had brought several big bags of posh
