She sashayed through to the kitchen, from where I could hear clinking glasses, the jingle of ice, the glug of juice and liquor. She called through: “How was your day?”
“Slightly strange. You?”
“Mostly dull. Till now.”
“Thanks for all this. You really needn’t have bothered…”
She came back into the lounge, carrying two glasses of something fizzy, ice cubes bobbing on the surface.
“What’s this?” I asked as I took mine.
“Cocktail,” she beamed. “Home-made. Try it.”
I took a tentative sip — tingly, sweet, pleasantly numbing. Emboldened, I took another mouthful. Then another. It was only the presence of my landlady that prevented me from downing the thing in one.
“Wonderful. What’s in it?”
Abbey arched an eyebrow. “Trade secret.” She produced a box of matches and lit the candle on my cake. “Make a wish.”
I closed my eyes, blew out the candle and made a wish which, for a short time, came true.
“There’s more.” Abbey scampered into her bedroom and returned with a soft parcel which she thrust excitedly into my hands. “Here you are.”
“This is too much,” I protested, feeling a blush start somewhere at the bottom of my neck and gradually stain my whole face.
“I wasn’t sure of your size. I’ve kept the receipt if it’s not right.”
I tore open the paper to reveal an irredeemably hideous V-neck sweater, precisely the shade of lemon curd.
“It’s fantastic,” I lied, then lied again: “I’ve always wanted one of these.” Frankly, at that moment, Abbey looked so rapturously beautiful that she could have wrapped me a dead weasel for my birthday and I’d have thanked her for it.
She beamed, I thanked her for a second and third time and there followed a bungling couple of seconds in which I tried to kiss her on the cheek only to chicken out and offer her my hand instead.
“Aren’t you going to try it on?” she asked.
I flinched. A lurch of panic in my stomach. “What?”
A smile, almost sly. “The sweater…”
As I struggled into my birthday present, Abbey cut us both a generous slice of cake.
“Made this myself,” she said. “Could be interesting.”
“What do you think?” I asked once I had squirmed inside the pullover.
“Very nice,” Abbey said. “Very tasty.”
I think I must have blushed again. Certainly I didn’t say anything further, and as we sat in silence on the sofa eating cake, Abbey wriggled a bit closer.
“Thanks for the cake,” I said. “Thank you for my present.”
She sighed with what seemed like frustration. “Henry?”
“What?”
“You can kiss me now.”
Like an idiot, I just stared, crumbs of cake cascading from my mouth.
My mobile began to buzz. Abbey said later that she wished I’d turned it off and just leapt on her but I think some pusillanimous part of me was grateful for the distraction.
“Hello?” I said, a little wearily.
“Darling! Happy birthday!”
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks very much.”
“Sorry I’ve not got you anything this year. I’ll give you some money when I get back. I know you used to like something to open but you’re a big boy now. You’d prefer the cash, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course. Sounds nice.”
“Are you having a good evening? Doing anything special?” She stopped, suddenly suspicious. “You’re not at the hospital, are you? Not with the old bastard?”
“Actually, I’m in the flat. With a… friend.” I turned to Abbey to check that the description was OK and she smiled impatiently back.
“I’d better go, Mum.”
“Many happy returns, darling.” At the other end of the line I heard the bass rumble of male laughter.
“Bye then,” I said softly.
“Bye-bye, sweetheart.”
I switched off the phone and flung it into the corner of the room. Abbey was watching with an amused look. “Your mum?”
“Yes.”
“She OK?”
“Sounded fine.”
“Good.” Abbey stretched herself out and leaned back into the sofa.
“Listen,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Before the phone rang… Does that offer still stand? Would it be possible-”
Abbey lunged. In a glorious moment, I felt her mouth pressed hard against mine, the honeyed warmth of her breath, the moist intrusion of her tongue. We came up for air and sat gazing at one another, stupid sloppy grins on both our faces. No one spoke.
Then the phone rang, the landline this time.
Abbey shook her head in silent, irritated warning.
I’m afraid I’m the kind of person who gets superstitious about ignoring the telephone. I can’t walk past a ringing phone booth without feeling an irrational stab of guilt. So of course I got up, walked across the room and tried not to sound too out of breath.
“Hello?”
“Henry Lamb?” The voice sounded aggravatingly familiar.
“Speaking.”
“I’m calling on behalf of Gadarene Glass.”
I felt myself begin to simmer. “I thought I’d told you to stop bothering me.”
“So you did. But I felt I really owed it to you to try one last time. Might I interest you in a new window?”
“No,” I said flatly. “You might not.”
“And that’s your final answer? Your answer is no?”
“Absolutely.”
The caller said nothing. There followed a long silence as the truth of it smacked me in the face and slapped me viciously around the chops.
“On second thought…”
“What?” She sounded utterly exasperated, like a teacher hand-holding a spectacularly dim-witted child through their ABCs. “What’s your answer now?”
“The answer is yes,” I said, cautiously at first, then growing in confidence. “The answer is yes!”
The line went dead.
Abbey was looking at me as though I was mad. “Who on earth was that?”
The doorbell began to jangle, hectically, insistently, without pause — the kind of ring you’d expect if someone was being murdered on your doorstep.
“Stay there,” I said, fueled by cocktail, birthday cake and the best kiss of my life, I strode to the front door and wrenched it open.
A little old lady stood outside. With her prim demeanor, outsized glasses and neatly curled hair, she looked as though she ought to be running the jam stall at the church fete instead of standing on my doorstep in Tooting after dark.
Her right hand was pressed hard against the bell. Mercifully, when she saw me, she let go. “Your grandfather said you were intelligent. Evidently, he was blinded by sentiment.”
