Looking costs nothing, right? No one will catch on and it doesn’t bother anybody. It’s way safer than a conversation, least of all about my gig. If I can have something to fantasize about, it’ll make all of this that much easier.
Light-headed, I hide another smile before anyone sees and go back to work. Then there’s a rush of customers and when I have a chance to look up again, he’s gone. And, God help me, I want to see him again, and more.
Chapter Four
So much for heady Saturday fantasies about Ben Campbell. Sunday, by comparison, is far more real. At least I’ve got a solid eight hours of sleep behind me after a positively demure night in working on homework. I’m gonna need my strength.
The morning starts early with me in my pajamas, eating bowl after bowl of cereal while I try to get through three long chapters of literary criticism in tiny font, and I think it might actually kill me. It’s drier than yesterday’s toast left out overnight, stale and brittle. No comparison toWuthering Heights.
I’m exhausted by ten o’clock but there’s still lots to do this morning.
I clean the flat in record time, do a pile of laundry while studying, and call Carys and Emily. I transfer her five hundred pounds to help with their bills. Then, I dash for the bus to the station and the train out to my parents. At least the train ride gives me more time to try to catch up on my readings.
And my growing collection of totally inappropriate Ben Campbell–related fantasies, God help me.
Hours later, I’m at my parents’ table for Sunday lunch, a permanent routine that only leghold traps, the flu, or alien abduction could stop. Unfortunately, none of these things happened on my way to Richmond. Not even a well-timed rail replacement train delay.
Instead, I’m at the broad oak table beneath deep beige walls and a tall, coved ceiling in ivory. On the walls there are antique portraits of stern-faced men and women to keep a wary eye on the diners, doubtless to report them to the authorities—my mother, in this case—for any foul play before lunch, such as unauthorized snacks and other contraband.
We’re not posh, certainly not aristocrat posh, but posh enough for it to be uncomfortable, despite my years of practice and the burden of expectations and more in the Renfrew family, who’re down for a generous helping of tradition and then some. I’ve never had much time for tradition.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I sneak a peek. It’s my older brother, Michael.
Sorry, won’t be able to make it after all. Lawyering emergency for trial tomorrow. Please tell Mum and Dad?
Traitor, I text back with a frowning emoji.
There goes my ally in all of this. I could hardly declare a barista emergency where someone urgently needs me—and only me—to make custom premium macchiatos or gourmet sandwiches, post-haste. Though lurking in the café for another glimpse of a certain bohemian rocker wouldn’t be a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
Next time, I promise I’ll be there, texts my brother. Good luck.
I sigh and lift my head.
“Is everything fine, Charles?” Great Aunt May asks. Though she’s pushing eighty, she’s got surprisingly good phone game and was a quick study when I taught her emojis and GIFs a few months ago on her new smartphone. She’s sent me some howlers since.
“Michael won’t be able to make it. Work.”
“Such a pity,” she tuts. “I will mail him a picture about my feelings.”
A grin appears on my face, unusual in this room. I lean back in my chair, absently fidgeting with my tie. “I hope you do, Aunt May.”
Behind Great Aunt May, at the end of the long room, a fresh Christmas tree beside the hearth is decorated like some sort of feature article in a traditional home magazine. Each ornament is perfectly styled to impress. Fresh boughs decorate the mantle. Ribbons and ribbons, pinned to the built-in bookshelves, of Christmas and seasonal greeting cards flank the hearth.
It does look nice if you’re into that sort of thing. I’m not quite the target demographic. My nod to the season is hanging a candy cane from my desk light in my room back in Finsbury Park.
Earlier, I set out ten place settings for the guests to my mother’s exacting instructions.
One of those guests is my cousin Delores. She’s somewhere in her forties. Right now she’s talking to my Great Aunt May about her spirited career in accountancy, which makes me want to weep. To be fair, Delores isn’t having a great time either reliving her trauma of the past work week and stories of her tyrannical boss, so I don’t think weeping is strictly off the table for anyone.
“And that’s when the auditor stepped in.” Delores pauses, as solemn as the portrait behind her. “We couldn’t leave till midnight.”
Great Aunt May gasps. I grimace in sympathy. That really does suck for Delores.
“Charles,” my mother calls from the adjacent kitchen.
“Excuse me.” I stand up, smoothing my shirt out of reflex. No comments today on my appearance is a rare win.
Part of me is more than tempted to put a fork in my hand to get out of this since Michael bailed. One night, I swear I’ll sneak in under the cover of darkness to paint the dining room oxblood red, or better yet, an over-the-top sunshine yellow, just to break the monotony of beige in here.
