‘I did try.’ I blinked, hard.
He nodded. ‘Well. I’m sorry for being a sarcastic git. I didn’t get much sleep. Let’s check out the damage on your side, and then I’ll sort the roof before it rains again.’
He clattered down the steps, flinging open the door to the small bedroom before I could stop him. I thought I might have left my dirty wet clothes on the floor while rushing to change so I could look through the photos. Ifthoughtmeantknewandmightmeantdidandclothesmeantunderwear,that was.
But Mack getting an eyeful of my old knickers was nothing compared to my mortification after he then moved past me to the bathroom.
He paused in the doorway. Sidling up behind, I followed his gaze as it took in the sleeping bag, the pile of photographs and a battered novel on the wooden table I had positioned beside the bath. At least I’d moved my food supplies into the small bedroom with my clothes.
‘It all looks fine,’ he said, abruptly turning away, and pretending to examine the landing ceiling. ‘I think the attic wall must not be flush with the walls on this level, which is why it all ended up on my side.’
‘I’m really sorry.’ I stared at a stuffed chipmunk, aware I sounded as wretched as I felt. ‘Can I clean up your office while you fix the holes?’
His face shut down then, with a clang – making me realise how much it had previously softened. Yes, Jenny, softened with pity for the useless woman sleeping in a bath and surviving on cold baked beans and tins of tuna.
‘No. It’s fine.’
‘Right.’ I nodded. ‘It’s understandable you don’t trust me with your stuff.’
He sighed. ‘No. It isn’t that. Well, notjustthat. My work is extremely… private.’ He attempted a smile. ‘I’d appreciate a cup of tea, though. As long as it’s from the kettle in the bedroom, not the kitchen.’
* * *
‘Are you a spy?’ I sat the tea on one of the less manky attic boxes.
Mack glanced down, holding a sheet of wood against the roof, two nails in his mouth.
‘Okay, so if you told me would you have to kill me?’ I said.
He deliberately took one of the nails out of his mouth, placed it carefully in position and swung the hammer on to it so hard the roof shook.
‘Because if you are a spy, I could be a threat. Like, a counter-spy sent to discover all your secrets. My bumbling incompetence would be an excellent ploy, to lure you into coming to my rescue, and then wheedle out your secrets by lulling you into a false sense of security. As demonstrated by you revealing where you keep your secret spy documents.’ I took a nonchalant mouthful of tea.
‘Are you trying tolureme?’ he asked, removing the second nail from his mouth.
I choked, spluttering and coughing for a couple of minutes while he finished one repair and moved on to the next.
‘Well, obviouslyI’mnot a spy. It was a theory, pointing out that if you’re a spy you aren’t a very good one.’ My voice came out rough from coughing.
‘Maybe I’m a good enough spy to know you aren’t a spy.’
‘But what if an enemy spy takes me hostage, and tortures me to discover where you keep your information?’
He reached down for more nails. I completely disregarded how his back muscles stretched the T-shirt. ‘Why wouldn’t they search my house first?’
‘Because kidnapping me would be more fun?’
He laughed then. A loud bark that made tea slop out of my mug when I jerked in surprise.
‘Fun. Right.’ He brushed off the dust from his hands, and picked up his drink. Taking a slow sip, he watched me, the smile still lingering in his eyes. ‘I’m not a spy.’
‘What, then? Holed up by yourself all day working on secrets. Are you an inventor? Or a computer hacker?’
‘What I am is late. This’ll hold for now, but you need to get a roofer to tile it properly. Thanks for the tea.’ He downed the rest of the mug, and left.
Still embarrassed by Mack seeing the state of the kitchen, and my makeshift food-preparation area upstairs, I decided to forego my morning walk to the Common and spend the day working on the cupboards and counter-tops. I lugged the fridge an inch at a time outside, dumping it next to the mattress, and began sorting through the stacks of pots and crockery, deciding what to keep and what could be sold. Scouring, sorting, dumping anything that was chipped, cracked or broken and plunging the rest in scalding-hot water turned out to be a great way to scrub away some shame at the same time. I kept going until my arms couldn’t lift another pan.
Had many of my thoughts drifted towards the cottage next door? Maybe. A little. Until I felt sick and tired of my mind’s refusal to stop wondering about him. I had ended up here, in a home unfit for livestock, friendless and skint, through wondering about a handsome face and clever repartee. I needed to learn some DIY skills, fast, so that visits from the mystery man next door could stop.
