I shook my head. Nathan’s apparent concern was enough to allow the thoughts which had been keeping me awake most of the night to not seem so melodramatic after all. I was overtired, overwrought and totally lost inside my own head. It was hardly surprising that a big, fat tear squeezed out and rolled down my cheek. If anything, I was impressed it was only one.
‘Come on, let’s get inside. It’s freezing out here.’ Nathan took me by the shoulders and gently steered me into the kitchen, guiding me to a chair.
‘I don’t want to cancel the challenge. I’m not failing right at the start,’ I said. At least, I think that’s what it was, it was hard to decipher, what with all the sniffing and sobbing and sappy loserness going on.
‘Nothing wrong with adapting the challenge to suit new circumstances.’ Nathan was rummaging around in my fridge. ‘If you had flu, or a broken leg, or something came up with Joey, you’d do it.’ He pulled back out again, a carton in one hand. ‘Eggs Benedict?’
‘I’ll cook it.’ I straightened my shoulders, found a tissue in my pocket and did a weirdly elephantine blow of my nose. ‘I might have forfeited the right to force Danish pastries and hot chocolate on you, but I’m not letting you get away with cooking some Mr Natural version of eggs, either.’
He hesitated. Because he wanted to cook me a nice, comforting breakfast or himself a horrible, healthy one, I wasn’t sure.
‘Fine. You cook. I’ll set the table.’
And he did. After dragging it outside into a dazzling patch of sunshine in the back garden first.
* * *
Deep breaths. Counting to ten, slowly. Finding a focal point. I refused to hold Nathan’s hand. No way on this earth we were going to eat breakfast while holding hands across the table. Especially with my son’s window overlooking the garden. So, yes, the focal point did appear to be Nathan’s face, but that was okay. It’s generally considered normal to be looking (staring intently!)at someone’s face when making conversation, isn’t it?
And making conversation seemed to work, too. Especially when I talked fast and loud enough to drown out my anxiety, which did entail talking without registering any thoughts. Probably not the best conversation style, but, hey, Nathan was here to help.
‘You replied to my message fast. What were you doing up at six on a Saturday?’
‘I was heading to the gym.’ Nathan poked his breakfast, dubiously.
‘Do you go every day?’
‘Not Wednesday or Sunday.’
‘What do you do there? I mean, I don’t need your whole routine. But weights, cardio, Zumba? I heard they did a new booty bounce class on weekends.’
‘I was working.’ He carefully sliced off a tiny corner of his pancake – the only slither not drenched in maple syrup.
‘Working what?’
‘A client.’ He froze, fork halfway to his mouth. At first I thought it was his muscles refusing to cooperate with the pancake. ‘I mean, I was training a client. At work. Not working a client…’ His voice trailed off and he stuffed the chunk of batter into his mouth.
‘Yes. I got that.’
Nathan had turned the same colour as the bacon balanced on top of his pancake stack.
‘I don’t even know whatworking a clientwould mean.’ I could kind of guess, but this was getting interesting, and interesting went a long way in helping me not to tip the table over and run inside screaming.
‘Nothing. It means nothing. As far as I know.’ He shovelled in another forkful, not even trying to sneakily let the syrup drip off his fork onto the grass. My suspicions grew.
‘Who were you training?’ I asked, oh so cool and breezy.
‘I don’t discuss client information…’
‘Is she pretty?’
‘Um, not, well. I…’
‘Ugly?’
‘No!’
‘Pretty then.’
