Part 7 – OCTOBER
So. I’m standing in between two suits of armour, wearing a woolly jumper, staring into the middle distance.
My life has got stranger with Tiffy in it. Have never been afraid of a strange life, but lately have grown rather . . . comfortable. Set in my ways, as Kay used to say.
Can’t stay that way for long with Tiffy around.
She’s helping Katherin style us models. The other two are waif-like teens; Martin is staring at them as if they’re edible. They’re nice, but conversation dried up after we caught up on this year’s Bake Off, and I’m now just counting down the minutes until Tiffy next gets to come over and adjust my woolly jumper in indiscernible ways that (I’m pretty sure) are just excuses to touch me.
Lordy Lord Illustrator flits around set. He is a pleasant posh gentleman; his castle is a little ramshackle, but it has rooms and suitably epic views, so everyone seems happy.
Except Martin. I joked with Tiffy about plotting his downfall, but when he’s not salivating over the other models, he looks as if he’s trying to work out the easiest way to push me off the battlements. Can’t figure it out. Nobody here knows about Tiffy and me – we thought that was simplest. But am wondering if he’s worked it out. If he does know, though, why would he care enough to glare at me so much?
Ah, well. I do as I’m told and stare in slightly different direction. Am just grateful to get away from the flat this weekend; had a bad feeling Justin would appear. He will eventually. Clearly wasn’t finished when he left last Saturday. And yet he’s been quiet since. No flowers, no texts, no turning up wherever Tiffy is despite having no way of knowing where she might happen to be. Suspicious. I’m worried he is biding his time for something. Men like that don’t go away after a little scare.
Try not to yawn (have been awake for many, many hours, with only small naps). I let my gaze drift in Tiffy’s direction. She’s in wellies and blue tie-dyed jeans, lounging sideways on an enormous Game of Thrones-style chair that stands in the corner of the armoury and probably isn’t intended for sitting on. Catch a glimpse of smooth skin as she shifts, her cardigan falling open. Swallow. Return gaze to particular bit of middle distance insisted upon by photographer.
Martin: All right, let’s take a twenty-minute break!
I make a run for it before he can commandeer me into doing something other than talking to Tiffy (so far, have had to spend my breaks moving ancient weaponry, hoovering up errant straw, and checking tiny graze on finger of one of the waif-like models).
Me, on approaching Tiffy’s throne chair: What is that man’s problem with me?
Tiffy shakes her head and swings her legs around to get up.
Tiffy: Really, I have no idea. He’s even more of a dick to you than the rest of us, though, isn’t he?
Rachel, in a hiss, from behind me: Run! Flee! Incoming!
Tiffy doesn’t need telling twice. She grabs my hand and drags me away in the direction of the front hall (gigantic stone cavern with three staircases).
Katherin, shouting after us: Are you leaving me to deal with him on my own?
Tiffy: Bloody hell, woman! Just imagine he’s a Tory MP in the seventies, all right?
I don’t turn around to see Katherin’s reaction, but can hear Rachel’s snort of laughter. Tiffy pulls me into ornate nook that looks as if it might once have housed a statue, and kisses me hard on the mouth.
Tiffy: All this staring at you all day. It’s unbearable. And I am viciously jealous of everyone else getting to do it too.
Feels like sipping something warm – spreads downwards from my chest, pulls my lips into a smile. Don’t know quite what to say, so kiss her instead. Her body presses mine against the cold stone wall, her hands twining around my neck.
Tiffy, against my mouth: Next weekend.
Me: Hmm?
(Am busy kissing.)
Tiffy: It’ll be just the two of us. Alone. In our flat. And if anyone interrupts us or drags you off to administer to an eighteen-year-old’s scratched finger, I will personally have them executed.
Pauses.
Tiffy: Sorry. This whole castle setting is clearly getting into my head.
Pull back, search her face. Have I not told her? I must have told her.
Tiffy: What? What is it?
Me: Richie’s trial is on Friday. Sorry. I’m staying at Mam’s for the weekend afterwards – didn’t I tell you?
Feel a familiar fear. This will be the start of an unpleasant conversation – have forgotten to tell her something, am changing her plans . . .
Tiffy: No! Are you serious?
Stomach writhes. Reach to pull her in again, but she bats my hands away, eyes wide.
Tiffy: You didn’t tell me! Leon – I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, but – Katherin’s book launch . . .
I’m confused now. Why is she sorry?
Tiffy: I wanted to be there, but it’s Katherin’s book launch on the Friday. I can’t believe this. Will you tell Richie to call when I’m in the flat, so I can apologise properly?
Me: For what?
Tiffy rolls her eyes impatiently.
Tiffy: For not being able to come to his appeal!
Stare at her. Blink a bit. Relax as I realise she is in fact not angry with me.
Me: Never would expect . . .
Tiffy: Are you joking? You didn’t think I was going to be there? It’s Richie!
Me: You really wanted to come?
Tiffy: Yes, Leon. I really, really wanted to come.
Poke her in the cheek with one finger.
Tiffy, already laughing: Ow! What was that for?
Me: You’re real? A real-life human female?
Tiffy: Yes, I’m real, you idiot.
Me: Implausible. How are you so nice, and also very pretty? You’re a myth, no? You’ll turn into an ogre at stroke of midnight?
Tiffy: Stop it. Bloody hell, you have low standards! Why shouldn’t I want to come to your brother’s appeal? He’s my friend too. I actually spoke to him before I spoke to you, I’ll have you know.
Me: I’m glad you didn’t meet him first. He is much more attractive than me.
Tiffy wiggles eyebrows.
Tiffy: Is that why you didn’t mention the appeal date?
Scuff feet. Thought I’d told her. She squeezes my arm.
Tiffy: It’s all right, honestly, I’m just teasing.
Think of the months of notes and leftover dinners, the never knowing her. Feels so different now I’ve met her. Can’t believe I wasted all that time – not just those months, but the time before that, the years of dawdling, settling, waiting.
Me: No, I should’ve told you. We should get better at this. We can’t keep relying on snatching days together as and when. Or on colliding by accident.
I pause, testing a thought. Could switch to the occasional day shift? Stay in the flat one night a week? Open my mouth to suggest it, but Tiffy’s eyes have gone wide and serious, almost nervous, and I freeze, suddenly sure it’s the wrong thing to say. Then, after a moment:
Tiffy, brightly: How about a calendar on the fridge?
Right. That’s probably more appropriate – it’s early days. Am being far too keen.
Glad I didn’t say anything now.
