Free Conditional Love by Cathy Bramley Page B

twisted with both hands. My cheeks were pink and I could feel a prickle of heat under my armpits.
    ‘Actually, I find dogs easier to understand than people,’ he said, watching me struggle again.
    ‘Oh, right.’
    What was that syndrome that Doc Martin off the telly had, calls a spade a spade? Asperger’s? How did I manage to choose a man who prefers dogs to humans for my second professional opinion?
    I gave the door a hard shove and it opened. A pile of junk mail had wedged itself under the door. I picked up the letters and surreptitiously laid a hand on my face. As I thought. I was steaming hot and therefore probably purple with exertion.
    ‘Shall I take my shoes off?’ he asked, following me into the hall.
    I waved a hand dismissively. ‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, glancing too late at his chunky-soled boots, which looked like they’d spent the day off-roading in a muddy bog.
    I cringed as he left a trail of muddy footprints on the biscuit-coloured living room carpet, but it seemed churlish to change my mind and make him take them off.
    Nick took off his coat and hung it neatly over the back of a chair. He wasn’t big and bulky, it had been all jacket. He was quite tall still, obviously, but slim. Methodically, he removed a clipboard and a pencil from his rucksack and turned his phone onto silent.
    I bet he had been a straight ‘A’ student, never giving his parents a moment’s grief. He smiled properly for the first time, transforming his face. I smiled back, noticing how his hair was sticking up on top where his hood had been.
    ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ I asked automatically, before remembering where I was.
    Please say no.
    ‘Yes, please.’
    We both slurped away through straws at our cartons of Ribena, perched on the high-backed armchairs, teetering on the precipice of another awkward silence. I pulled my sketchpad out of my bag for wont of something to do, putting it on the coffee table between us.
    Now we were here, I felt shy. This was a man who obviously saw himself as a champion of architectural heritage, driven to preserve our old buildings, their foibles and features for future generations. And I’d brought him to view a dreary 1930s bungalow with about as much character as a Big Brother contestant.
    Sorry, Great Aunt Jane.
    ‘So,’ we both said at the same time, and then shared a polite laugh. I gestured for him to speak first.
    ‘You must be looking at a replacement scheme?’
    ‘Um?’ I shook my head, not sure what he meant. Windows maybe, or carpets?
    He took another sip from his straw and stretched a leg forward to deposit his carton on the table, leaving another brown smear on the carpet.
    ‘Demolishing this old place and building a new one,’ he explained.
    I watched in horror as his Ribena siphoned itself out of the carton and all over the cover of my sketchpad. I was only just starting to process his last statement when he lurched forward, cursing his clumsiness, and ripped the cover off the pad.
    We both looked at the sketch he’d revealed in the coverless pad. It was entitled ‘Bungalow Extension’.
    I gasped and grabbed it off him. That wasn’t for public viewing! I was mortified. So was he, judging by his expression.
    ‘I apologise. I assumed. With you mentioning Grand Designs …’ His words petered out. He laid the wet paper on the hearth, straightened the straw to stop it dribbling, rubbed a hand over his face and tweaked the tuft of hair on the top of his head.
    Ridiculous, I know, but I was insulted. He’d more or less agreed with that awful estate agent. I’d expected better.
    ‘No, it’s fine, really. Ignore the drawing. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. If anything. I’m open to suggestions.’
    You are an intelligent woman who knows her own mind, I told myself. Not strictly true, but I did recognise a good idea when I saw one. I simply had to hope this architect had some.
    ‘The reason I said that,’ said Nick, writing the date neatly in the