Free City Girl in Training by Liz Fielding

Watson.’
    â€˜Hello, Jay.’
    â€˜Make it goodbye,’ Cal said. ‘He’s just leaving.’
    Jay was indeed wearing an overcoat, but unbuttoned, as if he’d been hoping for an invitation to stay that had never materialised.
    â€˜Goodbye, Jay,’ I said. Perhaps I should have sounded sorrier to see him go, because he put down the coffee-cup with all the grace of a two-year-old in a sulk, giving me a reproachful look as he headed for the door.
    â€˜One o’clock, Cal,’ he said. ‘Time’s short so don’t be late.’
    I forced down the orange juice and attempted casual sophistication. ‘I’m sorry, I seem to have upset your, um…’ My brain shrivelled at the thought of what he might be and my mouth dried in sympathy. Cal, pouring coffee into a large bowl-shaped breakfast cup, glanced sideways at me with those unsettling eyes but didn’t help me out. ‘Partner,’ I mumbled.
    He retrieved the empty glass and replaced it with the cup of strong black coffee he’d poured. ‘Sugar?’ he asked, neither confirming nor denying it.
    He was looking down at me. His mouth wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were creased at the corners as if he found something deeply amusing. I suspected it was me. And my mind went blank. What was it about this man? He could steal my wits, reduce my calm centre to quivering mush with a look.
    Taking my silence as ‘no’, he said, ‘Milk?’
    I shook my head. And then, just to prove to myself that I remembered how, I said, ‘No, thanks. This will be fine.’
    To be honest, while I could take or leave milk, I yearned for sugar. I’d been trying to give it up, without any noticeable success, for ages. With my jeans already cutting uncomfortably into my waist, I took this timely loss of my vocal cords as a sign that I’d procrastinated for far too long and I sipped the coffee, making a brave effort not to shudder at the bitterness.
    â€˜Look,’ I said, making a real effort to get a grip of myself. ‘If you’re busy I can find my own way to Portobello Road. Despite all appearances to the contrary, I do have two brain cells to rub together.’
    â€˜I haven’t got a thing to do this morning except replace Jay’s precious umbrella.’ Which suggested one of two things. He was kind. Or he wasn’t convinced by my protestations of mental competence. Maybe he was right to be sceptical. Under the circumstances, only an idiot’s heart would be pounding in such an out-of-control way.
    Then his words—I’d been overdosing on the gravel-wrapped-in-velvet sound of his voice rather than listening to what he’d said—finally sunk in. ‘It was Jay’s umbrella?’ I said, and I didn’t have to pretend to be horrified.
    I was quite prepared to dig into my saving-up-to-get-married nest egg to replace Cal’s property. He’d been kind. He’d come to my rescue when I was being drenched by the rain. When I’d screamed in the dark.
    He’d shared his pizza, for heaven’s sake.
    I did not feel quite so generous towards Jay. I was still feeling that look he’d given me. It was like a dagger in my back.
    The feeling was mutual.
    â€˜He insisted on loaning it to me yesterday when I left his place in that downpour despite my protests that I’d probably leave it on the underground. It was, as I’ve just been told at length, infinitely precious to him and he is not amused by my carelessness.’
    I made a determined effort to ignore the stupid niggle of jealousy provoked by that ‘when I left his place’—Cal’s private life was nothing to do with me—and concentrated on the real issue. ‘It wasn’t your carelessness. It was mine,’ I said. ‘No wonder the guy had looked at me as if I was something nasty he’d stepped in.’
    Cal didn’t give me an argument about that.