Free Julia Gets a Life by Lynne Barrett-Lee Page B

advanced, but serious enough that I had to arrange my face into something that didn’t involve my tongue hanging out. But he was chirpy.
                ‘She’s just fine, as it happens. Sounded really upbeat. Her consultant’s very pleased with her. Should we open the French doors as well, then? I don’t think it’s cold out. Shall I go and ask Moira?’
                I had a vision of us in a Fantasia type cartoon. Going through one set of doors, then another, then another, until we eventually emerged in a forest carpeted with pretty cartoon flowers, wearing loin cloths and holding hands, while little birds fluttered about with ribbons in their beaks.
                ‘I think she said to, didn’t she? I guess we could sit outside, even. Even if they don’t want to, I suppose we....Yes, open them.’
                Oh, God. Burble, burble, burble.
                Howard did so, and the scent of jasmine was replaced by the unmistakable perfume of dew dampened grass on a cool summer night. In the distance, the moon spread a soft milky glow over the hills of the graig, and the stars hung in fairy strings, twinkling and bright. It was just like in a period dramatisation of something by Dickens - apart from Moira’s rustic wood donkey-shaped planter.
                ‘Max,’ I said, hoping to play my advantage. ‘How’s he doing right now? I’ve been so worried about him - more than Emma in fact. Him and Richard, well... Well, he does seem more settled at home.’ More settled than what? His father has given him state of the art iPod technology and pays him £10 to wash his car every week.
                ‘Doing well,’ Howard confirmed, striding across the patio with one hand in his chinos, then turning, arrestingly, his handsome profile tinged with gold from the halogen lamp. He smiled. ‘Very well, considering.’
                ‘And the cricket?’
                ‘Which reminds me, ‘ he said suddenly. ‘I’ve been looking into getting the school registered this new initiative the Sports Council are setting up. It involves the kids getting coaching from Welsh Internationals and so on. Tell you what. Let me take a note of your home number and I’ll give you a ring with more details.’ Then he whipped out a pen and a scrap of paper.
                ‘242478’ I said.
                ‘242478. Great.’
     
    *
     
     
                The telephone rang at 00.21. So exotic, so daring. Written in the stars. (Plus reasonable alcohol intake.)
                 ‘Hello Julia,’ he breathed. ‘Did I wake you?’ As if.
                ‘I’m in bed,’ I answered. ‘But I wasn’t actually asleep.’
                ‘I thought not.’ Such breathtaking confidence, too. ‘Well. Er... Cricket.’
                I loved that ‘Er’.
                ‘Are you in bed?’
                ‘Yep.’
                ‘Cricket?’
                ‘I didn’t really call you to talk about cricket.’
                ‘No, I know.’
                And then there was a pause. Just a tiny pause. But enough of one to make it quite clear that Howard was hovering meaningfully at the other end of the phone, and thinking of what to say next. Then he said ‘Well.’ Again.
                 ‘I’m sorry?’
                ‘Well, I sort of thought you might feel you need a friend right now. How do you feel about dinner?’
                Did he mean the dinner we’d just eaten or Dinner as a concept? It couldn’t be a repetition of an invitation. He hadn’t actually asked me to dinner yet.
                ‘Dinner?’
                ‘Yes, dinner. Us.’
                His voice was so deep that it resonated down the wire. Then I also remembered the contours of his