‘On and off, but I don’t even know her last name.’
‘Do you have a Facebook page?’
I’ve searched for him a few times over the years, but not in a while.
He confirms what I thought. ‘No.’
‘What if she tries to look for you?’
He shrugs, then puts his fork down and reaches for his wine glass.
Has he really given up on ever seeing her again?
‘I don’t want to overstep the mark,’ I say gently. ‘But it wouldn’t have to be a big thing: just your name and photo, and you could mention her in your bio.’
He nods. ‘Yeah, that makes sense. I guess I just don’t want to get my hopes up again.’
‘That’s understandable.’
We move onto lighter topics after that, and the more he drinks, the more relaxed he becomes. By the time we’ve finished dessert, we’re two thirds of the way through two bottles of booze. I’m feeling light-headed but happy, and George seems very chilled on the red.
We take our glasses through to the living room, just as Mum arrives home.
‘Hello, you two!’ She beams at us from the doorway, her cheeks flushed.
‘Who gave you a lift?’ I ask.
We heard the car pull up, but earlier she was insistent on walking back across the fields.
‘Robin. He and Becky came back a short while ago. Oh, I tell you what, their place is going to be lovely.’ She perches on the arm of the sofa opposite. ‘Veronica and William gave me a tour. They’re starting to think they should have the barn conversion and give Rebecca and Robin the farmhouse.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Veronica hates the stairs. So do I, after my fall. Maybe it’s something we could think about—’
‘What fall?’ I interrupt with alarm.
‘When I twisted my ankle.’ Mum waves away my concern. ‘But maybe we could think about converting the Bunny Barn for me one day. You could have the house for your family. I only mean if you decided to stay!’ she says at the look on my face. ‘Oh, never mind. I’m drunk. I’m going to bed,’ she adds brusquely, getting to her feet. ‘Night, night. George, there’s the spare room if you don’t want to bother with a taxi. I wouldn’t.’
‘Night,’ he calls after her with amusement, before meeting my eyes. ‘I’ve never seen your mam blathered before.’
‘Looks like she had a great time.’
I’m pleased. I know she’s still finding it hard without Dad – incredibly so at times. Socialising with their old friends must really bring his absence home.
‘You could stay,’ I say. ‘I bet Mum’d do us a fry-up in the morning if you did.’
‘Benefits to living at home, eh?’
‘Loads of benefits.’
‘Bit worrying about her fall,’ he muses.
I nod. ‘I knew she’d hurt her ankle, but I didn’t know she’d done it falling down the stairs. We could do with a second railing on the other side of the wall to give her something else to hold onto.’
‘I could put one up,’ George offers.
‘You’re already doing so much.’
‘I don’t mind. I’d like to.’
‘Thank you,’ I say sincerely. ‘It’s nice that you want to look out for her.’
‘Not only her.’
I meet his eyes for a long moment before glancing away and tucking my hair behind my ear. George leans forward and brushes a stray strand away from my face. My breath catches.
‘Sorry,’ he mutters, withdrawing. ‘I’ve wanted to do that all night.’
So this is what he’s like when he’s drunk, I think, dizzily.
‘Gah,’ he says quietly, scrubbing his face with his hand.
Smiling, I reach forward and pull his hand down. He shyly rests his arm along the back of the sofa.
‘I still can’t believe you got an alpaca tattoo.’ I lean closer to study his ink. ‘Do you have any others? Or only the ones I’ve seen?’
‘I don’t know which ones you’ve seen.’
‘Your silver birch, your ink pen and your compass,’ I reel off.
And ‘Little one’, of course, although I haven’t seen that one for many years. I can’t quite bring myself to look at it again tonight.
He runs his hand up his arm to the inside of his biceps.
‘You’ve got one there?’ I ask. ‘What is it?’
He looks at me, a funny smile on his face. He shrugs. ‘It’s under my shirt.’
‘So take off your shirt. You’ve got a T-shirt on underneath.’
‘I don’t know, Leah,’ he mumbles, scratching his chin and looking embarrassed.
Oh God, I love him drunk!
My face must’ve lit up with glee because when he looks at me, he laughs a little.
‘I must be mad,’ he says as he shrugs his shirt off.
My eyes widen at the sight of him. Frankly, he’s a work of art without his tattoos.
He slowly turns his toned, tanned arm over to show me the sloping scrawl stretched around the inside of his biceps.
I shift onto my knees, trying to get even closer.
‘What does it say?’ I’m intrigued as I take his arm and hold it steady. ‘It looks like Ye Olde English.’
He chuckles. ‘Actually, it’s Middle English, not Old English – if you want to be pedantic,’ he adds, gently mocking himself. ‘It’s Chaucer. “As an ook cometh of a litel spyr”.’
I gape at him with delight, and once more his cheeks warm.
‘It’s the origin of “Mighty oaks from little acorns grow”,’ he explains self-consciously. ‘Spyr is a sapling.’
My breathing spikes and he holds my gaze. Goosebumps shiver over his arm and with a jolt, I let him go, returning to my previous position on the sofa. He slides his arm back into his shirt.
‘You’ve got memories of us etched all over your skin,’ I whisper, staggered, as he finishes putting his shirt back on.
‘You’ve always been with me,’ he replies earnestly, meeting my eyes.
My heart trips and stumbles.
This is too much. Too intense. I try to think of another topic, something lighter to ease the tension.
All I can think of, in my stupor, is, ‘Shall we crack open the chocolates?’
I get up and go into the kitchen, feeling unsteady. I should probably stop drinking. Filling up the kettle, I glance through to the living room. George is sitting on the sofa with his feet planted firmly on the floor, his hand cupping his chin and his eyes on the wall opposite.
‘Actually, do you want a coffee?’ I call through to him.
He starts at my question. ‘Er, sure.’
‘Can you grab the coffee jar from the larder cupboard?’ I ask when he comes through.
He crosses the room while I try to focus on clearing my head. Fat chance. I’m ludicrously tipsy. I look over after a while to see George staring at the inside wall of the larder cupboard. He’s found the height chart.
‘We never did paint over them,’ I say as I walk over to join him.
‘There are so many,’ he replies with amazement, tracing his fingers over Ashlee’s name.
‘I know. There’s barely enough room for Emilie.’ I hesitate, but the words are coming out whether I want them to or not. ‘Does Emilie remind you of Sophie?’