‘Erm . . .’ Merrin wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Mum’ll be out in a minute. She’s just finishing off.’ She thumbed in the direction of the house.
‘Yes, of course. Would you like a drink? It’s jolly hot.’
‘No, no, I’m fine, thank you.’
Her mum had reminded her in no uncertain terms of the protocol when in a client’s house: ‘No break and no slacking. They might offer a drink or snack, but won’t be thankful if you accept. We go in and out as quickly as we can with the least fuss, noise and interruption, and we do the very best job.’
‘Like cleaning ninjas.’
‘Exactly. Like cleaning ninjas.’ Heather had smiled.
As Mrs Mortimer opened the wide front door that led to the grand hallway with the newly cleaned floor, Merrin felt her heart boom in her chest as she stared at his face.
‘Mum! I’ve been looking for you – fancy a game of tennis? It’ll be quick – I’ll thrash you and then you can get back to your roses or whatever it is you’re doing.’
‘You are so mean to your poor, aged mother!’ Mrs Mortimer gave a soft laugh.
Merrin watched as the woman put the pannier on the low front wall, next to a vast stone urn full of blue hydrangeas, and placed her gauntlets neatly next to the vase.
‘Forgot to say, my son is home for the holibobs. He is frightfully noisy, and very rude about my tennis ability, but jolly good fun!’
Merrin watched the boy walk slowly from the house. He was tall and broad and, in his pyjama bottoms and a crumpled navy linen shirt, didn’t exactly look ready for tennis, despite the wooden racket that rested over his shoulder. He had short, auburn hair and beautiful pale skin, which looked as though it had never been kissed by the sun or felt the sting of the sea. Very unlike the weather-beaten, leathery tan that graced the faces of her dad or Jarvis and Robin, who spent their time on the water or the shoreline in all seasons.
He stopped short and stared at Merrin, and she felt her face colour under his scrutiny.
‘Hi!’ He lifted his free hand in a wave, even though he was standing close.
‘Hi.’ She held his gaze, fascinated and drawn by this man, who was, she knew, a little older than her, but not much. His shirt hung from his slender frame to reveal the sharp bite of his pale shoulder blade; the small shadow beneath his clavicle held a particular fascination for her. She wanted nothing more than to reach out and run her finger over it, and curled her fingers into bunched fists to stop herself from doing just this. He blinked under her intense gaze and smiled. Mrs Mortimer made her way into the house. Not that she saw her go, but she was glad nonetheless for the chance to be alone with this boy.
Merrin felt an awakening inside her like a deep, low hum in the base of her gut that sent ripples out along her limbs. She wanted to stare at him and the urge to touch him didn’t lessen. It had been the longest time since she had found anyone of interest. But this . . . the way standing in front of this stranger made her feel was something else entirely. Excitement fizzed in her veins and her mouth felt dry with nerves. He was sophisticated, worldly and posh – all things that drew her. Merrin knew she needed to work hard to carve out a successful life, but wanted more than to wake each morning wondering where the money was coming from to put coal on the fire.
The boy stared back and she didn’t look away. His eyes were of the palest blue and there was something in the way he looked at her that felt familiar, as if he knew her. Yes, it sounded ridiculous, improbable, and yet the pull of him was strong. It was all she could do not to reach out and touch his face, wanting to confirm that he was real.
‘I was hoping for a game of tennis, but they say there’s a storm coming in and I’m not keen enough to play in a downpour.’
‘They say a lot of things, these weather people, mostly rubbish. If you want to know the weather, look out of the window, that’s what my dad says.’ She took in his profile as he stared out over the skyline.
‘Is he a meteorologist?’
‘No. A fisherman.’
‘I see. And what do you say? Do you think it’s possible to go from warm sunshine on a day like this to a raging storm?’
‘Yes, I think anything’s possible in Port Charles.’
‘Is that right?’ Those eyes and that smile were enough to make her feel quite heady. ‘You’re Heather’s daughter.’
‘Yep, one of them.’ She raised her left shoulder slightly and tilted her head the way she had practised in the mirror, knowing it made her look slimmer and, she thought, a little prettier too. ‘I’ve not seen you for a long time. I remember you playing here in the garden when I came up once with Mum when I was small.’ She wished she had something better to say, something witty or interesting.
‘I’ve been away at boarding school in Bristol since I was seven and we have a place there, so I’ve tended to stay where my mates are or I go abroad during the holidays. I’ve been here at Christmas time, but I haven’t seen you in the pub or anything.’
‘Don’t really go to the pub,’ she admitted, wishing she had gone to the pub if it might have meant bumping into him, and wishing she could give him details of her fabulous life and where she did go. ‘Oh, I’m usually in a wine bar somewhere!’ or ‘My family has a yacht!’ The wine bar was in fact Bella’s dad’s shed, where they sipped and grimaced as they swigged his home-made blackberry wine from a murky, sticky-rimmed bottle, and the family yacht was the stinky little trawler Sally-Mae, named in part after her great-gran, whose portrait hung over her mum and dad’s fireplace.
‘I’m Digby.’ He gave the name she already knew and looked at her as if taking her in, smiling, seemingly liking what he saw. It made her heart give a little skip.
‘Digby,’ she repeated with a small nod, holding his eyeline.
‘Well, that’s going to be tricky!’
‘What is?’ She wondered what she had missed, lost in listening to the perfect roundness of his vowels and his accent, which placed him beyond the county boundary.
‘If you’re called Digby, too, it could be a tad confusing.’
‘Oh!’ She laughed. ‘No, I just wanted to say your name. I’m Merrin.’
‘Merrin, yes, I knew that. It’s a great name; it reminds me of the sea. Merrin . . .’ He sounded it out perfectly. ‘Why did you?’ He took a step closer.
‘Why did I what?’ She shook her head and swallowed, her heart clattered in her chest and her words stuck on her tongue.
‘Want to say my name?’ He moved closer still and leant forward, resting his forearms on the wall. The closeness of him was almost dizzying.
‘I don’t know.’ She stared at her feet, wishing she weren’t wearing her tatty daps and wanting to rewind and be a little cooler, a little less open and a whole lot cleaner.
‘Well, for what it’s worth, I like you saying my name. And I like saying yours, Merrin.’
‘Digby.’ She looked up as he turned to face her and, with the sun behind his head, lighting up the space behind him like a halo, she thought he might be the most beautiful person she had ever seen.
‘So, what is there to do here? My mum and dad love it, but I always find it so quiet!’