She had to make this one a success.
Chapter 9
Charlie was in a self-congratulatory mood the morning after Becky’s latest visit. Although still sceptical of Becky’s abilities, hiring her had brought him a shower of praise from Phoebe and Lauren. They were excited by the possibilities Becky represented and their enthusiasm was infectious.
Not bothering with a shower or breakfast, he threw on an old grey T-shirt, running shorts and well-worn trainers, and started the morning run which had been part of his daily routine for over five years.
Outside the air was warm and clear, further bolstering Charlie’s positive mindset. Humming to himself, he slotted his mobile and keys into his armband, adjusted his headphones and began to trot down Station Avenue. In the distance, one of his neighbours was having their grass cut. The steady buzz of a lawnmower and a fresh, spirit-lifting scent drifted over him as he made progress through the shade cast by the beech trees in the Avenue’s central verge.
At the end of the street he turned on his music and quickened his pace.
Two minutes of frantic button-pushing later he ripped the phone from his arm. A quick inspection confirmed his suspicions: someone had messed with his music. Over fifty albums had vanished, replaced by one playlist in which none of the two dozen tracks were labelled.
Unwilling to run without a soundtrack, and driven by the remnants of his sunny state of mind, he put his indignation to one side, repositioned the armband, pressed ‘play’ and set off.
As Charlie settled into his run, on the other side of town Becky was helping Dylan down the step into the back garden. She opened his sandbox and waited to see whether he was in the mood for outdoor play. On a good day the simple plastic shell with a few toys could keep him amused for long enough for her to get some work done. Today she was in luck. Dylan clapped, grabbed his spade and settled into some major excavation work. This left her free to sit at the garden table and study the seating chart for this weekend’s wedding. From the notes she had taken during her meeting with the groom, she saw subtle changes were needed to avoid reigniting a dormant feud between the two sides of the bride’s family.
She was close to finishing when the doorbell rang. Becky checked her watch and smiled. Phoebe certainly knew her dad’s routines; she had predicted his arrival time to the minute. She positioned her pens to prevent any papers taking flight and scooped up Dylan who giggled and squirmed as she tickled him.
‘Come on, poppet. Charlie’s here,’ she said as they made for the front door, arriving just as the ringing was replaced by some aggressive knocking. ‘Coming!’ she shouted, struggling to hold Dylan while hunting for the keys. On the other side of the door, Charlie was muttering and pacing. The words ‘Bloody woman, who does she think she is?’ were the most distinctive. Becky fiddled with the keys and decided to wait thirty seconds before venturing outside.
When she finally eased the door open, Charlie had given up pacing and was leaning against the wall next to the front window, lowering his heels to the ground and gasping as he stretched. Becky was wondering how best to interrupt when Dylan laughed and Charlie looked up.
‘Morning, Charlie,’ Becky said, hoisting the toddler higher up her hip and adjusting his sun hat to better shade his eyes. ‘Dylan, this is Charlie. Say “hello”.’
‘Bee!’ chirped Dylan.
‘Don’t be offended,’ she said. ‘“Bee” is his word for “hello” and “goodbye”.’
She was the first to admit her bias, but Becky defied anyone to stay angry when faced with her son’s undeniable cuteness. Fluttering under the brim of his hat, two circles of long dark lashes framed Dylan’s eyes which sparkled above a pair of rosy, chubby cheeks. He regarded Charlie quizzically and reached for his beard.
Becky drew back, putting Charlie’s facial hair out of harm’s way. ‘Come in, come in. You must want some water.’ She took a few steps inside. ‘If you close the door after you I can put this beastie down. He tries to make a break for it if I leave it open. Come through.’
She led him straight into the living room of her skinny end-of-terrace. The stairs were immediately in front of them, although getting up them would have involved vaulting over Dylan’s buggy.
Becky made her way to the kitchen, trying to picture her home through Charlie’s eyes. Her smooth magnolia walls must seem insipid compared to the colours, textures and motifs of the reproduction Victorian wallpaper in the Old Station House. Colour in Becky’s house was provided by Dylan’s bright and often garish toys which littered every visible surface. At least she’d had the chance to clean last night. Mess was acceptable; dirt was not.
When Charlie entered the kitchen, his water was waiting for him. He drank it down in a series of long chugs, then said, ‘Thank you,’ as he put the glass down next to the sink.
Dylan had found his way back to the sandbox and chattered nonsense while stuffing all his toys into a bucket. As they watched him through the window, Becky observed Charlie out of the corner of her eye. She had anticipated this visit when she asked Phoebe to acquire her dad’s phone, report on his choice of workout soundtrack, and then change it. Medicine was often unpleasant, especially when administered unexpectedly and by a relative stranger.
‘I imagine you’re here about The Sunshine Mix?’
Leaning on the countertop, Charlie snorted. ‘So that’s what you call what you, and I assume Phoebe, have done to my music?’
Becky laughed.
He crossed his arms. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘Oh come on. It is.’ She gave his shoulder a small shove before whipping her hand away from the sweat-drenched cotton. ‘You’d agree if you could see how grumpy you look.’
Charlie glanced down at his stance and uncrossed his arms.
‘Your music is safe. Phoebe backed it up. Lighten up,’ she said with a smile. ‘If a bit of Katrina and the Waves and Beach Boys is going to upset you like this, I don’t know what’s going to happen once I start digging about in your finances and love life.’
Charlie’s eyebrows shot up and Becky had to swallow another chuckle. It was impossible to take him seriously in his current state. Sweat glistened in his excessive hair and the uncovered parts of his face were flushed. Although she was slightly distracted from her amusement by the intriguing contrast between the unkempt bushiness above his shoulders and the impressive solidity of the muscles visible through the soaked grey T-shirt. It was such a startling mismatch. Like coming across an impressive oak four-poster bed, only to be disappointed by a lumpy mattress and missing pillows.
She patted him on the arm. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
Despite her reassurance, Charlie’s scowl lingered until Dylan came back into the kitchen with a ball and started to bash it against his legs.
‘Bol, bol!’
Becky picked up the ball and offered it to Charlie. ‘A rough translation would be: “Excuse me, good sir, would you care to play with me?”’
Charlie took the ball, crouched down to Dylan’s level and threw it into the living room. Dylan chortled and, arms waving wildly, set off after it. There was a ghost of a smile on Charlie’s face as he stood up. ‘Well, I suppose it is difficult to hate “Mr Blue Sky”.’