If Willow had been a gambling person, she’d have bet a tenner that in another twelve months Charlie would have proposed. After all, he was five years older than her, and many of his mates had married. He’d been to more stag stitch-ups in the last two years than an events company. He surely had no bachelor friends left. Many were now busy helping wives prepare the spare room as a nursery. The days of Friday nights in trendy wine bars were over. Very occasionally one or two of Charlie’s friends were let off the marital leash for a pint at the local pub. Lately Charlie had lamented, “At this rate there will be no one left to have a drink with. They all rush home to have quality time bathing baby Bianca or little Logan.” Indeed, it was only colleague Ben who remained unmarried. Like Charlie, Ben lived with his girlfriend. However, Anna wasn’t bothered about marriage. She’d also told Ben she would never wreck her tummy muscles having his kids.
Willow transferred the sauce into the pan of browned mince. While she stirred, her thoughts remained on Anna. Willow didn’t like to admit it, but she didn’t resonate with Ben’s girlfriend. Whenever they occasionally made up a foursome for a Saturday night curry, it was always Ben and Charlie who did most of the talking. If Anna did make conversation, it would only ever be about her latest promotion or her next marketing campaign. Invariably such meetings took place in the boardrooms of glamorous European cities. On the one occasion Anna had thought to ask Willow how her job at the library was going, she’d stifled a yawn and then started scrolling through her mobile. Anna had made it obvious she wasn’t remotely interested in hearing about bossy Jean or how Willow sometimes had to stay late to finish cataloguing.
Shaking dried spaghetti into a saucepan, Willow decided not to boil it up just yet. She didn’t want the pasta to be a soggy mess by the time Charlie arrived home. Hopefully he’d only be another half hour or so. The commute from London was a swift one thanks to living fifteen minutes from Ebbsfleet International and its highspeed railway.
Suddenly there was the sound of a key in the door.
‘I’m home,’ yodelled a familiar voice.
‘Charlie!’
Willow abandoned her cooking and bounded into the hallway.
‘You’re early. How lovely.’
‘Come here,’ he said, kicking off his shoes and pulling her into his arms. ‘I couldn’t stand another moment at the office. Getting home to you suddenly seemed far more important.’
He kissed her full on the mouth, making her squirm with pleasure.
‘Am I forgiven?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’
He sniffed the air appreciatively.
‘Mm. Something smells good.’
‘Your favourite.’
‘Let me get out of this suit.’
‘I’ll go and put the pasta on.’
As Charlie took the stairs two at a time, Willow heard the faint ping of a text message on her boyfriend’s mobile. Seconds later he was in their bedroom and out of sight.
Upstairs, Charlie reached for the phone in his jacket pocket. A text. He smirked. Nice one. It was good to be wanted. But he really did need to cool it with the sender. This was never meant to have happened. Apart from anything else, the lady was getting a bit needy. Better to concentrate on Willow and mending bridges, especially before he went away this weekend. His work department had to go to a boring convention in Birmingham. Regrettably it was compulsory attendance. On the upside, if temptation should come his way, at least it wouldn’t be on his doorstep – unlike the sender of this text.
Charlie sighed. At some point he’d have to break things off. Gently of course. No doubt there would be tears. He would be a gentleman and let her cry on his shoulder. He’d pass her a tissue to dab her pretty eyes all the while murmuring it was better this way, and of course she wouldn’t want to hurt Willow by ever blurting out what they’d done, would she?
Charlie was fairly certain she wouldn’t let the cat out of the bag. After all, she said she loved Willow too. If she really meant that – and Charlie thought she did – then his secret was safe.
He chose to ignore the nagging voice in his head that, lately, had started to taunt him.
The truth will always out…
Six
Charlie had barely sat down at the kitchen table when he was on his feet again.
‘What’s the matter?’ Willow asked in alarm.
‘We’ve forgotten something.’
‘The Parmesan is on the table.’
‘No, not that.’
Charlie was now rummaging around in the cupboard under the sink. A moment later and he’d extracted a tealight from Willow’s emergency “power cut pack”.
‘There,’ he said, setting the candle down on the table between them.
Moments later a flaming match had been put to its wick.
‘That’s more like it.’
Willow nearly fell off her chair. What a romantic touch, and Charlie had done that with no prompting whatsoever.
‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking his glass of red against hers. ‘Now tell me all about your day at the library. I trust no members of the public upset anyone. The last thing Mosley needs is a sighting of Jean in a strop. Is she aware that anger makes her mammoth bosoms quiver like unset jelly?’
Willow gave a snort of laughter, then told Charlie all about the little old lady and her carrier bag of cucumbers. Charlie let her waffle on. It allowed him to eat without interruption and my goodness he was hungry. Ben had popped out at lunchtime to get himself a sandwich. Charlie had asked if he’d get him a couple too. He’d asked for a peanut butter and tuna. When Ben had dropped the paper bag in front of him, Charlie hadn’t bothered to check inside, instead taking a huge mouthful of wholemeal. Seconds later he’d nearly spat it across his keyboard.
‘What the hell is this?’ he’d spluttered, trying not to gag.
‘Peanut butter and tuna,’ Ben had said. ‘That’s what you asked for. That’s what you’ve got.’
‘Yes, but not together,’ Charlie had replied, rolling his eyes. ‘One peanut butter. One tuna.’
He’d chucked the disgusting sandwiches in the bin.
‘What’s the matter with you? Your concentration has been off all morning.’
‘Nothing,’ Ben had replied moodily.
But Charlie had known otherwise. Something was up. Ben would tell him in his own time. He always did. No doubt he’d confide what was wrong this weekend when they were in Birmingham, relaxing over a drink or two.
‘That reminds me,’ said Charlie, interrupting Willow’s flow about a display of courgettes.
What the hell was that all about?
‘Don’t forget I’m away this weekend.’
‘Oh,’ said Willow in disappointment. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Another boring work convention,’ said Charlie, winding spaghetti around his fork. ‘I’m sure I told you.’
‘I must have forgotten. What a shame. Ah well, in that case I might as well spend Saturday with Emma.’
Charlie’s fork froze mid-air.
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why spend Saturday with Emma?’