‘Hey man,’ he greeted Ash at the door. ‘What’s this?’ He tugged at Ash’s beard. ‘Hipster.’
I kept my laugh to myself; a Hipster channelling Grizzly Adams, perhaps.
‘Daz, man.’ They clasped hands in typical manly fashion before clapping each other on the back. ‘This is Claire.’
‘Hi, welcome. Come on in.’ He had the lean, lanky build of a runner with pale skin and a rash of freckles running across almost skeletal cheekbones but he also a broad, open smile as he ushered us into the house with friendly ease. The difference between the two cousins was marked. Darren was as open and approachable as Ash was closed off and self-sufficient.
We stepped immediately from the threshold into an open-plan living room and kitchen. It was surprisingly bright and modern with polished wooden floors, the sort of bachelor-sized TV screen you’d expect, a pair of Scandi retro-style two-seater sofas and a breakfast bar with three stools which created a divide between the modern, glossy burgundy kitchen cabinets. On a table tucked under the stairs was an open laptop and the sort of detritus signifying someone working from home.
‘I’ve got a few things to finish up and then I’ll be right with you. Tea? Coffee?’ he asked over his shoulder as he skirted the breakfast bar. ‘And I thought we’d go to the pub for dinner. It’s just around the corner; they do good food and great beer.’ He grinned. ‘Although I stick to one pint on a Friday night these days.’
‘Bloody hell. Whatever happened?’
‘Parkrun, mate. It’s hard enough without six pints sloshing around in your belly. Why don’t you take your bags up while I put the kettle on? You’re at the top of the stairs on the right. You can’t get lost. Oh, and when you use the loo, you have to take the lid off the cistern to fiddle with the ballcock; it’s not working properly.’
Ash rolled his eyes and muttered something uncomplimentary about his cousin.
After putting in our respective drinks orders, I carefully avoided looking at Ash as we picked up our bags and went up the staircase leading from the lounge.
There was no missing the layout upstairs. One bathroom and two bedrooms.
Ash pushed open the door to a bedroom into which a double bed had just about been squeezed. A small double bed at that. One side was tucked into the wall under a window, while the other boasted a cardboard box with an Anglepoise light on it. Safe to say, Darren didn’t entertain that often.
We both stared at the bed.
‘Romcom moment,’ said Ash. ‘Looks like I’ll be sleeping on the sofa.’
Closing my eyes, I sighed. ‘Did you see the size of them? For goodness’ sake, we’re grown adults. It’s hardly going to kill us sharing a bed.’ I was not going to be the one to point out that we’d done it before. ‘And don’t you dare do the eyebrow thing.’
‘What eyebrow thing?’
‘The one where you’re all cocky and superior. If you want to sleep on the sofa, be my guest. If you want to sleep here, I’m not some Victorian miss who’s going to have the vapours. Sharing the bed is practical.’
‘It is… and it’s not as if we haven’t done it before.’ Sure enough, that flipping eyebrow cocked.
‘You just had to bring it up, didn’t you?’ I shot him a withering glare. Annoyingly, he just grinned at me.
‘Just checking you hadn’t forgotten. Sure you can keep your hands off me?’
‘Forgotten?’ I tried to be cool while inside I was heating up at the very memory of what he could do with a well-placed kiss. ‘Forgotten what?’
He grinned. ‘Need a reminder?’
‘No, thank you,’ I said primly. ‘Once was quite enough and that beard is a contraceptive in its own right. No one is going to get close enough to kiss you with that thing.’
He ducked his head but not before I saw the sudden tightening of his face and I wished I could take the words back. I’d meant them to be funny but I’d clearly struck a nerve.
The cocky attitude dropped and he scowled at me.
I felt a little ashamed of myself, especially now I realised that the loss of his job had affected him the same way as me being diagnosed with stress had affected me. The beard was as much a symbol of neglect as it was a lack of self-worth, and having listened to him in the car, I should have had a lot more sympathy.
‘Sorry, that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.’ He turned away and I gripped his arm. ‘Ash, I’m sorry. The beard bugs me. You’re a good-looking guy; you shouldn’t hide behind it. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘Thank you, Miss Harrison. Is this amateur-psychology half-hour?’
‘Why do you push people away all the time? I’m trying to be nice.’
He pushed a hand through his unruly hair but didn’t meet my steady gaze ‘Sorry. Which side do you want?’
‘I’ll take the right-hand side.’ I didn’t want to be squashed up against the wall.
‘Right.’
It was as much of a peace offering as I was going to get.
He wheeled round and went into the bathroom and when I went out into the tiny hallway, I saw he had taken the lid of the cistern off and was fiddling with the inside workings.
He glanced up. ‘Could you go and ask Darren for a tool box?’
‘Sure. Can you fix it?’
‘Just needs a small adjustment. He’s an idiot.’
‘Shall I tell him that?’
I returned a minute later with a tatty Sainsbury’s carrier bag which held a pitiful collection of assorted screwdrivers, two hammers, a pair of pliers and a spanner and handed it over with a rueful grimace.
‘That’s it?’
‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’ I held up my hands and he pursed his mouth, removing a screwdriver. I’ve no idea what he was doing but for some reason I stayed to watch as his hands deftly worked and within ten minutes he sat back on his heels.
‘That should do the trick.’
‘You’ve fixed it?’ Admiration bubbled beneath the surface of my words.
‘It’s not rocket science.’
‘No, it’s plumbing and I always leave it to the experts.’
In our house we’d always had to call in a man-who-can. My Dad’s DIY skills stopped at painting and decorating and even then my mother complained about the wonky wallpaper in the spare bedroom.
He shrugged and closed the cistern lid. ‘Darren needs a decent set of tools. Could do with a new washer in there but I’ve cleaned the limescale off the old one; it’ll do for the time being.’
I couldn’t help being impressed and remembered how brilliant he’d been at assembling the girls’ new furniture last weekend. ‘Have you always been good with your hands?’ As soon as I said it and he smiled slyly, I knew I’d made a tactical error. Talk about a Freudian slip; I’d walked right into that one.
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ He shot me that challenging stare I remembered so well from when we’d first met and a certain part of my anatomy flooded with heat. Oh, he was good with his hands all right and he bloody knew it. Despite the blush burning my cheeks, a small part of me couldn’t help thinking it was good to see that the old Ash was still in there.