‘Thanks, Will,’ I said.
‘Any time, although I don’t mean any time. I don’t know you very well, but I presume you won’t be doing this too often…’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said meekly. ‘As it is rather embarrassing.’
He smiled again. ‘Good night, Daryl.’
‘Good night, Will. Thank you so much.’
I staggered upstairs. The horror. Oh, the absolute horror. I couldn’t bear to think about it. I decided I couldn’t think about it. Not now. I could be mortified and apologetic in the morning. Now, I had to sleep.
I woke up feeling like death warmed up in a petri dish. The radio alarm, set to Eighties FM, woke me at seven and I was furious at it. How dare Madonna and her ‘Material Girl’ aspirations interrupt my comatose slumber? I needed eight hours more sleep. I needed carbs and painkillers. I needed a new liver… I staggered to the bathroom and was horrified by what I saw. Blonde, short hair sticking up all over the place – all pretence of perky Marilyn Monroe coquettishness gone. A pasty face with make-up smears down it. And panda eyes that wouldn’t look out of place at London Zoo. Gone were the days when a hangover made me look dishevelled-ly pretty and enigmatic; I just looked a wreck.
I flopped back into bed. Just fifteen more minutes. Just to get my brain in gear. Oh god. I remembered everything. But mostly waking up on the drive and Will discovering me lying there. What on earth must he think of me? He already thought I was a bit of a nut job. I’d moved in just over a week ago, last Saturday to be exact, and he’d already caught me admiring his bum, taking a giant stuffed whale out to someone’s skip and stuffing lemon drizzle cake in my face at two a.m.
He’d made the lemon drizzle. Well, I presume he had; I’d have to ask him. The morning I’d moved in, laden with boxes and giant Ikea shopping bags packed with all my stuff, he’d knocked at my new front door offering a smile and a polka dot cake tin.
‘Hello,’ he’d said. ‘I’m Will Hamilton. I live next door. Did you know your doorbell doesn’t work?’
‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘I need to get that sorted. I’m Daryl Williams.’
‘It’s very nice to meet you, Daryl Williams. I’ve brought you a cake.’
‘A cake? Wow!’ I’d replied. ‘That’s a lovely thing to do. I didn’t think neighbours did that stuff any more. I thought it was all lawnmowers at dawn and curt nods on the driveway.’ He laughed. He was nice; I could see that immediately. He had a dark-brown-with-grey-bits quiff that had collapsed and was flopping in his eyes, a wide smile and brown eyes. He looked about the same age as me – mid-forties, perhaps late forties? Very, very good looking. The sort of face you wouldn’t mind peeking over the top of a newspaper at, at the breakfast table, for years and years. Not that I was in the market for that ever again. I was over marriage. I was over my marriage. I didn’t need another hero; they just let you down and went off with your best friend.
‘Come in,’ I said and he’d stepped into my hall. He was wearing dark, almost black, blue jeans and a brushed cotton checked shirt. Plus grey desert boots – I hadn’t seen those since my days at Brighton Poly – in 1991. ‘Excuse the décor.’
I’d bought a mid-street house in a Victorian strip of smallish semis in Wimbledon, not far from the station. My new house looked lovely from the outside, matching all the others with their red bricks and white porches; it even had a nicely tended patch of garden at the front which I already feared for – I was not known for my gardening prowess. Inside, the other semis were probably the height of character period charm coupled with sleek modernity; mine was not. It was extremely dated. Think striped wallpaper below yellowing dado rail; sponge paint affect circa Changing Rooms 1998 above… Swagged yellow curtains with tie backs – the previous owner clearly couldn’t be bothered to take them down and I don’t blame her; I wouldn’t have dragged such mustard monstrosities to my new house either… Artexed ceilings… A bath with carpet up the side… Will had laughed when I’d showed him that and so had I. He didn’t look like a serial killer so I’d showed him round the whole house.
‘It’s not exactly Homes and Gardens, is it?’ he said after we’d done the tour and were back in the hall. ‘Needs a little bit of work.’
‘A lot of work,’ I quantified, again thinking how good looking he was. ‘I know.’ It was in pretty bad shape, my new house. That’s how I’d managed to knock ten grand off the price, giving me a bit of money to play with. I’d already got a decent amount, from my ‘proceeds of marriage’ or whatever they called it (blood money? Tears money?), but the extra cash would come in handy for renovations. I was really lucky. I hadn’t wanted to leave Wimbledon – it had been my home since my twenties – and I hadn’t had to.
‘I’m quite handy, with a paint brush, you know,’ said Will, as I was seeing him out. ‘Just give me a shout if you need any help.’
‘I might take you up on that,’ I said, then hoped I hadn’t said it in a flirty manner. The plan was to flirt and have fun with men from now on – now I was over the horror of my break-up and divorce – but that couldn’t include any neighbours. I wanted to be happy living here, in my new start, not getting tangled in potentially mortifying situations with anyone I shared bin men with.
‘Actually, can I help you bring any boxes in?’
We were both looking towards my car, on the drive. The boot was open. There was a large box sitting in it that I’d foolishly packed in situ and now I didn’t think I could pick it up. His words were music to my ears.
‘Well, there’s only the one box. The removal firm’s bringing up the big stuff tomorrow. It’s just me and a few bits and bobs today. My friend was supposed to be helping me, but she’s on an emergency date. She’s coming later, hopefully, as long as the date doesn’t go too well, for chips and dips. Low carb and low cal, of course. And I’ll have to hide the chocolate. She’s one of those who counts everything. Her body is a temple.’
Too much random information? Probably.
He looked at me. Amused, I guessed. Or maybe horrified – that a mad, rambling lady had moved in next door.
‘No, I don’t mind at all. Happy to.’
We walked over to the car. There was the box, loosely masking-taped at the top, as well as loads of carrier bags and paper bags and a few plastic baskets. I was not the most organised, but I was going to try and be, from here on in. He heaved up the box and carried it in through the front door. I trooped behind him.
‘Where’s it going?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Upstairs?’ I ventured. ‘Sorry, is that okay?’
‘That’s fine. I could do with losing a few pounds.’
That was so not true. He had a lovely body. I had a good look at it as it was going up the stairs.
‘Be careful,’ I shouted. The staircase was quite narrow and I wasn’t sure how secure that box was. It had been a bit damp when I’d found it at the back of my old garage, under Jeff’s golf clubs. He hadn’t bothered taking them when he’d moved to Gabby’s – he probably wouldn’t have time to play, what with all the shagging.
Will had to take very slow, measured steps. Goodness, he had a nice bum, I thought. He was wearing 501’s, I could tell, by the label, and his bottom was very round and very firm. Probably one of the nicest I’d seen. Jeff’s was always a bit scrawny.
Will had two more steps to go. He huffed the box to the top step, then turned his head to look at me a little quicker than I was expecting, as I was still checking out his lovely bottom. I was caught red-handed, wasn’t I? I flicked my eyes back up to his face. He knew exactly what I’d been looking at.
‘Where do you want it?’
‘Oh,’