‘Her father’s business. Banking.’
‘Ah,’ I said, looking around the shop for anything that would suit a young banker. Nothing. The silence made me feel uncomfortable until the cuckoo clock announced the hour and made us both jump.
‘Would you like some tea?’ I wasn’t sure why I said it. Possibly because I was certain he would refuse, but he surprised us both by saying yes. I went downstairs and put some things on a tray.
‘So, is it going well?’ he called down the stairs.
I wasn’t sure if he was concerned about the business or my ability to pay the rent.
‘Well enough,’ I called back.
‘I see you’ve managed to incorporate my father’s antiques with your books. Very clever.’
I peeped out from the door and saw him standing by the maritime section I had created, with Moby-Dick and Robinson Crusoe floating on a blue muslin sea with mermaids and boats sailing in impossibly tiny bottles. I even had a copy of Peter Pan there, with a toy crocodile snapping at the corners.
‘This is truly fantastic,’ he said, finally coming to life. ‘The shop seems … bigger somehow.’
I went back to the kitchen and turned on the tap, but no water was forthcoming. The pipes gurgled and belched like someone with bad indigestion. I let it run until it spluttered and clanged and then was silent. I stood back and put my hands on my hips. It didn’t make any sense, just like the attic door or the copy of Dracula falling from the shelf. I climbed the stairs, the kettle still in my hand.
‘Are you wearing your landlord hat today?’ I asked, holding up the kettle. ‘I’m afraid I might need a plumber.’
‘I’ll have a look,’ he said, in the way that men do, assuming the problem is something straightforward enough for them to fix. Before I knew it, he had his jacket off and was down on the floor, wrangling with pipes under the sink. I didn’t even know there was a spanner and it seemed highly unlikely that he would carry one around with him. I almost asked him if he was quite sure what he was doing, but instead asked if he knew what the problem was.
‘Probably a blockage of some sort,’ he said, his voice straining. ‘I’ll have it fixed in no time. I’ll just switch off the—’
Before he finished his sentence, the tap flew off the top of the pipe and water began gushing like a geyser. I ran to it and shoved an old rag into the hole where the tap used to be, stemming the tide until he managed to turn off the mains.
‘Perhaps I should have called the plumber,’ he gasped, getting up from the floor and brushing his wet hair from his forehead.
We looked at each other and realised we were both soaking wet. I could feel a giggle slowly erupting from my ribcage but tried to suppress it … until I saw him wringing water out of the ends of his shirt. He looked so ridiculous, my shoulders began to shake with laughter. He looked up at me then, his cross expression melting into a broad smile.
‘Amusing you, am I?’ he said, as I bent over with laughter.
‘I-I’m sorry,’ I said, turning my back to him so that I might stop. When I turned around he was taking the wet shirt off and wringing it properly into the sink. He had a vest underneath, which was also wet through.
‘Might I hang this in front of the stove for a while?’
‘Of course,’ I said, and quickly added more wood to the fire. I hung his shirt on the back of the chair and moved it closer to the heat. He could have simply returned home, he only lived next door, but there was a silent understanding that the explanation that would have been required was too complicated. My clothes were wet also, but I couldn’t change while he was there, so I merely wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and stood beside him, watching the flames.
‘I’ll have someone come and fix it first thing tomorrow.’
His tone of voice had changed again. I knew I wasn’t imagining it, this closeness that he would temporarily allow, an intimacy, before pulling up the drawbridge again. I had to snap myself out of this silly attraction. It was some jumble of homesickness and loneliness – a misplaced focus for all of my mixed-up feelings. He was kind to me at a time when I needed comfort, but I knew this was dangerous and had to stop.
‘Thank you, Mr Fitzpatrick.’
A moment passed and as though he had heard some distant noise calling him, he grabbed his still damp shirt and put it on. I responded and jumped to action, picking up his jacket from the floor and handing it to him. Our fingertips brushed as he took it from my hands. I did not look him in the eye but kept my head level with the hollow where his neck met his chest. I did not think about touching him but found my hand was already on his chest, above his heart. The rise and fall of his breathing grew heavier and in one movement, he pulled me close to him and our lips collided – clumsily at first, then passionately, desperately. His mouth was soft and yet eager. The sudden realisation of how he felt about me set fireworks off behind my eyelids. Knowing that it shouldn’t, couldn’t ever happen again, neither of us wanted it to end. I don’t know how long we stood like that, buried in our embrace. We did not speak. Occasionally his hands would caress the back of my neck, but for the most part, he simply held me, enveloping me closer and tighter. I didn’t want to move. Or think. Or wonder what it meant. The intimacy was all I craved. And then, it was over. I wasn’t sure how or who had pulled away, but we were no longer touching. He thrust his arms into his jacket and buttoned it up. His eyes met mine briefly and the look was one of fear.
‘I’m sorry.’
I tried to respond but found I had no words. My mouth formed the word ‘I’, but no sound came forth. Then he was gone, the bell ringing with his departure. I sat at my little table, shivering. What was I doing? Matthew was a married man with children. I could not, would not, be that other woman. But there was something between us and I wasn’t sure how we could carry on suppressing it.
When I was in Paris, I had known Armand would break my heart, but Matthew – he would break my resolve, which was much, much worse.