don’t you?’
I busy myself removing teabags. I do really like him, actually. It’s kind of scary. Nice-scary, on the whole, but also a bit scary-scary.
‘Well, bring him, then, so you don’t miss out on seeing him.’
I look up. ‘Bring him? How am I swinging that one with the Powers That Be in Charge of Transport Costs?’
‘Remind me what this stud looks like?’ Rachel says, shifting so I can get the milk from the fridge. ‘Tall, dark, handsome, with mysterious sexy smile?’
Only Rachel could say ‘stud’ without irony.
‘Reckon he’d model for free?’
I nearly spit out my first mouthful of tea. Rachel grins and passes me a paper towel to help with lipstick damage.
‘Leon? Model?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well . . . Because . . .’ He’d hate it, surely. Or . . . maybe not actually – he cares so little about what other people think, someone taking photos of him and putting them on the Internet probably wouldn’t bother him.
But if he did agree to it that would mean inviting him for a proper weekend away together – if a slightly unconventional one. And that definitely seems . . . serious. Relationship-ish. That thought makes my throat feel tight and starts a little flutter of panic in my stomach. I swallow the feeling away, irritated with myself.
‘Go on. Ask,’ Rachel insists. ‘I’m betting he’ll say yes if it means more time with you. And I’ll sort it with Martin. Once I give him this castle, he’ll be kissing my arse for days.’
*
It’s very tricky to know exactly how to broach this conversation. I initially thought it would come up naturally on the call, but oddly enough castles and/or modelling don’t come up at all, and now it’s seven forty and I’ve only got five minutes before I know Leon has to head in to work.
I’m not copping out of asking, though. Since the night when Justin turned up things with Leon have shifted; this is more than sexual tension and flirty Post-it notes now, and for some reason I’m finding that slightly terrifying. When I think about him I get this rush of unstoppable smiley joy chased with a sort of claustrophobic panic. But I suspect that’s probably a Justin hang-up, and frankly I’m done letting those hold me back.
‘So,’ I begin, pulling my cardigan closer around me. I’m on the balcony; it’s become my favourite spot for evening phone calls. ‘You’re free this weekend, right?’
‘Mmhmm,’ he says. He’s eating his brinner at the hospice while talking to me, so is even less chatty than usual, but I feel that will actually work to my advantage here. I think this proposal needs to be heard in full before it can be discussed.
‘So, I have to go to a Welsh castle for the weekend to take photos of knitwear with Katherin, because I am her personal carer and despite the fact that I am paid a pittance, it is assumed that I will work weekends when told to, and that’s just how it is.’
A moment’s silence. ‘Mmkay?’ Leon says. He doesn’t sound annoyed. Which, now I think about it, he wouldn’t be – it’s not like I’m blowing him off, I have to work. And if anyone understands that, Leon does.
I relax a bit. ‘But I really want to see you,’ I say, before I can second-guess myself. ‘And Rachel has come up with a potentially terrible idea which could actually be really fun.’
‘Mm?’ Leon says, sounding a little nervous. He’s heard enough about Rachel to know that her ideas often involve large amounts of alcohol and indiscretion.
‘How would you feel about a free weekend in a Welsh castle with me . . . in exchange for modelling some knitwear while you’re there, to go on the Butterfingers’ social media?’
There is a loud choking noise at the other end of the phone.
‘You hate the idea,’ I say, feeling my cheeks go pink. There’s a long silence. I should never have suggested this – Leon is all about quiet nights in with wine and good conversation, not parading himself around in front of cameras.
‘I don’t hate the idea,’ Leon says. ‘Just . . . absorbing it.’
I wait, giving him some time. The pause is excruciating, and then, just when I think I know exactly how this whole embarrassing conversation is going to end:
‘All right then,’ Leon says.
I blink. Beneath the balcony, Fabio Fox roams by, and then a police car goes screaming past, sirens shrieking.
‘All right then?’ I say, when it’s quiet enough for him