Page 50 of How We Began

No! I must remember that I’m going to be standing on my own two feet. I need to buy a cookbook, or hire a live-in chef or something.

We washed up after dinner, the usual routine.

“So where did you learn to cook?” I asked, handing him a wet plate.

He shrugged a little as he dried the dish. “Mum worked all the time when we were young. Rose and Iris were always at their friends’ houses, so it was either learn to cook or starve.” The smile he flashed crinkled with wryness.

I’ve never asked him about his family, only snatching up the little snippets he’d given me. Like coming from Dorset, and telling his mum about me. I believe if people want you to know things, they will tell you when they are ready. So I just carried on washing the dishes.

“Dad bailed when I was three,” he eventually said, hands still busy on a plate that was already dry.

“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was.

“No need,” he flicked me with the tea towel, “it was a long time ago.”

We washed and dried some more in silence.

“It made me realise that I would never start a family until I was completely sure it was the right thing.”

I watched him as he spoke. His eyes held mine and for a moment we were back to staring, wordless.

Finally I shook my head. “Guess that’s the sensible thing to do. I never wanted to get married either. I might end up like my mum and dad, living in separate rooms getting pissed just to make it through the day.”

The blues appraised me. “Yep, that’s me, Mr Sensible.” His reply seemed seeped in deep-hurt sarcasm, although it wasn’t directed at me.

I wanted to grab him, to kiss him and beg him to carry me off into a silence where the future was golden and rainbows shone above our heads.

Instead, I let the plug out of the sink and dried my hands. “’Night, Ben,” I said, walking to the door.

“’Night, Lilah,” he whispered after me.

Now I’m back in my room wondering just how the hell this all went so very wrong.

8th January

“I can’t believe that I have to sit here listening to this bloody shit!” Ben exclaimed earlier.

Jayne, and I had been discussing the pros and cons of a three-step beauty routine for twenty minutes. The big discussion was centred very much on whether step two, toner, is actually essential.

“What?” Meredith asked. “Seriously, Ben, you should have one too. You are looking a little crinkly!”

His face crinkled perfectly in disgust. I love those crinkles.

“That does it! I’m going to get drunk.” He picked up his jacket from the torture furniture and stalked for the door.

“Where are you going?” Meredith called after him, putting on her best housewife voice.

“Bloody out!” he shouted back, slamming the door behind him.

“Good. He’s gone,” Jayne breathed. “Now we can work out what we can do to make him stay.”

I should have known there was an ulterior motive behind the endless beauty drivel.

“Jayne, there is nothing that can be said,” I told her, my cheeks warming a little.

“Well, you can tell him that you bloody believe him that nothing happened with Barbie, you total ignoramus, that you love him, and don’t want him to leave.”

I took a sip of my herbal tea. “Not going to happen. It is too late now.”