Me and Mr Jones (4 page)

She didn’t plan to get involved with anybody else for a long, long while, that was for sure. She was happy serving her old ladies cream teas and milky coffees, and teaching her leotard-clad juniors jetés and glissades in the dusty church hall; happy to tuck her daughters in bed every night and know they were safe. Just the three of them now, and it was a proper way to live, a vast improvement on before. She could not believe life could feel so sweet.

Fate was a bugger sometimes, though, wasn’t it? Because the very next Saturday she was halfway through her long morning of ballet classes when in walked a scruffy unshaven man with needing-a-cut golden hair (like a lion, she thought absent-mindedly) and the naughtiest blue eyes Izzy had ever seen. He wasn’t her type at all – he had stone-washed jeans on, for heaven’s sake – but there was something about him that made her look twice. What was more, he looked right back.

Their gazes locked for a long, slow beat of mutual fascination, and something strange happened: a sudden bolt of warmth gushed through her body and her heart seemed to stutter. Eventually she managed to pull her gaze away, hot with embarrassment and confusion.
Izzy Allerton, don’t you ever learn?
she scolded herself, wheeling round to check on Hazel and Willow, who were at the second-hand clothes table, taking money for the leotards and dance skirts on sale there.

‘That will be seven pounds fifty, please,’ nine-year-old Willow was saying, with so much solemnity and assurance that Izzy swelled with pride. They were good girls, her two; they were survivors, like her. And now she was going to make sure that nothing ever rocked their little worlds again. Especially not a bloke.

‘If we’re all ready to begin . . .’ she said pointedly to her class, hands on her hips, steadfastly ignoring the sexy blond man, even though she could feel him trying to catch her eye again.

There was a series of excited squeaks and rushing movements from her pupils as they tugged on ballet shoes and fastened ponytails, then hurried to stand next to their best friends in the hall. Izzy was strict about not letting parents stay and watch – too distracting for the children – and made a point of waiting until they had all left for the small anteroom nearby before she began. She’d been so lucky landing these classes as maternity cover for a friend of Monique, a fellow dance teacher in Manchester, and she was determined to do everything by the book.

The blond man didn’t seem to know the etiquette and sat down expectantly on a chair at the side of the hall. ‘I’m afraid I don’t allow parents to sit in on my classes,’ Izzy told him. ‘We put on a show at the end of each term, which you are welcome to—’

‘Ah, but I’m not a parent,’ he interrupted teasingly and her skin prickled. ‘What about uncles, do we get to stay and watch?’

‘Uncle
Charlie
,’ one of the girls hissed, her pale freckly face becoming suffused with scarlet embarrassment. ‘You’re meant to wait in
there
. Didn’t Mum
say
?’

Izzy maintained a poker face. ‘I’m afraid there is no preferential treatment for uncles,’ she said. ‘Willow, would you mind showing this gentleman where he can wait? Thank you.’

Everyone was staring at him, apart from his niece, who looked as if she wished he’d fall through a trapdoor and disappear, right now, please. Izzy turned to the class and smiled. ‘Good morning, everyone!’ she said, as Willow led the man down the back of the hall and away. ‘Let’s begin our warm-up.’

It wasn’t as simple as she’d hoped, putting ‘Uncle Charlie’ in his place. He sought her out at the end of the lesson, elbowing aside all the nicely spoken mums who wanted to find out how little Annabel’s pliés were coming along, and whether or not Izzy had any tips vis-à-vis Rosie’s audition piece for the Marine Theatre youth group.

‘I was wondering if you’d like to come out for a drink with me some time,’ he said, bold as brass, and the mum-clamour instantly dropped away to silence.

She flushed at his brazen approach. Who the hell did he think he was, asking her out in front of all these parents, making a fool of her
and
himself in the same breath? Worse, she could feel Willow’s questioning gaze on her. He might have sparked the merest flicker of attraction and intrigue earlier, but the wary light in her daughter’s eyes was enough to stamp it out immediately.

Gritting her teeth, she went on discussing Rosie’s
pas de chat
, as if he hadn’t uttered a word. Cheeky bastard. She could feel him grinning at her as if this was a shared joke between them. It was not.

He didn’t give up easily, though. He waited until the cluster of parents had finally all peeled away, then approached her again, with his niece, Matilda, mutely cringing beside him.

‘Just a drink,’ he wheedled. ‘Go on. I think we’d get on really well, me and you.’

‘Mum, can
I
have a drink?’ Hazel asked, interrupting the moment, thank goodness.

‘Yes, love, of course, the water bottle’s in my bag,’ Izzy replied. Then she gave the man one of her looks, the sort she reserved for difficult pre-schoolers. ‘Look, mate, I’ll just say this once: I’m not interested,’ she told him flatly. ‘Not in you, not in any bloke. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy here, all right? I’m working. Goodbye, Matilda, see you next week.’

That was Matilda’s cue to start dragging him away and, bless her, she tried. Unfortunately he didn’t budge. ‘But I’m not just any bloke,’ he replied, deadpan. ‘I’m Charlie Jones. And you’re . . . gorgeous.’

From anyone else’s lips the words might have sounded cocky. But somehow he said it in a way that made his confidence stunningly attractive. Judging by the collective raised eyebrows and hushed attention of the ballet mums in the vicinity, they thought so too.

‘Sorry,’ she said firmly, meeting his blue eyes full-on. She might look like a wisp of a ballerina, but he needed to know that she was pure northern steel underneath her leotard; more than a match for a Dorset boy. Then she swivelled her gaze briskly away and smiled at Bella Hardcastle’s mum, as if that was the end of it. ‘Mrs Hardcastle, did you want to speak to me?’

It turned out that Charlie Jones wasn’t the sort of person who took kindly to the word ‘no’. He appeared the following week as well, this time with a bunch of red tulips, which he proffered at the start of the lesson. ‘I promise I’m not a freak,’ he said, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled. ‘And I’m not a dodgy stalker type, either. I just have this feeling about me and you. That we’re meant to be.’

‘Oh, Uncle Charlie, please stop it, you’re embarrassing me!’ Matilda cried in mortification, pulling a face at her friend.

‘You’re not the only one,’ Izzy told her drily, ignoring both the flowers and the glint in his eye.

He was back at the end of the lesson with a punnet of strawberries, like an offering of bright jewels. ‘Just in case you’re hungry,’ he’d said, handing them to her with a flourish. ‘And if you happen to be thirsty as well, then maybe . . .’

‘Here we go again,’ she heard one of the mums mutter. This was turning into a soap opera.

She accepted the strawberries. ‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to keep her composure.

‘Ooh, yummy,’ Hazel said at once, selecting the plumpest and cramming it into her mouth.

‘And if you’re thirsty . . .’ Charlie repeated, raising one eyebrow meaningfully.

‘I’m not thirsty,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

He pantomimed exaggerated despair, his shoulders flattening, his head falling. God, he really was attractive. She couldn’t help a flutter of desire.

Matilda tugged at his hand. ‘Come
on
, Uncle Charlie, stop it, or I’ll tell Mum.’

‘But . . .’ Izzy said before she could help herself. Damn it. He’d got to her after all. ‘I might be later on. And so might my daughters.’

She flung in the mention of the girls like an explosive, watching his face carefully for his reaction. He grinned. ‘Sounds like a party to me,’ he said.

‘No,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘Not a party. Just a quick drink at the Pilot Boat, before I take the girls home for tea. Take it or leave it.’

‘I’ll take it,’ he said instantly.

‘I’ll see you there at five o’clock then,’ she said, hoping she wouldn’t live to regret it. Nothing could happen at five o’clock in the afternoon, could it? Surely it would be safe: broad daylight, plenty of people around, the girls as her chaperones. Besides, she didn’t have anyone to babysit for a drink later on without them. Mrs Murray from the flat next door kept an eye on the girls while she took her Adult Beginners class on Wednesday evenings, but that was work – the sort of thing that her neighbour, a retired nurse, understood and appreciated. Izzy wasn’t sure if she could ask the same thing in order to go for a drink with this strangely persistent man. Mrs Murray had already taken a nosey interest in any prospective ‘gentlemen callers’ Izzy might have, making it quite clear that they were not to be tolerated. ‘Fine by me,’ Izzy had said, meaning every word.

This was just a drink. Nothing was going to happen. Nothing whatsoever.

‘Why are we going out now?’ Willow wanted to know later that afternoon as they prepared to head to the pub. ‘Isn’t it, like, teatime soon?’

‘Are we going to the beach?’ seven-year-old Hazel asked hopefully. She’d fallen in love with the beach from the moment she’d clapped eyes on it, and was a total surfer girl in the making. She was already angling for her own wetsuit so that she could swim whatever the weather, and had filled in most of the
I-Spy at the Seaside
book that Izzy had picked up from one of the charity shops, eagerly pointing out herring gulls, hermit crabs and sandworms whenever she spotted them.

‘No, we’re not going to the beach,’ Izzy replied carefully. ‘And yes, it’ll be teatime when we get back,’ she added to Willow, who was anxious about everything happening exactly as it should do. ‘We’re just popping out for half an hour or so to meet a new friend.’

‘Oh
God
,’ Hazel groaned in disgust, even though Izzy had told her plenty of times not to say that. ‘We’re going to meet that man, aren’t we, the one who brought the strawberries today? He is like
so
embarrassing.’

‘Oh, Mum, we’re not, are we?’ Willow’s voice went up three notes, and her eyes burned into Izzy, dark pools of worry.

Izzy hesitated. Strawberries, tulips and that crooked smile . . . So much for being made of steel, so much for never again. She was a bloody pushover. ‘It’s just one drink,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Hey, what do you think you’ll choose? Lemonade or fizzy orange?’

‘Orange,’ Hazel said, perking up with astonishing speed. ‘Do you think he’ll bring us some more strawberries? They were yummy.’

‘I’m not having a drink,’ Willow said mutinously, turning away and folding her arms. ‘Because I’m not going. I’ve got a tummy ache.’

Izzy crouched down in front of her. ‘Listen, chick,’ she said, taking Willow’s hands in hers. ‘We’re being polite, that’s all. If he’s really boring and we don’t like him, we’ll say sorry, bye, and we’ll come back home, just the three of us. And do you know what we’ll do then?’

‘What?’ asked Hazel breathlessly. ‘Make chocolate krispies again?’

‘Even better than chocolate krispies,’ Izzy said, thinking quickly. Willow was listening – she had to make this good. ‘When we get back here, us three are going to have . . . the best ever pyjama party. We’ll put on our pyjamas and get the duvets off the beds, and cuddle up under them together on the sofa while we watch a film. I’ll even make popcorn. And do you know what we’ll do after that?’

‘What?’ both girls said now.

‘PILLOW FIGHT!’ shouted Izzy, grabbing Hazel and ruffling her hair.

Hazel squealed and giggled. ‘Yay!’

Even Willow was smiling a little bit. ‘We could just stay here and do that now,’ she suggested.

‘YEAH!’ cried Hazel, bouncing up and down. ‘Pillow fight! Pillow fight!’

‘No, let’s go, because I did promise, and you know I never break promises,’ Izzy said quickly, before Hazel became too hyper. ‘We’ll give him a chance, this Charlie fella, all right? But if he’s boring or annoys us, then the code word is “pyjamas”, got it? And as soon as one of us says “pyjamas”, then we’ll come back and have our party. Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ the girls chorused.

Izzy smiled, loving them so much it hurt. She was well aware of the damage Gary had done. Willow was wary of strangers, and tended to stay on the sidelines of any group, casting suspicious glances around her until she was completely sure it was okay to join in. Hazel, by contrast, was eager to be everybody’s best friend, all too willing to please. From now on, Izzy wanted them to have the best ever childhood, one of fresh air and giggles and bear hugs, one where fun and innocence reigned for as long as possible. She would not let them down.

‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

Willow stayed glued to Izzy’s side as they walked into the pub garden. Charlie had bagged a table in a sunny spot and waved them over. ‘Evening, all,’ he said, then made a point of smiling at the girls. ‘Hello, ladies, my name is Charlie. What are you called?’

Hazel beamed. ‘Hazel,’ she said. ‘Hello. We’re having a party later on, just for girls.’

Izzy stiffened, hoping Charlie wouldn’t do anything so naff as to try and invite himself along. He didn’t.

‘Cool,’ he said gravely. ‘And you must be . . . ?’ he added, looking straight at Willow.

Hazel hadn’t finished yet, though. ‘It’s a certain
type
of party,’ she said mysteriously, ‘but I’m not really allowed to say any more, otherwise I might not get my fizzy orange. But it’s a party where you wear something funny.’ She tapped her nose beguilingly.

‘Aha,’ Charlie replied. ‘
That
sort of party. Sounds brilliant.’ He smiled at Willow. ‘Hello,’ he said, considering her carefully. ‘You look to me as if you’re a bit older than my niece, Matilda. Let me guess: are you . . . ten?’

Willow shook her head, still on her guard.

‘Sorry,’ Charlie said cheerfully. ‘Rubbish at guessing ages. If you’re not ten, you must be . . . thirteen?’

Willow shook her head again, although Izzy was sure she detected a tiny uplift of her mouth at the corners, as if privately thrilled to be thought a teenager.