The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend (35 page)

He was right about that at least, she thought, but he managed to tease a slight smile out of her all the same.

‘It wasn't right,' she repeated calmly, as though simply stating a fact. Which, she reminded herself, was exactly what she was doing.

‘Does it have something to do with the Church? Some commandment about Christian ladies and bi-guys?'

She looked at him in surprise. Bi? Bee? The birds and bees? Did people still talk about that?

‘It wouldn't surprise me,' she said. When it came down to it, the Church had rules about most things relating to the birds and the bees. ‘But that's not why.'

‘I could've sworn you enjoyed it too.'

She shuddered at the thought of being so transparent and was forced to turn away from him. ‘I … it wasn't right.'

‘Why?'

He was standing right next to the comfy old armchair she normally sat in, and she involuntarily took a step backwards. She didn't quite know where to look. He seemed absurd, standing there in her living room. Young and full of life, power and energy, surrounded by things which were old, unfashionable and feminine. She felt trapped between him and the embroidered pictures.

‘You're young and I'm … not young,' she said. Not young? My goodness, Caroline. ‘I'm old,' she corrected herself. ‘Much too old for you. You should be with someone as young and beautiful as you …' She blushed fiercely when she realised what she had said. ‘As young,' she said quickly, hoping he hadn't heard the rest.

‘You're beautiful.' He didn't seem to be listening to her. ‘I think you are. Does it really matter? And it was just a kiss, for God's sake.'

‘Of course it was just a kiss. What else could it have been?'

He raised an eyebrow but thankfully said nothing.

‘So it's about the age difference?' he asked.

‘Amongst other things.'

‘You think I'm too young?'

‘I'm too old.'

He gestured irritatedly with his hand. ‘Same thing,' he said.

She laughed. ‘Hardly. Your problem will pass. Mine is going to get worse.'

He smiled at that. ‘The age difference will be constant, at least.'

She stopped smiling at that thought.

‘So what else?' he asked.

Her gaze shifted. ‘Else?'

‘You said age amongst other things. What else do you have against me?'

People didn't normally ask her what was wrong with them. She normally told them without being asked. So ironic, she thought, that now, when someone was asking, she was the problem.

‘It's more about me,' she admitted.

‘
It's not you, it's me
? Shit, Caroline, no one says that any more.'

She blushed. ‘You don't need to swear at me,' she said. ‘I've never claimed to know what it's in vogue to say.'

‘It's not about what's in vogue, it's about clichés. Trite, meaningless clichés.'

‘It's not trite for me,' she said. ‘I've never actually said it to anyone before.'

He made a stifled groaning sound and laughed. ‘OK,' he said. ‘What's wrong with you then?'

She realised that now she was the problem, she had absolutely no desire to talk about it. That was ironic, too.

‘I'm too old.'

‘You've already said that,' he said brutally. She noticed that he wasn't arguing, which was logical since it was true. She felt strangely depressed.

‘I'm not … pretty enough.'

She continued quickly, before he could not protest against that either. ‘Worn out. This body has done too many miles.'

‘And yet it's practically new. The previous owner only used it to go to church on Sundays.'

It was so depressingly true that she couldn't even bring herself to laugh. He said nothing, just stood there in the middle of her living room, refusing to leave her in peace.

‘I don't have the right equipment,' she said desperately. She was thinking of the boy in the book. ‘You should find a nice young man to settle down with.'

‘Equipment, Caroline?'

She blushed again. She had lost control of the conversation; it wasn't going at all how she wanted.

‘What a fantastic woman you are,' he added, almost to himself.

Not at all how she had planned.

‘But it's true,' she said.

He raised an eyebrow, daring her to explain herself.

‘I like both sexes,' he said. ‘It's possible, you know. Who knows what's going to happen in the future? Maybe I'll settle down with a nice, polite young man, maybe not? Does it really make a difference to us now?'

‘There is no “us”,' she said quickly, just to make it clear.

He shrugged, but a dangerous look had appeared in his eyes. Something determined and defiant. It was pitch black outside now, so the living-room window looked more like a dark mirror. His tall, nonchalant body really was everywhere.

He took a step forward, put an arm around her waist and pulled her towards him. She gasped and was forced to admit to herself that it wasn't a horrified gasp. She was almost certain he was planning on kissing her, but still, he drew it out. Something – some kind of smile – flashed in his eyes. When her gaze shifted, one side of his mouth curled upwards. He was definitely laughing at her. It irritated her enough to make her meet his eye. And then he kissed her.

His lips were at once gentle and insistent. His body was firm and young and manly, and when she closed her eyes she had a vision of firm, naked men touching one another in the darkness.

She was surprised to find herself enjoying it. She felt deep, strange parts of her body stirring to life. She hadn't thought she was capable of enjoying it. She had always thought any capacity for that must have disappeared with age. Part of her was enthralled by it.

Another part of her was terrified.

She pulled away from him slightly and said: ‘I'm churchwarden, for goodness' sake.'

He smiled at her. ‘I'm bisexual, for goodness' sake.' But he let her go, the glint of laughter still in his eyes, and took a step back. He winked at her. ‘I told you that you didn't have anything against it.'

She would never have admitted it to herself, but when he moved away from her, she felt something very close to disappointment.

‘I'll be back on Tuesday,' he said. ‘Make your mind up by then.'

She was close to asking him: make my mind up about what? But she strongly suspected that she didn't want to hear him say it out loud.

Caroline wasn't the only resident of Broken Wheel to be feeling somewhat shaken the day after the dance. Most affected was George, despite being the only one not to have drunk a thing.

As day broke, he was blissfully unaware that chaos and confusion were currently hurtling towards him at nearly a hundred miles an hour, along Interstate 80.

His evening had been calm and pleasant. He hadn't had a drop to drink. Most fantastic of all: he had given Claire a ride home and she had leaned over and kissed him on the cheek in thanks, like a genuine friend.

He got up, smiled to himself, drank coffee, and even had a shave, though he had already done it the day before; he glanced at the second
Bridget Jones
book and wondered what the day might have to offer.

He actually felt that way, like the day might have something to offer. It was a revolutionary feeling.

He sipped his coffee. He had felt like having cream and sugar today, and it had been an easy decision.

He wondered whether he should set off and give Sara a ride somewhere, but he suspected she preferred walking anyway. There were a few clouds in the sky but it wasn't raining, and if it did then he could always pick her up in the afternoon.

When the doorbell rang, he smiled to himself and wondered whether it was Claire. He opened the door with a friendly smile on his face.

He stared.

She looked much older than he remembered, and smaller. She barely came up to his chin, but still, in his mind, she had grown to almost mythical proportions. She was cute rather than beautiful, but she had a hard look in her eye. He remembered that.

‘Hi, George,' she said.

‘Michelle?'

‘Nice to see you too.' The damp air had made her hair go frizzy, the way he knew she hated.

‘Where's Sophy?'

‘No idea. I dumped her at an ex's a couple of years ago.'

He went pale, scarcely taking in what she said.

‘Don't be such an idiot, George. She's in the car.'

He looked over her shoulder, as though he had just found out what a car was. There was someone in the passenger seat, but he couldn't see her clearly.

She pushed past him into the hall but he hesitated in the doorway, torn between his longing to see Sophy and the thought that the meeting might be awkward.

‘Well, go say hi, for God's sake,' Michelle said unsentimentally.

‘What are you doing here?' he asked, gaining some time.

Michelle shrugged before heading towards the living room. When she reached it, she made a sudden halt and looked around her. ‘I can't believe I'm back here,' she said.

George couldn't either.

‘I swore I wouldn't, you know.'

He could believe that quite easily.

‘And … how long are you planning to be here?' he asked.

‘Not forever, if that's what you're worried about.'

He hadn't been. He glanced over to the car. Sophy was making her way round the back of it to grab their bags. She was as tall as Michelle, but much cuter. She was a teenager who hadn't quite grown used to her body yet, and she was completely lacking Michelle's obvious self-confidence. She was the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

He went out to help her with the bags. They had two. Both were worn-out and flowery, one considerably bigger than the other. ‘Mom's,' she said. He didn't say a word. She was silent too, thankful to have someone helping her. She went into the house ahead of him, carrying the smaller of the bags and pausing in the hall.

Though he had been talking to her in his head all these years, he couldn't think of a thing to say. Of course, he hadn't always been sober while doing so, and he turned red when he thought about everything he had let her see, though obviously she hadn't actually seen a thing, which was a shame, but maybe just as well, since he hadn't always been sober … he got lost in his thoughts and couldn't come up with anything to do other than smile at her again.

‘I'm Sophy,' she said, as though they had never met.

He felt a stab at his heart when she said that, though it was nothing he couldn't handle. He had an absurd desire to talk to Sophy about this.

‘I'm George,' he said. ‘Once upon a time you used to call me Dad.'

‘Call him George,' Michelle shouted from the kitchen. He was glad he had tidied up the day before. The apartment was drab and impersonal, but at least it was clean. If he had known she would be coming, he would have done more. Repainted, maybe. Bought new furniture. Bought a new house.

Sophy smiled uncertainly at him and glanced towards the kitchen.

‘George is fine too,' he said.

He realised he was still holding his book and put the bag down on the floor. He glanced around to see where he could put the book. Eventually, he put it down on the floor too.

‘Is it good?' she asked. She had a lovely voice.

‘What?' he said, and then, when he had straightened up again: ‘Do you want to borrow it?'

‘Maybe a bit later,' she suggested, smiling.

He nodded. She glanced into the kitchen again.

Of course she wanted to be with her mother. He had to remember that she didn't know him at all, that she might not want to. He needed to give her time to get used to him.

She doesn't even have to like me, I'm not asking for that, he said to God or the patron saint of forgotten parents or whoever it was you made promises to when you could no longer make them to your daughter in your head. As long as she knows she can trust me and come to me whenever she has any problems. He would tell her all this once she had time to get used to him, and show her he was completely normal and, well,
cool
? Or that he could be. For her sake, he would even stop being awkward and embarrassing.

At that moment, he planned on simply asking a calm, relaxed question about whether she wanted anything to eat or drink. Not forcing it on her, of course, just a friendly question.

‘Can I do anything for you?' he asked. ‘Do you need anything? A pop? Something to eat? A new car?'

She actually smiled at the offer of a car. He smiled back, relieved, and pretended it was a joke.

‘I don't have a licence,' she said.

‘Do you need money for lessons?' He could sell something. The sofa, maybe.

Her smile faltered slightly, and she glanced to the kitchen again.

‘A pop would be good,' she finally said.

SOMEHOW, SARA MADE
it through the day after the market.

She was glad she had been able to walk to the bookshop – she needed to get the irritation out of her system. The rest of the day had been spent behind the counter, watching the town's inhabitants laugh and joke as they pulled down stalls and tidied up the street.

Neither George nor Caroline had been there, but she had seen Tom's car pull up at one point. She really couldn't go out after that. Who knew when he might come by again.

And so she had stood there, silent and idle, tired of both Tom and herself.

She hadn't been at all sure that the next day would be any better, but when she got to the bookshop in the morning, a customer was already waiting outside.

A solitary, meagre little figure craning forward to look through the window. She could hardly have been much older than fifteen, Sara thought. She must have been waiting there in the drizzle for some time, because her hair was hanging down over her face in damp strands, but she smiled as Sara unlocked the door.