Chasing Men Read Online Free PDF

This sort of man, so tall, his lean body hinting at some athleticism – did he play squash? cricket? – was exactly the type that had once made her catch her breath in wonder. At a guess, however, he was of an age to be her son.
    ‘Hi,’ he said, his voice deep. His jaw was prominent, the nose Roman, the chin dimpled. Above the green round-necked sweater his Adam’s apple moved gently up and down, as if saluting her independently.
    Hetty was startled. It was one thing to daydream, surreptitiously spying the man’s basket to see whether he was buying for two. It was another to have the vision open its mouth and speak to her.
    ‘Hi,’ he said again, and grinned. ‘Aren’t you the new resident at The Swallows?’
    ‘Oh!’ Hetty found her voice. ‘You mean the flats on Aviary Road? I’ve just moved in, yes.’ She was about to add, ‘Flat three,’ then remembered to be circumspect with strangers. He may look an angel, but you couldn’t tell. ‘I’ve bought it. Why?’
    ‘Because that’s where I live. Upstairs from you.’ Then he must know her number. Of course: it had been on the for-sale sign.
    ‘Really?’ He must be one of the artistic types Mrs A had mentioned. No doubt about it, as the azure eyes gazed down at her. If the rest of the neighbours were as ‘odd’ as this, her days at The Swallows could be … enjoyable. If frustrating. She was not about to go in for baby-snatching. Maybe he had an older brother.
    ‘My name’s Christian,’ he told her, as his basket was taken from him by the cashier. ‘It’s not bad round here, don’t you think?’
    Hetty nodded as her own meagre groceries were charged. She gave her name and began to tell him her circumstances, then trailed off. If she were to start afresh, as she meant to – as she must – then offering a sob-story as the opening to every conversation would have to stop. Dorset, the Aga and the four-poster bed were gone. It was foolish to dwell on them. Or to seek sympathy. She squared her shoulders.
    What would Mrs A have done? The old woman seemed to make a success of singledom.
    ‘Are you going back there now?’ Hetty asked. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Mentally she checked: the crockery had been unpacked and washed. There was milk in the fridge, two kinds of tea in the cupboard, and plenty of biscuits. She smiled encouragingly.
    ‘I’d love one, Mrs Clarkson.’ He smiled back.
    Hetty felt her heart skip a beat. Her new life had started.
     
    The answerphone was blinking as she opened the door. Christian indicated his bags with an easy politeness. ‘I’ll go and dispose of these then come back.’
    ‘ Hello, Hetty, dear. This is Mum. Back from my latest jaunt. Scotland this time – chilly! Are you in tonight? I’ll come round and we can have supper. Forgive me neglecting you. I’ll bring my photos. Edinburgh was wonderful … ’
    ‘Damn!’ Hetty’s first reaction was the realisation that, while entertaining a neighbour to tea was well within her capacity, cooking for her mother in an unfamiliar kitchen still was not. The freezer section of her modest fridge contained only ice cubes and a piece of frozen salmon. There was no time to shop again. In any case, she did not feel like cooking. A tinge of resentment surfaced, quickly suppressed. Her own attitudes had shifted alarmingly already: in her previous incarnation, refusing to serve a four-course dinner on demand would have been unthinkable.
    ‘Christian,’ she said, as the boy tapped at the open door then strolled in, ‘if you wanted to take a girlfriend out to eat, somewhere in walking distance, nice but not too expensive, where would you go?’
    The eyebrows shot up. ‘Well,’ he said uncertainly, ‘you could try Chez Bruce. Just by the station. Quite fair food and ambience .’
    ‘My mum is a much-travelled lady. D’you think she’d like it?’
    Christian visibly relaxed. ‘Rather. I take mine there sometimes and she loves it.’
    ‘That’s settled,