before that.’
Martin felt as if he’d been pole-axed. This wasn’t right, he’d only just met her and she was clearing off.
‘That’s a shame,’ he said feebly. ‘Why?’
Her smile lit up her face. ‘Sounds pathetic, but I’m lonely. I just haven’t settled in here.’
He wanted to say: You’re lovely. How can you be lonely? Instead, he said: ‘You’ve met me now.’ He hid his fluster at his own boldness in a careful study of his coffee mug.
‘That is so kind, Martin. Thank you.’
Say something else. Quick. ‘Er, must be nice living in a flat,’ he busked. ‘Independence and all that.’
She grimaced around the room. ‘If this is independence, I don’t think it’s all it’s made out to be.’
Martin grinned back like a ninny. She was smashing.
‘Maybe if I had a chic little bachelor-girl flat in Chelsea? What d’you think?’
‘No! That’s miles away!’ He had blurted out the words before he had registered what he was actually saying. ‘From college, I mean.’ He stood up clumsily, gathering the books into an untidy heap. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Jill. And, really, thanks a lot for these.’
‘My pleasure.’
She followed him over to the door. ‘Maybe it might be worth starting those essays after all.’
He spun round to face her, shedding a heavy volume on the basics of macroeconomics at her feet.
She bent down and retrieved it for him. As she returned it to the toppling tower in his arms, she looked up into his eyes.
Martin gulped. ‘I could help you if you like. With the essays. You know, to say thanks for the—’
‘Coffee?’ That smile again.
‘Yeah. And the books.’
‘I’d be really grateful. Thanks.’
As she reached round him to open the door and her hand brushed his arm, Martin felt giddy from her touch and the smell of her standing so close to him.
‘Perhaps we could meet up?’ she suggested. ‘Tomorrow? At college?’
Martin nodded enthusiastically. ‘Sure. Yeah. Sure.’
‘Good. I’ll see you then.’
Martin backed up the basement steps, smiling down at the wonderful girl smiling back at him. Was this really happening to him? A girl with her own flat?
It was a dream come true.
Chapter 2
SARAH PEARSON FUSSED around, arranging a box of jam tarts and a packet of chocolate Swiss rolls on a doily-covered plate. She had already emptied a tin of salmon on to a serving dish and, along with a bowl full of salad, Sarah was satisfied that she had created a perfect Sunday tea, with all her granddaughter’s favourites.
She looked out of the kitchen window at the bright, clear sky and, knowing it wouldn’t be dark for a good few hours, smiled happily. It was a treat now that spring was here at last; seeing blue skies made her feel as if a lid had been lifted and she could breathe again. And it was good to see the railings along the balcony looking smart after their fresh coat of paint.
The council hadn’t done too bad a job in doing up the old flats: nice big windows, an Ascot heater in the tiny new bathroom they had put in, and a back boiler in the fireplace. But the best thing about the refurbishment of Lancaster Buildings was that it had saved the residents from having to move into one of the tower blocks that were all they seemed to build nowadays.
Sarah carried the food through to the front room, and placed it, just so, on the lace tablecloth. She might have lived on the fourth floor of a tenement block in Poplar, but Sarah still liked everything to be nice: spotlessly clean, and with all her things around her. And things were what Sarah had plenty of. Every flat surface, and every inch of cabbage-rose-patterned wallpaper, was covered with some little knick-knack, souvenir, or framed photograph, most of which were shots of a self-conscious-looking Angie that Sarah had snapped with her Box Brownie.
At the sound of the doorbell chiming its jingly greeting, Sarah snatched a hurried look in the mirror, patted her immaculately set hair, and hurried