Annie Lyons - Not Quite Perfect

As she scans the surprisingly tidy kitchen, her eye is caught by a picture Will did a month or so ago entitled ‘My Family’. It had made them laugh because he had drawn them all as Power Rangers. Rachel looks closely, smiling to herself, but this time notices the expressions on the faces. He has drawn himself, his siblings and Steve with enormous cartoon grins but she notices that her face is not smiling but slightly turned down. She tries to dismiss it with her usual humour, questioning whether he is a new Leonardo and is seeking to recreate the Mona Lisa , but something about it makes her feel sad and rather lonely. She is interrupted by a polite tap at the front door.

‘You took your time,’ she declares flinging it open.

‘I did?’ says Tom smiling.

Rachel is momentarily flummoxed. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else’

‘Oh.’ Tom looks slightly disappointed and then grins again.

‘No, it’s OK. It’s nice to see you. Are you all right?’

‘Fine thanks, Mrs Summers. I’m just playing Postman Pat. I took this parcel in for you this morning.’

‘Oh, thanks very much.’

‘Where’s Postman Pat?’ Alfie inquires suddenly at Rachel’s legs, peering up at Tom.

‘I’m here and you must be Alf Thompson. Hullo Alf!’ says Tom putting on a Postman Pat Yorkshire accent.

Rachel is impressed. ‘Good knowledge!’

Tom winks at her. ‘My nephews and nieces have trained me well. I can do them all, Fireman Sam, Bob the Builder.’

‘Where’s Jess?’ says Alfie, oblivious to the mild flirting which is going on above his head.

‘She’s at home having a rest. We’ve had a busy morning delivering all these parcels.’

‘Where’s your van?’ continues Alfie.

‘Er, round the corner.’

‘Ha!’ laughs Rachel. ‘You’re rumbled mate!’

Tom laughs. Alfie screws up his face with scepticism and runs back to the living room.

‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ Rachel asks, surprising herself.

‘Erm, OK, why not? Only if I’m not in the way though.’

‘Don’t be silly. You can keep us entertained with your repertoire of children’s characters.’

Rachel leads him down to the kitchen just as her mobile starts to ring. It’s Sue: ‘Listen, darl, I’m really sorry. I’m not going to make it. Joe’s just thrown up everywhere. Can we speak tomorrow?’

‘Of course. Don’t worry. I hope he’s better soon.’

‘Take care, lovely, and talk to Steve. He’s one of the good guys, you know.’

‘I know,’ says Rachel feeling suddenly exhausted.

Rachel turns to find Tom filling up two wine glasses from the bottle he’s found in the fridge.

‘Sorry, I took the liberty.’

Rachel accepts the glass feeling suddenly shy. She is relieved when two sets of three-year-old feet come stampeding down the corridor. Alfie and Lily appear in a state of heightened excitement.

‘That’s him,’ says Alfie pointing at Tom.

Lily looks Tom up and down, like an old lady inspecting a joint of meat. ‘Why are boys so stupid? That’s not Postman Pat. It’s Tom from next door.’

It’s getting dark as Emma leaves the office, joining the flow of commuters in a hurry to get home because it’s Monday and no one goes out on a Monday. The sky has that London light-polluted glow which means it never goes completely dark, even at night. It’s chilly and a little rain has dampened the streets. Emma is feeling fed up and ready for a bath, a large glass of wine and the welcoming arms of her fiancé. She feels her phone vibrate in her bag. Fumbling through a mess of keys, lipstick and receipts, she locates it just in time, seeing Martin’s caller ID on the screen.

‘Hi, handsome. I’ve just left and I’m looking forward to my spag bol and maybe an encore of last night’s performance?’ says Emma with a smile.

‘Hey, Em,’ says Martin sounding guilty. ‘Thing is I forgot I’d said I’d play five-a-side football with Charlie. Any chance we could postpone it til tomorrow night?’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Look, Em, I’m really sorry and I’ll come home if you want me to. I know you’ve had a crap day,’ says Martin in a tone that is begging to be let off the hook.

Emma sighs, knowing that she’ll feel mean if she forces the issue. ‘No, it’s OK. You go. I’ll probably just head home and have a bath and an early night. I’m a bit knackered.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’

‘Sure you’re sure?’

‘Yes, you loser, now bog off to your little football game,’ laughs Emma.

‘OK, well spag bol tomorrow night and then how about that encore?’ says Martin. ‘I’ll do anything you want.’

‘Anything?’

‘Apart from the washing-up. I’ll see you later, OK? Love you, Em.’

‘‘Course you do. I’m bloody lovely!’ she declares. She throws the phone into her bag and starts to trudge towards the Tube feeling like a lost soul.

‘Emma! Emma!’ The voice is an unwelcome interruption to her thoughts of home and at first she thinks it’s Joel. She spins round, her face set in a scowl. ‘Woah, woah, woah!’ says the voice’s owner. ‘I come in peace!’

Richard Bennett stands before her, an apologetic smile on his face, his hands held up in surrender. Emma is unsure what to do or say, so he jumps in. ‘Look, we didn’t have the best of starts.’

‘Slight understatement,’ says Emma arms folded. She’s let one man off the hook this evening, Richard Bennett isn’t going to have such an easy time. He looks floored for a moment and Emma would almost feel sorry for him if she weren’t so fed up. ‘Well, if that’s all you came to say, I would really like to go home now please.’

He blocks her path. ‘Look,’ he begins again, ‘come and have a drink with me.’

‘Why?’

Richard considers the question. ‘You want to know why?’

Emma detects that he doesn’t get turned down that often. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

Richard’s brown eyes flash with amusement. ‘I’ll give you three reasons actually.’

‘Go on then.’

‘One, I am really very sorry for what happened today. Two, I thought your pitch was wonderful. And three, your boyfriend stood you up so you may as well.’

Emma is gobsmacked. ‘You were spying on me!’

‘No, I just came along at the right moment. So what do you say? One drink. I get to absolve my conscience and you get to spend an hour in the company of a glittering literary talent,’ he says grinning.

She considers her options. One drink can’t hurt and she is intrigued by this man. Even if he has an ego the size of Big Ben, he does write a bloody brilliant book and that’s always of interest to Emma. Plus it’s not as if she’s got any better offers and she could murder a glass of something crisp, dry and white. ‘Oh all right then.’

‘Brilliant,’ says Richard seeming genuinely pleased.

The nearest drinking establishment is one of those central London pubs that would have been lovely if they hadn’t let a eighties wine bar designer get his hands on it. The once dingy brown ceilings and walls, which always remind Emma of pubs she used to go to with her dad, have been replaced with a light airy space and pale wooden floor the size of a football pitch. The bar and surrounding tables and stools seem a little higher off the ground giving the impression that they have wandered into a giant’s kingdom.

‘What can I get you?’ drawls the ponytailed man behind the bar. Garen, as his name badge declares him to be, is surly but smart in his black shirt and silver tie with a Premiership footballer-type gigantic knot. The glass in which he serves Emma’s Sauvignon Blanc is the size of a goldfish bowl and could easily house the whole bottle. Richard’s Czech beer is the colour of gold with a price to match.