Not OK Cupid: A sparkling rom-com you won't want to put down! Page 4

  Oh, shit.

  ‘Sam?’ Ally said, her voice several octaves higher than usual.

  ‘Yep. I would ask him, but it’s such a sensitive subject for him. You two can’t have any secrets from each other, being engaged and all, so I can ask you.’

  Ally gaped at him. ‘What subject?’

  ‘A long time ago we talked about him having corrective surgery for . . . you know.’ He gestured at his chest.

  Ally stared at his chest, so horrified by this turn of events that she only wondered for a second whether it was hairy or smooth.

  Mr Kinsell sat on the squashy sofa and gestured at the other side. Ally sat down with a bump.

  ‘When he was younger,’ he continued, ‘I said I’d pay for it if he wanted it. But when I brought it up again he brushed me off and I could see he didn’t want to talk about it. So you tell me, honestly, has he made his peace with it or does he want to go for the surgery?’

  Ally’s mouth was still open. She shut it with a snap and swallowed.

  ‘Um,’ she said. Think, think. What could be wrong with Sam’s chest? ‘Er,’ she added, looking around the room as if the answer would be on a poster on the walls. As her gaze wandered back to Mr Kinsell, she caught a twitch of his lips.

  She looked hard at him. ‘Are you playing with me?’

  His face rearranged itself into an innocent mask. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You were laughing at me.’

  ‘Me?’ He cocked his head to the side. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because—’ She shut her mouth again. She could hardly say because you want to catch me out.

  ‘I’m just asking my son’s fiancée a question.’ He leaned forward, holding her gaze. ‘You must know all about it.’ He gestured at his chest again.

  Ally’s mind whirred. Did he know she’d never seen Sam naked? How could he know? She examined his face closely and could see no traces of a smile. His eyes were still glinting but maybe he just had glinty eyes.

  ‘Well, so do you.’ She crossed her arms and then, in a flash of inspiration, moved them below her breasts and pushed them up. A quick glance confirmed her cleavage was winning the fight with her dress. Trying to look casual, she bent her knees and drew her legs on to the sofa so the dress rode up her thighs.

  It didn’t have quite the distracting effect she hoped for. The git didn’t seem to notice she’d moved, his stare fixed on her face. Her body was the only damn weapon she had and it wasn’t working.

  ‘You ask him,’ she said, irritation making her voice more forceful. ‘If he’s not comfortable talking about it then neither am I. We protect each other’s secrets.’

  His dark eyes narrowed, and then his face broke into a wide smile. ‘All right.’ He nodded, as if conceding defeat. ‘I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Well, good. You do that.’

  He held her gaze. Ally refused to blink first, her eyes immediately watering. In an effort to distract him she pulled the crystal pendant out of her cleavage and rotated it to catch the light. A flash of white shone on the pale blue walls, but Mr Kinsell sat calmly and stared into her eyes.

  Ally blinked first. It was difficult not to, because a blur of brown filled her vision a nanosecond before two paws the size of tree branches slammed into her shoulders. Harry pinned her to the sofa and nuzzled between her breasts, pushing the material aside to get at her pendant.

  ‘Harry, no!’ Mr Kinsell shouted.

  Harry yelped as Mr Kinsell seized him around the middle and yanked him off Ally. She sat up just as Harry landed full-force on Mr Kinsell’s chest, his massive paws waving in the air.

  Mr Kinsell made an ‘oof’ sound, and Ally pushed Harry with all her strength. He slid off the sofa with a thump and stared at her with a hurt expression.

  Mr Kinsell rubbed his stomach and winced.

  ‘God, are you OK?’ Ally bit her lip.

  ‘I’ll live. I’ve got a spare kidney if that one’s broken.’ He sat up gingerly. ‘Excuse my dog. Harry!’ The dog sat up straight and locked eyes with his master. ‘You do not take off a lady’s dress without asking. OK?’

  Harry barked and shuffled his feet.

  ‘Huh. Not many people call me a lady.’ She tucked the pendant back in her dress and straightened the neckline. At least one male in this house appreciated her cleavage.

  He smiled. ‘So, when are you coming to paint Debbie?’

  Ally thought fast for an excuse. ‘It’s too hard to paint animals from life. Give me some photos and I’ll do it from home.’

  ‘How can I get to know my future daughter-in-law if you’re at home?’

  She definitely wasn’t imagining that mischievous look.

  ‘Er . . . email?’

  ‘All right. What’s your email address?’

  Trying not to show her relief, Ally typed it into his phone for him. Email was fine. She’d have time to form a convincing response, and he wouldn’t be able to see her body language. She was transparent as a jellyfish when she tried to lie.

  ‘One minute,’ he said, taking the phone and tapping on it.

  Ally’s buzzed, and she took it out of her bag while he was still busy.

  ‘Ugh,’ she said. ‘You’re sneaky.’

  He grinned.

  Ally sighed at the email, from one Marcus Kinsell: Nurse-slash-artist required to paint a cocker spaniel. Tuesday at six?

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You win.’

  ‘Great! I’ll send you my address and we’ll have a great time. I can ask you lots of questions about you and Sam. Won’t that be fun?’

  Oh, he was tricky. But Ally could be devious too. She adjusted her dress, tugging it down her bare thighs, and watched his face.

  His eyes didn’t stray from hers.

  ‘Better get back,’ he said with a smile. ‘We can tell Sam. He’ll be delighted that you’ll be spending more one-on-one time with his family.’

  ‘Mm. Delighted.’ Ally narrowed her eyes at him and wished she could read thoughts.

  He stood up and looked at his dog. ‘Harry? There are absolutely no cocktail sausages in the garden, so don’t bother coming to look. OK?’

  Harry barked.

  ‘Good boy.’

  Ally tried to process the conversation as she followed him downstairs, but her brain wasn’t designed for working out puzzles. She settled for watching the way his broad shoulders moved as he walked.

  In the garden, Sam was hovering by his mum and her sister. His face relaxed in relief when he saw Ally, and he grasped her arm. ‘Let’s get a drink.’

  Mr Kinsell’s mouth twitched into a smile as he took in Sam’s hand curled around Ally’s forearm. It was the first time he’d looked anywhere below her neck.

  Ally pressed herself against Sam’s side as they went to the buffet table. She put a hand on his chest to feel his heart through the damp shirt.

  Sam twisted away and flinched. ‘Don’t. I’m . . . I’m sweaty.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’ Ally asked, squeezing his hand.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your dad said something about your chest . . . I didn’t know what to say. I kind of bluffed.’

  His red cheeks clashed with his sun-bleached hair.

  ‘Tell him it’s none of his business,’ he said, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. ‘I shouldn’t have brought you here. Why am I such an idiot?’

  Sam’s eyes flicked to the barbecue as they filled their glasses. Gavin and his group stood there, drinking beer and smoking. Gavin caught Sam’s eye, leaned closer to the cousins, and said something with a nasty grin. They all turned to Sam and laughed.

  ‘Brace yourself,’ Ally whispered into Sam’s ear, then grabbed his face and kissed him like she wanted to count his molars.

  She hoped he was a better kisser with men. He went limp, then grasped her shoulders with his arms sticking out like a crab and managed to move his lips.

  Ally broke off, sighed, and stroked his cheek. ‘Oh, Sam. You still make my knees weak after a
ll these years.’

  The gang stared at them, subdued. So did several shocked aunts, and Sam’s parents. Mrs Kinsell and her sister looked horrified, but Mr Kinsell met Ally’s eyes and gave a half-smile like they were sharing a joke.

  Ally smiled around sweetly and poured herself another glass of Prosecco.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The café was quiet for Ally’s Tuesday morning shift. She was nervous about seeing Sam’s tricky, sexy dad that evening, but it was too nice a day to be in a bad mood. While she grilled a chicken breast for her lunch, she used the spatula to sing ‘You’re So Vain’ with the radio.

  ‘It’s not “wife of a postman”,’ said a familiar voice.

  Ally spun around and saw a grey-haired woman in a green sundress at the counter.

  ‘Gran!’ Ally skipped over to give her a kiss. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The lyrics, dear. It’s not “Wife of a postman”.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ally sang it again in her head and it sounded right. Maybe Gran was going a little deaf. ‘Want a cup of tea?’

  ‘Irish coffee.’

  ‘Gran, I’ve told you before. We can’t serve alcohol.’

  Gran sighed. ‘Then what’s the point of you? Fine. Tea. Two sugars, milk, and none of your skimmed nonsense, thank you very much.’

  Ally rifled among the teabags for a Twinings English Breakfast and exhaled in relief when she found one. What was Gran going to berate her about today? Men, babies, or career?

  She carried the tea to a Formica table, with a can of Lilt for herself. Gran inspected the mug for chips, pursed her lips, and glared at Ally. ‘Now, Alicia, you know I’m dying.’

  ‘Yes. Since the nineties.’

  Gran waved a hand in the air. ‘You don’t get to my age by hurrying. The fact is, I’m dying. Your idiot father is going to get my money, and your grandpa’s, God rest his soul. His idiot wife will spend it on impressing her friends. I’d write them out of my will but it’d upset your grandpa.’ She blew on her tea and added, ‘God rest his soul.’

  Great; it was career today. Ally eyed Gran’s viridian handbag, wondering when the cheque would appear, and gripped the Lilt can. ‘You could leave it to charity?’

  Gran gave her a look that suggested she’d spat in the tea. ‘To feed a load of mangy donkeys that do nothing but eat and fart? Or buy a new bingo machine for a home full of feckless coffin dodgers?’

  Ally glanced around to make sure her customers weren’t listening. ‘Well, spend it all then. Go on a round-the-world cruise.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d love to pay for some randy sailors to crash me into an iceberg.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m dying but I’m not suicidal. Anyway, I didn’t come here for ideas. If I needed someone with a list of a thousand ways to spend my money I’d go and see your father, and I’d rather have a smear test than visit him and Cruella de Vil without anyone holding a gun to my head.’

  Ally choked on the Lilt and used her apron to wipe it up. ‘Oh Gran, they’re not so bad. Dad loves you, and Carly’s just a bit . . . neurotic. She was born that way.’

  Gran stared at her in disgust. ‘When are you going to realise life’s a bitch, Alicia, and people only care about themselves? Most of us make our peace with it when we’re teenagers.’

  ‘I like life. And people. You’re one of my favourites.’ Ally squeezed Gran’s papery wrist.

  ‘That’s nice, dear. You’re a fool. Now, listen. I’m leaving half to your mother, mostly because it’ll annoy Cruella. But I don’t want you to wait for her to shuffle off before you can have some.’

  Ally’s stomach tightened at the thought of Mum dying. She clutched the crystal pendant around her neck and wondered how to get Gran off this subject.

  Too late.

  ‘I want to give you some money to start your business again,’ Gran continued. ‘And this time I want you to do it properly, not a half-arsed job with a bunch of whining excuses.’

  ‘Hey! I don’t whine.’

  Gran examined her. ‘All right, you don’t whine. You do make excuses though, all the time, and I’m sick of it. God gave you two gifts and you use one of them well enough,’ Gran raked her eyes down Ally’s body, making her shift guiltily, ‘but not the one you actually have to work at. It’s a waste and that’s a sin and there’s only one type of sin I encourage women to commit on a regular basis.’ She leaned forward, hands clasped around her mug. ‘How’s sex these days? Has it changed since the noughties?’

  ‘Oh, Gran, please don’t tell me about Melvin again.’ Ally got ready to stuff her fingers in her ears.

  Gran grinned. ‘Melvin with the wrinkly balls?’

  Ally sighed. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘OK, I won’t. All I’ll say is “ancient basset hound” doesn’t quite cover it and he’s all set if he ever needs a skin transplant.’

  Ally pushed her drink away and closed her eyes.

  ‘Oi, listen to me.’ Gran rapped Ally’s knuckles until she squinted with one eye. ‘Start your business again. I want my investment back in three years. Doubled. Then maybe I’ll take Melvin on a cruise.’

  Ally’s heart sank. She hated letting Gran down, but that’s exactly what she’d do if she took her money. Painting every now and then as a hobby was OK, but trying it as a full-time business had ended in tears. Literally. She just didn’t have the attention span to do anything full time. There was a reason she had three part-time jobs with irregular hours: because she rebelled at any hint of routine and responsibility.

  ‘I don’t want your money, Gran. I can’t even make sandwiches properly, let alone run a business. I was a disaster.’

  ‘There you go with the excuses. Where would your mother be if she hadn’t taken my money to set up her business?’

  ‘That’s different.’ Ally eyed the café door and wished a customer would arrive. ‘That was Mum. And people are willing to pay more for reiki and crystal healing than for a painting.’

  ‘More fool them. Look, if she can do it with that hippie bollocks, you can do it with your talent. The two of you might as well be twins. Both of you bungalows, nothing—’

  ‘—going on upstairs,’ Ally finished. ‘Thanks, Gran. But Mum’s not a bungalow. She has stuff in the attic. It’s just . . . a bit messy and disorganised. I have nothing.’

  ‘Alicia, she’s got a bomb site in the attic. Trust me, I saw enough of them during The Troubles. Now, no more backchat or I’ll be angry, and you’re not too old for a smack, young lady. Here.’ She rummaged in her handbag, drew out a folded piece of paper, and shoved it down the front of Ally’s

  T-shirt.

  ‘Hey!’ Ally fished it out and looked. A cheque for two thousand pounds. Ally knew she’d get all fired up, throw herself into the business with everything she had, then get bored in a fortnight and spend the rest on adopting cows in India. Again.

  ‘Gran, I don’t want this.’

  ‘Tough. It’s yours.’ Gran sat back and sipped her tea. ‘You should advertise in the Yellow Pages.’

  ‘I don’t think they print the Yellow Pages any more.’

  ‘Then whatever flashy equivalent you kids have these days. Put an ad in Google, or that Face Magazine your Mum’s always trying to put me in.’

  The more Ally argued, the more stubborn Gran would get. Thank god nobody had told her about bank transfers; at least Ally could leave a cheque uncashed.

  ‘OK, Gran.’

  Gran scowled. ‘Don’t say “OK, Gran” in that “I’m just trying to shut you up” way. You do it.’

  Was there no way to win this?

  Only by satisfying Gran that she wasn’t planning to work as a waitress-slash-barmaid-slash-beautician-slash-masseuse for the rest of her life.

  ‘I did.’ Ally sat up straighter. ‘I put an ad on a bunch of websites and I got two calls. I’m painting a baby and . . . another baby, I think. Or maybe a kitten. I don’t know, something small and noisy.’

  ‘Good. When are you going to have a baby?’

  ‘When I g
o insane or the world runs out of contraception.’ ‘You don’t have to keep the man, you know. Milk him dry and disappear into the horizon with a chubby little baby.’

  Man. She was going to get babies AND career nagging, all in one conversation? Could she convince Gran she’d put an ad up for a baby, as well? Probably not. ‘I want the man and not the baby.’

  Gran made a face. ‘Why? Did your father teach you nothing about men?’

  ‘Not all men are like him. There must be one out there who I’ll enjoy talking to as well as – you know.’

  Gran tutted. ‘Not for you. You choose the arseholes. Anyway, I don’t have time to give you dating advice. I have salsa dancing class in six hours.’

  Ally let her forehead hit the table top. ‘You really cheer me up, Gran.’

  Gran prodded Ally’s shoulder blade with a sharp finger until she sat up. ‘Look, forget about men. Get a vibrator and a career, and then you can play with a farting bag of testosterone if you want. When’s your next painting?’

  ‘This evening.’

  Gran looked pleased.

  ‘It’s not a real commission though,’ Ally admitted. ‘I mean, it’s for a friend. Well, a friend of a friend. Sam’s dad.’

  ‘Sam? I like Sam. Is he still gay?’

  ‘Yes, Gran.’

  ‘Shame. You know, Alicia, this is a very good cup of tea.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll add your testimonial to my CV.’

  Gran glared. ‘You won’t be making any more tea in crappy little cafés with skimmed milk. You’re going to use that gift and be a world-famous artist.’

  ‘Can’t I just be a stripper?’

  ‘No. You’ve only got a few years before everything starts going south.’

  Ally squeezed her elbows against her chest and examined her breasts. ‘They look all right.’

  Gran snorted. ‘Wait till you’re my age. You can wear bras made of cloths and dust the floors while you walk.’

  Ally slumped on to the table, and Gran patted her consolingly.

  Gran left when the fire alarm went off.

  Ally scraped the charred remains of her lunch off the grill, opened the back door to let the smoke out, and shouted apologies at the customers coughing their way out.