“Oh, it’s a word,” I insist. “Look it up in the dictionary.”
“Yeah, of course, I’ll do that. I’m pretty sure it’s right next to gullible.”
Just like that we’re laughing again. Trading minor insults and the occasional mock-punch. As we walk back to our flats, the afternoon sun casting a pale, fuzzy glow on the concrete pavements, I realise how much I’m going to miss this. Miss him. David only moved in a couple of months ago yet we’ve become firm friends. He’s been there when I needed him.
So I reach out my hand and squeeze his shoulder, knowing I’ll try to be there for him, too.
* * *
The rest of the afternoon is spent with my head buried in paper, staring at bank accounts and bills, trying to make them all add up. When I try to pay the electricity, the balance is showing as zero, and I scroll through the payments to work out what's going on. I'm usually pretty good with money—things are so tight I have to be—and this unexpected credit is worrying me, making me think I've done something wrong. When I call up the helpline, it all becomes clearer.
“The balance was paid two days ago, Mrs Cartwright.” The operator sounds too damn chipper for a Sunday afternoon. I wonder what they put in the drinking water.
“But I haven't paid it since last month,” I reply patiently, even though it's the third time I've told her this. “There must be some kind of mistake. Can you see if it's the right account?”
“It is, Mrs Cartwright. The balance is fully paid up. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I sigh. It sounds stupid, but I hate surprises like this, because I know in a few days’ time I'm going to get an angry letter telling me I still owe £250 and there was some kind of mistake when I called up last time. I'm never this lucky.
“Can you tell me who paid the bill?” I ask, fully prepared for her to tell me she can't release that sort of information. Instead, she shocks me with a jaunty 'no problem' and I hear her tap away on her computer.
“The balance was cleared by a Mr Alexander Cartwright.”
My throat tightens. “Alex?”
“That's correct.”
There's a fluttering in my stomach. I say goodbye, not really hearing the reply. Then I go through every bill I have on the table, calling the helplines to double check the balance, and each one of them has been paid off. I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry, because I've always been the one who sorts out the finances. There's something about him doing this, without being asked—without expecting thanks—that makes me feel a little giddy and high. The two hours I have to wait until he brings Max home pass unbearably slowly, long seconds stretching into interminable minutes, until I'm fidgety and anxious. I want to see him, to touch him, to let him know I'm thankful.
Damn it, I want him here.
Alex arrives, knocking on the door with a brief rap of knuckles, tapping out a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. I push myself up from the sofa, leaving behind a Lara-shaped dip, and walk to the door with my pulse rushing through my ears.
“Hi.” I'm breathless when I open the door, and a little bit wary. I don't trust myself not to crumble in front of him. As soon as I see him, I know I'm pretty much dust.
He's had his hair cut; razor sharp at the edges, longer and messy on top. His black T-shirt clings to his chest, ink scrolling up from the neckline as if it's trying to escape. Alex gives me a melted-chocolate look, his lips curled up, eyes crinkled at the edges.
I dig my fingernails into my hands.
“Mam mam mam,” Max immediately breaks the tension. When I look at him in his buggy he gives me a just-like-daddy grin, kicking his bare feet out with delight.
I attempt to compose myself.
“No socks?” I ask. My smile matches Alex’s. I lick my dry lips and he follows me with his eyes.
“He kept throwing them on the pavement. Eventually I gave up trying.” Alex pulls a ball of fluff from his pocket. Grey socks rolled into each other. “He's clearly a hippy.”
“Barefoot and happy.” I reach down and tickle one of Max's tiny feet. He squeals and curls it up, kicking out at me. Then he starts to wriggle, trying to escape the straps that are fastened around his little body, keeping him safely in his pushchair.
“How was your day?” I lift Max out and up into my arms. Surreptitiously I glance at Alex from the sides of my eyes. It feels silly, but I can't help it. There's just something about him.
“We had a good time. There was a barbecue at the park, Max managed to flirt with nearly every woman there.”
“He's a dirty dog.” When I look up, Alex is still looking at me. I meet him stare for stare. “Just like his daddy.”
Alex smirks. “You like me that way.”
My reply is light, full of air. “I do.”