“I’m sure he would be proud,” Ava said quietly, giving Lindy a look that suggested she had some inkling of what she really felt. Lindy smiled back, and then looked away, because whenever she skirted too close to the grief she’d firmly put away more than fifteen years ago, she felt her throat go tight and her eyes start to sting, and she definitely didn’t want to go there. Life was for living, for enjoying, for wringing the zest out of. It wasn’t for looking back.
Olivia started bringing over their cream teas, which looked delicious, and thankfully the chatter moved on to talk of bumps and babies and weddings—all of which was completely outside Lindy’s experience.
They were just setting to slathering scones in several heart attacks’ worth of clotted cream when the bells on the door jangled again, and to her surprise and then dawning horror, considering what she’d just said about him, Lindy saw Roger Wentworth coming into the teashop. And even more alarmingly, he saw her.
*
Roger’s gaze zeroed in on Lindy sitting in the back of the shop with a gaggle of women and his heart seemed to bump in his chest before doing a sickly plummet towards his toes. This was definitely not good.
Could he just pretend he hadn’t seen her? Difficult, when they’d most certainly made eye contact. Somewhat surprisingly, considering how often he suspected he appeared to be, Roger didn’t like to seem rude. And ignoring Lindy now, when she was still gazing at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, would be rude indeed.
But the alternative was surely not to be contemplated. To walk across the room and say hello—with not one or two but four women all watching him with goggle-eyed speculation—was surely impossible. Literally impossible. His feet felt as if they were stuck to the floor.
The more rational part of his brain reminded him that he was thirty-eight years old, not thirteen; he was in charge of an entire department at work; he was perfectly capable of basic social niceties, or even more advanced ones, at least on occasion. In other words, he could do this.
And yet…all four women had looked up to gaze at him with such blatant curiosity, and Lindy…Lindy looked amazing, Roger acknowledged as his heart, in addition to bumping and then plummeting, seemed to do a weird little flip in his chest. Technically impossible, but still.
That’s what it felt like when he looked at her—her golden-brown hair tumbling halfway down her back, bright blue-green eyes fringed with luxuriant lashes. She had, he noticed, a little mole at the corner of her mouth. She was dressed in a far less ridiculous outfit than when she’d been leading the dance class—a plain white T-shirt and a loose, dark green cardigan that was half-sliding off her shoulder, with a pair of skinny jeans that made the most of her generous curves.
Roger noticed all this in a heart-stopping instant—yes, his heart now felt frozen on top of all the other sensations he’d experienced—and with a smile that he knew must look more like a rictus, he began to walk stiffly over to the table, keeping his gaze on Lindy who, unfortunately, was now looking as if she’d rather he’d stayed where he was, that initial smile sliding off her face just like the cardigan was off her shoulder, her eyes clouding in a way he didn’t understand but felt fairly certain had to be ominous.
Had he read the social cues incorrectly? Would it not have been rude to ignore her? Perhaps this act of approaching her—a teacher, not an acquaintance or friend—was actually the rude thing to do. Inappropriate, violating her personal time and space. Roger realised he had no idea, and he hated the swamping at-sea feeling that created in him—a sensation he was, unfortunately, well used to when it came to moments like these.
“Roger.” Lindy’s voice and accompanying smile both sounded a bit forced. “How nice to see you.”
“I’m just picking something up for my mother.” Inwardly Roger cringed at the words that emitted from him almost robotically. Could he sound more awkward, more weird?
“For Ellen?” Lindy said, her smile looking slightly less fixed, and Roger nodded.
“Yes. Scones. She likes the cheese ones in particular.” As if that was in any way relevant to this abysmal conversation. He really needed to stop. He had this most unfortunate habit—a kind of tic—to simply state facts and consider it conversation. He pressed his lips together to keep from saying anything more. He could already feel the women all looking at him with a curiosity that was both amused and a bit horrified, something else he was well used to. He couldn’t see any of the other women, because he was refusing to make eye contact, which he realised belatedly was most likely another weird thing, since he seemed to be staring at Lindy so fixedly, but he could feel their transfixed curiosity.
He forced himself to move his gaze a little bit to the left, where there was a rather garish plate fixed to the wall from the Queen’s Jubilee. He studied it with an intensity he didn’t remotely feel.
“You must be from Lindy’s dance class,” a woman said, her voice so obviously laced with rich amusement that Roger tensed even more. The woman sounded as if she knew all about him. Had Lindy been talking about him? Laughing about him? He knew he shouldn’t even be surprised, and yet some part of him felt not surprised, but…no. He didn’t feel anything. Why should he?
He turned to gaze at the woman who’d spoken—about his age, with a knowing manner, her eyes alight, her head cocked to one side.
“Yes, I am from the dance class,” he said stiffly, and fortunately he managed to leave it at that. He did not want to say anything that would either embarrass or implicate him further.
“Roger is attending with his mother Ellen,” Lindy explained. “Doing her a favour, I think.” She smiled at him, inviting him to share the joke, and Roger knew—in his head, at least—that this would be a perfect opportunity to lighten the moment, to ruefully say something about how he’d been dragged to the dance class, how he had not two but actually three left feet, how Lindy just might make a tango-er of him yet. Something. Anything. He could see the script running through his head, and yet somehow it was beyond him to articulate any of it.
What he said was, in the rather petulant voice of a little boy, “I don’t like dancing.”
Everyone stared.
“We’ll see how you are at the end of the term!” Lindy returned brightly, and after another excruciating pause, Roger decided they’d all had enough.
“Yes. Well. I shall see you on Monday.” He nodded stiffly, not meeting anyone’s eye, and then retreated to the counter. The silence in the shop felt suffocating, as if a lead blanket was draped over the room. Roger focused on his breathing, staring straight ahead, as Olivia came to the counter with a smile.
“Roger! Four cheese scones as usual?”
“Yes, please.”
“How is Ellen?”
“Fine.”
“It was lovely to see you at the dance class,” she said quietly, a look of sympathy in her eyes, and Roger just nodded.
Olivia fetched the scones and Roger stayed where he was, conscious of the women all huddled together in the back of the shop, silent and seemingly expectant, no doubt waiting for him to leave so they could gossip about him.
“Well,” one of them said after a moment in what he suspected was meant to be a whisper he wasn’t supposed to hear, “I get what you mean about him being unsuitable.” This was followed by a hasty ‘shh’ and then some smothered laughter.