Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“Oh, your flowers still look beautiful.”
“They do,” I say on a smile, stirring some sugar into his coffee. “It’s Dec’s birthday today.”
“Oh, are you going out for dinner? Am I keeping you?”
I wander in, forcing a smile. “He had pre-arranged plans with his sister.” I shrug, lowering to the couch. “It’s a bit soon to meet her.”
He snorts. “It’s never too soon for anything. Look at me. I’m a hundred years old next month, Camryn. One bleeding hundred! I was twenty-one what feels like yesterday.”
I smile and settle back. “You’ve still got lots of years to fill me in on.”
He beams at me, inhaling ready to launch, and I sit on my couch for the longest stretch of time since I moved in and listen to tales of years gone by, when foods were rationed, and he could walk to the end of his street and find everything he could possibly need. A butcher, a baker, Mrs. Smith’s grocery store, which also, conveniently, had a post office counter in there too. A hardware store, a chemist. He lived in the East End. Drank in the same “boozer” as the Krays. Used to fix their cars too. Following his service in the war, he had a garage in the East End. “Those were the days,” he says with a fond smile on his face. “Only the wealthy had cars. Now, every bleeder and their dog whizzes around London.”
“I don’t,” I point out, pulling my feet up onto the couch. “Have you ever driven, Mr. Percival?”
He grins. “I had a Ford Capri in the eighties. It was bright green.” And he goes on.
* * *
I come to with the sound of my mobile ringing from the coffee table. I frown, disorientated, trying to gather my bearings. I have a pillow from my bed under my head and my duvet draped over me.
Bleary-eyed, I reach for my phone and squint at the screen. “Hello?” I murmur sleepily.
“I woke you,” Dec breathes. “I’m sorry.”
He shouldn’t be sorry. I’m glad he’s called, no matter the time. Speaking of which . . . “What time is it?”
“Just gone ten. I just got done with some work stuff and needed to hear your voice before I go to bed.”
“Swoon,” I murmur sleepily, falling back to my pillow, smiling when he chuckles. “Why are you working on your birthday?”
“I had a few contracts to check. What did you do today?”
“Miss you.”
“Swoon,” he murmurs.
My smile widens. “Another man tucked me into bed tonight.”
“Oh? Do I need to deploy my alpha streak and mark my territory?”
“Maybe. He’s seriously wooing me.”
“I’ll be having a word.” There’s laughter in his voice.
“Did you have a nice time with your sister?”
“I did. She’s very excited to meet you.”
I’m suddenly more awake. And nervous. “You’ve told her about me?”
He laughs. “Are you freaking out?”
“Not at all.”
“Sure,” he chuckles. “Listen, get back to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
I pout. “Okay.” And brace myself for the words that’ll send me back to sleep peacefully.
“I love you.”
I can’t contain my smile. “I love you,” I reply, a fuzzy warmth radiating through me. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I hang up and snuggle down, content.
Smiling.
Not scared to go asleep alone.
December 17th
As I stand in my kitchen, munching my way through the last bit of Mr. Percival’s cake, replaying Dec saying those three words over and over, I hear the intercom chime. I make my way to the door, and there’s a knock as I answer the phone. “Hello?” I say as I open the door.
“Delivery for Camryn,” Mr. Percival declares.
Just as someone down the line says, “Tesco delivery for number five.”
I frown and poke my head out the door as I hang up and see a man with a few stacked crates wedged up against the glass door. “Tesco?”
“See!” Mr. Percival sings. “And now everything is delivered to your door. No need to even step foot outside the house!” He makes his way to the door on his walking frame. “It’s a wonder he made it in the snow.”
More snow. Loads of it. I follow and hover behind Mr. Percival as he hauls the door open, knocking his walking frame. “This way,” he says, making way for the Tesco delivery driver. “I’ll show you where you can put it.”
“Thanks, geezer,” he rumbles, struggling down the corridor with the crates.
“For Camryn Moore?” I ask, following him.
“That’s right. There are two substitutes, and I recommend eating the strawberries today as there’s a short shelf life on them.” He finds his way to my kitchen, courtesy of Mr. Percival, and dumps the crates on the table, pulling out the paperwork. “No apple and ginger shots, so they’ve substituted with cloudy apple juice. Seems a bit stupid to me.” He laughs. “This ain’t no shot.” A litre bottle of apple juice is held up in his hand. “And the bananas are to be ripened at home, so they’re a little green. Sign here, please.” He thrusts his little digital device toward me.