Cloudy with a Chance of Love Read Free Page A

I’d moved in, laden with boxes and giant Ikea shopping bags packed with all my stuff, he’d knocked at my new front door offering a smile and a polka dot cake tin.
    â€˜Hello,’ he’d said. ‘I’m Will Hamilton. I live next door. Did you know your doorbell doesn’t work?’
    â€˜Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘I need to get that sorted. I’m Daryl Williams.’
    â€˜It’s very nice to meet you, Daryl Williams. I’ve brought you a cake.’
    â€˜A cake? Wow!’ I’d replied. ‘That’s a lovely thing to do. I didn’t think neighbours did that stuff any more. I thought it was all lawnmowers at dawn and curt nods on the driveway.’ He laughed. He was nice; I could see that immediately. He had a dark-brown-with-grey-bits quiff that had collapsed and was flopping in his eyes, a wide smile and brown eyes. He looked about the same age as me – mid-forties, perhaps late forties? Very, very good looking. The sort of face you wouldn’t mind peeking over the top of a newspaper at, at the breakfast table, for years and years. Not that I was in the market for that everagain. I was over marriage. I was over my marriage . I didn’t need another hero; they just let you down and went off with your best friend.
    â€˜Come in,’ I said and he’d stepped into my hall. He was wearing dark, almost black, blue jeans and a brushed cotton checked shirt. Plus grey desert boots – I hadn’t seen those since my days at Brighton Poly – in 1991. ‘Excuse the décor.’
    I’d bought a mid-street house in a Victorian strip of smallish semis in Wimbledon, not far from the station. My new house looked lovely from the outside, matching all the others with their red bricks and white porches; it even had a nicely tended patch of garden at the front which I already feared for – I was not known for my gardening prowess. Inside, the other semis were probably the height of character period charm coupled with sleek modernity; mine was not. It was extremely dated. Think striped wallpaper below yellowing dado rail; sponge paint affect circa Changing Rooms 1998 above… Swagged yellow curtains with tie backs – the previous owner clearly couldn’t be bothered to take them down and I don’t blame her; I wouldn’t have dragged such mustard monstrosities to my new house either… Artexed ceilings… A bath with carpet up the side… Will had laughed when I’d showed him that and so had I. He didn’t look like a serial killer so I’d showed him round the whole house.
    â€˜It’s not exactly Homes and Gardens, is it?’ he said after we’d done the tour and were back in the hall. ‘Needs a little bit of work.’
    â€˜A lot of work,’ I quantified, again thinking how good looking he was. ‘I know.’ It was in pretty bad shape, my new house. That’s how I’d managed to knock ten grand off the price, giving me a bit of money to play with. I’d already got a decent amount, from my ‘proceeds of marriage’ or whatever they called it (blood money? Tears money?), but the extra cash would come in handy for renovations. I was really lucky. I hadn’t wanted to leave Wimbledon – it had been my home since my twenties – and I hadn’t had to.
    â€˜I’m quite handy, with a paint brush, you know,’ said Will, as I was seeing him out. ‘Just give me a shout if you need any help.’
    â€˜I might take you up on that,’ I said, then hoped I hadn’t said it in a flirty manner. The plan was to flirt and have fun with men from now on – now I was over the horror of my break-up and divorce – but that couldn’t include any neighbours. I wanted to be happy living here, in my new start, not getting tangled in potentially mortifying situations with anyone I shared bin men with.
    â€˜Actually, can I help you bring any boxes