This Book Made Me Think of You(66)
You did it though. You wild camped!
I did!
Joe would be proud of you x
Thanks. I’m actually proud of me too. See you when I’m back x Behind the counter at Book Lane, Alfie types another message. Looking forward to it x. But then he deletes it, instead starting a new message.
Hi Mum, do you think I might be able to borrow your car tomorrow?
Forty-Two
There is a young man standing beside Alfie carrying the most enormous bunch of flowers Alfie has ever seen. He clutches them to his chest, eyes lighting up every time the automatic doors in the arrivals gate slide open.
Alfie glances at the piece of card held between his hands. Will Tilly get the sign? Should he have brought flowers? What is he even doing here? He’s always been a believer in excellent customer service, but perhaps this is taking things too far.
The doors slide open again, and the man beside Alfie lifts the flowers and waves them in the air. A tiny white-haired woman spots him and beams.
“Let me take your bag, Gran,” says the young man, rushing to take the handle of her wheelie suitcase.
“Hello, love. Are these for me? Are there any flowers left in the flower shop?” the woman says in reply, but she doesn’t stop beaming as she takes the flowers and lifts them to her face to smell them.
A little further away two young girls let out a squeal, and the man who had been holding their hands lets go and allows them to duck under the barrier and run into the arms of the woman who looks just like them and is dropping her bags and reaching her arms out for them. And Alfie must have something in his eye, because his vision blurs for a second and he almost misses the flash of ginger hair until a voice calls, “Alfie!” and he is looking across at the pale gray-green eyes of Tilly Nightingale, her hair in a messy bun, her face free from a scrap of makeup, her legs bare from her denim shorts down to her muddy walking boots and scattered in freckles as though someone has flicked her knees with a paintbrush and—Stop looking at her legs, Alfie!
“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here!”
Alfie has never seen someone look quite so surprised, and for a second he wonders if this really was a terrible idea, but then she is somehow in his arms, or maybe it would be more accurate to say he is in her arms, because she has launched herself at him, squeezing him fiercely.
“I really am sorry for the way I smell,” she says, her breath warm against his neck.
“It’s OK, I’ll just breathe through my mouth.” Although the combination of sweat, salt water, and damp fabric has, to his mind, never smelled quite so lovely.
They step apart, and for a second neither of them says anything, they just look at each other as if not quite sure what to do next.
“I am so happy to see you. But what would you have done if Bear Grylls was actually on the plane?”
She points at the sign held in Alfie’s left hand.
“Then you would have had to find your own way home, I’m sorry. I have a weakness for celebrity adventurers. What can I say?”
She laughs and it takes all of Alfie’s strength not to grin like a lunatic. Instead, he coughs and takes her bags, slinging them over his shoulders.
“I’d say you don’t have to do that, but I’m honestly too tired. I don’t think I slept the entire weekend. It turns out the pitch we chose was covered in rocks. Every time I thought I was getting comfy, a rock jabbed me in the back. I still can’t believe you came to get me.”
“Well, I felt semiresponsible for your terrible weekend. Oh, and I brought you these.”
He reaches into his backpack, thrusting a Thermos into her hands. She unscrews the lid and takes a sniff. “Tea! THANK YOU!” Alfie watches as she takes a sip, her face melting in pleasure, eyes closing.
“These are for you too. I promise they’re clean.”
“And dry!” she says as she takes the balled-up woolen socks, cradling them in her arms like a baby. “Oh my god, Alfie!”
The way she says his name makes his stomach flip, but he reminds himself that he is here as a concerned and slightly guilty friend. Nothing more. She leans on his arm to untie her boots, and he gets a glimpse of small bare feet before she pulls on the socks, balling up her sodden, mud-stained ones and throwing them in a nearby bin.
“Sorry they’re a bit big…” He tries not to stare at her feet, at the way the socks bunch up around her exposed ankles.
“They’re perfect, thank you. I was dreaming about dry socks the entire weekend.” She relaces her boots, standing up with a smile. “I promise I’ll wash them before giving them back.”
“It’s fine, you can keep them. The car park is this way.”
“I didn’t know you had a car. I’ve only ever seen you on your bike.”
“I borrowed my mum’s. I’ll warn you, it’s a little small…”
* * *
—
The baby-blue Fiat 500 just about fits all of Tilly’s bags. Alfie’s head grazes the roof as he settles as best he can in the driver’s seat, his knees spread around the steering wheel.
“This car suits you,” says Tilly, flicking the crocheted strawberries that hang from the rearview mirror. As they move off, Brandi Carlile blares through the speakers, and Alfie reaches to quickly turn it off.