All the Little Things by Sarah Lawton (the best books to read txt) 📕

two glasses. The night was still warm, and the windows were all open. The breeze brought in a smell of warm asphalt and cut grass from the verge; Bill had been out with his strimmer, tidying up the green.

He sat down with a huff and squeezed around to settle opposite me. He poured us each a large glass of straw-coloured liquid, condensation forming almost immediately on the sides.

‘Thanks.’

We lifted our glasses to clink. ‘Cheers.’

‘Look at this,’ I said to him, as he sipped his drink. ‘An odd boy came into my class tonight. He’s really talented.’ I smoothed out the paper between us and he turned it around to face him, studying it for a long moment.

‘Wow.’ He traced the long line of a leg with a careful fingertip. ‘Who knew I could almost bring myself to fancy Geoff?’

‘Don’t be mean!’ I laughed.

‘God, it’s so unfair!’ said Steve, as I pointed out some of the techniques he had used that were quite remarkable for someone his age. ‘Why can’t I draw like this? I never made it past stick men, or dogs with ten legs.’

‘Maybe you should actually come to one of my classes, then,’ I replied with a laugh, loosening up the further we got down the bottle, tensions of the day melting away.

‘How old do you think he is?’ asked Steve, leaning back in his chair and rolling his head, making his neck click revoltingly.

‘Who, Geoff? Ancient.’

‘Ha ha. No, not Geoff – your new mystery boy.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s hard to tell sometimes. He’s probably a couple of years older than Vivian. Eighteen, maybe? Nineteen?’

‘Old enough then!’

‘Old enough for what?’

‘You know. There’s not a lot of choice in the village.’ He winked slyly as he said it, a slow droop of one eyelid over a hazel eye.

‘Urgh, Steve! I’m old enough to be his mother!’

‘Who says I’m talking about you?’ He leaned back and creased up with laughter. It echoed in the confines of the pub, and several people looked over and grinned themselves.

‘Can we get another bottle?’ I asked impulsively, still feeling a residue of the disquiet that Alex and his drawing had provoked in me. ‘If you don’t have to go on the bar? We haven’t had a proper catch-up for ages.’

‘Are you sure?’ Steve replied, with a grin. ‘Don’t need to get back and make sure Vivian hasn’t burnt the house down?’ He was teasing me, but we both knew how long it had taken me to let Vivian stay at home alone or go out with friends in the evenings. It had mainly been Steve’s persuasions that convinced me, but I still worried. She was getting to the age where ‘sleepovers’ were code for sitting in the park and drinking beer that they had purloined from their parents’ stashes. Steve didn’t have, or want, any children, but he was always interested in what my girl was up to.

It was strange, the friendship I had built with him. I generally kept people at arm’s length, only had acquaintances locally, but I had found myself drawn to going into the bar when Vivian had started to spend more time with her friends, wanting to feel part of a crowd when the loneliness bit. Somehow, he had picked up on it, and we had become almost close.

We took the second bottle out into the garden, which had quietened down now that people had wandered off to get their dinners. I could feel the alcohol warming my stomach and giving me a buzz of well-being that was veering toward being outright pissed.

It was late, almost ten, although the sky was still light by the time I left. I hugged Steve at the door of the pub, thinking I shouldn’t have stayed out so late. I was glad of the short walk home, my head spinning slightly. I got to the stile and pulled myself over it, muscle memory making it a smooth movement despite being tipsy. I cut across the field, breathing deeply. The air had cooled finally and smelt faintly of turned soil and honeysuckle from the hedgerow. I felt so lucky, relieved, to have found this life for us, in this safe place. Listening out for small creatures rustling in the long grass and keeping an eye out for the barn owl that roosted in the cowshed at the end of the field, I made my way across, resisting somehow the temptation to lie down and stare at the stars that were popping out against the velvet of the darkening sky.

Our cottage stood alone at the end of the path that cut through the field. It had belonged to a local farmer and he had sold it to me for a pittance. Maybe he could see I was as much a wreck as the house was, but I fixed us both up. It wasn’t the first time I’d had to rebuild myself, but I felt I got shakier each time, lacking foundations.

I almost tripped walking up the path – I never did fix that stone – and I put my hands flat on the door of our home. The blue paint was smooth and still warm from the sun. I rested my forehead against it briefly, truly regretting suggesting the second bottle of wine. My stomach roiled and dipped, and I felt guilty again for staying out so late when I should have come home to check on Vivian.

I managed to get my key in the door without too much difficulty, though I knew that the marks of previously erratic attempts after nights out with Steve were there to see in the daylight. I pushed open the door to halfway – any further would make it creak loudly – and slipped round. The house was silent, and I assumed that my girl was already asleep. I stepped out of my sandals and padded through to the kitchen, trailing my fingers on the wall for balance.

As I’d expected, the detritus of Vi’s dinner was scattered across