At First Sight by Hannah Sunderland (latest novels to read TXT) 📕

‘Shut up,’ I murmured to myself, fully aware of how mental I would look, if there was anyone around to see me, other than a passive-aggressive cat of course. I made my way to the sofa and sat down, setting the coffee aside to cool as the cat came over and plonked himself back down on my knee.

I grabbed a remote and turned the TV on and the volume down. I stroked the soft head of the cat and quiet purrs arose as I closed my eyes. I wasn’t going to sleep, just resting for a moment.

Next thing I knew I was woken by the feeling of someone’s weight falling onto the sofa beside me. ‘Well, that’s a miracle if ever I saw one.’ Charlie’s voice made me jump and I turned, bleary-eyed, to find him next to me as an extremely unattractive, mildly terrified groan escaped my lips. I glanced towards the TV and saw that the ten o’clock news was on.

‘What is?’ I asked, quickly checking for dribble and smoothing down my hair.

‘Magnus, sitting on you, being pleasant. That’s not how he rolls, not with me anyway.’

‘Magnus?’ I asked.

‘The cat.’ He pointed at what looked like a melted pile of ginger hair in my lap and frowned. ‘He was Abi’s. Little fecker hates the air I breathe. I think he’s sexist, personally.’

He swigged at his coffee and motioned towards a full cup of steaming coffee sitting on the table. ‘I made you another one. The last one went cold. Thank you for cleanin’ up by the way; you didn’t have to. I feel kinda bad about it to be honest.’

‘Don’t be. I was only planning to wash up, but it was helping my hangover to focus on something other than my building urge to throw up and then I ran away with it a little.’

‘I’ve needed to do something about it for ages, but the task was so overwhelming that I didn’t know where to start.’

I reached forward and took my mug, sipping at the liquid and feeling the caffeine hit me almost instantly. I sighed and settled back into the doughy sofa cushion. I sent him a sideways glance as he reached over and attempted to stroke the cat’s head. Magnus looked up before he even made contact, hissed violently, swiped with razor-sharp claws and then stared Charlie down until he withdrew his hand.

‘See? I wasn’t lyin’.’

‘Oh, before I forget,’ I said. ‘There’s some broken glass in the bedroom. I was going to sweep it up but I couldn’t find a dustpan and brush.’

‘Oh, I know about that. It’s fine, leave it,’ he replied, looking down at the coffee cup in his hands. He ran his thumb along the edge of the rim, his lashes downcast over his eyes.

‘What are they, the jars?’ I probed.

‘Sea glass,’ he said, reaching into the pocket of his jeans, which were rumpled and creased from sleeping all cramped up in the tub, and pulled out the small rounded lump of orange glass. It was a strange shape, like the shape of a bubble that’s still clinging on to the wand.

‘She collected it.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘The number of hours I’ve lost trawling beaches for these little bastards.’ He handed it to me, the almost weightless glass rolling on the skin of my palm. I took it between my thumb and finger and held it up to the light where it was set aflame like a burning ember.

‘I’ve never seen orange sea glass before,’ I said, recalling all of the times I’d gone beachcombing with my mum over the years. I’d seen green and clear, the odd brown but never orange.

‘It’s really rare. She’d got red ones and turquoise too. She filled those jars with the stuff so that they’d catch the light when it came through the window.’

I handed the glass back to him and he pushed it back into his pocket. On the TV, the local newsreader handed over to the weatherman, Nathaniel Croome, a tall, perfect-teethed man in the world’s tightest suit trousers. He was somewhat of a local celebrity and a heart-throb amongst mums of the West Midlands.

‘Who do yer think’s fathered more children: this weatherman or Michael Bolton?’ Charlie asked, completely changing the topic of conversation.

‘Oh, this guy definitely,’ I said, gesturing to Croome, who made love to the camera with every glance. ‘I saw him, from a distance, at the opening of the German Market last year and I’m pretty sure that every woman within a two-metre radius of him got pregnant that day, just by looking at him. Now if you asked the question of how many children have been conceived whilst listening to Michael Bolton, then I don’t think there’s a man alive who could beat that record.’

I looked over to where he watched me with a quirked eyebrow. ‘Sometimes I worry about yer.’

‘Me too, Charlie, me too.’ I chuckled.

He observed me for a good long moment, before reaching a hand over and placing it on my knee, the one that wasn’t guarded by Magnus, and squeezing.

‘Are you feeling okay?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, a little hungover.’

‘Did you throw up? Is that why you slept in the bath?’

‘No.’ He retracted his hand from my knee and went back to his cup. He took a deep, steady breath and bit his top lip, hard, before speaking again. ‘I think I’m ready,’ he said, gripping his knees with fingers that quickly turned white-knuckled.

‘Ready for what?’

‘To tell you what happened. If you want to hear it that is.’ He shrugged, looking suddenly nervous.

‘Of course,’ I said, shifting around in my seat to face him. ‘You sure you’re ready?’

He nodded firmly and then pushed himself up from the sofa. ‘Come.’ He held out his hand, his eyes staring into mine with an intensity that made me forget how to breathe. I lay mine in his and he pulled me up, Magnus dropping to the floor with a harrumph.

He looked at me, swallowed hard