Pete, and the young lad who’d serviced the boiler, of course. Jen wondered what Eddie might want to service. The porcelain cup slipped from her grip. She caught it just in time and placed it carefully on the saucer, on top of the tray with the jug of milk and the sugar lumps. Her heart had started to thud. She was not sure whether she was feeling excitement, passion or just unbridled fear.
She’d been married at twenty-three and, before Colin, there had just been one boyfriend, Ricky, who she’d loved from the age of fifteen until they’d broken up five years later, when he’d taken off to a pop festival, met some new friends and left to ‘find himself’ on the Isle of Wight. Jen had lost him and herself too, for a while, then she’d met Colin, an assistant in the local fishmonger’s shop, and settled for a quiet life. Colin had been promoted to manager; he was a good businessman, buying their house then purchasing the shop for himself. They had been comfortable, although it would always be a regret that they weren’t blessed with children. Colin had been kind, thoughtful and she’d never wanted for much. Then he’d had a stroke four years ago. He’d lasted three months. The second stroke had finished him off. Jen admitted to herself that she’d felt lonely ever since.
She missed the warmth of him more than the passion. Colin had been moderate in his desire for her. Her first love, Ricky, had been young, a sloppy kisser and a fumbler of buttons, more interested in his guitar than lust. She’d missed out on it really – mad passion, frantic sex. Sex had never been on her mind much at all, until now. Eddie had kissed her before, on the cheek at first then, several weeks ago, on the lips, briefly, every time they parted. There was warmth in his hugs, but she’d never considered that there might be something else. And now she didn’t know what she was feeling. Afraid? Glad to be desired? Perhaps she simply felt happy in his company. She wasn’t sure. She carried the tray into the lounge, her breath a little ragged. Eddie had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. She put the tray down and he patted the seat next to him, grinning.
‘Jen. Come and sit here. The coffee can wait a minute, can’t it?’
She wondered why her legs were being so obedient as she moved to the sofa and plonked herself down next to him, her shoulder against the arm he had draped across the back of the seat. His grasp circled her and he pulled her next to him.
‘Jen…’ He pecked her cheek. ‘Jenny.’
She wondered whether to sit up straight, wriggle away, feign a sudden interest in conversation and start gabbling about the lounge carpet, the deep pile, and the difficulties of finding a good hoover, one that would pick up all sorts of dust and get into the tricky corners. He nuzzled her cheek, his lips against her ear. Jen closed her eyes; the sensation wasn’t unpleasant. She inhaled the heady cinnamon and musk scent of his aftershave and wondered if he would kiss her. He pecked her on the lips and she blinked. He was staring at her, his blue eyes huge, his tidy grey hair framing a handsome face, his lips pursed to speak. ‘Jen…’
She wondered what would come next. The excitement and trepidation had turned into puzzlement. ‘Eddie… your coffee will get cold.’
‘I haven’t come here for the coffee, Jen.’ He moved his face closer to hers. ‘I ought to tell the truth. It was a ploy to get you here alone, just us, by ourselves.’
Jen felt her heart bump. She was thrilled, intrigued. He was going to kiss her, perhaps tug at her clothes. Her mind raced; she had known him for two months – she liked him a lot. But what if it wasn’t passion on his mind? What if he intended to steal from her, or worse? She did trust him though. His face was serious and kind. He surely couldn’t be a serial killer, but she’d read about such people in the papers, making widowed ladies trust them and then… No, surely not Eddie. His eyes were full of kindness.
‘I wanted to say something, Jen. I mean, we get along well…’
She caught her breath. He was going to tell her that he wanted to end the relationship. They got along well but that was all there was to it – she was expecting too much of him, a widower, set in his ways. Jen shook her head – no, it wasn’t that. He’d taken her out on Valentine’s night. Perhaps he was going to confess that he’d fallen for her, that he was in love. Then perhaps he’d rip open his shirt, fall on top of her and sink his lips against her neck.
Jen exhaled. She’d been reading too many romance novels. She reached out, patted his hand in an encouraging way. ‘What is it, Eddie?’
‘When we met on Boxing Day, we talked about how difficult it was being alone. You lost your husband. My wife, Pat, passed away two years ago. I’ve never become used to being by myself, to tell you the truth.’
He must be miserable, Jen thought. His face was serious, his eyes those of a lost puppy. She patted his hand again.
‘How can I help, Eddie?’
‘We get on, don’t we?’ He had suddenly become breathless, his words rushed. ‘I mean, we like each other. Jen, we’re not young. There’s no time like the present. Not a second to waste.’ He fumbled in his pocket, his face flustered, his lips open, panting. Jen wondered what he was searching for. An inhaler? Her eyes widened; she was astonished. He pulled out a handkerchief, unwrapping the neat folds, and held something out towards her. It was a ring, three diamonds in a row on a gold band, an antique style.
‘Jenifer Hooper, would you do me the honour…?’
She frowned, unsure what he wanted. The thought flicked into her mind that he was trying to sell it to her. Perhaps he had money problems. ‘Eddie…?’
‘Will you marry me?’
She gasped, falling back into the sofa, against the soft cushions. She did not know what to say. Her mind was blank, waiting for the flood of emotions that would follow. ‘Me? You’re asking me…?’
He grasped her hand, holding the ring up, sliding it onto the wedding finger. It was a little loose. ‘It fits well. Real diamonds. The best money can buy. So – would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
Jen was aware that she hadn’t said yes. Not yet. But he was right: it was a good idea. They were both in their seventies. Jen was seventy-three and Eddie a little older. They were both alone, widowed. Neither of them liked solitude. And Eddie was a nice man, dapper, suave, well dressed, and pleasant company. Thoughts were rushing, crashing against each other in her mind. It would be good to have someone there when she woke up, someone to share meals with, to talk to, to share the warmth of an embrace. And he was such a nice man, so caring, so considerate. She’d be mad to refuse.
But it had happened so quickly she couldn’t catch her breath. In some ways, Eddie was still a stranger: she’d only known him since Boxing Day. They’d been on pleasant dates and enjoyed each other’s company; he was courteous, kind, always complimenting her, offering her his arm as they strolled along the beach. It fluttered into her head that he was nothing like Colin, her Colin, whom she’d known so well, who had fitted her married life like a comfortable sock, who had become such an essential part of the fabric of her life that she knew every stitch. Eddie was unknown to her, a fit that wasn’t yet snug.
‘What do you say, Jen? Will you be Mrs Bruce? Will you accept…?’
An expression of confusion etched itself across her face. Her fingers shook; the ring was loose on her wedding finger. She stared at Eddie. ‘I’m not sure – I mean – I don’t know. It’s early days yet. Can I think about it?’
He slid the ring from her finger and held it in his open palm, meeting her eyes with his serious blue ones. ‘Of course. Take as long as you need. But neither of us is getting any younger…’
He pressed his lips against hers. They were cool. When he pulled away, he seemed composed.
‘Just let me know when you’re ready, Jen. You know I’ll wait for you to decide.’
Jen nodded energetically. ‘All right, Eddie.’
He glanced around the house. ‘You’ve made it so nice here. A feminine touch. But of course, I could tidy it up a bit, you know – I’m good with DIY.’