"What?" she asked, suddenly serious.
"Well, now that you're almost qualified as a… whatever it is you're almost qualified as, I think you ought to start calling me Charlie. I know I'm old, but Uncle Charles really rubs it in. All these people think I'm a sugar daddy out with my girlfriend, and it would really destroy my credibility if they heard you call me Uncle Charles, so could you please indulge in an old man's whim and call me Charlie? Please?"
"Oh, OK then," she said, "Charlie it is," and kicked me on the shin.
I winced, and she said: "Was that your leg?"
I nodded confirmation between the waves of pain.
"Sorry, I thought it was the table," Sophie giggled.
I took a sip of wine, grimacing as I said: "Purely for anaesthetic purposes," and replaced my glass next to hers. She'd left a smear of lipstick on its rim. I'd never known her wear lipstick before.
"That was a lovely meal," she said, as we crossed the road outside an hour later. "Thank you. I'm glad Dad wasn't in."
"So am I. It's a nice place. Conran has them all over but that's the only one I've ever eaten at."
As we stepped on to the pavement I swapped sides and placed my hand in the small of her back as I crossed behind her. She took my left arm in hers and hugged it, resting her head on my shoulder, like Suze Rotolo on the cover of Freewheelin'. I felt like a teenager, didn't want the evening to end.
In the car Sophie retrieved her phone, pressed a button and held it to her ear.
"No reply," she said after a few seconds. As we approached Heckley she tried again, with the same results.
"Do you have a key?" I asked, and she said she hadn't.
After another try she said: "We could always go to your house for a coffee."
Why didn't I think of that? "Sounds a good idea," I agreed, switching lanes to head away from her home.
I filled the kettle, plugged it in, switched it on. Milk from the fridge, sugar from the cupboard, biscuits in the tin. Cups, saucers, plates. Was that it? No. Spoons. We needed spoons. Spoons from the cutlery drawer. I placed them all on the table, where I normally breakfasted, and turned to rest against the work surface as the kettle hissed and grumbled into life. Sophie was leaning on the doorframe, watching. She came over and stood before me, her head bowed. I'd a feeling that she was about to say something portentous. I reached forward, taking hold of her elbows and said: "What's the problem, Sophie?"
"There's no problem," she replied, looking up into my face. She'd slipped the shoes off and was back to her normal height, which was still tall. "Except…"
"Except? Except what?"
"Except, I've lied to you. Don't be mad at me, Uncle Charles."
"Charlie." V,
"Sorry."
"When did you lie?"
"Just now, in the car. And earlier. I didn't try to ring Dad, because I don't want to go home. I want to stay here with you, just for tonight."
I ran my fingertips up her arms and held her by the shoulders. "Why, Sophie? Why are you doing this to me?" My voice sounded like it was coming from a well at the far end of a tunnel.
"Because… I don't know. I wanted someone to talk to. Someone I loved, and I love you." She slipped her arms around my neck and I pulled her close. I leaned my forehead against hers, squashing her nose with mine, until we both turned our faces a fraction to bring our lips into that perfect, bewitching angle with each other's.;
Chapter Six
I brushed my lips across Sophie's, then lifted my face and kissed her on the forehead. I pecked her on the cheek and on her neck, and reached behind my head to find her hands and unlink her fingers.
"This isn't what I want, Sophie," I told her, shaking my head. "I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't."
She looked up into my face, bewildered and hurt. "Why not? Don't you love me?"
"Of course I love you. I love you more than life, but I don't want to start something we — I — couldn't stop."
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I." The kettle came to the boil and I broke away, turning my back, grateful for the interruption, not wanting to face her. I spooned instant coffee into mugs, poured on the water, added milk and stirred them for longer than necessary. "Let's sit where it's more comfortable," I said, leading the way into the front room.
We sat on the settee, Sophie at one end, me at the other. Her head was bowed and I was aware that I'd probably just paid her the biggest humiliation in the repertoire. She was embarrassed and confused. This was not the way it was meant to happen. I shuffled sideways until I was next to her and placed my arm across her shoulders. She snuggled closer, her head on my shoulder.
"I'm tremendously flattered, Sophie," I told her, my voice a hoarse whisper. "I know it's the greatest compliment you could pay me and that it wasn't something you'd decided lightly, and I'll never forget it. But it would spoil everything, don't you see? Apart from us, I'd be betraying your parents. OK, I could possibly cope with that. Then there's the fact that I'm your godfather, and that's supposed to give me responsibilities, but I could live with that, too. But it would spoil things between us — you and me — and I'd find that unbearable. You'd turn against me, sometime in the future, when you were in a different frame of mind and whatever it was that brought you here" was forgotten. And for what? One night in bed together? We mean more than that to each other, don't we?"
"I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about, nothing at all, but maybe you should tell me what's behind it all, why you want to snog with old Uncle Charlie when there's all these handsome young bloods at Cambridge falling over themselves to go out with you."
"Huh!" was all she said.
We sat like that for a while, then sipped our coffee. "Tell me about Cap Ferrat," I said, replacing my mug on the low table.
"It was fun," she replied, smiling.
"Thanks for the card. What's the boyfriend called?"
She bit her lip and glanced at me. "Promise not to laugh."
"Scout's honour."
"He's called Digby."
"Digby? That's a fine name."
"You're laughing at me."
"No I'm not, but it might raise a few eyebrows the first time your dad takes him down to the Mechanics' Institute for a Sunday lunchtime pint."
"I won't let him go to the 'stute for a lunchtime pint."
"You'll have to, it's a tradition. So is this one serious?"
"Yes."
"I have to know a bit more about him before I give my approval. It's one of a godfather's duties, did you know?"
"Is it? What do you want to know?"
"Is he a good bloke? Does he deserve you?"
Sophie giggled for the first time that evening. "He doesn't have any tattoos or body piercing, if that's what you mean."
"And does he deserve you?"
"I think so. He's asked me to marry him."
"Really! And what did you say?"
"I said that I'd think about it and tell him on Monday."
"And what have you decided?"
"I'll tell him that I'd be proud to be his wife, if he'll still have me."
I had to think about that. Eventually I said: "I admit I'm a bit slow about these things, Sophie, but if you're going to accept Digby's proposal on Monday why did you want to spend tonight with me? I don't understand."
She rested her head on my shoulder again and I took her hand in mine. "Have you ever fancied Mum?" she asked with all the subtlety of a rampaging cocker spaniel.
"Erm, your mum?" I asked, hesitation colouring my reply with guilt. "Well, er, she's an attractive woman. And she makes cracking apple pies, but unfortunately your dad found her first." I stood up and walked over to the CD player. Livin' La Vida Loca seemed appropriate. "What made you ask that?"