Chapter 3

You might think it was a strange sort of romance. Philippa got a part-time job in a pub, which was mainly weekends, so we met most days during the week. We walked, talked, listened to and discussed music. None of that was strange, of course. Nor was taking her out for a meal, or to see a film. No, what was strange was trying to help this lovely young woman find a boyfriend of her own age. I'm sure a lot of people had a completely wrong idea about our relationship. She practised on me ... and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

I won't say I wasn't frustrated, because I was, but for me there's something about knowing you're trusted. If someone trusts me, I want to be worthy of it. So, whenever I met Helen, I could meet her eyes, and both of us would smile.

Philippa was asked out a few times, and even went, though never more than once with any young man. She talked about her dates, to both of us (usually separately), so we knew that she'd at least got confident enough to kiss her dates.

"But you see," she said, "there's no spark. It's quite nice, usually anyway, but I don't really want to do anything more."

"That's not a problem, is it?" I asked.

"No ... but the thing is, I'd rather be with you."

At the weekend, I called in to see Helen. Over tea and lumps of wonderful, sticky fruit-cake, we discussed her daughter.

"Ted, the first time we met, I could tell Phil was more than half in love with you, and that hasn't changed. She's going through the motions of dating boys, but to be fair, they just don't have the maturity and experience to please her." She shrugged. "I've done my best, but..." She was silent for several minutes, deep in thought.

I watched her, and gradually I began to see her, not as Philippa's mother, but as a woman, and a very attractive woman, at that. I pushed the realisation down, firmly. But then, I saw that her expression had changed from thoughtful to ... sad, and a tear trickled down her cheek. I reached across the table, and covered her hand with mine. She looked up, met my eyes – hers bright with tears, and bit her lip. I watched her as she visibly gathered courage to speak.

"At school," she began, slowly and quietly, "I was like Phil; not dyslexic, but very quiet, shy, and a straight-A student. I got a place at Uni, and was doing well..." She swallowed, hard, and paused. "This guy asked me out. He was good-looking, funny, well-dressed ... When he kissed me, I just ... melted. He was quite the gentleman for our first two dates. By the third date, I just knew I was in love." She snorted. "Silly, naïve, sheltered little girl. I let him – I was going to say, make love to me, but it wasn't that; we had sex. I was pretty worked up, but he didn't really bother about me. It was uncomfortable, and messy, and when it was over, he took me home." She stopped again, and more tears trickled down her face. I rummaged in my pocket and came up with a, miraculously, clean linen handkerchief and handed it to her.

She mopped up, blew her nose and swallowed again. "The next day ... he cut me dead. He never spoke to me again, but he and his friends..." she blotted her eyes with the handkerchief.

"I can imagine," I said, "they looked at you, whispered and sniggered."

"I was humiliated," she went on. "Then I missed my period. I was pregnant with Phil. I dropped out of Uni, got casual work. My parents helped. A lot. They supported me emotionally, babysat so I could work, let me live at home. Then ... they were in a pile-up on the motorway. Phil was three years old, I was on my own. The house was mine, and some insurance, so we weren't destitute."

"I'm amazed," I said.

She just looked at me, puzzled.

"I'm amazed," I said again, and took her hand in mine. "You've done a good job in bringing Philippa up. She's shy, but she's not warped. But most of all, I'm amazed you didn't throw a hissy-fit about me, that you trusted me with your daughter."

She smiled. It was a watery smile, to be true, but a genuine one none-the-less. "Philippa came home, that day after she spoke to you, and waxed lyrical about you! I ... was sceptical. I made sure she went on the pill, just in case, and asked her to bring you back here after you met. I could tell right away you weren't like ... him. And, you can't protect a child forever. Like, when they start to walk, you have to let them fall. They have to learn to get on with their friends, what and how much they can drink. They have to make their own mistakes; and I've watched her blossom over the last weeks."

"Which brings me to the primary reason for my visit." I paused, thinking. "I have tried to communicate to Philippa that I'm a ... stepping stone, or a stop-gap, or anything but a permanent arrangement. I'm very fond ... no, let's be straight; I love your daughter, but ... as a daughter or maybe a grand-daughter, not as a girlfriend or wife. I'm afraid she'll be overwhelmed by romantic impracticality and refuse to recognise the problems and penalties of such an age difference ... and I don't want to hurt her."

Helen took my hand this time. "Ted ... you know Phil and I tell each other nearly everything?"

I just nodded, though I wasn't sure just how comprehensive their communication was.

"Well, we've talked about this very thing. Phil's very aware of where you stand; you made it quite clear at the Norfolk Arms, though you weren't specific. She needs you a little longer, but she won't push you further than is appropriate. Please, just relax and ... go with the flow?"

I agreed, though I was still uncertain about it all.

That evening, Philippa called me. "Will you do me a favour – actually two favours?"

"If I can, I will, gladly."

"The first favour is, would you take me out for a romantic supper?"

"I'd enjoy doing that."

"Good! Then, after that, I will ask the other favour. It won't be anything that, um ... pushes your boundaries and you'll be free to say no, but a yes would make me happy. Okay?"

"Okay. How about next Wednesday? I'll book somewhere. Pick you up, oh, half seven?"

"Lovely!"

There's an excellent, small Italian restaurant on Abbeydale Road. I booked a discreet table for two, for eight o'clock; allowing time for delays. I didn't think Philippa would be very late being ready, but I didn't want to take chances. I also asked the restaurateur for his recommendations, both for food and wine, and arranged for a taxi both ways so we could both drink without worrying about driving.

I then spent four days worrying ... and trying without much success to write.

She was ready on time and absolutely stunning in a long, formal dress that fit like a glove and definitely made the most of her figure. I was very glad I'd gone to the trouble of a formal suit, not my usual mode of dress ... but then, this wasn't something I did very often either.

The taxi stopped outside Piazza Roma, and I got out and walked round to open the door for Philippa, who gave me a blinding smile and slipped her hand to the crook of my arm.

The proprietor greeted as as we entered – he was an old friend, though I hadn't been there since before Katherine died.

"Mr. Pearson, so good to see you here, and..."

"Miss Abbott," I said, "Philippa, this is Pietro."

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Abbott. You bring true beauty into my humble establishment."

Philippa giggled. "Thank you. May I call you Pietro?"

"I hope you will. Now, if you will come with me?" He gestured toward a table in a quiet corner – discreet, and as private as it is possible to be without being in a separate room.