Chapter 9

Lottë had stopped wearing her glasses in the flat. Robin was delighted. He felt it indicated a growing trust in him. Furthermore he could enjoy the shape of her face and eyes and the beauty of them both. Over Christmas at home she had worn figure hugging jeans and, on Christmas Day, a skirt to only just below the knee. Her blouses and jerseys had also revealed more than just her neck. He was surprised when she started to change into them after work when they returned to the flat. He said nothing and waited to see when she would start to wear such clothes to work.

February 3rd was Robin's birthday. He said nothing about it and was surprised when he came into the kitchen for breakfast to be wished Happy Birthday by Lottë and given a card, a present and a kiss.

"How did you know it was my birthday?" he asked.

Lottë smiled and tapped the side of her nose and then in a conspiratorial whisper added, "We have spies in our midst."

"Daphne?"

She shook her head.

"Christopher?"

"Nope."

"Who?"

"Aunt Bea."

"Good Heavens!"

"She rang for your address."

"What? She knows it."

"She said she'd lost it but had your number on her mobile."

"Oh, I see." He smiled and added, "Typical."

"Well, come on. Open your present."

Robin did as he was told. It was a Meissen figurine of a country boy and girl holding hands and looking into each other's eyes. Robin was deeply touched.

"Thank you, Lottë darling," he said. "It's beautiful. I love it. Let's go and put it on the mantelpiece in the sitting room."

He took her hand and led her there. They both stood back and admired it. "It's stunning. Oh, sweety, thank you very, very much."

He pulled her into his arms, hugged her and then kissed her lips. She did not try to pull away but smiled up at him.

"I'm glad you like it," she said almost embarrassedly.

"Like it? I love it. It's exquisite and I can't tell you how touched I am."

He kissed her again.

"Breakfast," she said, "or we're going to be late."

Robin smiled and let her go. "Yes, miss."

She wrinkled her nose at him and led the way back to the kitchen.

"Where did you find it?" he asked.

"At a country house sale I went to. They were auctioning some quite well known paintings and were also selling some bric-a-brac as they termed it."

"Some bric-a-brac!"

"I know. I was lucky. I couldn't believe what they were asking for it so snapped it up."

"Well done you! Golly! Ooh! I haven't opened my card."

Lottë watched him with dancing eyes. It was a picture of a bent and wrinkled old man with a stick. On the front the words were 'It's all right. You don't smell yet.' and on the inside 'Happy Birthday, old man!'

Robin tried to look stern. "You are a very rude young woman," he said.

Lottë batted her eyelashes. "Yes, Unca Wob."

His face broke into a grin. "Thank you, sweety." He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. She mouthed a kiss at him.

It was only when he had waved her off in Cannon Street that he appreciated what had happened. Without thinking he had hugged and kissed her and she had hugged him back and responded to his kiss. He was delighted. She really was coming out of her shell. He was also thrilled for her. Perhaps her confidence might develop far enough to allow a young man into her life. He very much hoped so.

The post was delivered while they were out and there were cards for Robin from Bea and both children. He stood them with Lottë's on the sideboard.

Lottë had a plastic bag she was carrying from which she produced a birthday cake and stuck a single candle in it. She lit it.

"We don't want to give your real age away. Second childhood perhaps." She skipped laughing out of reach.

"You wait, my girl," growled Robin. "I'll get you for this."

Lottë sucked in her cheeks and widened her eyes. "Ooh, I'm so-o frightened."

"Well you might be."

They both collapsed with laughter.

Over tea Lottë asked him old he actually was.

"Forty-five."

"You're younger than Mum and Dad."

"Really? I know he's older than me but I always thought Matty and I were much the same age."

"No. She's forty-seven. Dad's going to be fifty next August."

"Aha! Party!"

"You bet."

"It's an awful thing but I can't remember your birthday."

"31st March."

"Nearly an April Fool."

"I'm not going to rise."

"Aw!"

They smiled happily at each other.

"Right. Go and listen to some music. I've got some work to do."

"Do you want me to cook supper?"

"No. You're the birthday boy."

"Thanks, Lottë."

Strains of a Chopin waltz drifted into the kitchen. Lottë opened up her laptop and then sat staring at it.

'Twenty-nine from forty-five is sixteen, ' she thought. 'I know Daddy told me to find somebody younger but is sixteen years really too big an age gap? I don't want to live with anyone else though. I actually like his maturity. The trouble is he may think the age gap is too big. He's happy with me living here, at least I'm pretty sure he is, but marriage might be a different thing and yet I would like children. Oh Lord! He'll look at Christopher and Daphne and say that they're twenty-three and five so he can't possibly marry a girl in her twenties. Why did I have to fall in love with him? It was Christmas that did it. Even with all my beloved family around me all I wanted was to be with him and since we got back it's grown stronger and stronger.'

She got up from the table. She was not going to get any work done in her present frame of mind. She peeled some potatoes and put them on to boil. She tailed some sprouts and laid out two rib-eye steaks before washing her hands and going through to the sitting room. Robin was sitting on the sofa listening to the Chopin with his eyes shut. It was the best place for the position of the speakers. Lottë felt her chest tighten as she looked at him. She took a deep breath.

"Uncle Rob..."

He started.

"Drinks time."

He leapt to his feet. "Yes, m'lady."

Lottë followed him back out to the kitchen and looked at the potatoes. He handed her her drink.