Tied to Sam

'S'ok. It was a while back now. Before Easter.'

'Right. But she was here the day before yesterday?'

'Oh, that. Yeah. She came over to pick up some stuff I was planning on chucking out. For her brother, you know?'

'Huh. You're still on speaking terms then?'

'Yeah, course.'

'That's a shame, Sam. I thought she was nice.'

He smiles a little bit.

'She was nice.'

It's not an awkward silence, exactly. But it is a silence.

He breaks it first.

'She wanted more from the relationship than I did, so it didn't seem fair to keep going out with her.'

A wave of warmth washes over me, it feels so odd to hear him talking like that. Like I say, we don't ever discuss this kind of thing with each other.

I look out of the window. It's another clear, dry day.

'What about you, Cora?'

'Me?'

Now I'm really shocked. He's never asked me about boyfriends. Never.

'Yeah, you. Come on, you've been away at college for two years now. Surely you've had guys falling over themselves to get their hands on you?'

'Sam!'

I'm definitely colouring up.

'What? Don't blush like that. I'm only asking.'

I'm sure I'm about to burst into flames. He's not backing down; his blue eyes not giving me anywhere to hide.

'Not really.'

He looks sceptical.

'Really, I mean –,' I swallow, 'I mean, sort of.'

'What? Sort of? What does that mean?'

Now he's just laughing at me, rubbing his hair again, but looking so amused it's doing nothing for my body temperature.

'C, you're twenty years old. That's too old to be all coy about boyfriends.'

I pull a face at him.

'You have had a boyfriend, haven't you?'

He's sitting more upright now.

'Kind of. Yes.'

'Kind of?'

'Kind of. That's it. I guess a bit like you and Alyssa, I felt they wanted more out of it than I did.'

'They? More than one, then?'

'You're teasing me,' I complain.

'I am, a little bit. But we've never talked about it, have we? And anyway, mum's always asking me about you. How's Cora and has she got herself a nice young man yet? You know how she is.'

I feel like he's pulling us back from the brink, and I'm grateful for it. Maybe he's embarrassed too. And on reflection, I suppose I started it, with me asking him about Alyssa.

'Well, ok. Two boyfriends. Nice guys. But I just wasn't as into it as they were. There. Now – how about I make us a cup of tea and we crack on with the walls? I'll do the edging, you can use the roller.'

Like the good man he is, Sam doesn't pursue the awkward conversation any further, but agrees to tea and today's decorating plan.

+++

It's only just gone five o'clock when he stretches his back and announces we should stop for the day.

'I don't know about you, Cora, but I'm almost broken,' he jokes as he flexes his hands and rolls his neck. 'And we've done loads today.'

We've pretty much finished the second bedroom, aside from a bit of touching up and the skirting boards, and Sam's been making a start on the ceiling in the living room this afternoon. He's standing in the doorway, watching me as I run the paintbrush inbetween the ceiling and window frame, finishing the second coat off. I look over at him and smile at how his brown hair, his face and arms are all speckled with white paint.

'Nice look you've got going there.'

'I could say the same for you, but I'm too much of a gentleman.'

That makes me laugh. I wipe my hands over my ancient jeans, pick up the brush and paint can and start down the stepladder. But out of nowhere, I lose my footing, everything tilts, and I'm airborne.

'Whoa. I've got you.'

He's taking the weight of me, pressing me to his chest, one arm tight around my ribcage, the other righting the stepladder. I look down at the paint can I've managed to hold onto. Amazingly, I haven't spilled any paint, but the brush is on the floor, paint pooling all around it.

'Ouff. I wasn't expecting that.'

I lean against him, feeling weirdly dizzy, my ribs pushing against his arm as I try to catch my breath. He loosens his grip a fraction.

'Are you alright? You were flying there for a second or two.'

'Mmm.'

His grip tightens on me again, and he holds me there while I let my head spin until it comes to rest.

'Cora?'

'Mmm. I'm ok. A bit dizzy, but I'll be alright.'

He still isn't letting me go. I can smell the washing detergent he uses, and the shower gel from this morning's shower. He's warm. A bit sweaty from the effort of painting the ceiling, and I can smell that too. Overall, it's a good smell. I've always liked it. I start to feel self-conscious about how long I've been standing pressed up against him like this, his forearm so snug under my breasts. I straighten up, and he moves his arm away.

'Alright now?' he's asking.

'Yes. Better. Sorry about that. I don't know what happened.'

'You just seemed to miss the step.'

'Huh.'

'I think it's a definite sign we've done enough today. Come and sit down while I clean up and cook.'

I start to bend down to pick up the paintbrush, but another headspin puts a stop to that, and he's grabbing my arm to steady me again, pulling me back into his chest.

'Cora, stop! Let me do that. Let's get you a glass of water, come on,' and he's pulling me into the living room, makes me sit on the sofa covered in dustsheets, and brings me a glass of water from the kitchen.

I drink it, while he clears up the mess in the bedroom. When he reappears, he flings a concerned look at me.

'How are you feeling?'

'I'm ok. Honestly. I think I just needed to drink this,' I hold up the glass; it's nearly empty.

'Hm. Maybe you should have a lie down while I cook,' and then he's in the kitchen, pulling stuff out of the cupboards and humming to himself.

I do lie down, enjoying the sounds of Sam cooking.

+++

'Cora. Cora!'

I peel my eyes open. Sam's face is hovering over mine, frowning. I blink. He's touching my face, his palm on my cheek.

'Cora? You were out like a light, there. Are you ok?'

I inhale, blink again.

'Huh. Yeah. I'm ok.'

I stretch a little, watch his hand retreat from my face and drop to his side.

'How long was I out?'

'Half an hour, maybe a bit more. Here, have some more water. I'm worried you're dehydrated.'

I sit up, not very gracefully, and drink from the glass he's offering me.

'Anyway, dinner's ready when you are.'

The flat is flooded with good food smells. I touch my fingers to my cheek. When was the last time he touched my face? Ever?

'I just need to pee and wash my hands,' I say, pulling myself off his sofa.

His mouth ticks up on one side.

'Was that too much information?'

'Maybe.'

He's laid the table and put a big bowl of steaming pasta and another of salad on it by the time I come out of the bathroom.

'This smells so good, Sam.'

He shrugs, but I can tell he's pleased. We eat in an easy silence. I watch his fingers holding his fork; touch my own to my cheek again.

'You needed that,' he says, pointing at my empty plate.

'I guess I did. I feel tons better. Thanks. Delicious, as always.'

His mouth ticks up again.

'I feel I'm getting a good deal out of this decorating contract.'

'No way. Look at how much you've done. That bedroom looks great now. I don't think it was that good when we first moved in.'

'When does the new bed arrive?'

'Next week, I hope. And Danny's moving in next month.'

Danny is the lodger. Well, he's also someone we both know from school. He's Sam's age, has just finished his degree and starts a job back here in London in August.

'If we carry on like this, we'd have time to paint your bedroom too. I know it was our stretch target, but I think we should go for it. What do you think?'

'Let's see how we do tomorrow. And anyway, you should have some time off before you start work next week.'

'No, not really. These are the days you've got off work, aren't they, so let's keep at it to get as much done as we can. Once Danny moves in, you won't want the upheaval. And it'd be good to do your bedroom too wouldn't it?'

'It would. But let's see how we get on. I don't want to wear you out.'

I look up at his face but his expression is neutral. He's working his way through a second helping.

'No chance of that. And this is fun – it's nice to catch up with you.'

Now his eyes flick over my face.

'Yeah. It's good to see you, and spend time together like this,' he says, carefully.

A bit awkwardly.

'I'm sorry I didn't see you at Christmas. Or Easter, come to that. I feel like I hardly know what's going on with you these days.'

'It's been too long,' he agrees, dropping his fork down on the plate, finally full, apparently.

He leans back and rubs his belly, his t-shirt lifting up, exposing some skin above his jeans.

'I'll wash up,' I stand up.

'No you won't. Washing up's still my responsibility.'

He's looking up at me – a rarity, given how tall he is and how short I am. I pluck at the paint specks in his hair, pulling at a particularly large glob of it.

'Ouch!' he's complaining, and grabs at my hand. 'That hurts, stop it. I don't want to lose any more hair than I need to, thanks very much.'

'You're not losing hair, don't be ridiculous.'

I laugh, wondering what's got into me that I'm shoving my hands in his hair. It's thick enough, and showing no signs of receding, or whatever it is Sam's afraid of. He's batting at my hands, so I retreat, still laughing at him.

'That's fine for you to say, you don't have to worry about male pattern baldness.'

'Neither do you, surely? You show no sign of it.'

'Don't I? What about on top? Alyssa said she thought I was thinning out there.'

'Where?'

I bend over the top of his head again, and push the hair around.

'I see nothing of the sort. She was having you on.'

He tips his head up to look at me, and I think we realise he's getting quite an eyeful of my breasts because we both adjust quickly, me springing away from him altogether, and he dipping his head downwards. I shuffle the plates together on the table, carry them to the kitchen and start rinsing them under the tap until his hand lands on the back of my neck.

'I said I'd do that,' he says, using his most firm and insistent voice, using his hand to push me away from the sink.

'Um, ok.'

I step away, run my hands down my jeans to dry them, wondering if he's always touched me like that and I never noticed until now, or if this is new. It feels new. Or maybe only just I'm noticing it now.

Huh.

It's confusing. But not unpleasant. Not at all. Which makes it all the more confusing.

'What are you going to do this evening?' he's asking me, swishing the water around the sink. 'More reading for college, or do you want to watch something on telly with me?'

'Let's watch something together,' and I'm gladly running through some options with him while at the back of my brain I'm trying to work out whether it's just me who's enjoying Sam's touch, or if he's enjoying it too.

We settle on his sofa, pulling the dust sheet off it first, this time. He finds 'The Bridge' and while we wait for it to come up onscreen I automatically slide my bare feet underneath his thigh. It's how we've always sat together, him with his legs stretched out in front of him, one arm along the back of the sofa; me tucked up at the other end, my legs out along the seat. As soon as I've done it, I wonder if I should change position. My feet are right under his thigh. How come that didn't feel as – intimate – before now? But he seems ok with it; doesn't bat an eyelid at it, actually. And it keeps my feet warm, which is important. I hate having cold feet.

We're halfway into the programme when I wriggle my toes, trying to relieve the tension of watching imaginatively macabre criminal behaviour – Nordic noir, and all that, loving it – and Sam shifts around a little bit, dropping his hand from the back of the couch to my ankles. It's warm. We both ignore it. But it grows warmer the longer he leaves it there. My mind seesaws between concentrating on the programme and stopping myself from wriggling my toes again. Because I don't

want him to move his hand.

Huh.

Now I've admitted that to myself, I try to turn my full attention back to the telly.

He skips straight on to the next one in the series without consulting me, because he knows it's the right thing to do. By the time that's come to an end. I've slid further down the sofa, but my feet are still tucked under Sam, toasty warm, and his hand is still resting on my ankles.

'Another?' he asks.

'Yeah, I'm hooked. Besides, it's not even dark out yet.'

He smiles. It's late June in London, so of course it's not dark yet. But he puts the TV on pause, gets up and leaves the room. Going to the bathroom, it seems. I stretch and wriggle my toes madly, working out some of my pent-up energy. When he comes back, I'm sitting up, cross-legged. He sits down as before. I briefly consider moving closer to him, maybe letting my head rest on the arm that's stretched out along the back of the sofa again. But I don't.

The only light in the room is what's spilling out from the hallway light and the telly as we finish watching the third programme.

'Ok, that's enough for tonight,' I yawn.

'Agreed.'

'Same time tomorrow morning, boss?'

'Yeah. And we'll leave here to see mum after lunch. If you still want to come with me, that is?'

He turns to look at me in the half-light, his face in shadow.

'Great, yes. Of course I do.'

My heart seems to be climbing up my throat, and for a stupid, panicked, moment, I think he might kiss me. How long are we frozen like that? I can't say, but it feels – exposed. Exciting.

It's not until I'm running up the brilliantly-lit stairwell, taking it two steps at a time, back to my flat, that I wonder how it didn't happen. How we didn't kiss.

+++

I fling myself down on my bed.

'How did it go today?' Alice asks from underneath her duvet.

'Good. We've almost finished the bedroom, and made a start on the living room. It's looking great.'

Her head emerges, and she looks cross.

'That's not what I meant, and you know it.'

I roll over, not wanting to entertain another interrogation.

'Cut it out, Alice, I'm not in the mood.'

And that was exactly the wrong thing to say, as she's leapt out of her bed and pounced on mine in a flash.

'What happened? You sound depressed.'

I groan loudly, facedown. It makes the mattress vibrate.

'Cora? What happened?'

'Nothing. Something. I have no idea,' I bleat into the bedding.

'Cora, turn over, I can hardly hear you. Come on, girl,' and she's tugging at my shoulder.

I roll back. To be fair, she's looking honestly concerned.

'So? Give!'

'Nothing happened. Not in the way you mean, I'm sure. But –,' I blow air out of my cheeks and, because it's Alice, and because I've always ended up telling her pretty much everything, I ramble through a list of all the things that have seemed different with Sam these last two days. By the time I've almost got through it, Alice is excitedly clapping her hands at me.

'But this is all good, Cora, don't you see?'

I pull a face at her.

'I think he wants to make a move, but he's worried you might not feel the same as him.'

'How do you work that one out?'

'Because, my big, clever sister, it's obvious. Asking you about boyfriends. Trying out a little bit of touching, seeing how you react. It's so obvious! Duh.'

I stare at her, thinking I must have been off school the day they taught this lesson.

'So? I mean – joking aside – how do you feel about Sam?'

I shiver. It's scary when Alice gets serious with me like this. I hug my knees to my chest, not trusting myself to reply without breaking out into a silly grin. Which I guess is my answer.

Huh.

There was I, going along thinking Sam was just Sam. Same old Sam. Except the more I've been looking at him, the more I've seen a different, grown-up version of Sam.

'I don't blame you, sis. He's cute.'

I snort, but not for the reason Alice thinks.

'Maybe tomorrow, if he doesn't make the first move, you should get a length of rope and tie him to your waist, see if that lights his fire.'

'Argh, Alice!'

I whack her over the head with my pillow; so done with her now.

+++

Saturday morning is similar to Friday, except he's making pancakes. He's good, isn't he? He looks like he got a better night's sleep, and is already humming to himself in the kitchen.

'How's you, this morning?' I ask.

'Yeah, good. You?'

He half-turns his head to catch me in the corner of his eye, a little smile on his lips.

'Great.'

'No more dizzy spells?'

'Uh – no.'

'Good. I didn't like that, yesterday.'

'Sam, it's nothing to worry about. I'm fine.'

'If you say so. Now take these out to the table,' and he's handing me cutlery and a bottle of syrup.

We don't talk much as we eat, except to plan out the morning's decorating, lunch, and what time we should aim to set off to see his mum later. And we're both pretty quiet for the rest of the morning and into lunch, the only noises in the flat coming from the radio in the kitchen and the paint rollers against the walls.

It's warmer today. By lunchtime, we've both worked up quite a sweat. Over more food, we discuss options for painting his bedroom. He seems to blow hot and cold on it, even though I'm pretty sure he wants it redecorated. Maybe it's because, unlike the two rooms we're working on now, he hasn't cleared it all out in preparation already.

'We're leaving the washing up 'til later, C,' he announces, getting up from the table.

'I don't know about you, but I need a shower before we go to see mum,' and with that, he's pulling his t-shirt up over his head, walking towards the bathroom.

'Don't mind me,' I murmur, but by now, I'm freely admitting to myself that I'm enjoying the view.

Hmm.

Once he's no longer in my line of sight I run up to my flat for my own shower and change of clothes.

+++

As before, we meet at his car. I catch the keys.

'You're driving,' he mutters, folding his legs into the passenger seat.

'Shit,' but I get in anyway.

'You didn't think the run to B&Q was all there was going to be, did you? This journey's long enough for you to be able to put your foot down a bit.'

I roll my eyes.

'Put some music on, then?'

I'm pulling out when it comes through the speakers.

'Paul Weller? You're such a white boy.'

'Shut up,' he replies, but with a smile. 'You can have Stevie Wonder, Beyonce, Stormzy, Eartha Kitt – if you're going to be tribal about it. Take your pick.'

'Nah, you're alright. Now – where exactly are we driving to?'

He outlines the general direction; the A2, A20, M25 and finally the A21 down into Kent. I squint at him, nervous. He promises to provide more detailed directions and with plenty of advance warning. He knows this route well by now.

We're pretty quiet on the drive too. When I catch glimpses of him from the side, I can see he's chewing at the insides of his mouth, so I know he's worrying about something. I think about that, but not as much as I have to think about being back on the road.

Once we hit the M25 he's telling me to put my foot down and hit the speed limit, where there's room on the road. It's like when he was teaching me, getting me used to the way cars behave at different speeds and on different kinds of roads. By the time he's guided me into the care home car park, my arms are shaking a bit.

'That's the longest drive I've done for over a year, Sam.'

'Wasn't so bad, was it?'

I laugh, shaking my arms out.

'You were good, actually.'

'Why thank you.'

'Must be you had a good teacher once.'

'Fishing for compliments will get you nowhere, Sam Connolly.'

'Doesn't hurt to try.'

We get out of the car. It looks nice, this care home. A modern building and beautiful gardens. The first thing I notice in Mary's room is the huge glass door and window looking out onto the garden. They've brought some of the things here that used to be in the flat. An embroidered sampler in a frame, an old horseshoe hung over the door, and the scary, bleeding Christ crucifix that used to terrify me when I was little.