My Perfect Stranger: A hilarious love story by the bestselling author of One Day in December

‘I’ll take that,’ he said. ‘Or Hal. Just in case you ever feel the need to revise your opinion.’

‘Where were you going?’

‘To knock on your door.’

‘To apologise about the flowers?’

‘Not fucking likely. Do you have any whisky?’

Honey contemplated her answer. She didn’t. She did, however, have an almost-full bottle of tequila in the back of the cupboard, but enabling a drunk felt wrong. Was he a drunk? He certainly seemed to drink enough to qualify for the title. ‘Not whisky, no.’

‘But you do have something?’

Honey sighed. He might not be able to see her expression, but her voice had obviously given her away and lying wasn’t her strong point. ‘I have tequila.’

‘Thank fuck. Can I have it?’

‘Mother Teresa wouldn’t give it to you.’

‘Will you give it to me if I apologise?’

‘For smashing my jug, or for calling me Mother Teresa?’

‘Either. Both. Hell, I’ll even apologise for the fact that your mother named you Honeysuckle if you give me tequila.’

‘Do you have lemon and salt?’

He lifted his head towards Honey slowly, and even though his eyes were hidden behind his glasses she could clearly read the incredulous look on his face. For a second she thought he was going to yell again, and then he started to laugh. And not just a snicker. A great, huge, belly laugh that shook his shoulders first, then his entire body, and it went on and on uncontrollably until tears poured down his face.

Honey didn’t laugh with him, because it was pretty obvious that despite his current appearance, her mysterious neighbour was far from amused.

She slipped into her flat to dig the tequila out of the cupboard. When she returned to the hallway Hal had pulled himself up to standing and almost pulled himself together, although tear streaks still dredged across his face.

‘Tequila,’ Honey said, and stepped close enough to touch his arm. He took the bottle she placed into his hand with muttered thanks. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’ she asked. ‘You know, any help with … stuff?’

Hal huffed. ‘Don’t start the Mother Teresa thing again just because you know I’m blind.’

‘I won’t. I still think you’re an arrogant twat who drinks too much.’

The smallest twitch of humour tugged at the corner of Hal’s mouth. ‘And I still think you’re a frustrated girl guide with a stupid name.’

‘Good. Then we understand each other.’

‘Don’t bang on my door again.’

Honey watched him turn and walk away, staying close to the wall until he reached his own doorway. ‘Fine. But shout if you need anything.’

‘I won’t need anything you could possibly give me, Honeysuckle,’ he said, his voice low and gravelly. He clicked the door closed, leaving Honey alone in the hall – a little enlightened, a little troubled, and, strangely, a little in lust.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_7233cb3e-7599-5074-8a14-9d3f690d49af)

Lucille and Mimi stared at Honey with slack mouths and trembling hands.

‘So I’m afraid that unless someone steps in and buys the place, the shop will be closed down. The home too,’ Honey finished. She’d waited until the end of the day to tell the ladies, knowing they’d need some quiet time to digest the news.

‘They can’t do this to us!’ Lucille cried, her face anguished.

Honey smiled sadly. ‘There’s still six months yet, Lucille. Let’s hope for a miracle.’

‘Over my dead body are they closing our shop.’ Mimi squared her fragile shoulders, which were swathed today in the palest lime green cashmere twinset. As was often the case, Lucille had coordinated her outfit with her sister’s and had arrived this morning sporting an identical twinset in a complementary shade of lemon. Lemon Meringue and Key Lime Pie. Both ladies had knotted long strings of beads around their necks and large rings sparkled on their fragile fingers. Their outfits sang of sunshine, summer days and sweet spun sugar, but their faces told a far more melancholy story. Lucille’s big blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and Mimi had a look of fierce defiance that would have caused Emmeline Pankhurst’s heart to swell with pride.

Lucille turned to her sister with a flicker of hope. ‘Do you think we should fight it?’

‘Why ever would we not?’ Mimi said, looking from Lucille to Honey.

Honey frowned. Much as she hated the idea of closing the shop down, the idea of actively protesting hadn’t crossed her mind until now. Was there any point? For all his official talk of periods of consultation, Christopher had made it sound like a cut and dried decision last night. He’d probably been offered a sweetener to keep him onside, a golden handshake to make sure he didn’t allow anyone to rock the boat. He certainly hadn’t seemed overly concerned by the plight of the residents. ‘Dispersed’ was the word he’d used, and one Honey had carefully avoided when she’d tried to explain to Mimi and Lucille how the residents would be rehomed at other places.

‘Rehomed. We sound like a bunch of unwanted dogs,’ Lucille said, wringing her slender hands in her lap. ‘No one wants old animals so they get put down. Is that what’s going to happen to us, Honey?’

The wretched expression on Lucille’s face tore at Honey’s heartstrings. She wished she could offer her friend some genuine hope, but at that moment there wasn’t much to offer beyond a hug and a cup of hot, sweet tea.

‘What if they can’t place us together, Mimi?’ Lucille said, and Honey took the violently trembling cup and saucer gently from the older woman’s grasp for fear of it spilling on the ivory sunray pleats of her skirt. The sisters had shared connecting rooms in the home with their own bathroom for the last seven years, building a life of sorts amongst the residents and voluntary work in the shop. The idea that they might be placed apart from each other was awful, like adopted siblings being split up to maximise their appeal.

‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ Honey soothed, hoping with all of her heart that it wouldn’t.

‘It won’t,’ Mimi said, ‘because I won’t let it, Lucie. I promise.’ Ever the protective big sister, even at eighty-three, Mimi sat beside Lucille and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘And Honey will help us organise ourselves, won’t you, duck? People will listen to you more than us.’

Two pairs of eyes turned up towards Honey, one pair cornflower blue and brimming with tears, the other brown and bright with rebellion. Something in Honey stirred, a resolve to stand up and fight for her friends.

‘Of course I will.’ She sat on Lucille’s other side and put her hand over the older woman’s clasped ones, trying not to notice their frailty. ‘Of course I will. We have six months. It’s plenty of time to work something out.’

‘Our angel,’ Lucille smiled. ‘Where would we be without you?’

‘You don’t need to think about that,’ Honey said. ‘I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you without an almighty fight.’

Honey let herself into the house an hour or so later, still mulling over the conversation with Lucille and Mimi. She hadn’t considered the idea of trying to campaign to save the home, and she certainly hadn’t anticipated the idea of being the poster girl for it – yet it seemed that she might have to, because everyone else involved was at least eighty and looking to her for help. The responsibility weighed as heavy as the shopping bags in her hands as she awkwardly bumped the front door closed with her backside and flicked her eyes around the hall for any new signs of Hal’s presence. She glanced towards her neighbour’s door, half expecting him to throw it open and yell at her about something, but it remained resolutely closed and quiet. She huffed softly and opened her own door, hauling her heavy shopping up onto the kitchen work surface in the tiny kitchenette. The woefully small kitchen hadn’t concerned Honey in the slightest when she’d viewed the flat, mainly because her cooking repertoire didn’t extend much beyond cheese on toast or microwaved tomato soup. Rooting through the bags, she pulled out the only item she’d really headed into the store for in the first place. Whisky. As someone who never touched the stuff, the wall of whisky choices she’d found herself faced with had been bewildering. Did Hal have a preferred brand? Was he a single malt man? Given the amount of it that he seemed to drink and the hefty price tag on the decent stuff, Honey settled for the supermarket’s own blend. Hal probably wouldn’t taste it anyway when he knocked it back without it touching the sides. He seemed to use it more for anaesthetic than pleasure. Picking up the bottle and screwing up her courage, Honey opened her front door, crossed the hallway and knocked tentatively on Hal’s door. Nothing. It didn’t surprise her.

‘Hal?’ she called his name lightly. Neighbourly. ‘Hal, it’s me. Honey.’

He didn’t reply, and there were no sounds of life behind the stubbornly closed door, but he was in there, she was sure of it. It was pretty obvious from the way he’d practically begged for her tequila yesterday that he wasn’t planning on leaving the house anytime soon. Unease crept through Honey. Couldn’t the man just grunt or something, make some acknowledgment that he was alive at least? What if he’d drunk all the tequila and passed out cold? God, what if he’d hit his head?

‘Hal.’ She threw more power behind her voice, aiming for friendly, but immediately knew she’d failed and come over all officious and girl guide again. Glancing back towards her own open door, she sighed with resignation and leaned against the wall.

‘I’m not going away until you answer me, so you may as well make this easy on both of us, rock star.’

Silence reigned, and Honey slid her weary bones down the wall to sit outside his door, the bottle of whisky beside her. ‘I’ll just sit out here then,’ she said, her elbows on her knees, chin cupped in her hands. ‘I guess I’ll just drink this whisky myself then,’ she said after a few minutes, not enjoying the manipulative nature of her comment but glad to be well and truly out of girl guide territory. And besides, it worked. Honey let out a long, slow breath of relief as the sound of movement on the other side of the door told her that he was at least alive.

He was close to the door now, she could hear him breathing.