About Cressida McLaughlin

Cressy was born in South East London surrounded by books and with a cat named after Lawrence of Arabia. She studied English at the University of East Anglia and now lives in Norwich with her husband David.

Cressy's favourite things - other than writing - include terrifying ghost stories, lava lamps, romantic heroes and good coffee. When she isn't writing, Cressy spends her spare time reading, returning to London or exploring the beautiful Norfolk coastline.

The story

Imagine

 Emma saw him for the first time over the top of a display of birthday cards, and the painted field of poppies in her hand suddenly seemed faded, their red uninteresting compared to him.

            Brown hair with a dusting of blond in the strands at the front, a constellation of freckles across his tanned nose. It put her in mind of a low winter sun, of long walks on Holkham beach with hands clutched tight, clouds like aeroplane trails in an endless sky, thigh muscles and cheeks burning in front of the pub fire afterwards.

            He was staring at the rolls of wrapping paper, eyes narrowed as if trying to work out which was the least inoffensive.

            He didn’t notice her. She smoothed her curls from her forehead, checked to see if crumbs from her cheese scone lingered on her lips. There were none, but what to say? She felt she had to say something, when faced with a man like him. But she wavered, wobbling slightly, and escaped down the stairs to the floor below, her heart hammering.

            She spent time with the candles, trailed her fingers across soft, dusky blankets and the puckered leather of vintage armchairs, her shopping list – which she always memorised, because she was too used to losing scraps of paper – suddenly ungraspable. Her head was full of him, and when she looked up she wasn’t surprised to see him standing there, a country-cottage living room laid out between them.

            Squashy sofas in deep blue, a chunky-legged walnut coffee table, the rug a patchwork of pastel colours. She could picture the two of them, bodies angled together by the dip of the cushions, his arm around her shoulder, fingers trailing cobwebs of sensation up her arm while a film played.

            ‘Hey.’

            He was staring at her over the display. His eyes were green, his smile soft.

            ‘Hello,’ she replied, congratulating herself on getting the word out.

            The silence held. What next?

            ‘Can I help you with anything, sir?’ In those next seconds, while he was held captive by someone else, Emma made her exit, a wash of light framing the stairway. She fled down another flight. She would be safe on the next floor, unless he was shopping for his wife or girlfriend.

            She browsed the clothes, sliding silk shirts and tight jeans automatically along rails.

            Her day had not got off to a good start. The door to her flat had stuck again, refusing to close properly, and when she’d made it, triumphant, to the bus stop on time, the bus was late, as if chiding her for making the effort. She had stood in the insistent rain, everything damp by the time the bus arrived, everything warm and unpleasant when she reached Norwich city centre, and she knew the day would be tainted by this cloying feeling, even as the cobbles glistened and the stripes of the market stall awnings flashed with cheery colour.

            Then she'd seen him, and it was like a ray of sunlight reflecting on a grey, angry sea. What had he been going to say, after that ‘Hey’, his voice deep, his expression a whisper of amusement? Excuse me but you’re staring; You have coffee on your top; I saw you watching me – do I have coffee on my top?

            What was the protocol? She hadn’t been expecting this; not here.

            ‘Anything you fancy?’ asked the blonde woman, her smile warm and only slightly calculating. Emma saw she’d drifted into the Karen Millen concession, where dresses had high expectations of body shape.

            ‘Yes, he’s about six-foot with brown hair, green eyes and arms made for hugging. I left him in the furniture department.’ Of course she didn’t say that. Instead, she said, ‘Not at the moment, thanks,’ and head down, she wove through the clothes rails to the stairs at the back of the store.

            Outside, the rain had started again. She could have said: How’s your day? or made some pithy remark about the sofas. Could you make sofas pithy? she had no idea.

            The ground floor was bright and felt more spacious, somehow. She was about to run to the handbag section, to squeeze something plush and comforting, but there he was: standing in Menswear, holding two ties up in front of him, his shoulders a strong line. One tie was blue and silver stripes, very private-school, the other was grey, with tiny flowers in pink, purple and yellow. It was no contest. What was the point of ties, if not to add humour and colour to a dour, serious outfit?

            He turned around before she had a chance to sneak past.

            ‘Which one?’ He looked her in the eye, his lips with that flicker of a smile as he waited for her answer.

            ‘That one.’ She pointed to the flowers. ‘Unless it’s for your son.’

            ‘No son. It’s for me. For a wedding. I agree.’

            ‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘Good. I mean – that you agree.’

            He discarded the stripes, kept the flowers.

            ‘I didn’t realise you’d be here,’ she added.

            ‘In menswear?’ He shrugged. ‘You had to come downstairs eventually.’

            She was struck mute for a second. ‘There are two sets of stairs, a lift, I—’

            ‘I guessed. I’m going for coffee after this, in Chapters. There aren’t usually many free seats. We might have to share a table.’

            ‘I just had a scone.’ She couldn’t have said anything lamer.

            ‘Their cakes are small, almost as if they know it won’t be your first stop. You’ll hardly know you’re eating anything.’

            ‘Well then, how could I refuse?’

            His eyebrows went up. The glimmer of a smile became a flash, bold and blinding. ‘That’s what I thought, too. Five minutes?’ He waited for her nod, then strode to the payment desk with his flowery tie, and Emma rushed into the handbag section and hugged a coral pink Radley tote for all it was worth.

            She imagined them together at the wedding, her smoothing down his tie while they stood outside and the happy bride and groom had their photos taken, a smattering of the rain she’d so despised that morning making the leaves in the churchyard glisten, the air fresh and sweet with the scent of flowers. Perhaps her figure wasn’t beyond a Karen Millen dress, after all.

            Downstairs, she took her time in the books department. It was her favourite place in the whole store; she could spend hours browsing the tables, picking up the beautiful editions of classics, imagining one of each on the floor to ceiling bookshelves in her dream house, the window looking out over Norfolk countryside showcasing every shade of green, the sky a breathtaking blue. She pictured the flowery tie draped over a bookshelf, imagined large, strong hands at her waist, and put down the copy of Northanger Abbey she was holding.

            Five minutes was up.

            She took a deep breath, forced herself to take slow, measured steps, her handbag clutched at her side.

            The small café was full of people and chatter and the scorching whoosh of the coffee machine. Her eyes tracked the space, looking for the brown hair, the freckles.

            He wasn’t there. Her shoulders sagged. Someone else would go with him and his flowery tie to that wedding. She thought of her journey home, the damp bus, raindrops tracking down the windows, foot on the doorframe to force the door open, without half the things she came for. She should have said something earlier. Maybe if she hadn’t fled that first time—

            ‘No spaces.’ He was behind her, his voice deep and steady, amusement obvious even though she couldn’t see his face.

            ‘No.’ She turned.

            ‘What do you suggest?’

            He was even more striking close-up, the imperfections of cracked lips, a patch of missed stubble, pointing out all the places she wanted to kiss him. He held her gaze, waiting. Patient. Calm? She hoped not. She hoped he was fast-pulsed and sweaty-palmed under that cool exterior.

            ‘Lunch,’ she said. ‘I’ve always fancied sitting in the deli with a bottle of wine and one of those platters.’ The copper lamps above, putting down bags and resting weary feet. Bread dipped in olive oil. Sharing everything.

            ‘So have I,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

            He held a hand out, gesturing her forward, and his fingertips brushed her arm. She felt it as a scorch; a current arcing through her from the point of his touch.

            And then they were settling and sitting, her bag on the floor, his knees nudging hers as they turned towards each other, elbows on the table, faces close. Closer.

            ‘I’m Matt,’ he said, holding out a hand.

            ‘Emma,’ she replied. ‘Nice to meet you.’

            And that last imagined scene, of them sharing wine and food, dipping bread, talking – it wasn’t imagined anymore. It was real. She wondered how many of the others would be.