She knew it was early. Not early enough to catch him in his pyjamas, something that had become one of her favourite pastimes recently, but certainly too early to claim that she was here to drive him to the boat race party. The land rover stopped with a jolt in a cloud of sand as she put the handbrake on with a ratcheted howl. Gently lifting herself out of the car she felt her skin detach from the plastic seat cover with a sucking noise, she slightly regretted her decision to wear shorts, it was hardly the most attractive noise in the world.
She had driven bare foot rather than bother to put her shoes on. It meant that she would bring sand into his bungalow but it couldn't be helped. She wasn't going to wear her new heels on the beach. They would be ruined.
Camille retrieved the bag from the passenger seat and prepared herself for a fight. Perhaps she shouldn't have done it – if he got grumpy (well, that was guaranteed, perhaps she should say really grumpy) it could put a dampener on the whole day. But she knew exactly what he was going to end up wearing and he was going to stick out. So she was doing him a favour, really. It wasn't that she was trying to change him. Because that would be pointless, and ridiculous, and certainly not something she had been marginally successful at over the last year. But then again those changes that had occurred in Richard – they weren't real, true changes. No, she, Dwayne and Fidel – even her mother to a certain extent – had just been successful at getting the real Richard to reveal himself on occasion, instead of the Detective Inspector character he liked to hide behind 24 hours a day.
Her hesitation had given him time to come out onto the veranda and frown at her, "You are rather early? I thought lunch wasn't being served until one?"
"I thought you might like some company..." his eyebrows raised first in confusion then in acknowledgement and he motioned for her to take a seat outside. She did as indicated. Richard returned with a beer and watched her stretch out in the heat. Those damn legs were on display again and he watched as she flexed her toes and arched her feet. He tried to calm himself by thinking about the sand, immeasurable amount of sand that would invariably end up in his house, then lost control of his thoughts again as he imagined the reasons why she might be in his home at all. He went to tug at his collar only to remember that he was wearing a polo shirt. He felt decidedly uncomfortable.
If she noticed the motion then she didn't comment on it but instead held her hand out for the beer and waited as he settled comfortably next to her.
"I like it." He looked expectantly at her. "The new shirt. It suits you."
"Um, thank you?" Richard said, clearly unsure on how to accept a compliment about the way he looked. "Aren't you going to wear your shoes?"
"I will do later," she explained, before turning the conversation back to his outfit. "You know," she said, placing down the beer and leaning forward. "Those trousers are a bit smart for the shirt."
He shrugged, "Well it is these or my pyjama bottoms, which I rather think would be classified as too casual."
"Or," she said, drawing the word out. "You could wear something more casual, like, say, a pair of chinos?"
"I don't own a pair of chinos." She just levelled a gaze at him, and suddenly Richard realised that he did own a pair – and that was what was in the bag, and why she was here so early.
"No." He could tell that she was gearing up for a fight so he fired a warning shot across her bows in his most authoritative voice. "Camille..." He wasn't sure how much effort to put into arguing with her. He was pretty sure that he would lose, it just depended on how much time he wanted to waste getting to that conclusion.
"They're just chinos Richard."
"I don't care if they're just chinos, I'm not wearing them." His voice brooked no room for discussion.
But that was before she played her wild card. "Then I'm cancelling your party," she said smugly.
He wasn't quite sure when it became ok for Camille to treat him like a six year old, or when she managed to have such a hold over him. He also had a good mind to tell her that he didn't care and to kick her off his veranda. But he did care. It was Cambridge. It was home. It was the BBC, and it was a party with people who might at least understand him.
"You are being entirely unreasonable."
"No, it is you who is being unreasonable," she said firmly. "As you are nearly all of the time – which is why I resorted to such drastic tactics so early. Will you at least look at them?"
His stubborn, petulant side still wanted to shout no at her, and storm off into his shack. But he controlled it, and instead with a tight nod he roughly grabbed the bag from her and removed the trousers. Richard had never actually told Camille his size, there was a good chance whatever she had bought wouldn't even fit. With glee he saw that was exactly the case, "Camille these are like six sizes to big!" Then his pleasure turned to hurt, he knew the trousers he had brought from the UK were a little tighter than they used to be, but he hadn't thought he had put on that much weight.
She made an aggravated noise, shaking her head, "No, they aren't, that is the European size. It is a UK 32." Which was exactly his size, surprise must have shown on his face at that because she added, "I've always been very good at judging peoples…measurements." Richard felt the choice of word was a deliberate attempt to make him blush, and it worked.
"I don't understand why you think I need these anyway?"
"Why? Because Richard you have been here for a year and I have only ever seen you wear a suit or your pyjamas. Do you know how ridiculous that is?"
He knew exactly how ridiculous it was. Knew exactly how ridiculous he was. He had been told by too many women too many times.
She could see that she had hurt him. "You're not ridiculous." The wrinkled lip he offered her in return told her that he didn't really believe her. "It's just, you need to relax." He looked as though he was about to tell her that he was more than capable of relaxing in his suit, when she held up her hands. "No you can't. And that's why you need some new clothes. Now go and try them on."
He stormed off into the bathroom.
They fit perfectly. Looking down they seemed to look fine as well. Richard wasn't willing to leave the bathroom to look in the mirror just yet, because he knew Camille would start harassing him the moment he stepped out. In truth he knew there wasn't going to be anything wrong with them at all – he even owned similar trousers, but they were in the UK. He just objected to being shopped for – and it was such a maternal thing to do. Yes, that was always going to be how Camille thought of him wasn't it? A child to cajole into behaving.
With a huff, he exited the bathroom and only allowed himself a sideways glance to confirm they looked fine – because he knew he would have to wear them no matter what.
What he didn't bank on was Camille's appreciative glance at him as he flounced, yes flounced, back on to the veranda. He looked good. He was a moron, and an idiot, and juvenile and argumentative but he looked good. She was expecting him to look different, after a year of wearing the same thing, he would have had to look different. But they really suited him.
"Are you coming?" He was shouting at her from the veranda, raising his voice when she was perfectly capable of hearing him because he was only 7 feet away from her.
He was pouting. He had seen her look at him and it was definitely maternal. A sort of look of pride had crossed her face before he had strode past her. The pout gave way to chewed lips as he mulled over the way that her pride made him feel. Small, mainly. And insignificant. He wished again for the confidence to tell her that he didn't need her trousers, or her shopping, that he just wanted to be left alone. But he wasn't even sure if he believed that anymore. He didn't want her to leave him alone. He just wanted her to accept him for who he was. But he didn't think that was going to happen any time soon. This latest present proved it.
"Yes, yes," Camille said. She should know by now that a simple 'thank you' was not going to be forthcoming. His bad mood rolled off him in waves as they walked towards the car and she wondered if it was all worth it. Unable to stand him sitting sullen next to her, she asked the one question she knew would get him talking, "So what are Cambridge's chances today?"
Let the lecture begin…