by Lindsey Kelk
‘And you were wearing a white shirt and grey trousers,’ I said quietly. ‘And you were laughing about something then I caught your eye and you came over to say hello.’
‘What did we even talk about?’ Patrick asked. I imagined him lying on his bed, holding his whisky glass, loosening his top button. ‘I can’t remember.’
We talked about books we’d both read, the books he had written, we talked about the places he travelled to, the places I wanted to travel to, we talked about my job, we talked about the sad state of modern Christmas number ones, we talked about homemade versus shop-bought Christmas cakes, we talked about the importance of Fleetwood Mac and my unpopular opinion that Tango in the Night was better than Rumours and we talked about how his editor was friends with the Mapplethorpes but didn’t know my parents, how I was there out of daughterly duty, how he was there to meet some journalist who hadn’t turned up and maybe that was all just meant to be.
‘I have no idea,’ I replied. ‘Absolutely no idea.’
‘I remember you said we should leave and get a drink somewhere else.’
‘That was you!’ I exclaimed, ducking to the left as a stray tennis ball swooshed past me and bounced off the plastic window.
‘No, it was definitely you,’ Patrick laughed. ‘You asked me with your eyes, I translated it into words.’
My lips curved into a smile.
‘And then we got in that taxi and …’ His words trailed off into a deep, satisfied sigh. ‘Where are you right now?’
I gulped and tucked my hair behind my ears.
‘On a bench outside a tennis club in Worcester Park.’
‘I wish you were here.’ Patrick’s breathing, the sound of a zip, a body moving on soft sheets. ‘I wish you were doing what I’m doing right now.’
I stared at the grass in front of my feet, face hot, palms sweaty.
‘What would you do?’ he asked. His voice was slightly hoarse. ‘If you were here right now?’
‘Patrick, I’m at my dad’s tennis club,’ I whispered.
‘Go into the ladies’ room,’ he instructed. ‘Go into the ladies’ room and do exactly what I tell you.’
I stood up without hesitation, only thinking about one thing.
‘Watch out!’
Which meant I was not thinking about low-flying tennis balls.
‘Oh, shit!’ I wailed, dropping my phone and clutching my face. ‘Shit bugger bollocks ow.’
‘Goodness, I am sorry,’ the elderly gentleman from the men’s changing room tottered over. Clearly all his strength was in his backhand. ‘Are you all right? Should I get the first aider?’
‘Ros?’
Patrick’s voice echoed out my phone speaker from the ground. ‘Ros, are you there? What happened?’
I gave my assailant a pleasant smile and a thumbs up as my head throbbed. Trying not to pass out, I bent over and picked up my scratched but not shattered new phone.
‘Ros?’
‘I’m OK, I got hit in the head by a tennis ball,’ I said, wandering back towards the rose garden, a little dazed and very sore. ‘Give me a minute?’
‘I think the moment’s gone,’ Patrick replied, clearing his throat. ‘I might give today’s pages another once-over if you really can’t tear yourself away.’
‘Sorry,’ I told him, wincing as I poked my fingers into my new injury. Fantastic. What this week needed was a black eye from a septuagenarian tennis player.
‘Can’t be helped,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I agreed. His first scheduled visit Chez Shed. ‘Maybe you should think about what you’d like me to do for you then.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said with a soft promise.
‘Rosalind, what the bloody hell happened to your face?’ Mum asked, practically running across the club as I ended the call. ‘You’ve been gone two minutes.’
‘Stray ball.’ I pulled my head out of her hands, turning away from her inspection. ‘It’s fine.’
‘It’s going to bruise,’ she replied. ‘We need to put some ice on that.’
‘We usually have ice packs but I just defrosted the freezer,’ rugby shirt said. ‘Ice cream van should be around in a minute, we could stick a Mister Whippy on it?’
‘Let’s get you home,’ Mum said, tenderly brushing my hair back from my forehead. ‘I’ve got some arnica gel, that’ll help.’
‘Thanks for the tour,’ Dad said to our host. ‘Apologies, can’t take this one anywhere.’
Rugby shirt looked me up and down and scoffed. ‘I thought she was supposed to be some sort of genius?’ he guffawed.
‘That’s the other one,’ Dad explained, clapping me hard on the back before giving his friend a sharp salute. It hurt almost as much as my eye.
‘Home, James,’ Dad said, striding off towards the car. ‘And don’t spare the horses.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
By the time Friday evening rolled around, I was prepared to call the working week, tennis-ball assaults aside, a success. I had Snazz’s first podcast guests confirmed, the art department was working on the logo and the marketing team was shouting about our live recording at WESC (which I now knew stood for the World E-Sports Championships) reaching even the deepest, darkest little corners of the internet. Basement-dwellers would be risking the outside world from far and wide to get a glimpse at Snazzlechuff, live and in person. Even I had found myself wondering if he’d get a new mask made. There was a minor bump in the road when I tried to get Veronica to schedule in some rehearsal time but she insisted that he didn’t need it, that too much prep would ‘fucking ruin the magic’. When I raised it with Ted, he advised me that the magician works in mysterious ways and so, I had left it alone. It had been such a long time since I’d felt good about myself at work, knowing I was killing it was such a high.
At exactly five thirty, I switched my casual Friday Converse for a pair of black patent heels, checked my concealer, closed up my computer and bolted for the door. Patrick had rented some obscure French movie from his very cool video club and we had made plans to watch it at mine. After leaving the tennis club, I’d spent all evening pimping the place out to prepare for his arrival: new sheets, new wine glasses, knock-off Jo Malone candles I’d sent Mum all the way to Aldi to procure. As long as I kept the light low and the smell of the compostable toilet out of the bedroom, I truly believed I could pass off my current predicament as sexily bohemian. And if the candles weren’t enough to distract him, I’d also spent my following week’s food budget on a pair of stockings and suspenders that were definitely more six-star hotel suite than one-star shed. I needed about three hours to get into them but it would be worth it.
I was fifteen minutes into a mindless run around the M&S Foodhall when my phone rang with Patrick’s name lighting up the screen.
‘Hey, hi,’ I beamed. ‘I was just thinking about you.’
‘Warm thoughts, I hope,’ he replied. ‘What time are you coming over tonight?’
I dropped a packet of prosciutto in my trolley and frowned.
‘I thought you were coming to me?’
‘Really? I thought you were coming here,’ he said. ‘I was going to make you dinner.’
‘I was going to make you dinner,’ I countered, hand hovering over a pre-packaged cheese selection. ‘You said you’d come to me because it’s Lucy’s baby shower tomorrow and it’s easier to get there from my place. Remember?’
He gave a long groan of recognition. ‘Ohhh, the baby shower is tomorrow? I thought that was next week? My brain is like a sieve.’
‘Lucy’s baby shower is this weekend,’ I confirmed. ‘Next weekend is my mum and dad’s vow renewal.’
‘And what’s the weekend after that?’ he laughed. ‘Your milkman’s cousin’s bar mitzvah?’
‘The weekend after that is my birthday,’ I said quietly, putting back the cheese.
‘I know that, I’m just joking,’ Patrick replied. ‘You sound tired. Why don’t you
come here tonight and let me look after you?’
‘Because you said you’d come to mine,’ I said in as hushed a tone as I could manage. I would not be one of those women who had a full-volume slanging match on the phone in the supermarket. At least not in M&S, what would my mother think? ‘Come on, Patrick, it’s going to be nice, I was going to buy cheese?’
I would not give in. He was coming to my shed if I had to drug him and drag him and that was almost definitely illegal or, at the very least, frowned upon.
‘Ros, don’t take this the wrong way but this week has been a nightmare and I don’t think I can deal with roommates tonight.’
I stopped in the middle of the aisle.
‘I don’t have any roommates,’ I said, confused. ‘What are you talking about?’
A pause.
‘You don’t?’
‘I’m staying at my parents’ house until I find a flat. I must have told you ten times.’
‘That’s what I meant,’ he replied confidently. ‘I meant your roommate-parents. I didn’t want to offend you but the idea of dealing with anyone’s mum and dad after the week I’ve had is just too much. Come to me, I’ll open some wine, make some pasta, pull out the projector. I’ll make you your own private cinema. It’ll be wonderful.’
It did sound wonderful, or at least it would have sounded wonderful if we hadn’t already made plans.
‘I can’t, all my stuff for tomorrow is at home,’ I explained slowly, calmly. ‘And it doesn’t make any sense to go all the way back home and then come all the way back across London just to go all the way back again in the morning. The baby shower is ten minutes from my mum and dad’s place.’
‘Then we’ll get it in the morning on the way,’ Patrick replied. ‘Look, you’ve clearly had a hell of day. Has that Snazz upset you or something? You never used to get this stressed out about little things.’
‘I’m not stressing out about little things,’ I said, grabbing the cheese. I didn’t care if we were sharing it or I ate the entire thing myself, either way, it was coming home with me. ‘I told Sumi we would be at the baby shower early to help her set up because you said you wanted to help.’
‘You know what, I am really exhausted,’ he said with a forced yawn. ‘Why don’t we watch the film tomorrow night instead?’
I felt my frustration rising. It was reasonable that he wanted to stay home after a long week but it was also reasonable for me to expect him to stick to our plans, especially when those plans made the most sense for the following day. My grip tightened around the handle of the basket.
‘After the baby shower,’ he added. ‘Which is in my diary and I am very excited about.’
‘Really?’
Patrick huffed down the line. ‘Rosalind Reynolds, I can’t believe you would doubt me.’
I rubbed my nose on the back of my hand to drive away any threatening tears. Frustration always made me tear up. Frustration, anger and any time there was an elderly dog in an advert.
‘Now, you go home and relax, put your feet up, have a bubble bath or something and I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t worry about coming over here, I’ll be fine on my own. I’ll meet you at the party whenever you want me there.’
I looked down at my high heels and thought about the twenty minutes I’d spent applying false eyelashes in the PodPad toilets and about the stockings and suspenders, wedged on top of the bathroom cabinet in the shed. What a waste.
‘I’ll miss you tonight though,’ Patrick murmured, chasing away my annoyance.
‘Good,’ I told him, my annoyance building again as he laughed down the line. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
My phone beeped to confirm he’d ended the call.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared into the cheese fridge. I had two choices. One, fill my basket with dairy delights, go home and try not to make eye contact with my redundant lingerie. Or, two, abandon my shopping and find an adventure.
‘It’s Friday, I’m wearing false eyelashes and cheese backs me up,’ I accidentally declared to an unsuspecting shelf stocker. ‘Time for an adventure.’
‘It gives me the runs,’ clucked a little old lady at the side of me. ‘You get off out while you’re young.’ She picked up a block of Wensleydale and looked me up and down. ‘Well, fairly young.’
And there it was, decision made.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked Sumi, clambering out of the taxi and following her blindly down an alleyway. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’
‘Because if I tell you, you won’t want to do it and I’ll let you talk me out of it and we’ll end up at mine, completely rat-arsed, you whining about Patrick, me buying shoes I can’t afford and both of us hungover for the baby shower tomorrow,’ she replied. Sumi had thought this through.
‘I will want to do it,’ I promised even though I clearly had no way of knowing if that was in fact true. ‘It doesn’t matter what it is.’
She marched on, lips firmly clamped together.
‘Is it a quiz night?’
No response. It was a fair guess though, Sumi loved quizzes. Mostly because she was much cleverer than anyone else in the world and quiz nights were the only place she could really let that light shine without feeling like an arse.
‘Immersive theatre experience where we all have to pretend we’re squirrels?’
I could have sworn I’d read about that happening somewhere round here on Time Out.
‘Lesbian board game night?’
‘What’s a lesbian board game?’ she asked.
‘Monopoly but instead of buying property and going to prison you buy Birkenstocks and have to go to Ikea.’
‘I have never in my life worn a Birkenstock,’ she gasped, glancing down at her Guccis to make sure they hadn’t heard. ‘And I’d rather go to prison than Ikea.’
‘Ikea has better food,’ I argued.
‘Just barely,’ she sniffed. ‘Those meatballs are gross, they’re fake news.’
‘Blasphemy,’ I whispered under my breath.
‘We are here,’ Sumi announced, stopping in front of the nondescript door of an ordinary building. ‘After you.’
‘Is it an escape room?’ I asked, my pulse suddenly racing. ‘Because I should warn you, I’m not allowed in those.’
‘No it isn’t, and what do you mean you’re not allowed?’
‘We went to one as a team-building exercise in DC,’ I explained as she gently pushed me through the door. ‘And I got slightly over-competitive and made one of the other girls cry.’
She gave me a look.
‘You couldn’t make me cry if you tried,’ she said, as much of a threat as a promise.
‘Where are we?’ I asked again, the distant sound of music thrumming through the floorboards.
‘It’s a dark disco,’ she replied, handing two tickets to a man who appeared to be watching a beauty tutorial on his iPhone. He swapped her the tickets for two bottles of water and cocked his head towards a narrow death trap of a staircase behind him. ‘We’re going to dance.’
‘Like, a goth disco?’ I looked back at the staircase and wondered if it truly was steep enough to finish me off. Because if it was a choice between that and an entire evening of swishing around to The Cure, I couldn’t honestly say which was the better option.
‘No, you knob. A dark disco, a disco that takes place in the dark.’ Sumi grinned as we heaved our way upstairs. ‘It’s the best thing ever, they play the most amazing music and you can dance however you want because it’s pitch black, no one can see you. You’re literally dancing as though nobody is watching.’
I clutched my water bottle to my chest.
‘Is this a sex thing?’
‘You’re thinking of a dark room,’ she replied. ‘And no. At least, it wasn’t last time I came. It’s incredibly freeing. You can dance your arse off to Taylor Swift without worrying what anyone else thinks. Last time I was here they did a full hour of Spice Girls songs and, I swear, I thought someone had slipped some Molly into my
drink I was so happy.’
‘And you’re sure they hadn’t?’ I asked before carefully inspecting the tamper-proof seal on my own water bottle.
‘Unlikely, it’s a sober party.’
It took a minute for the words to register.
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s a sober party,’ Sumi repeated. ‘No booze, no drugs.’
I almost fainted clean away.
‘Is there at least fizzy pop and Haribo?’
‘Ros,’ Sumi wedged her water bottle under her armpit and took both of my hands in hers. ‘There is only water. You will survive, you will dance and you will feel amazing. We need to seize these moments while we can. One day, we’ll have different responsibilities, we won’t be able to randomly nick off to a disco without a care in the world.’
‘We won’t?’ I asked. What was she talking about?
‘We will not,’ she confirmed. ‘Trust me, you’re going to love this. And if you’re very good, I’ll buy you a Nando’s on the way home.’
‘Won’t Nando’s be closed on the way home?’ I asked, allowing her to lead me towards a heavy black curtain.
‘Dark Disco ends at nine,’ she answered. ‘You’ll be home by ten, asleep by eleven and I swear it’ll be the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had in your life. You can thank me tomorrow when you’re incredibly grateful not to have to deal with Lucy’s baby-mama friends with a hangover.’
‘I don’t think I’ve been dancing sober since I was fourteen,’ I said, weirdly nervous as I handed my backpack over to a much friendlier-looking woman, standing behind a folding table.
Sumi snorted with laughter. ‘It’s just dancing, Ros, not shagging, which you definitely want to be drunk for. At least the first time. Or for the first three years, depending.’
I followed her through the curtains into a small vestibule where the music suddenly became much louder. I had to find out what kind of curtains these were, I thought, fingering the heavy velvet with admiration. Maybe they’d help class up the shed a bit.
