‘That’s nice,’ I muttered, hoping I could avoid what was coming. Perhaps I could develop a sudden interest in broken dishwashers and join Dad on the floor . . .
She looked at me hopefully. ‘He’s not so young anymore, but he’d like to marry you.’
What? I might have audibly gasped. The internet had gone gaga for the vicar in Fleabag, but Father Michalis had a ZZ Top beard and was no Andrew Scott. ‘He’s a priest, Mum!’
She frowned. ‘Well, yes, who else would do it?’
I mentally thumped my forehead. Of course. He didn’t want to marry me, he wanted to perform the ceremony.
Mum hadn’t noticed, and continued: ‘He’s nearly eighty, you know. He baptised you and he’ll be very upset if he dies before you decide to get married.’
This conversation was getting more and more surreal – and not one I particularly wanted to be having at the office. I would have bet good money that Lucy and Gav were eavesdropping around the corner.
‘Getting married is the last thing on my mind,’ I said, hoping to end the discussion.
‘How is Simon?’ came Dad’s voice from the floor. ‘Will you be bringing him round again?’ Mum grinned. My parents were a formidable double-act, sometimes. Dad may as well have enquired when Simon planned to propose. But I knew better than to indulge their fantasies.
‘How’s the dishwasher coming along?’
Dad shuffled upright. ‘All fixed. It was the outlet pipe. Run it empty a couple of times, then it should be fine.’
Well, that was one piece of good news. ‘Thanks, Dad. I feel awful for hurrying you, but I’ve got a meeting in a couple of minutes.’
They didn’t seem too bothered by the fact that I was blatantly chucking them out. Sometimes they needed reminding that I wasn’t a teenager anymore and was in fact – shock, horror – a grown woman. Although admittedly one that appreciated having a dad who saved her money on fixing broken kitchen appliances.
With Dawn at her kid’s piano recital, I was tempted to skip the gym that evening, but the idea that Simon might be seeing me naked in the near future made me drag myself to spin class.
Except when I got to the gym I was informed by the chirpy, tanned receptionist that the spin class was full. Dawn usually remembered to book us in; it had completely slipped my mind to do it myself.
‘We’ve got Boxercise starting in a bit,’ he said. ‘It’s great for cardio, great for muscle tone. You’ll love it.’
His sales pitch worked, because fifteen minutes later, having changed into my lycra gym gear, I was standing in a circle with about ten other people doing jumping jacks.
The instructor, who had arms like a spinached-up Popeye, had introduced himself as Carl, and was now shouting peppy platitudes at us over a soundtrack of nineties dance music. Fitting, because 2 Unlimited always made me want to hit something.
‘You guys are awesome!’ he declared. ‘Feel your blood pumping – doesn’t it make you feel alive?’
Actually, Carl, I wanted to say, it makes me feel like I’m about to die.
We were only about five minutes into the class, but my heart was hammering like a four-armed drummer and my limbs felt as heavy as granite. I bet evil dictators used jumping jacks as a torture technique.
‘Okay,’ cried Carl. ‘Now let’s start running on the spot.’
This was only slightly less taxing, as at least I could rest my aching arms, but Carl kept encouraging us to ‘get those knees up higher’ like a deranged drill instructor. Any higher and my knees would be knocking my fillings out.
After what felt like fifteen hours or so, Carl decided we’d earned the right to move round in a clockwise direction. Everyone around me had mad grins on their mugs. Were they actually enjoying this, or had they all been smoking something before the class started?
‘And now anti-clockwise.’
The circle now starting jogging in the opposite direction. I was just about getting into the swing of things when Carl reversed the direction again.
‘And double time!’
What?
I was practically tripping over my own Nikes, trying not to get overtaken by the person behind me. My lungs were burning and sweat was pooling into my sports bra. Thank God I was wearing black. Although how I looked was pretty low down on my list of cares. Topping that particular list was: Help, I’m about to pass out.
I could tell I was suffering from oxygen deprivation because a bloke who’d just joined the class looked a lot like Nick Jones.
He high-fived Carl, who slapped him on the back, and joined the circle opposite me. I rubbed my eyes, because clearly this couldn’t be right.
He smiled. Shit. It was Nick. Was he bloody well stalking me?
‘And stop,’ announced Carl.
My limbs throbbed, and I really wanted to collapse in a puddle on the floor, but I couldn’t. Not in front of Nick.
I turned away, to give myself some time to recover, but a moment later Nick was at my side. He was wearing a light grey T-shirt, which was tight enough to show off all the planes on his chest.
‘Evening, Zoë.’ Annoyingly, his breathing was unaffected.
I willed my diaphragm to behave so I wasn’t so obviously panting.
‘Don’t “Evening, Zoë” me. How the hell did you know I’d be here?’
He shrugged. ‘How did you know Marcie would be at the piano shop?’
Dawn had known both things, and for a second I panicked that she’d told him.
‘Have you been following me?’
‘How do you know I’m not in Boxercise every Tuesday night?’
‘Maybe I’ll ask Carl,’ I replied.
‘Be my guest.’
My real reason for going over to Carl was because he was near the door. My instinct was to get out of here, but then I’d look like a chicken. And sod it, I’d paid for this class, why should I leave?
But before I could move, Carl was issuing fresh instructions. ‘Okay, pair up and get your gloves.’
I scanned the room trying to find the other woman who was here, but she’d already paired up with someone. Everyone seemed to partner up quickly, assuming Nick and I were already a pair.
I was stuck with him.
‘I swung by your office,’ said Nick.
‘Excuse me?’
‘That’s how I knew you’d be here. Your receptionist told me you’d be at the gym.’
What was Jody doing giving a complete stranger my whereabouts? She was always so trusting of everyone. Maybe I needed to give her the stranger-danger talk.
I wasn’t going to tell Nick I was miffed, though. ‘Right. So, you just happen to be a member and have your kit with you?’
He dipped his head as if explaining something to a child. ‘It’s the best gym close to both our offices. Why wouldn’t I be a member?’
He was such a liar. I bet he’d joined on the spot. A discreet conversation with the receptionist when I left would soon settle it. If he wanted to waste his money that was his business, because frankly, I’d run out of energy to argue with him.
Carl was standing in a corner, stamping his feet like a bull and clapping his hands. ‘Everyone got what they need?’
‘I’ll get us some gloves,’ said Nick, before jogging towards where the equipment was piled in a corner.
I could still make a run for it. But something about Nick’s demeanour had changed, a bit like it had at Jessica’s gig. He’d stopped busting my arse about hassling Marcie in the piano shop. Why?
The only way to find out was to ask. And I’d feel a hell of a lot more comfortable having that discussion in my regular clothes rather than the sweaty Lycra I was currently rocking. The sooner we got down to our Marcie negotiations, the sooner I’d be interviewing her.
Nick came back with gloves. Was he serious? ‘You want to finish the class?’
‘I find it very cathartic – don’t you?’
‘Are we actually going to hit each other?’
He grinned. ‘No. That’s wh
at we’ve got pads for.’ He handed me a wedge of blue Styrofoam. It looked like a book-shaped flotation device, the kind we had at school when we were learning to swim.
Next, he handed me a pair of red gloves. ‘These look like the right size for you.’
I tried to take the gloves from him, but he stopped me.
‘I know you’re angry with me, and you’d like nothing better than to knock my lights out, but you do know how to do this, right?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you know how to put on a boxing glove?’ He didn’t wait for me to answer. ‘Make sure you tuck your thumb under your fingers, otherwise you’ll break it.’
Christ, that would be just my luck.
He dropped the gloves to the floor, then took my hand, startling me.
‘What are you doing?’
His hand was cool against mine. Without saying a word, he folded my thumb against my palm and then curled my fingers over my thumb joint.
‘That’s how to make a fist.’ He picked up a glove and held it out for me, his eyes fixed on what he was doing. I slipped my hand in and then he tightened the Velcro strap.
‘How does that feel?’
‘Tight,’ I said.
‘Good. It’s supposed to.’ He handed me the left glove. ‘Can you manage?’
Of course I could—
Wait. How was I supposed to put the other glove on with no opposable thumb? Come to think of it, why did boxing gloves even have a separate bit for the thumb – you couldn’t move the damn thing.
‘Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, Nick?’ I said, buying time.
‘I told you – I swung by your office and your receptionist told me Tuesday was your gym night,’ he said. ‘Lucky for me you’re a creature of habit.’
He made it sound like such an insult, and I nearly told him as much, but I suddenly had a eureka moment about getting the other glove on. I jammed it between my knees and triumphantly slid my hand in.
‘So, you’ve used your amazing powers of deduction to track me down, because, you know, God forbid you email or phone.’
‘I’ve left messages – you’re the one choosing to ignore me.’
Oops. I’d walked straight into that one.
‘Okay, we’re here now. What do you want?’
He kept his gaze locked on my left hand and gestured for me to give him my hand, which I dutifully did. He pulled the glove fully up and tightened the strap. Funny, I’d thought I’d feel powerful with boxing gloves on, but I felt strangely vulnerable.
Nick keeping me in suspense about what he wanted only added to my unease. What the hell was he after?
Carl’s voice sliced through the thumping music. He was standing next to us. ‘You all okay here? Do you need any help?’
The answer to that question was most definitely yes, but I was too concerned with finishing my conversation with Nick.
‘We’re good,’ I said.
‘Great, let’s see some punches.’
Shit, he was going to stand here and watch.
Nick readied the pad in front of his chest. I swung my arm out and connected with it. It made a feeble ‘pfff’ sound.
‘Great attempt!’ said Carl. ‘But maybe I could give you some pointers.’
A crack echoed around the gym. It sounded like a gunshot, but was more likely someone’s fist making contact with bone. Possibly a nose.
‘I’ll be back in a mo,’ he said, worry clouding his features.
With Carl gone, I could grill Nick.
‘You were saying?’
‘Keep your arm parallel to the floor,’ said Nick.
‘You want to teach me how to punch?’ He was unbelievable.
‘When you do it right, it will feel so good.’
He sounded like he had a fetish.
I swung again. This time I made better contact with the pad, making Nick take a step back.
‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘One more, and this time keep your shoulder low.’ He pressed his palm against the side of my ribcage. ‘It will engage the lats.’
His hand barely made contact but it felt oddly intimate. He really was fixated on teaching me how to hit properly.
I planted my feet firmly on the sprung floor, relaxed my shoulders and threw another punch.
Thwack. My arm vibrated all the way up to my jaw.
Nick was propelled two steps back.
‘How did that feel?’
I grinned uncontrollably, trying to find the right word. ‘Pretty good.’
Nick nodded. ‘Let’s keep going.’
I swung my arm, and each time my gloved fist made a satisfying thud against the pad. I was getting into the swing of it, because I threw three punches in quick succession that made Nick recoil and drop the pad to the floor.
He shrugged. ‘You’re imagining my face, I take it.’
I smiled. ‘You’re right, that feels amazing. Now will you tell me what you’re really here for?’
He took my hands in his. ‘First, let’s take these gloves off.’
I let him. When I was safely glove-free he put his hands squarely on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye.
‘Can you get me a date with Jessica Honey?’
12
That Don’t Impress Me Much
We’d showered and changed and were sitting side by side at the gym bar. My post-exercise high was messing with my hormones because Nick’s aftershave was distracting me like catnip; a woody-berry scent that I’d never smelt on anyone else. I inched my seat away from him in an attempt to control the flood.
The man had some proper biceps on him, a fact I’d clocked when we’d been sparring. He was broad-shouldered, too.
Dawn was right: there was something old-school Hollywood about him. He had a surfeit of masculinity that you didn’t come across very often. But he wore it subtly. He wasn’t my type, of course, just like I’d never go for a Jonny Delaney or a Harry Styles, but I could see why Marcie might like having him around.
Marcie, it turned out, was the reason he wanted to get close to Jessica.
‘They toured together ten years ago,’ he was explaining. ‘Marcie didn’t usually have much to do with her support bands, but she saw a kindred spirit in Jess and took her under her wing. But they fell out, and Marcie always regretted it. When I told her she was touring again, she asked me to approach Jess to see if she was willing to mend those bridges.’
‘What did Jess do to piss her off?’
Nick shook his head. ‘Nothing. It was Marcie that let Jess down.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Marcie wants to beg forgiveness from Jess? From all those years ago? What on earth happened that could still be bothering her?’
Nick met my eye. ‘I can’t divulge that.’
Of course he couldn’t. ‘Why can’t you talk to Jess directly?’
‘I’ve tried, but she won’t have anything to do with Marcie or people linked to her. Including me. We’ve never actually met, but she’s rejected every request I’ve made through Pinnacle for a meeting.’
‘So what do you want me to do about it?’
‘Introduce me to her as a friend of yours.’
This was starting to feel a bit far-fetched. ‘Let me get this straight. You need to talk to her, but she can’t know you’re Marcie’s publicist?’
‘Exactly. Invite me along the next time you go out with her. You’re friends, right?’
‘She’s a friend of a friend.’ Why was I being so specific?
‘I think I saw you together that night. Tall guy with blond hair?’
‘Simon, yes.’
‘Simon seemed pretty friendly with Jess.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nick was looking at me curiously. ‘That they seemed like friends. What else could I mean?’
Jess and Simon’s rapport was a sore spot. Guess I’d just admitted as much to him.
‘Yeah, they’re friends.’
‘He’s not your
boyfriend, is he?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘So could you arrange a casual meeting, with a few people around, where I’d get a chance to chat to her?’
‘But we’d be lying about who you are.’
‘If it gets you face time with Marcie would it really be a problem for you?’
At last, something concrete. ‘You’ll give me Marcie?’
He nodded. ‘But you still need to do right by Hands Down.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You need to personally interview Jonny Delaney.’
Why did I get the feeling that Nick was enjoying this?
The only small fly in Nick’s request was that it meant I had to spend time with Jessica, or rather, Simon and Jessica together. She was always so flirty with him and it rubbed me the wrong way. But I guess in the big scheme of things, it was a small price to pay.
At home that night, I ate leftover moussaka and scrolled through Instagram. Jess had posted something about another gig in London tomorrow night.
Okay, I could deal with that. Maybe a few drinks backstage, either before or after, nothing too intense. Nick could cast his magic spell on her, or whatever, and that would be that.
I texted Nick with the details, and he replied immediately, telling me he’d meet me there.
What to tell Simon, though? Should I mention Nick’s real intentions or keep quiet about them? I’d ring him and play it by ear.
‘Always a pleasure to hear your voice, Frixie,’ he said, which gave me a little buzz.
‘What are you up to?’
‘Boring work stuff. I’ve got a million spreadsheets to go through.’
‘I noticed Jess was playing another gig, and I’ve got a friend who was a fan back in the day who’d like to come.’
‘That’s great! I was thinking of going too. It would be great to go together. You must have liked her the other night, then?’
‘She was pretty good.’
‘You know, it’s amazing how many people loved Rydell. I’ll see if Jess can put us all on the guest list. She told me off last time for not telling her we were coming. What’s your friend’s name?’
‘Nick,’ I replied. No need to give second names.
Simon had gone quiet. Was he weirded out that I wanted to bring a bloke?
Love Songs for Sceptics Page 10
