Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  Nat carries on her indignant response, the words sounding distant and indistinct as I zone out, zoning in on something on the lower floor. I say something, but I mean someone, because it’s hard not to notice him, wet or dry, when he literally stands out from the crowd. And not just a head and shoulders kind of stand out, though he is tall. It’s my wet Tuesday morning caller. My secret blast from the past.

  Rory.

  Almost as though my gaze nudges him, he tips his head, his eyes catching mine. I wish I could remember their exact colour. Back in the salon I’d remembered them as dark. One of the features from the past I can’t exactly recall. Damn his perfect jawline. If there was any justice in this world, he’d now be fat. Or bald. Or better still, both.

  Sadly, he isn’t. And I know those thoughts are unfair but as he smirks up at me, my thoughts go from uncharitable to downright dirty. Holy shit. If that isn’t a sexiest thing I’ve seen since . . . well, since he walked into the salon, clothes stuck to his skin.

  And that one look is like a simultaneous blast of cold and heat; cold as I realise I’ve been caught staring, and heat because the sexy smirk he sends my way feels hotter than sin. And I revel in that look this time—I don’t shy away. Not only that, I allow my mind to wander, to reminisce, because why the hell not? I’ve got nothing else that I need to be thinking of right now. I’m carrying guilt for no one this evening. I’ve no one’s memory to uphold.

  He’s so big and bronzed. A crest flash of light from a chandelier highlights the copper strands of his chestnut hair. My cheeks heat; I’m definitely having a moment as I log his cocky quirked brow. Dressed less hipster than those around him, he also looks a lot different from Tuesday. Boots, wet jeans flannel shirt glued to his skin. Not that the memory is indelible or anything. Tonight, he’s dressed stylishly enough for a night out in London. Or Milan. Grey slim fitting pants, a matching vest, white button-down, and a matching jacket thrown over his forearm. Stylish, crisp and confident, but despite his refined appearance there’s definitely something a little bit brute about the man. And he wears it so well.

  The years have been good to him. He’s still leading man material, but these days he’d be auditioning for a kick-ass role rather than a high school love interest. And he’d definitely be at home playing Nat’s fantasy lumberjack. Or maybe a Viking—no, a marauding Viking.

  And suddenly I feel ready to have my barn burned down.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  Nat’s not-so-dulcet tones pull me from my musing, the hum of the restaurant filling my ears as a sharp finger of guilt pokes me in the chest. It’s a small yet painful reminder of my widowed state, but in light of this morning, I push it the hell away.

  ‘Yeah. Yes,’ I reply, without turning my head. ‘Downstairs deforested, upstairs let the grass grow.’ As I lose sight of Rory on the stairs, I turn my gaze back to the pair.

  ‘We’ve moved on since then.’ Ivy’s brow is furrowed. On second examination, her face is set like stone. The stink-eye gargoyle kind of stone. ‘If every time you go to open the fridge, a jar of marmalade hits you on the head, at some point you’re going to stop opening the fridge, aren’t you?’

  ‘Eh?’ Natasha beats me to it, articulating her confusion about as eloquently as my current expression. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ But Ivy doesn’t acknowledge her words, her gaze intent on mine. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, oblivious to our silent standoff, ‘what kind of arse keeps the marmalade in the fridge? That’s a sure fire way of making your toast go cold a’fore it’s anywhere near your mouth.’

  ‘Finola?’ Ivy mutters caustically, the atrocity expelled from a cat’s bum mouth.

  ‘Ivy?’ I answer, mimicking her tone.

  ‘Ah, shit. I’m not havin’ it. If the pair of you are fixin’ to fight, you can do it somewhere else. I haven’t even eaten yet!’

  ‘We’re not fighting,’ Ivy replies in a superior tone. Her gaze avoids mine as she concentrates on the important task of rearranging the cutlery. ‘I’m just pointing out that the definition of lunacy is repeating the same mistake, while expecting different results.’

  I feel the muscles in my face contort. ‘Same mistakes as what? I was looking, not feeling him up. What the hell is your issue?’

  ‘First you say you’re going to go travelling, and now you’re giving guys the glad eye.’

  ‘You sound like June,’ I fire back, almost admitting I know him. Only this wouldn’t be a defence, rather cause for a whole lot of other questions. ‘And since when has looking been a crime? I’m allowed to look! It’s not like I’m cheapening his memory,’—I can’t bring myself to say Marcus’ name—‘because at this stage in the widow games his memory is worth about as much as I have in my chequing account.’

  ‘You weren’t just looking. You were giving him the serious come fuck me look.’

  I burst into laughter, the sudden eruption of noise surprising us all. ‘How does that even work? I wouldn’t even know where to begin. How about a demonstration? Come on, you show me that look.’

  Ivy struggles against a smile, eventually giving in, and as an encore, she makes herself cross-eyed while poking out her tongue.

  ‘Oh, man. That milkshake’s bringing no boys to the yard!’

  And just like that, our spat is over, though I make a mental note to find out what’s really going on inside that head of hers.

  ‘You two must be bio-polar or something,’ Nat grumbles, folding her arms. ‘Can we not have a peaceful night?’

  An hour later we’ve been suitably fed—the food is a sort of fusion smokehouse. Definitely not the kind of place for vegetarians to hang out, as Ivy points out. We’ve also been appropriately watered by virtue of mason jars filled with iced and muddied cocktails. I’m currently on number three, though Ivy and Nat are already two ahead and are at the point of the evening where things could go very good or very bad. But at least Ivy has loosened up, probably something to do with ingesting copious amounts of fruity liquor and a dinner consisting of mostly grass.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Nah, too skinny,’ replies Nat, unapologetically examining the bearded guy Ivy pointed out as hottie number two. ‘I’d probably suffocate him. And not in the fun, kinky way.’

  ‘Is there a good way to asphyxiate?’ I’d meant it as a rhetorical question, though Natasha answers anyway.

  ‘I’ve been told a time or two they’d like to be suffocated by these.’

  She palms the sides of her boobs, pushing them together like they need the attention, which they don’t. They—or she?—gets plenty anyway from a group of guys standing nearby, clearly enjoying the free show.

  ‘Don’t look now, there’s one breaking free from the herd,’ Ivy mutters, unimpressed.

  Nat sniggers as a guy—skinny jeans and fuzzy of face—makes a beeline for our table. We’re down in the bar area now; leather sofas with a low table in front, masculine and rustic bookcases full of faux books. Or maybe not as I pull an aged copy of Canterbury Tales from a shelf.

  ‘A herd of hipsters?’ Ivy screws up her button nose, deep in thought for a second. ‘Do you think that’s the collective noun? A hashtag of hipsters? A pose, maybe?’

  ‘A trend of hipsters?’ I add.

  ‘Maybe,’ Ivy returns. ‘Or maybe they’d be a smug!’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ yells Nat, holding out her hands in demand for our silence. ‘A knob of hipsters.’

  The be-bearded member of the knob-ite tribe steps barely falter. He definitely has more balls than bulk as he continues on to our table.

  ‘I think I’m gon’nae have to call the landscape people.’ His voice booms, almost as though the volume will make up for his lack of height, the contents of his pint glass spilling a little as he points a finger at us, collectively. ‘Because there’s a site of outstanding natural beauty right here! Ladies . . .’ he says, using his hand now as though painting a headline in the air. ‘You need to be put on the map!’

  It’s such a horrendous p
ick-up line, I snigger into my glass.

  My mother, bless her deluded heart, maintains that Scottish men have what she likes to call the patter. “Smooth tongued devils, they are.”

  Strange, but I don’t feel like whipping off my panties right now.

  ‘Is it ‘cos we’re all hills and valleys?’ asks a coquettish Nat. I think she might’ve heard this line before.

  ‘Oh, aye. And some,’ he answers, his eyes roaming over each of us before landing inevitably on Natasha’s chest.

  ‘Then consider me the custodian of this lovely landscape,’ she continues. ‘And the cover charge for looking is a round of drinks.’

  Hairy hipster looks like he’s about to choke on the pint he’s brought along for the ride, opting to laugh. Eventually. It’s a sort of shite, she’s done this before kind of noise. And I think he’d be right.

  ‘What’s your poison, ladies?’

  ‘A round of old fashioneds, please.’ Nat’s reply is sugar sweet. ‘What?’ she asks, looking both left and right at our matching stunned expressions. ‘That’ll knock the smooth right out of him. He’ll not get much change out of thirty quid. Make hay while the sun shines, my girlies!’

  A few minutes later Nat’s admirer is back, his pint now sitting on a tray. As he hands Nat her drink, she holds it like a game show model might.

  ‘See this drink?’ she asks sweetly. ‘It hasn’t got a nip of Rohypnol in, has it?’

  ‘Why, no!’ he exclaims.

  She responds by reaching up and running her hand down his bearded chin. ‘You can’nae be too careful these days, aye?’ She then sends him a cheeky wink

  Chairs are dragged nearer and our two groups eventually merge into one. Nat and Ivy are on form, dishing out one liners like professionals and it isn’t too long before Ivy the lightweight is on the way to inebriation critical mass.

  ‘Come on then, hipster Harry,’ she says, with more than a slight slur to her words. ‘Tell us the meaning of your tatts.’ The guy sitting next to her has a beard like one of the Hawkmen from Flash Gordon. And an expression just as dour.

  ‘My name’s Stephen,’ he replies.

  ‘With a p-h?’ asks Nat, trying not to snigger. Difficult when we both know what’s coming next.

  ‘Pheven! Pheven!’ comes Ivy’s giggling chant.

  Hawk-boy merely picks up his pint without even cracking a smile, though to be fair it would be hard to tell what’s going on underneath all that fuzz.

  I’m trying. I really am, but I feel like a cuckoo sat in a nest full of birds all chirping a tune I don’t know. Maybe the single persons mating call? I try to keep up, fit in, but it’s hard. The girls are on their way to drunk and while stone cold sober I’m not, I find my buzz just isn’t anaesthetizing enough. I’m also less than interested in getting to know any of these men.

  And I feel like my sense of fun has been switched off.

  Fucking Marcus.

  I run my tongue over my teeth while wondering if I just don’t speak the language anymore. Single and ready to mingle? More like sad and ready to skulk off home. I feel lost. This life, sitting in a pub with friends, chatting with inconsequence and the opposite sex. It feels alien and I’m beginning to think coming out tonight was a mistake. I don’t feel any different. I don’t feel powerful or full of womanly roars, which was sort of the point of venturing out. Instead, I just feel exposed.

  Just as I’m debating the merits of slipping out, I catch a glimpse of a certain chestnut head. It’s a kind of pleasurable kick in the pants, especially as the cause of our earlier tiff seems to be walking his sexy self our way. I’m conscious of that spark again, only this time the effects are less internal—my posture straightening like I’ve be lashed by a live electrical line.

  I’m not sure if I prefer him wet or dry.

  My eyes devour him. The man is a total jock, not that you can use that term here. It has much different connotations. You just can’t call a Scotsman a jock under any circumstance, though the title fits him well. He’s tall and broad and looks like he takes serious care of himself. As he draws closer with that sexy half smirk and those sultry eyes, I get a glimpse of colourful ink peeking from beneath his shirt sleeves. Those are definitely new. I’ve never been a fan of tattoos but find I can’t hang onto my ambivalence right now.

  I swallow thickly, unable to stop my stare-fest or tear my gaze from his confident stride, my body almost vibrating as I struggle to remain calm on the outside. This place has to be cursed. It’s like I’ve turned into my raging hormones teenage self. I can literally feel the spike of perspiration break out against my spine as I pretend to be interested in something over his right shoulder, not wanting to appear as though I’m expecting him to speak.

  Not that I need to, it turns out, as a beat later he passes by our table without a word.

  He was on his way to the bar, you idiot.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asks Natasha.

  ‘What do you mean?’ My answer is almost rote as I watch that fine ass walk away, nursing the sting of rejection.

  ‘Your Rain Man impersonation and the whole twisty face deal.’

  So, not as cool as I’d hoped. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Maybe you’re having a stroke.’

  Maybe I need to stroke. Home, later. While thinking of him.

  I don’t even realise I’m still watching Rory, the rear view being almost as good, until I find I’m turning my head towards Ivy’s voice.

  ‘Don’t,’ she says softly, the mirth and lightness in her eyes gone. My brow furrows, my understanding delayed. ‘Leave well alone,’ she adds, unwinding her fingers from hawk-boy’s heavily tattooed arm.

  I glance at Rory and back again. ‘So, what? You’re allowed to get drunk and all flirty with the furry here, but I’m not even allowed to look?’

  ‘I’m no’ a furry.’

  ‘Shut it, Prince Vultan,’ Ivy grates out. ‘But you’re not just looking,’ she continues, sounding much more sober than two minutes ago. Leaning closer, she punctuates her next words with a finger to my arm. ‘I know you.’

  ‘So you’re a mind reader now?’ Anger rises in my throat like bile; this isn’t us. We never fight. Bicker, yes. Use angry voices? Never. ‘Aren’t you the one saying I need to move on? To start living again?’

  ‘You need to work on your impulse control first.’

  ‘What? Just what are you talking about?’

  ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ I hiss. ‘Nothing about how I feel.’

  ‘I know you can’t find happiness in someone else.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Even I can hear how those words drip with antagonism, just as I can hear those sitting round us shifting uncomfortably in their seats. My cheeks begin to burn with shame and embarrassment, but more than that, I’m just hurt. ‘But maybe I can find a little happiness with someone else in me!’

  ‘Tinkle time!’ interjects Nat loudly, attempting to yank us both up from our chairs by our hands.

  Ten

  Fin

  ‘What is your problem?’ I glare at Ivy through the mirror, so angry that I’m sure I must have horns, or at least veins, protruding from my head.

  ‘What’s my problem? Well, funny you should ask that, Finola Rosalie.’ She slurs very slightly over the abomination of my middle name. ‘Because it’s you—you are my problem!’

  ‘Oh no, you didn’t,’ I say, scowling, because nobody full names me.

  ‘Cut that shit out right now, the both of yous.’ Natasha shakes her head, her whole body a machine of perpetual pissed off-ness. ‘Jesus wept, it’s like being out wi’ a couple of mad bitches. She’s a big girl,’ she says turning on Ivy, though pointing a finger in my direction. ‘She can make her own decisions, and if one of those decisions is to bang that bloke so hard her freckles fall off, then that’s her decision to make.’

  ‘Bang him? Who said I’m banging anyone?’ I interject.

  ‘
She’s in a fragile state,’ Ivy says, paying me no mind whatsoever. ‘She’s not cut out for casual relationships an—and her husband just died!’ Flailing arms suddenly point to me as though we’re not the only three people in the restroom right now.

  ‘Aye, so you said, but did you no’ see her light up like a Christmas tree as that hot piece of man-meat walked by? Maybe a hot shag is just what she needs; someone to rattle her bones, make her feel something. Something’s got to be better than numb.’

  I’m surprised mute by Nat’s understanding.

  ‘You don’t know her like I do,’ Ivy returns. ‘She married the man she gave her V card to—let him walk all over her—and she comes from a broken home!’

  ‘It’s not broken,’ I say, though by this point it’s clear I’m not part of the discussion. Just the topic. I pull my lip gloss from my clutch and run it over my mouth as I stare at my reflection. The pair continuing to bicker, debating whether or not I know my own mind. If I wasn’t numb, I am now as I bare my teeth to the mirror. Satisfied, at least that the remains of my dinner aren’t stuck there, I use my fingers to fluff my new snazzy bangs. All pretty ordinary reactions as I try to block their words out.

  Numb? Probably.

  A pushover? Not anymore.

  Unstable? Who the hell knows.

  I know I need to make inroads to some level of functioning adult, but I just haven’t been in the right place. I need to move on, find a job, and get my life back on track. It’s like a line from an old Tom Cruise movie, I can’t remember which one, but it’s something about burying the dead because they make the place smell. While I’ll never be able to bury Marcus physically, I need to do so mentally before the reek of his presence ruins me.

  I push my boobs together and pull a duck face. From the attention Ivy and Nat pay me, I might as well be alone. I’m not bad looking, trout pout aside, and I’ve been told I’m cute a time or two. It’s probably the freckles, I think, scrunching my nose. What I lack in height, I make up in length of leg, which leaves my torso kinda short. I suppose I’m what you’d call compact. It’s not as bad as it sounds, though I didn’t exactly love being labelled M & M for most of my senior year. And it wasn’t because of my rapping or freestyling skills.