by Zoe May
‘Ha!’ I laugh. ‘And you were a skater boy, but people change. I doubt you still hang around at the skate park with your arse hanging out of your jeans, while pretending to be into punk even though everyone knew you preferred pop,’ I tease him. ‘I bet you’re not still doing that now – or are you?’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘No, I’m afraid not. Although I can get my arse out if you want me to?’ Will asks with a wink.
‘Oh for God’s sake, I really set myself up for that one.’ I sigh, laughing in spite of myself.
Will watches me as I reach for another handful of crisps and I can feel my cheeks growing hot as a blush creeps into them. I’m trying to focus on the crisps, but all I can currently think about is Will’s arse. And the fact that he’s watching me having these thoughts is like being an insect examined under a microscope. I feel like I’m squirming in a hot beam of light.
You see, I used to really fancy Will. Like really fancy him. I had a crush on him from the very first time I saw him, when he joined the school aged 11 after he and his family moved to Chiddingfold from London His dad had quit his job as a police officer at the Met Police and wanted a quieter, calmer life. Of course, I didn’t know that detail at the time, but over time, I gathered titbits of information on the grapevine and added them to my mental catalogue of facts about Will Brimble, building up quite a detailed picture of him even though it took us three years to finally speak.
Will’s right, I was the arty girl at school. It was my thing back in those days and I really wanted to be a painter, but everything changed when I went to my new school for sixth-form. I’d enrolled to study artsy subjects – Fine Art, Media Studies and Drama, but we were expected to take four A levels so I opted for Business Studies as I’d heard it was quite easy. Little did I know how much I’d take to it. My tutor spotted an entrepreneurial streak in me and by the time I left college, business had become my thing.
The arty girl Will knew is long gone. Back in those days, I used to spend as much time as possible in the art room. It felt like home with its paint-spattered tables, jars of brushes and pencils and trays of paints. I loved it. But not many other people shared my enthusiasm. I persuaded my art teacher – Mr Reed – to start an after-school art club on Wednesday afternoons, thinking the club was going to be a hit, but I ended up being the only person who went, and Mr Reed said he was going to cancel the club if I continued to be the only attendee. Somehow, Will heard about my plight and the next week, he came along with a few of his friends. He was terrible at art. All of his drawings looked like they were drawn by a toddler and I could tell art wasn’t his forte, but I’ll never forget the wink he gave me when he asked Mr Reed at the end of the session, ‘So I guess you’re not still cancelling the club then?’
He came every week after that and we gradually got to know one another. My infatuation reached epic heights, but I did my best to hide it. Even though Will had saved my art club, I still wasn’t convinced he fancied me. You see, the fact that Will had tried to save my club wasn’t entirely out of character. Will had a reputation for doing things like that. He had this knack for just seeing when someone was in need and helping them out. He made the school a better place. There was one time when this really quiet, earnest girl called Alice started fundraising for a village in Tunisia and no one would donate. Everyone just wanted her to stop hassling them, but then Will started fundraising with her and within days, she’d met her fundraising target. She seemed more confident after that, sort of happier in herself. Then there was the time Will started a petition to ban sports teachers from getting team captains to pick who was going to be on their teams one-by-one out of the class, meaning that one person would always be chosen last. Will petitioned to have the practice banned because he felt it was unnecessarily cruel even though he was the kind of guy who’d be selected as the team captain, or if not, would instantly be chosen first. Nevertheless, he still took issue with the mean approach, which would always leave one kid feeling glum and dejected. Will’s petition garnered hundreds of signatures from pupils and parents alike and from then on, the practice was history. Things like that just fuelled my adoration for him. He was good-looking and had a heart of gold, what more could I want?
Will didn’t just come to Art Club once or twice, he came every week and he and I got really close. It was easier to be my real self around him when I was in the art room, which felt like a second home, than it would probably have been otherwise. I’d no doubt have been completely giddy and over-excited under normal circumstances. But I didn’t have Will to myself. Soon Art Club was the most popular club in school, and I realised I wasn’t the only girl who adored Wil. A ton of other girls suddenly discovered a passion for painting the moment they realised where Will was spending his Wednesday afternoons. But Will always sat with me and I began to suspect that I wasn’t just fantasising and that perhaps – perhaps – he might actually fancy me.
But then things got messy, really messy …
‘Hi guys! Ready to get some raffle tickets?’ Rita, Mick’s sister who helps him organise the fundraiser every year, bounds up to me and Will, brandishing a pad of raffle tickets, before she notices Hera who’s now fast asleep and starts gushing over how cute she is.
While Rita fawns over Hera, I suddenly remember the prize. I’d got so distracted by all the commotion with Hera being sick, the cat jumper, Will and the buffet that I completely forgot that the reason I agreed to come along to this thing in the first place (apart from being a good person and raising money for charity, of course) was for the chance of winning a holiday. My mum was right, I do need a holiday. If anything was ever going to reinforce that fact, it would be standing here with a wet boob in a Cat Cuddle’s jumper emitting the faint odour of sick.
‘So, erm, is there really a holiday up for grabs, Rita?’ I ask breezily.
‘There is indeed!’ Rita replies, turning her attention away from Hera. ‘Mick really pulled out all the stops this year. His niece, Hannah, got a job at a travel agency and she managed to sort it. Best prize we’ve ever had. An all-inclusive romantic four night stay in a luxury five-star hotel in Marrakech! It has a swimming pool, a spa, the works. Sounds like heaven, doesn’t it?’ Rita’s eyes have lit up.
‘It sounds amazing!’ I enthuse. ‘Five-star? Really?’
‘Oh yeah, five-star. It’s top notch. The best,’ Rita insists, before glancing down at her pad of raffle tickets. She could be exaggerating to get me and Will to splurge on the raffle, but somehow, I get the feeling that this prize might really be a diamond in the rough. A five-star holiday amid a plethora of hampers, kitchen utensils and Debenham’s gift cards.
I rummage in my handbag for my wallet. ‘Okay, I’ll have five tickets please, Rita. No, ten!’
‘Feeling lucky, are we?’ Rita jokes. ‘It’s two quid a ticket, so that’ll be twenty pounds, please.’
Twenty pounds? This event really has moved on since I was 12, when raffle tickets cost 50p. I pull my wallet out of my bag. It’s a quirky one I found at an independent boutique in London with a Fendi-style monster print all over it. Will raises an eyebrow at the bold print as I pull out a twenty-pound note.
‘Interesting …’ he comments as I hand Rita the money. He’s clearly having difficulty getting his head around the new me. The businesswoman me who pays attention to trends rather than the head-in-the-clouds arty girl I used to be.
Ignoring him, I hand the money to Rita, who places it in a money belt around her hips, before tearing off a few strips and handing me the tickets.
‘Thanks Rita!’ I reply. ‘Fingers crossed!’
‘Good luck, love,’ Rita says, with a warm smile.
Rita turns around, looking for her next target, before clocking Clive. She waves over at him and turns to head his way when Will suddenly taps her on the shoulder.
‘Rita, wait. I want some.’
‘I already sold you one earlier,’ Rita points out.
‘Yeah, but I only got one. I didn’t realise people were buying multiple tickets,
’ Will comments, sounding a little petulant.
‘It is for charity,’ I mutter under my breath.
Will laughs. ‘Oh sure, Natalie, charity is what’s on your mind right now!’ he jokes, and it’s as though he can see into my brain and is witnessing the picture in my head of me lounging on a deck chair by a gorgeous pool, the sun making my straw hat cast shadows over my face, a novel open on my lap and a cocktail in my hand.
‘How many tickets would you like, Will, love?’ Rita asks, ignoring mine and Will’s bickering.
‘Twenty,’ Will says.
‘Twenty?!’ Rita and I both echo in unison.
‘Yeah, it’s for charity,’ Will reminds me, with a smirk. I roll my eyes as he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a battered old wallet. He flips it open and hands Rita two twenty-pound notes.
She takes the money and gives him his tickets, which he folds into his wallet while smiling smugly.
‘I’ll have some more please,’ I tell Rita, before she has a chance to walk away.
‘What? How many more?’ she asks, looking a little taken aback.
I peer into my wallet. I have a crumpled fiver, two one-pound coins, a fifty pence piece and a couple of twenty pence and ten pence pieces. I quickly add it up: £8!
‘Four please,’ I say, fishing all the money out and depositing it into Rita’s hand. She takes it, counts it and slips the coins and notes into her money belt, before handing me four more tickets. I place them in my bag, feeling warm and fuzzy with excitement. At least I think it’s the excitement and not just the punch I’ve had to drink.
She glances over her shoulder at Clive who is looking over. He waves and looks hungrily at Rita’s pad of tickets, clearly keen to get involved.
‘Good luck you two!’ Rita says, before heading over to Clive.
‘Thanks Rita,’ I call after her.
I pat my handbag, feeling pleased with all my tickets.
‘Why are you smiling?’ Will asks, eyeing me. ‘You only have fourteen tickets. I have twenty-one.’
‘You’re such a dick,’ I tut. ‘Anyway, I don’t care if you have twenty-one tickets to my fourteen, I’m feeling lucky. I’m going to win. I can just feel it.’ I cross my fingers, praying I’m right.
‘Ha!’ Will scoffs. ‘Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?’
Chapter 4
I devour another handful of crisps and wash them down with a third glass of punch, while listening to Rowena – the head librarian at the local library – extoll the mindfulness benefits of cross-stitch. Believe it or not, the party is in full swing now. A few people have taken to the dancefloor where they’re currently grooving to Katy Perry. The bowl of punch is nearly empty. The auction has been held – the highlight of which was a dark-haired woman bidding £100 for someone else’s used foot spa – and Mick gave a really moving speech about his wife Maggie and about the important work Cancer Research are doing. Will and I have mostly been avoiding each other the whole evening, but I keep glancing across the hall and catching him looking over at me, which is annoying but then I wouldn’t know about it if I wasn’t also looking over. God, I really do feel like I’m back at school.
At the moment, Will’s standing across the hall with his mum, Sharon – a softly spoken petite woman with an incredibly pretty face. She has a sort of Audrey Hepburn charm with sparkly eyes and a wide gorgeous guileless smile. She has a neat grey bob that always seems to have a natural bounce to it, the kind of volume most women can only achieve through a blow dry. She’s stayed single since Will’s dad passed away and I don’t think she’s particularly interested in finding anyone else – they were absolutely smitten – but that hasn’t stopped the hordes of admirers from flocking her way. From the looks of it, Sharon is currently being chatted up by Mr Price (a divorced history teacher from my old school known for his bad breath and terrible toupee), Matthew Black (a chronically single monotone-voiced bachelor who lives down the road and has a penchant for keeping pet rats) and some other guy I don’t recognise who appears to be totally over-excited to be speaking to a woman. So much so that his entire face is beaded with sweat. Will is standing protectively close, shielding Sharon from this onslaught of undesirable admirers and she keeps giving him grateful looks that, actually, now that I come to think of it, are bordering on desperate ‘get me out of this’ stares.
‘It’s incredibly restorative,’ Rowena insists, and I realise she’s still talking about cross-stitching. ‘It’s like meditation. Your mind relaxes but your body becomes centred too as you stitch. It’s almost better than traditional meditation because your mind and body are in harmony. You should try it sometime.’ Rowena eyes me hopefully. ‘Once you get into it you can use your creations as gifts or just decorations. I decorate my whole flat with them.’ Rowena picks up her phone and shows me an array of cross-stich creations in frames on the walls of her book-lined flat. If there isn’t a slightly dusty-looking bookcase against the wall, there’s an array of cross-stich designs in shabby chic frames. There are traditional floral pieces, which are quite charming, if a little twee. There are a few slightly bizarre but surprisingly life-like portraits of her cat, who she tells me is called Mittens. There’s even a feminist design of a uterus and ovaries with the slogan ‘Grow a pair’. It’s pretty cool.
‘Oh wow!’ I say, both shocked and impressed as I take in the fine needlework on the cervix.
‘You should come over sometime and I’ll show you how it’s done,’ Rowena suggests enthusiastically. As sweet as she is, cross-stich is hardly my thing.
I have a sudden vision of myself in a few years’ time, still living at home with my mum, cross-stitching portraits of Mr Bear for Hera or cross-stitching a penis with an angry slogan about toxic masculinity or something, while drinking tea at Rowena’s place night after night, having forgotten what it feels like to be touched by a man. I suppress a shudder.
‘I’m quite busy with work and with Hera. It’s hard for me to get out much.’ I glance towards Hera’s carrier. She’s still fast asleep, sputtering slightly as she dreams. I feel a fresh wave of maternal love for her and not just because she’s the loveliest baby ever, but also because she’s a brilliant excuse to get out of doing stuff I don’t want to do.
Rowena looks a little disappointed. ‘Well, maybe I could come to yours. I could bring my kit.’
‘Err …’ I utter. I can’t seem to come up with an excuse and just as I’m beginning to think there’s no way I’m going to get out of this, Mick’s voice suddenly booms from the stage.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’
Everyone goes quiet and looks towards the stage. Mick’s wearing the same outfit he had on last time I was at this fundraiser back when I was 12 – an eye-catching red three-piece suit teamed with a white shirt and a black bow tie.
‘It’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for!’ he says, grinning broadly. ‘The raffle!’
A few cheers erupt across the hall.
‘Oh my God!’ I grin, gripping Rowena’s arm in excitement.
I look over at Will to see him looking back at me, steely-eyed. He smiles smugly as he holds up his crossed fingers. I smirk and wave my crossed fingers back at him.
‘This year, we have a host of brilliant prizes,’ Mick enthuses, gesturing at a table piled high with goodies. ‘From a bottle of Fortnum’s vintage port, Amazon gift cards, a year’s subscription to Good Housekeeping and many others, to the star prize – a five-star romantic getaway for two in Marrakech!’
We all cheer.
‘Big thanks to my lovely niece Hannah for pulling out all the stops to get the travel agency she works for to gift us this marvellous prize,’ Mick continues, explaining how Hannah couldn’t make it to the event because of her ‘busy London life.’ Ha. Unlike me and Will who now spend our Friday nights in village halls. I look over at him and catch his eye, we exchange a wry smile.
‘I’m delighted to reveal that we’ve raised a total of £4,428 tonight for Cancer Research, making tonight
our most successful fundraiser ever! A big round of applause to everyone! To everyone who’s bought a ticket in the raffle and gifted prizes; to everyone who donated items for the auction and all the generous bidders; and to everyone who’s taken the time to help with everything from the buffet to the bunting – it means the world to me that you all get behind this event year in year out. I know if Maggie could see us all, she’d be so incredibly proud,’ Mick says, his eyes glistening with tears. ‘Give yourselves a round of applause!’ he adds, smiling warmly.
We all start clapping enthusiastically. Everyone, including myself, has teared up a little. It’s so touching just how sweet and loyal Mick is that after twenty years, he’s still holding fundraisers for his true love. It really does bring a tear to your eye and I can’t help feeling bad that I hadn’t been particularly interested in coming along tonight. I glance over at Will and even he’s looking misty-eyed as he claps enthusiastically, a tender smile on his face.
Rita suddenly gets up on stage and takes the mic from Mick. He seems a little taken aback.
‘I’d just like to say that even though everyone has done a marvellous job to make this event happen I think we should all acknowledge Mick’s efforts. Without him, this event would never be the success it is. Your dedication is an inspiration to us all, Mick. Maggie would be so touched and so, so proud,’ Rita says, her voice cracking with emotion. She starts clapping and we all join in, with even more gusto this time.
She and Mick hug and he takes the mic. Rita heads back to her seat.
‘Thanks everyone. I’m so very touched,’ Mick says as the applause dies down. ‘And without further ado, I’ll now be announcing the prizes of the raffle.’
Mick picks up a tin from the table of prizes and gives it a shake. ‘Right, who wants to help me pick winners?’ Mick asks, looking encouragingly towards a few kids sitting with their parents at a nearby table.
A little boy in a Transformers T-shirt sticks his hand up. ‘Me! Me! Me!’ he cries out.
