A Bicycle Made For Two

by Mary Jayne Baker

  ‘Just learning some lines,’ he said. ‘Champagne?’

  I cocked an eyebrow. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Er, yeah. There’s a bottle open in the fridge.’

  ‘I’ll take a tea, thanks.’

  ‘All right.’ He turned to his cousin. ‘Can you do it, Stew?’

  ‘I’m not running round after you, Harper. You’re the host, you make the tea.’

  ‘Go on, please. There’s something personal I need to discuss with Lana.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Stewart cast him a suspicious look. ‘Well, ok. Don’t touch her up.’

  ‘Take your time,’ Harper called as Stew left the room.

  He took a seat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him. I ignored him and parked myself in the seat opposite.

  ‘How much of that stuff do you drink?’ I said, nodding to the champagne.

  ‘Not much. Four or five bottles a week.’

  ‘Sounds expensive.’

  He shrugged. ‘I can afford it.’

  ‘I’d noticed,’ I said dryly. ‘So come on, Harper, what was that money all about? If you think you can buy me, you’re going to find not everything in your life’s for sale.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ His eyes had latched on to my chest again. He seemed to have a real problem looking away from that whole area whenever we were together. ‘I mean, I do really like you, but that’s not why I sent the money. I knew that wouldn’t impress you.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Dunno, it was weird,’ he explained to my boobs. ‘I saw you on TV, and that woman was such a bitch about your dad, and it… it made me feel sorry for you, I guess.’

  I stared at him. ‘What, you’ve discovered empathy?’

  ‘I didn’t like seeing you upset. Then when Stew told me what’d happened with your grant, I felt like I wanted to fix it. And I could, so… I did.’

  ‘Because you want a feel of my boobs, right?’

  ‘God, yes. I’d love a feel of your boobs.’ With an effort he dragged his gaze to my face. ‘I mean, academically speaking. That’s nothing to do with the money. I just wanted you to stop crying. If anyone had said that stuff about my mum…’ His brow knit into a frown. ‘It’s not fair you should lose your grant over a stupid thing like that.’

  ‘That’s… um, wow,’ I said, blinking with surprise. ‘Thank you.’

  He patted the sofa. ‘Will you sit by me now, babe?’

  ‘Please don’t call me that.’

  ‘Sorry. Lana.’

  ‘All right. Strictly platonic, mind.’ I went to sit next to him. ‘And try not to keep staring at my breasts, will you? It’s unnerving.’

  He grinned. ‘I’m making no promises. So you’ll take the money?’

  ‘You know I can’t. It’s 25 grand, Harper. I appreciate the gesture, but you shouldn’t be chucking that kind of money around just to cheer people up.’

  He shrugged. ‘Why not? Twenty-five grand isn’t much.’

  ‘Are you kidding? That’s more than I earn in a year, mate!’

  His eyes widened. ‘Shit, really? How do you live?’

  ‘Oh, you know, a few cuts here and there. Had to get rid of my eight-bedroom mansion and five-bottle-a-week Bolly habit, but it’s amazing how you adjust.’

  He shot me a puzzled smile. ‘Was that a joke?’

  ‘Yes, it was a joke,’ I said, smiling back. ‘You get used to the sarcasm when you’ve known me a while.’

  ‘Please keep the money, Lana. It’s not just for you. It’s for Stew as well.’

  I frowned. ‘Stew? Why do you want to give him money?’

  ‘Because he’s entitled to it. Mum would’ve left him some, but she died thingy – intestate. She was only 38, probably never occurred to her to make a will. The whole lot went to me.’

  ‘What other relatives have you got?’

  ‘None close. Just Mum’s sister, Aunty Heather – that’s Stew’s mum. I tried to fix it when I got a bit older, but his parents are sort of proud. Wouldn’t take a penny.’

  I remembered Stewart’s boast that he’d never asked Harper for money. For all his laid-back attitude to life, I knew he could be a stubborn bugger when he thought he was in the right.

  ‘But he’s always nagging me to do stuff for charity,’ Harper said. ‘And here’s something he cares about. It’s not like I’ll miss the money.’

  ‘Can you stop saying stuff like that? I feel like a Dickensian street urchin next to you.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, smiling. ‘You don’t hate me too much, do you?’

  ‘No. Not now.’

  ‘Ha! Knew I could get you to like me.’

  I shook my head. ‘I thought you were such a brat when I met you, but you’re actually… you really are fond of your cousin, aren’t you?’

  ‘Course. He’s the best friend I’ve got. And somehow I appreciate him more, these days.’ He took my hand in both his, looking earnestly into my face. ‘I meet a lot of phoney people in my line of work, Lana. Stew’s about the only person I trust. And you.’

  I laughed. ‘You’ve only met me a few times.’

  ‘Yep. And you’ve insulted me every time,’ he said with a grin. ‘That’s why I trust you. I’m sick to death of flattery.’

  ‘That’s… sweet. Thanks, Harper.’

  ‘Friends then?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Up here, mate.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry,’ he said, pulling his gaze away from my chest. It’d drifted down again.

  ‘Yes. I think we’re friends.’

  ‘And you’ll keep the money? I’ll be very offended if you try to give it back.’

  I hesitated. ‘Is it really about Stew?’

  ‘No. It’s about both of you. Your daft viaduct as well. I guess if you both care about it then it must be important.’ He smiled. ‘Come on, this might be the first thing I’ve done for someone else my whole life. Don’t screw it up for me, eh?’

  ‘I think… we’ll take it,’ I said at last. ‘Here. Since we’re friends you can have a hug. Mind the boobs though.’ I chucked my arms around him and gave him a squeeze.

  ‘Thanks very much. I like them where I can feel them.’ He raised his voice. ‘Stew! You can come back now. I’m just getting off with your girl.’

  ‘No change there then.’ Stew came back in with a couple of very tasteful mugs, steaming with what was probably expensive, posh-sounding tea. He dumped them on the coffee table. ‘You’ve been taking girls off me since you were 16.’

  ‘Well, now you can get your own back and take this one off me,’ Harper said, letting me go. ‘From what I’ve seen I don’t think she’ll object.’

  God, even Harper Brady, the world’s most unobservant man, was making with the me-and-Stew teasing. This was getting embarrassing.

  ‘Are we sorted then, Lana?’ Stew said.

  ‘Yes.’ I smiled at Harper. ‘I think we’re on the same wavelength.’

  ‘And are we… what about the viaduct?’

  ‘Lana’s happy to keep the money if you are,’ Harper said. ‘And I told her you are because I’m the oldest.’ His eyes fell on the mugs of tea. ‘For Christ’s sake, Stew, coasters! That table cost two grand.’ He grabbed a couple and slid them underneath.

  Stewart shook his head. ‘Have you been bodysnatched or something? You’re being weirdly nice lately.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh! I know. This is research for a role as a wealthy philanthropist, right?’

  Harper smiled. ‘Not that either.

  ‘Flying champagne cork to the head?’

  ‘Maybe I’m just growing up, Stew.’

  ‘Yeah. You are 28 though.’

  ‘According to my Equity card I’m 26, so you can keep your bloody mouth shut,’ Harper said. ‘Go on, get out: I know you don’t really want my Lap
sang Souchong. Go tell your little viaduct buddies the good news. I’ve got to finish learning these lines for tomorrow.’

  I leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Thanks, Harper. You’re a good man.’

  ‘We won’t forget this,’ Stewart said, shaking his cousin’s hand vigorously.

  We left, abandoning the fancy stinky tea steaming on its coasters.

  Chapter 39

  My favourite band gig of the year was definitely Egglethwaite Temperance Hall’s senior citizens’ Christmas party in early December. In a massive yah-boo-sucks to the hall’s founding fathers, there was always free-flowing wine and a full bar, and it made me swell with pride, watching our old folk stagger home afterwards. Plus it gave me the chance to get my slide around a juicy little solo in Frosty the Snowman that was off limits outside the festive season.

  Tom met me from the concert – Dad used to do that once the nights got dark, even though, knicker theft aside, the crime rate in Egglethwaite was virtually non-existent – and we walked back to the restaurant.

  ‘So did the old folk have fun?’ he asked.

  ‘Till they were under the table. I swear the pensioners round here get lairier ever year.’

  He laughed. ‘Give it 20 years or so and you’ll have Yo-yo to contend with too.’

  I grimaced. ‘Yeesh. When it turns into an all-out orgy they can find themselves another First Trombone. So what’ve you been up to this afternoon?’

  ‘Me and Flash went down the viaduct. Looks like they’ve started work. There was a hell of a racket.’

  ‘Brilliant. I’ll ring Andy tomorrow, see if he knows when they’ll be done.’

  Despite our split with the council, Andy was doing his best to be helpful in a personal capacity. I was sensing he felt guilty for the loss of our grant. We’d finally got the wildlife report proving there were no barbastelles, and he’d helped us organise workmen to get the resurfacing done.

  ‘Any word from Cam?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ Tom said glumly. ‘Still not taking my calls. He did reply to a text I sent him, so that’s something.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Said he’s not ready to talk yet.’

  ‘But that’s good though,’ I said, trying to sound encouraging. ‘“Yet” means he will be ready eventually, right?’

  ‘Hope so. I’m sick of being a miserable bastard.’ He nodded to McLean’s Machines, which was blazing with light. ‘Stew’s work-ing late. If I’d known he was up I’d have dropped off that book he lent me.’

  ‘You two are getting pretty chumsome these days, aren’t you?’ I said. ‘Book lending’s bromance territory, you know. You’ll be singing along to Frozen and having boy sleepovers next.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said with a guilty smile. ‘I know it’s the big brother’s job to resent the guy who done you wrong, but you have to admit he’s a hard man not to like.’

  I sighed. ‘He is, isn’t he? Well, I’m glad you’re mates. You could do with a few more, Shyey McShyface.’

  ‘Have you forgiven him finally then?’

  ‘I’m… getting there.’

  I cast a worried glance over my shoulder as we crossed the road.

  ‘Can you take my trombone in?’ I asked Tom. ‘I’ll just pop back and check everything’s ok. Ten o’clock’s late to be oiling chains or whatever. Stew might’ve gone to bed without realising he’s left the lights on.’

  ‘All right, Lana. Want me to do you a hot water bottle?’

  I smiled. ‘You know, you don’t have to baby me just because Dad used to. I’m 26, I can make one if I want one.’

  He smiled back. ‘Sorry. I just want to make sure our first Christmas without him is still the same old Christmas, you know?’

  ‘I know you do.’ I stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘You’re a good little donkey, Tommy Donati.’

  I handed Tom the trombone case and headed back across the road. The bell over the door jingled merrily as I walked into Stewart’s shop.

  But the Stewart inside was far from merry. He was leaning against the counter on both elbows, staring straight ahead. His fists digging into his cheeks made him look like a grumpy bulldog pup with great hair.

  ‘What’s up, Stew? Everything ok?’

  ‘No, Captain Shiny-Buttons, everything’s not ok. It’s been a long time since everything’s been ok.’

  Despite the crack about my band uniform, he didn’t sound his usual jokey self at all. His voice was thick, and I’d never seen such a dark look on his face.

  ‘Been drinking, love?’ I asked gently.

  ‘Might’ve had a couple.’

  He was still staring, and I turned to follow his gaze. It was fixed on a bike against the back wall, half-covered in colourful knitwear.

  ‘My yarnbombing idea! You did it?’

  ‘Yes, for the Départ. Was going to put it in the window. I thought you’d like to see it from the restaurant.’

  He was still speaking in the same flat, slurred voice, slightly muffled by his fists in his cheeks.

  ‘Why am I here, Lana?’ he burst out. ‘Why the fuck am I here?’

  I blinked. ‘What, like, why do you exist?’

  ‘Probably.’ He jumped up and kicked the bike nearest him. ‘What the hell was I thinking, opening a bloody bike shop? Dozens of the bastards, right where I can’t get away from them.’ He pointed at the partially yarnbombed bike. ‘And he’s the worst.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Yes. Herbert. The anthropo – doing that anthro thing helps me hate him.’ He blinked hard. ‘Sorry. I did actually have quite a few drinks.’

  I’d been tiptoeing towards him all the time he’d been speaking. Now I reached him, and rested a calming hand on his arm.

  ‘What’s Herbert done, Stew?’ I asked softly.

  ‘He just sits there, judging me. Mocking me because I’m not taking part in the Tour next year. Or any year. Or any competition, ever again. I’m just a waste-of-space businessman hidden in some nowheresville in the back of sodding beyond.’ He aimed another savage kick at a nearby mountain bike, which fell from its stand and clattered to the floor. ‘Ow! And now I’ve hurt my bad leg on that fucking pedal. I told you the bastards had it in for me.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re a waste of space.’

  He snorted. ‘Please. You think I’m the biggest waste of space of everyone. And I don’t blame you for hating me either, after the way I treated you.’

  ‘Here.’ I guided him to the bench behind the counter and took a seat next to him. ‘I don’t hate you, Stew – not any more. I mean, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still a bit sore. But Tom was right, you’re a hard man not to like.’

  ‘Tom said that?’

  ‘Yeah. Mind you, he hasn’t seen you taking your drunken anger out on an innocent pushbike.’

  He let out a damp laugh. ‘Taught it a lesson, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yep. Sort of caveman and sexy, the way you stuck it to the bad old bike.’ I slipped one arm around him. ‘So you want to tell me what’s brought this on?’

  He sniffed and rested his head on my shoulder. ‘Phone call from my friend who’s competing with Team Sky next year. It was nice to catch up, but he was so full of his training, all excited about the Tour… just reminded me how much I miss it.’

  ‘Can’t you cycle at all now?’

  ‘A little. Maybe an hour’s gentle riding before it starts to hurt. But I can’t race or time trial, and cross-country’s out of the question.’

  I paused, seeking out a memory.

  ‘The night we went out, you told me when you fell in love with the sport it wasn’t about competing,’ I said. ‘You just loved the freedom. Like you were flying, that’s what you said.’

  He turned a wan smile on me. ‘You remember that?’

&nb
sp; ‘Every word.’ I sighed. ‘How come you never called, Stew? Go on, the whole story.’

  ‘Like I said. I was planning to, then…’ He stopped to swallow a sob. ‘My injury came less than a week later, and I was distracted by that, getting it seen to. Then when they told me I wouldn’t race again – God, worst time in my life. It felt like there was nothing left for me.’

  ‘So you forgot me.’

  ‘Maybe at first,’ he admitted. ‘Not forgot, but it felt like there was… it’s hard to explain. Like you were part of a potential future that couldn’t exist for me any more. All I saw was the miserable present, and everything beyond that, all my dreams and desires, were swallowed up in this fog of hopelessness. Know what I mean?’

  I thought back to when we’d found out Dad had cancer, and later when they’d told us the chemo hadn’t worked and it was only a matter of time. Every day, then, had felt like tomorrow might not happen. I hadn’t cared if it happened or not.

  ‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I know what you mean.’

  He brushed away a little tear that had started to trickle down my cheek. ‘Course you do.’ He sighed. ‘I’m a selfish bastard, Lana. Still to have my youth, my health, and to sit there feeling sorry for myself like the world was ending. You and Tom, everything you’ve lost, and there’s Stewart McLean with his poorly fucking knee.’

  ‘Depression isn’t that simple, love,’ I said, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. ‘And me and Tom had each other to get us through. Who did you have?’

  He laughed. ‘Harper.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘He was great actually,’ Stewart said. ‘Oh, I know he can be arrogant, vain, self-absorbed. But when I needed him, he really came through.’

  ‘He’s not a bad lad at heart, is he?’

  ‘No. Just spoilt by an over-indulgent mother and too much money, too young. For all his faults, he’s the closest I’ve got to a brother.’

  ‘So it was Harper who helped you out of it?’

  ‘Him and my physio, Shiloh. She got me into knitting. Reckoned having something productive to do would keep my mind occupied. And she was right: five holey scarves later I’d started to realise there could be a future for me, even without cycling, if I just went and found it.’ He glanced up. ‘And sometimes I thought about this girl I’d met before it all happened: a pretty girl with laughing, sad brown eyes and a sarky lopsided grin. Wondered if she was still single. If she’d want to know me now I was nobody.’