by Laura Tait
He always provides these insights with the air of someone who thinks there’s a victory around the corner, but now he sounds like someone who has accepted defeat.
‘You could try writing her a note?’ I encourage. ‘That way you don’t put her on the spot.’
‘Or see the look of disgust on her face when she realizes I’m asking her out.’ He laughs. ‘But, anyway – I think I blew it with the damp-patch line.’
‘You didn’t use that on her?’
‘’Fraid so.’ He laughs at his own ridiculousness. ‘Do you think there are girls out there who find that kind of shit funny?’
‘A girl who has the sense of humour of a lad, you mean?’
‘Exactly! That’s what I’m after.’
I become distracted by a rhythmic creaking of floorboards in the flat upstairs.
‘For God’s sake!’
‘What?’ says Russ.
‘They’re at it again.’
‘Who are?’
‘David and Debs. The quiet, professional couple upstairs.’
I hold the phone up so Russ can hear what I mean just as Debs moans like she’s having a tattoo.
‘I need some of that, buddy,’ he says. ‘If I don’t get some action soon I’m worried I’m going to forget what to do.’
There’s no danger of David and Debs forgetting what to do. I hear them every single morning. After she gets her tattoo it’s as though she’s eating in a Michelin-star restaurant where the chocolate fondant is to die for, and then she’s on the scariest rollercoaster in the world. The first time I heard it I thought she might be crossing items off her bucket list.
‘You won’t forget what to do,’ I tell Russ. ‘It’s like riding a bike.’
‘I’m getting a bit too good on my unicycle, if you catch my drift.’
‘Too much information, Russ.’
I get out of bed, swapping ears as I wriggle into my dressing gown. I go to pick up my post but, seeing that it’s a bank statement, leave it on the floor.
‘Have you ever been on a tricycle?’ asks Russ.
‘Can’t say I have.’
I still haven’t got round to buying a kettle, so I fill a saucepan and rest it over the hob before navigating the empty boxes and returning to bed while the water boils. I finally finished my unpacking when I got in from Arch 13 last night. Only one thing remains in a box, a velvet one, and even that won’t be cluttering up the place for much longer if this afternoon goes to plan.
‘Actually, I could have done with your help yesterday, mate,’ I say to Russ.
‘How so?’
‘I need to know whether the Transfer of Undertakings and Protection of Employment Regulations apply to—’
He interrupts: ‘I thought you’d left HR?’
‘I have. I’m just doing a bit of freelance to tide me over.’
‘Fair enough,’ he says, and I can’t help think the silence that follows is the sound of his disappointment.
I keep having to remind myself that it’s only temporary. Jamie and I have drawn up a business plan for transforming Arch 13 into a gastro bar and we’ve got an appointment with his bank on Monday.
I’ve been on a total high since he came up with the idea, and can’t wait to get started, though we’ve still got to convince the owner to change the terms of the lease.
Debs upstairs reaches the summit of The Big Dipper as my eyes settle again on the velvet box. Not wanting to delay it any longer, I pinch the sleep from my eyes and tell Russ that there is something I need to do.
Chapter Thirty
REBECCA
By the time I step off the train in Blackheath, I’m looking forward to the distraction a date will bring – despite my earlier nerves.
I spent the whole journey thinking about work – all the things that could still go wrong running through my head.
I’m also starving when I reach the tiny Argentinean steak house I picked out, where Michael spots me from his window seat and waves zealously.
‘Hey, you.’ He stands and pulls out my chair. ‘How’s your day been so far?’
‘Well, I had to get up at the crack of dawn to go to work, check that everything is back on track,’ I share, as my tummy rumbles loudly. Sexy. ‘What about you?’
‘I did sunrise yoga this morning.’
‘Oh, lovely,’ I say. What kind of madman gets up in the dark to do yoga? ‘Then you really were up at the crack of dawn.’
I open my menu, deciding on a fillet steak with a side of creamed spinach, then snap the menu shut, trying not to feel irritated that Michael hasn’t even opened his yet.
‘So when you say it’s back on track,’ he says, ‘when was it off track?’
‘We just got a bit behind.’ I don’t tell him why. ‘And there were a few differences of opinion on things.’ He’s still looking at me, waiting for more, so I explain about the staircase I was torn over, and how even Adam now concedes it was right to keep it.
As I’m saying it, I recall what Adam said today about the brass furnishings being a waste of the budget. Was he joking? I know he winked but that could have been one of those times someone jokes about something because they want to make a point. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d disagreed with me.
Why am I thinking about work again? I used to go the entire weekend not switching off from it until I met Ben, who had a knack for taking me out of my head and into the moment.
I decide to change the subject. ‘Thanks for sorting out the booking,’ I say, looking around. ‘The food is meant to be great.’
‘No problem.’
The chalkboard sign outside blows over and one of the waiters runs out to rescue it.
‘Look at that wind,’ notes Michael, still not touching his menu as he peers out on to the heath.
‘Do you know what you’re having?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Let’s have a little looky . . .’ He flips open the menu and reads slowly.
I take the chance to study him. He has a nice but nondescript face, the only distinct features being his square jaw and his thick-framed glasses, which suit him. Do I fancy him?
Finally he gives a little nod and closes his menu, and I shift my attention to the waiter.
‘Ready?’ he asks, catching my eye.
I order my fillet medium rare and Michael chooses a goat’s cheese salad.
‘Not fancy a steak?’ I ask him, as the waiter retreats.
‘I’m a vegetarian.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’ I ask in horror.
This place was my suggestion – I feel terrible.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he says, touching my hand. ‘You said you wanted to try this place.’
That’s incredibly sweet but all I can focus on right now is trying not to flinch, because his hand hasn’t left mine. He’s literally holding my hand across the table. That’s weird, isn’t it? On a first date? Have I just had so few first dates that I don’t realize this is OK? Maybe I should roll with it.
‘So, tell me more about you,’ he’s saying now. ‘What do you do when you’re not at work?’
I try to answer his question but my mind goes blank. What do I do? I rack my brains for something remotely interesting or impressive to tell him but my brain gives me nothing. It’s too preoccupied with the hand thing.
‘Um, I like to watch films and read, and I like seeing friends.’ I sound like I’m reading out a shit CV. ‘What about you?’ What do you do when you’re not holding strangers’ hands?
Apart from yoga, he also likes cycling. I interrupt to tell him that I too like cycling but it turns out he goes on an annual cycling holiday where they spend a week touring whole countries, rather than just cycling to work to avoid the Tube.
Two nights a week he volunteers for the Samaritans helpline, and he also plays the trumpet.
‘I play a little piano,’ I tell him, feeling shallow and dull in comparison.
‘Ooh, we should jam together sometime,’ he cries.
Jam?
<
br /> And that’s why you shouldn’t lie on dates: if it works out between us I’m going to have to learn to play the piano.
The thought of it working out with him feels like a surreal concept. He’s done nothing wrong, but what would we do? Ride our bikes in tandem and jam on our instruments?
What am I meant to feel at this point in the date? All I feel now is slightly self-conscious, not very interesting and really, really hungry.
The waiter appears from the kitchen carrying two plates. ‘Ooh, hopefully this is ours,’ I say, using the excuse to rescue my hand from under his. The waiter walks past us to a couple in the corner. ‘God damn it!’ I say, half-jokingly.
‘Be patient,’ he teases. ‘We only ordered five minutes ago.’
‘I’m not impatient,’ I lie. ‘I’m starving.’
‘How do you know you’re hungry?’
‘Um . . . I feel hungry.’
‘Describe the feeling.’
‘It’s in my stomach. It’s sort of . . . empty.’
‘Painful?’
‘No.’
‘Uncomfortable?’
‘Not as such. I’m just aware of it.’
‘Then just be aware of it. There’s no need to panic about it – it’s not like you don’t know where your next meal will come from. Once you achieve a mindfulness about how you’re feeling, it doesn’t need to be a negative . . . Oh, look – here comes our food.’
Thank goodness for that – I was about to eat him.
‘So how come you’re a vegetarian?’ I ask, my mouth watering as I cut a piece of my steak. ‘Health or moral?’
‘Bit of both, I guess.’ He smiles at me as he pokes his fork into a piece of cheese. ‘I feel like I can get everything I need from natural sources, without having to eat animals.’
‘Oh. I feel bad.’ I stare at the food on my fork. It looks so delicious, I’m salivating.
‘Don’t be silly.’ He smiles. ‘It’s a personal choice.’
I attempt to move on by asking about his work. He’s just taken a mouthful of food and he waits until he’s chewed it thoroughly and swallowed before answering.
‘I sell outdoor advertising space,’ he explains. ‘Billboards, posters on the Underground, that kind of thing.’
‘I had a friend in ad sales, but for a men’s magazine,’ I tell him.
‘What does she do now?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said you had a friend in ad sales. She changed jobs?’
‘Oh, no – I meant we’re not friends any more.’ I don’t know much about dating but I do know you’re not meant to talk about your ex on a first date, so I wave dismissively. ‘Long story.’
‘You look sad,’ he says.
‘It’s a sad, sad situation,’ I quip, but it falls flat. I still tell myself that I was right to stop talking to Danielle, but whenever I talk about her I feel strangely blue. This isn’t the time to go into it.
‘It’s all right when a friendship comes to an end,’ he says lightly. ‘When you create the space for relationships that are not working to fall away, you make way for new people who are more in line with what your soul needs.’
I think about Danielle and Jemma, and Ben and . . . Michael’s hand is back on mine.
I feel uncomfortable and weirdly depressed all of a sudden. And I don’t know where it comes from, but I suddenly wish it was Ben sitting opposite me. I’ve not felt that for a while but he always knew how to distract me.
If I came home after a stressful day, it wouldn’t be until Ben started talking and filling my head that I’d totally switch off.
‘What are you thinking?’ asks Michael.
‘Nothing,’ I say, trying to focus. ‘It’s been a stressful time at work – I just need to relax a bit.’
‘Close your eyes,’ he commands, putting down his fork and releasing my hand.
‘Sorry?’
‘Trust me.’
I look around to make sure no one is looking. ‘Um, OK.’
‘Breathe,’ he orders. I’m already breathing, but it seems churlish to point it out, so I do it in a slower, more exaggerated fashion. I ease one eye open to see if he’s laughing at me. He’s not.
‘Michael,’ I whisper.
‘Hmm?’
‘What are we doing?’
‘A breathing technique they taught us in yoga. It will calm you. Now sshhh.’
‘OK.’
‘Right, start with your feet and toes. Tense them. Are you tensing?’
I nod.
‘Good. Breathe in . . . And out . . . And in . . . And out . . . And in . . . And relax. Good. Now tense your knees.’
I’m torn between mortification and amusement – how do you tense your knees? – and can’t wait to tell Jemma about this. After my knees we do my thighs, my bum (which he refers to as my rear), my chest, my arms, my hands, my neck, my jaw and my eyes.
‘Feel better?’ he asks finally, after he’s told me I can open my eyes again.
‘A little.’ I mean, it’s definitely distracted me from other thoughts.
‘You should start coming to yoga with me,’ he suggests, picking up his fork again.
With me? Whoa, mister.
‘I tried it once,’ I tell him. ‘It wasn’t for me.’
Danielle dragged me along with her when we lived together. I’d had a stressful week and she suggested it might help me unwind, but all I could think about while I was trying to touch my toes was what I could have achieved if I’d spent that extra hour at my desk instead.
And don’t get me started on the fifteen minutes we spent meditating.
‘I disagree. Yoga can benefit anyone.’
‘I’m just better with exercises that have a point.’
‘You think yoga is pointless?’ He raises his brows, but there’s laughter in his eyes.
‘You know what I mean. Like cycling to get somewhere. Or games where you’re trying to win.’
Ben bought us tennis rackets last summer and we’d spend hours on the courts in Greenwich Park. Our scores were always so close that whoever was losing would insist on one more game.
‘Besides,’ I add, ‘I was rubbish at yoga. You won’t be seeing me with my legs behind my head any time soon.’
He sighs. ‘There go my plans for after lunch.’
We both laugh, and I realize I like Michael. I just don’t like like him. People say you don’t know what chemistry is until you have it, but I think it’s the other way around. You don’t know what chemistry is until you don’t have it.
When Michael gets up to go to the loo I check my phone to find a text from Jemma.
How goes it?
I tap my reply out quickly before my date returns.
Chapter Thirty-one
BEN
After getting off the phone to Russ I shower and then set off towards Blackheath.
I walk purposefully as a strong wind frogmarches clouds across the sky, temporarily obscuring a sun that promises much but is delivering little. On the heath, a father and teenage daughter in windbreakers struggle together to contain an Asda-green kite.
I caress my fingers over the fabric of the box inside my pocket, trying not to attribute any kind of symbolism to this whole thing. It’s all in the past now, I’m over it, and pawning the ring isn’t symbolic of anything. I just need the cash.
I cross paths with a girl, the gusts doing their worst with her hair. She smiles, and though it could be a smile of camaraderie amid the gales, as opposed to a smile smile, I reason that if someone could bottle this feeling, the feeling you get after a second glance from a pretty girl, they’d be rich enough by far to never have to consider pawning anything.
I walk past the pond, where a pair of swans are reflected in the mucky grey water. A mother positions a pushchair so her child can see, then kneels down to explain something. I feel a pang of something but disregard it. Hands still pocketed, I curve my fingers around the velvet box as my feet hit the pavement. I’m walking past the s
hops and restaurants that border the heath when I see them.
It takes a second or two for the information to transmit from my eyes to my brain. I have to stop myself from staring. Instead I carry on walking as if nothing happened, my focus straight ahead.
It was Rebecca. With a man.
They were sitting at a table near the window eating lunch. A steak place I haven’t been to but is supposed to be nice. My eyes fell not on Rebecca but her companion. It wasn’t the guy from her laptop but someone new. He wore trendy glasses and had one hand on Rebecca’s across the table.
I feel like my lungs are shrivelling, and as the wind buffets my face I struggle to breathe. I walk faster, changing course to walk not into town but back on to the heath.
I pat down my coat pockets for cigarettes but find none. I haven’t smoked since polishing off an entire packet on New Year’s Day. Instead I inspect the sky, where the clouds are still being frogmarched, and on the heath the kite fliers are still struggling to control their kite, and in the pond the shadowy reflection of the swans can still be seen. Everything is the same as it was a few minutes ago, except for the realization that I really have lost her, that I’m becoming history.
I squeeze the box tighter as I pass the parish church, with its witch’s-hat spire, and the frustration that she can still do this to me, still make me feel this way when I thought I was fine . . .
I draw the box from my pocket and swing my arm, launching it with as much force as I can muster towards the pond, and turning immediately so that I don’t see where it lands.
Erica comes into the kitchen carrying the same plate she left with just a few minutes earlier.
‘I’m so sorry, Ben,’ she says. ‘The chap is saying he ordered the steak in his baguette well done, but I can’t tell.’
On inspection I can see that Erica is being kind, because the steak is basically still grazing around a field somewhere in Somerset. Though I could have sworn the order said . . .
. . . the order said well done.
I’m struggling to concentrate. It’s not only Rebecca with her new fella, it’s Jamie. Did he know? Was all that stuff about house fires just made-up bollocks to make me feel better? I can’t ask him because he’s at his frigging mixology competition.
