by Cody Young
My protector, she thought. That’s what he wants to be.
She offered to clear up but he told her not to worry. He took the plates over to the kitchen sink and rinsed them himself. He put some awful news programme on the television and half-listened to it while he looked at some papers he’d brought home from work. Legal documents, some of them. He sighed as he looked at them.
“What’s all that?” she asked.
“Oh. It’s about becoming a partner in the medical practice. They’ve offered to sell me the share that was once owned by Dr Barrymore.”
“Do you want to buy it?”
“I thought I did,” he said. Then he smiled at her. “But another opportunity came up.”
He shoved the papers back in his briefcase.
Oh no, she thought. I’m the reason he can’t get the partnership. “I’m sorry, Ben. I’ve caused you a lot of trouble.”
And he looked up at her, suddenly. “I made the right decision, Layla. You see, I want a different kind of partnership. You understand, don’t you?”
He reached out and took her hand. She let him take it, but she felt the blush rising on her cheeks. And the panic rising inside her. He looked wonderful – all sexy and intense. So intense, in fact, that she ended up turning her head away because she couldn’t cope with the look in his eyes. “Okay,” she said, in a frightened whisper. “When do you want to go to bed?”
He almost laughed. “You can have the bed – you need to rest. I’ll be alright here on the couch.”
“You’ll sleep on the couch, in your own flat?”
“Yes.” He smiled at her again. “You said you needed time, remember?”
She was flustered. She thought the rules had changed. “That was before you spent twenty thousand pounds.”
“You’re not a whore, and I won’t make you into one. Before all this happened, we were dating – like normal people do. You wanted time, you said, and I promised to respect that. Nothing has changed.”
She felt shaky inside, like she would cry if he said much more. “Ben, you’re a good man. If you want me, you should have me…”
“No, no. And you mustn’t tempt me, Layla. I don’t want to take advantage of you. That would be wrong. I want you to rest and get over what’s happened. It’s been harrowing and you must be exhausted.”
That was true. She resorted to a classic British understatement. “I am quite tired.”
He touched her face, very gently, smoothing back a lock of hair. “I hate to think of you spending all week at the Fizz club. I’ve been a nervous wreck these last few days, and I wasn’t even there.”
So she slept in his double bed. At first she thought she’d never sleep. It was surreal – being here. In Ben’s flat. In Richmond. The crumpled duvet where he had slept the night before – or spent a restless night, at least. The faint trace of the scent of him on the pillow. Male, spicy, comforting. If she could have just persuaded him to lie beside her she might have felt easier. But perhaps that was asking too much. After a while she started to feel drowsy and she knew that sleep would come soon.
* * *
Saturday morning. She awoke with a start – sensing that someone else was in the room. He was standing looking into his wardrobe – searching for a clean shirt or something. There was morning light coming in through the slatted blinds, and the faint aroma of coffee coming from the other room.
“Hi,” she said.
He turned. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I have to go to work, unfortunately. I’m doing the Saturday morning shift.”
Yes. And he needed to earn back his twenty thousand pounds, she thought, with a pang of guilt. She sat up in bed, pulling the sheet up to cover her breasts. He glanced there, predictably, and then looked away like he realized what he was doing.
He was wearing a white t-shirt and dark blue boxer shorts. He had a suspicion of a two day beard, and he touched it self-consciously. “Help yourself to anything you want. I’m going to have a shower.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I should probably get up too.”
“There’s only one shower. But I’ll leave you some water.”
“Thanks.”
He gave her a long look – which would have been easier if it had come with a smile, but he seemed to be in serious doctor-mode this morning. Then he turned and chose himself a shirt and tie. He slung a pair of grey trousers over his arm and disappeared into the bathroom.
This is weird, she thought. Me and Ben. Me and Dr Stein.
When he emerged from the bathroom he was all dressed and his hair was parted crisply and he smelt of freshly-applied cologne. He came and sat on the bed near her. He put two twenty-pound notes on the bedside cabinet.
She frowned. “What’s that for?”
“Just in case you need anything. You might want to go out for lunch.”
She felt terrible. He’d already given her too much.
He opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet and looked inside for something. “I want to write down the code for the keypad on the door,” he said, locating a pen and a small notepad shaped like an apple.
“Okay,” she said, softly. Wishing he’d said he wanted to kiss her goodbye. It seemed a long, long time since that kiss they’d shared on the station platform.
He wrote the number down carefully. “Is that legible?” he said. “I’m very aware I’ve got doctor’s handwriting.”
She smiled and took the paper, but she left it on the bed without even looking at it. Shyly, she touched the knot of his tie, pretending it needed adjusting. “I don’t know how to thank you, for what you’ve done for me.”
“No need,” he said. “Just rest and I’ll see you this evening.”
He looked like he wanted to kiss her. His eyes were dark and attentive, and his face was super-smooth now he’d had a shave. She’d like to, but wasn’t sure how to make it happen.
So there was no kiss, not today. He got up and went over to the cupboard again without a word. He picked up his suit jacket from where it was hanging on the outside of the cupboard. He shrugged it on, making a peremptory adjustment to the collar without looking in the mirror. And then he left the room.
Oh, Ben. She waited until she heard the door of the flat click shut before she fell back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. He’d be hurrying down the stairs now, assuming the lift still wasn’t working. He’d be heading for his car – and for his one-hour commute to the medical centre in the East End. She bit her lip, feeling worried because he’d been so formal and distant.
She stared at the ceiling for a full ten minutes and then she turned her head and looked at the empty side of the bed, imagining for a moment what it might have been like if he’d offered to stay. She saw the piece of paper that he’d left for her. She picked it up. There was the four digit code – 8993 – that would get her in an out of the apartment building.
But he’d written something else for her, too: I love you.
A pang went through her body. A kind of sharp, sweet pain. I love you. Tears welled. He’d be driving now. Edging the black Audi through the London traffic. She wished and wished he’d had the courage to say it before he left.
Richmond
She had a shower and got dressed – in her leggings from yesterday and one of his shirts. She was going to need more clothes and there was nothing left at the Rookeries – it was all burnt now. She had no money of her own. She’d have to use the forty quid he had left her. She felt bad about that. It all seemed to be about Ben shelling out money, and that made her feel very uncomfortable. She picked up the notes and put them inside her bra.
She was just doing this when she heard the door click and footsteps in the lounge. And somehow, it didn’t sound like Ben. She wanted to run and hide or lock herself in the bathroom or something. There was someone in the flat.
Through a crack in the door she saw a stranger. A woman dressed in a sari, with long skirts that swayed as she moved. She was alone. She was walking around the flat liked she owned the pl
ace – picking up things from the coffee table and moving them into the kitchen.
Layla hesitated, but then she thought she’d have to go and find out who this was. She opened the door of the bedroom and walked out into the lounge. She cleared her throat and said ‘Hi’ rather shyly.
And the woman turned and looked almost as scared as Layla had been just a few moments ago. “Oh. Hello!”
The woman had a painted dot on the middle of her forehead, which Layla believed meant that she had said her prayers. She seemed embarrassed about Layla being there. She sort of bowed and then went into the kitchen and knelt down by the sink and started getting out the things she would need if she was cleaning the floor.
And suddenly it clicked. “Oh,” said Layla, “Are you the cleaning lady?”
The woman looked up and smiled. She had wary, dark brown eyes. She nodded.
And then they both seemed to realize that introductions were required. “Do you speak English?” Layla asked.
The woman got up, wafting a strange exotic scent as she moved. “Yes. I am learning, but not very good.”
“Better than I speak your language, I reckon.” Layla smiled.
“I’m Rakshima,” the woman said. “Is meaning ‘protection’ in your language.”
“Oh. Nice. My name’s Layla. It means rock guitars and Eric Clapton.”
And to her surprise the woman smiled broadly. “Yes. I am knowing that song.”
After that it was easier. And not long after, Rakshima got up the courage to ask the obvious question. “Is Dr Ben getting a new girlfriend?”
Layla blushed, glad that she was up and dressed and not still lying in Ben’s bed. “Yes. Sort of. Yes.”
“About time,” Rakshima said. “He was being very lonely. I was worried about him.”
Layla felt slightly embarrassed about leaving Rakshima with the cleaning and the bed-making, etc., especially as she would be bound to think that a night of wild passion had occurred in Ben’s bed, when it definitely hadn’t. So, partly to get out of her way, Layla put on Ben’s suede jacket and went for a long walk in Richmond Park.
It was a beautiful place – Richmond Park – even in late November. There were long tree-lined paths covered in leaves and deer grazing in the far distance. She walked for miles just breathing in the cold air and trying to reconcile herself to what had happened.
She’d moved in with Ben.
That’s how he looked at it, anyway. He had said ‘I’m taking you home’.
It was a Saturday morning, and there were loads of couples in the park. They were out jogging together, riding their bikes, or just walking, holding hands. Some couples even had a pram. She thought about Tracey telling her that Ben could be her ticket out of the Rookeries. And here, gazing across the soft wild grassland, fringed by wintery trees, she wondered if it could have come true. Silently, inside her head, she tried it out: Ben and Layla.
Yes. Ben and Layla. Who live together in Richmond. Near the park. She wanted it so much that she was almost afraid to try. He’d made it clear that he wanted it too – though she couldn’t really understand why. A man like him, with a girl like her? People would say he was crazy.
She felt terrible about Jayden and Bradley. This afternoon, when she got back to the flat, she’d ring up the social services and find out where they were and when she could visit. She’d always promised Bradley this would never happen. And Jaydee would be terrified, poor little mite. But she couldn’t ask Ben to have them too. He was a saint, but he shouldn’t have to be a martyr.
She went to the thrift shop and bought a couple of things. There was nice stuff to be had if you were only a size ten or so. People always had little tops and dresses they couldn’t fit into. She found a D-cup bra that looked almost brand new. And yes, she’d have to admit that she must be a D-cup now. Her mother always said she’d be a D-cup before she was twenty.
Then she got herself a can of coke in a café and sat in a seat by the window staring out into the street and trying to decide what to do. Maybe she could do it. The whole couple thing. Give Ben everything he wanted. But if she was going to live with him she wanted to do it properly. Get a job, take a course at night school, learn to cook him a nice dinner every night. He’d want that. And sex, she thought nervously. He’d want that, too. Sooner or later.
* * *
Ben was sitting at his desk, taking a tiny unscheduled break between patient number 29 and patient number 30. The last one was a cancer clinic referral, and that was never easy. It was about two-thirty and he hadn’t even stopped for lunch, yet. There was a knock on the door and he looked up with a start – fearing that someone had noticed that he didn’t actually have a patient with him.
Fiona from reception came in holding a yellow post-it note in her hand. “Message for you, doctor. Someone phoned a few minutes ago. She wouldn’t leave her name.”
“Oh?”
She said nothing, but she gave him a knowing look as she handed him the note.
He read it and it said. “I love you, too.”
And Ben smiled, stuck the note on the edge of his computer, and leaned back in his chair. “Thank you, Fiona.”
“No problem,” she said. “Though I think Sal’s a little disappointed.”
Ben was too busy thinking of Layla to care about Sal. He touched the note, thoughtfully, as if it he was touching Layla. I love you, too.
The declarations were rushed, yes. But the sentiment was sincere.
“Well, I can see you’re busy.” Fiona said, rather sarcastically. She turned to go. “Just one thing, though.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got a bit of a thing about voices – like some people remember faces, you know? And I knew hers,” she pointed at the note. “I couldn’t have met her, could I? I couldn’t know her from somewhere?”
Ben hoped his face wasn’t showing what he felt. A kind of encroaching fear that people would soon know where he met Layla – right here in this consulting room.
Fiona gave him a slightly odd, questioning look. “Do I know her?”
“I don’t think so,” Ben said. “London’s a big place. Too many voices for anyone to remember...”
Fiona said nothing. She went back to the reception area.
Ben’s Girl
Layla raided the kitchen cupboards to see if she could find anything to cook for him for dinner. She wanted to do something for him. Something he’d like. She wanted to feel like she was a proper girlfriend to him, just like he wanted her to be. The sort of girl who deserved to live the urban dream with him in this lovely flat and share his bed at night.
A romantic dinner. With candles, if she could find any. She had no clue what he liked to eat – they’d only had two meals together and they had been chicken at the restaurant and pancakes at the flower market. Plus a cup of tea and a wafer biscuit at the prison. She knew that Jewish guys didn’t eat pork but she didn’t have any clear idea how it all worked beyond that. The safest thing was to find something here that he’d bought and then cook it for him. So she checked the tiny freezer and found some minced beef and decided to make a pasta dish. She’d seen a packet of fettuccine in the cupboard, so she reckoned he must eat that.
She got the sauce cooking first – chopping the onions, browning the mince. Adding the tomatoes and the grated zucchini and the chopped celery and carrot. He had a new spice rack that twirled on a chrome stand. Everything on it – mostly unopened. She checked the expiry dates and used some oregano and garlic flakes – deciding not to add too many since he might be hoping for a session on the sofa. She tried not to think about that too deeply. It made her nervous. Very nervous.
It was a pleasure to cook in this kitchen. Everything was so new and super-shiny. His cutlery was heavy, good quality stuff with a high-shine finish. At the flat in Bethnal it was difficult to find a spoon that hadn't been used for cooking crack. She put the sauce down to a low simmer and went to set the little table. She’d seen placemats in one of the kitchen cupboards – be
autiful ones that looked like they’d never been used. So she went back into the kitchen and got those – and while she was there she saw a salt and pepper set – still in its Perspex box. It would look nice on the table. She got them out and that was when she saw the note. “To Ben and Catherine, happy housewarming from Ruth and Robbie.”
Oh, she wished she hadn’t seen that. Well, never mind. Catherine wasn’t in evidence now. No Catherine-shaped clothes in his wardrobe. No Catherine-scented cosmetics anywhere. No happy couple photos. No feminine products in the bathroom. She took a deep breath. She removed the gift tag and put it in the bin. She filled up the little wooden grinders with salt and pepper and put them on the table. Why shouldn’t she? Catherine hadn’t touched them.
She wasn’t sure how long it would be before he got home, but she knew the medical centre closed at five, and then it would take him over an hour to drive home – up to half an hour more if the rush hour traffic was really awful. So she planned to have the dinner ready about six- thirty. It was nuts living in Richmond and working on the other side of London. But maybe that had something to do with Catherine. Eventually, she’d have to get up the courage to ask him.
Hearing him at the door sent her into a kind of panic. She’d only just got the fettuccine in the boiling water. She hadn’t changed her clothes, and her hair was still a bit windswept from the walk in the park and the visit to the thrift shop. But he was home. And he came in and saw the table set and the candle ready with the box of matches beside it. He looked up at her and she looked back at him, feeling suddenly shy. She was a stranger in Doctor Stein’s flat, and he was a man she hardly knew. What if he didn’t like mince and fettuccine?
“I got your note,” he said. And he broke into a sudden smile and reached out his arm to encourage her to come to him. A breath caught in her throat and she abandoned stirring the dinner. She went to him and let him pull her towards him. He embraced her tenderly, holding her close against his warm body. “Layla, Layla, it’s lovely to come home to you. And you cooked dinner – that’s so sweet.”
