I break off a small piece of crust and nibble, not really tasting anything. ‘Seriously, Dora’s gone mad, hasn’t she? A mute? A brain infection? An entourage?’
‘Yeah, but in her defence, she had no idea he was bringing anyone.’ Finn stifles a laugh. ‘But, oh God, it was fantastic.’
‘Shut up.’ I lean on the table and cover my face with my hands, but I’m laughing too.
His phone buzzes and he checks the screen, gives me an apologetic glance, then turns to take it. Big-shot attorney, so I’m used to his limited time. I’m just happy he managed to sneak out for lunch today. Even if Finn enjoys seeing me squirm, I like spending time with him. He reminds me of Oliver, of when we were all together, when things were simple and fun.
Once, Ollie’s parents went on holiday, leaving him to keep an eye on Dora. Not their best judgement call as parents, I have to say. Oliver and Finn threw a huge party, and they were so smart about it, really clever. The guys moved all the furniture upstairs, locking everything valuable away so the house was completely empty. Ollie actually arranged for a cleaning service the next afternoon. The carpets and floors were spotless, so his parents never knew.
Dora and Finn never knew what else was locked away upstairs.
‘What are you doing in here?’ Ollie asked when he stumbled into his room that evening, red plastic cup in hand.
My heart jumped. I was hiding, wedged between furniture and boxes on the floor, watching Late Night on his small TV.
‘You OK?’ Ollie shut the door, taking long steps over chairs and end tables to reach my small cleared-away spot near his closet.
‘Yeah, just, ya know, it’s loud and . . .’ I pushed back my hair and straightened some. The limited space meant I had to crane my neck to see his face as he hovered over me from disproportionately long legs. He was still a rock-star giant, and I was still his biggest fan.
‘Hold this a second.’ He handed me the cup and plopped down, practically falling on top of me. ‘Whatcha watchin’?’
‘Oh, ah . . .’ I motioned to the screen, somewhat embarrassed that I’d rather be here than out there with all their friends. I had no idea why Ollie sat next to me in the dark, or why he stayed. We watched in silence for a while, then he burst out laughing at something on the show and spilled his drink in my lap.
‘Oh, shit, sorry.’ He grabbed a shirt from his laundry basket and started dabbing at me, but then froze with his hand resting on my thigh, his face so close.
I mean, if I looked up . . . God, what was going on? Ollie leaned over more, and put his arm round me. All I could hear was his breathing and my heart. It was going to explode from my chest. Was this really going to happen?
It was the Tiffany song acted out in real life. We were alone, no one around, and he did put his arm around me . . . I dared to hold his gaze, and then . . . this is when he really kissed me.
Soft at first, as if he were afraid of my reaction – he was, after all, seventeen, almost eighteen, which meant almost a grown man. I was almost sixteen. Ollie tasted of beer and Doritos. And God, I was in love. I’d been kissed before, but not like this.
My stomach swarmed with butterflies and when he moved to my neck, gently sucking against the skin, my body responded in ways I didn’t know were possible. My fingers were clumsy but curious as I ran them through his hair and across the muscles of his chest. Without thinking, I dropped them lower.
‘Whoa, whoa, hold up, Libbs . . .’ He pushed back so he could see me. His blue eyes were bloodshot and inky. He smiled and shook his head. ‘If you do that, there’s no stopping. And you’re not that kind of girl.’
There was a new texture to his voice, a rasp, and I’d put it there. I didn’t want to stop, I wanted Ollie. I wanted to be that kind of girl. I tugged my hand away from his and –
‘Libbs, I’m serious.’ He growled a little. ‘You’re only—’
‘I’m old enough,’ I said, lifting my chin.
His head threw back. ‘Please tell me you’re not screwing arou—’
‘No. God. Get real . . .’ I wanted him to think I could, not that I already was.
‘Good.’ His voice settled back into softer tones and he pressed against the wall again, offering me space under his arm. ‘I’d hate to think anyone was messing with you.’
I laughed. ‘Aren’t you messing with me?’
The corners of his lips quirked up and his eyes, although dewy from the beer, seemed to twinkle when he smiled. ‘That’s different. I’m not messing messing with you. I’m just doing, ya know . . . this.’ His lips grazed my cheek, creating a trail of feather-light sensations. I turned, and this kiss was even slower, softer, better. God, it was better.
We stayed in his room all night, kissing and laughing. That’s all we ended up doing, but it was perfect, more than enough, because it was more than anything I’d ever done. But what I really liked, more than anything, was how we talked.
He told me about his dad, and how much pressure he was under to live up to his expectations. Then he told me how I got him in a way that hardly anyone else did, and how special I was. ‘Unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Way cooler than most girls,’ that’s what he said. No one had ever talked to me like that before.
I don’t remember falling asleep that night, but I woke to the sound of voices and furniture being moved. It was early, or late for those that hadn’t slept, and it was over. But really, it was only the beginning: a real turning point in our little story. I never would’ve guessed, some fifteen-plus years later, it’d still be unfinished.
I smile wistfully at Finn across the table as he pockets the phone.
He gives me a smile in return. ‘OK then . . .’ He pushes out his chair and busies himself with his bag. ‘Need to get back, but I’ll turn these over and get word to you straight away.’ He stands and stabs a pointed finger in my direction. ‘Start looking for a new place, though.’
‘I won’t have to if you guys do your job.’ I stand too.
‘Oh, we’re helping Dora with wedding plans tonight, and tomorrow’s the fitting, right?’
‘That’s the plan. Finally getting her bridal stuff sorted.’
‘Trust me, she needs the help.’ He pulls a face. Typical Finn.
I watch him leave, saying I’m gonna finish my lunch, but really I’m just postponing the conversation with Jas about Pretty in Pink – the one I can’t avoid any more. The one I’m desperate to. Typical Libby.
CHAPTER 6
‘Are We Ourselves?’
The Fixx, 1984
Unfortunately
In less than two weeks’ time I’ll be thirty-three – and without my store, unless I can pull off the impossible. I’ve hardly slept, so yeah, I’m in a spiky mood to say the least. Maybe that’s why I’m dressed in layered brights. I’m trying to counter the gloom of my disposition. The green top has slashes across the front in perfect rows to showcase the underlying yellow. It matches the plastic shades I have holding back my wild hair.
‘You’re muttering,’ Jas says from behind the register.
‘No, I’m thinking, big difference.’ I’m also refiling the discount CDs in my owner’s Top Five weekly special display. No one gets what makes them special except for me, although Jas tries to figure it out. It’s become a game of ‘look inside my soul’, a mix-tape poem using others’ words and seemingly random factoids to express my feelings, with three rules to play.
First rule of Top Five: once solved, you do not talk about Top Five. Second rule of Top Five: once solved, you do not talk about Top Five. That would be way too embarrassing. It’s a look inside my soul, remember? And the third and final rule of Top Five: there must be a cohesive connection.
It’s geektastic, and over time Jas has become obsessed. Last week he deciphered it within hours. Every song had something to do with my upcoming birthday. Way too easy.
This week’s not as much about the tracks as the artist, although there is a common denominator with those as well, just to keep him guessing.
>
‘That’s an eclectic list,’ Jasper says over my shoulder, reviewing each CD’s tracks.
Nirvana, ‘About a Girl’; INXS, ‘Devil Inside’; Milli Vanilli, ‘Blame It On The Rain’; Boston’s ‘More than a Feeling’, and Crowded House, ‘Don’t Dream It’s Over’.
‘This one you’ll never figure out.’
His smile pulls wide and quick. ‘Oh, Libby London, I believe I will.’
I smile in return. But mine’s forced. I need to tell him what’s going on. Glancing round the store, I check whether we’re alone and for the moment we are, so I begin. The knot in my stomach tightens as I explain losing the lease and the reason why; the two-week time-frame to find new space; how if we fail to leave the premises, I’ll be slapped with fines. ‘But I wouldn’t worry,’ I say, with abundant and zealous confidence. ‘I’ve asked for Finn’s firm to look into things to see if anything can be done. I really don’t think anything will come of it. I mean, can you imagine moving Pretty in Pink?’
His brows pull down in thought, a significant crease between them. ‘Have you started looking around?’
Panic gurgles from somewhere deep. Tiny tar bubbles between the cracks. The question holds more meaning than it implies. It asks: are you being proactive and smart about this? Have you put in the legwork? Am I going to be sacked? Will we stay afloat in an iffy economy if we move locations? Who’s moving us? Should we start packing? When will you tell the staff?
I try to answer them all with a dismissive nod and calm composure. ‘No, truthfully, I don’t think we’ll end up moving.’
‘Well, maybe just in case, we should keep an eye out for available space.’ The light whitewash denim of his eyes turns blue-canyon dark and uncharacteristically serious. ‘There’s a new building conversion with Now Leasing signs up a few blocks away; I can check it out when I leave.’
‘Sure, if you want, but . . .’ I shrug it away. This sucks. Telling him makes it real. His reaction makes it more so.
This can’t be happening.
When I don’t say anything, Jasper steps closer. ‘Hey, you know what Bobby McFerrin would say – “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”.’ His eyes relax some, but I can see the concern behind them.
‘Right, and as Howard Jones would say, “Things Can Only Get Better”.’ I play along with a stale smile, knowing he’s doing our Eighties song game to cheer me, but it feels more like REM’s ‘End of the World’, and I think we both know it.
And if I don’t get moving, I’ll never hear the end of it from Dora. She expected me to meet her at the department store ten minutes ago.
This is so not my store. I’d much prefer a consignment place with vintage baubles and treasures, and that’s only if I absolutely have to shop. Not that I’m actually shopping. I’m following Dora around, acting as a human clothes-rack.
Glossy mannequins dressed in muted pops of autumn greet us in every aisle of the department store. Dora’s low and wide heels click obnoxiously on the white marble floors, causing her to unconsciously follow the carpet runners. This is probably by design. A genius layout and marketing plan to guide the customers through elaborate high-end merchandise.
‘So, this Nigel Harrington guy is a friend of Finn’s? Isn’t Finn supposed to choose my outfit, then, isn’t that the rule?’ I ask while trailing behind. I so don’t have time for this. I should be looking for retail space, or harassing Finn so I don’t have to. I haven’t mentioned anything to Dora. One, I know Finn will open his big mouth soon enough; and two, she has her wedding and baby stuff. She doesn’t need my stuff.
Another shirt’s tossed over my arm. And I don’t need all this stuff.
‘Finn texted over his demands: something sporty and cute,’ Dora says, turning, her eyes fixed towards my grey and white Converse All Stars. ‘Do you have proper footwear?’
I glance down, pulling a face. ‘I have shoes, isn’t that proper enough?’
‘According to Finn, Nigel is a top athlete and will probably take you somewhere fun, so you need to dress accordingly. Oh, and he’s super-competitive, at least that’s what Finn says, so bring your A-game.’ She holds up a long-sleeved yoga cover-up only to cram it back, deciding it’s a no.
‘How competitive?’ My brow furrows; I can hear the Athlete’s words from The Breakfast Club. You’ve got be number one. I won’t tolerate any losers. Win, win, win! ‘So . . . are we going out to eat?’ I have an A-game when it comes to that. I once won the hot-dog-eating contest in Times Square.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Dora answers, half-interested, now eyeing a tennis-style skirt.
‘I can’t believe I’m even considering this again after Theo the Brain Pain.’
Dora stops short and eyeballs me. Her look flashes anger, annoyance, or maybe just baby-induced hunger.
‘Do you need a twisty pretzel?’ I ask before she can say anything, to distract her train of thought. ‘You could get it without salt so you don’t retain more – what, you’re puffy, so I’m being super-duper considerate.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘You don’t look bad, but you are a little—’
‘No. Not about that. I know I’m waterlogged, I’m talking about Theo. Look, I get I made a complete cock-up of the entire situation, but Libbs, he’s a really great guy.’ She blows out a breath of frustration. ‘I mean, if I didn’t screw it up, maybe you’d know that, so I take responsibility, I do. But knock off the jokes at his expense, OK?’
My eyebrows drop low in confusion, maybe a little from guilt. ‘OK. Sure, sorry.’
Satisfied, Dora again starts sliding clothes across the rack. This is where I should leave things, but when have I ever been known to do that? ‘Soooo . . . what makes Dr Theo so great?’
She whips her head round, mouth hanging agape.
‘I’m serious. I wanna know. I’m actually curious what you see in him. As far as looks, OK, not bad, but he was painfully awkward and cagey.’ I shrug. ‘So, what am I missing?’
The aggravation melts away from her expression as she considers. ‘Well, for one, he’s nice to me when I tag along with Dean to their racquetball games. He always asks if I need anything and seems really concerned about the pregnancy and with how I’m feeling.’ Her lip juts out a little. ‘Dean could take a lesson on that, if you ask me. A little pampering goes a long way. Oh, and he volunteers at that house charity, you know, where people give up their weekends to help build, and at the end the home’s donated to a family in need.’
‘So he’s—’
‘Kind. He’s really a kind soul, who cares about people, and that’s why he gave up his time to treat you,’ she says, throwing another pair of casual trousers over my arm. ‘Those are called boyfriends. They have lots of zippers, so you’ll like ’em.’
My brows slant. ‘I won’t if my boyfriend can wear ’em.’
She ignores me and starts for the dressing room. Guess I’m supposed to follow. I slant my arms to the left and crane my neck to the right so I can see where I’m going. The view is still obstructed by the stack of clothes. ‘OK, but Dora, a brain-infected mute? That was hardly kind of you.’
‘I already apologized. It just . . . got away from me. You know how that happens sometimes. And the point is, he cared. Enough to call in favours, and get other people involved, and—’
‘OK, right, I get it. I misjudged.’
She spins, a sly grin flashing across her face. ‘Buy me a pretzel after we’re done, and all is forgiven.’
‘Deal.’ I knew she needed a pretzel. ‘So in this grand plan of yours, what happens if I like one of these guys? Do I still have to go out with the rest?’
‘Don’t be difficult.’ She stops in front of an open dressing room, steps inside and hangs the clothes.
‘No, really, what if I adore Nigel and his athletic ways? Why should I have to endure any more dates?’
‘Look, if you really don’t want to go through with all the dates, just go with Jasper. Then I’m happy, he’s happy—’
�
��But I’m not. We’ve talked about this, OK?’ I huff and disappear behind the curtain, dumping my armload on the stool. I’m not trying all that on. ‘We work together, we’re friends, he’s younger—’
‘He’s hot, he’s into you, and you really like him.’ With a whoosh she pushes the fabric to the side, squares her rounded self and blows out a breath. ‘That’s the problem. I think it scares you. Look, things didn’t work out the way you hoped with Ollie, the way we all hoped, but you can’t just stop living because . . . well, you need to get out there, Libbs, you do. I’m beyond worried.’
I’m beyond everything. I whoosh the curtain back, so all that’s left is her swollen feet peeping underneath.
‘Libby . . .’ Dora’s voice softens as she talks from the other side. ‘I know you still love my brother, and that’s OK, but sweetie, you need to move on and let yourself be happy. It’s—’
My phone rings to break the need of some meaningful reply on how I’ve tried, I’m fine, leave it alone. It’s Jas, so I answer. ‘Hello, is it me you’re looking for? And I’m seriously glad you called . . .’ Grateful for the interruption is more like it.
‘Lionel Richie, 1983. And why? Were you thinking of me? Have I become your “Obsession”?’
‘Sure, and good try. Animotion, 1985. Now what’s up?’
Dora’s foot taps her irritation; then she swivels and disappears.
‘I’m doing some location searches, but I need to know how much space you’re wanting.’
‘Oh, um . . .’ With the phone wedged between my chin and shoulder, I strip from my jeans and step into the first leggings thing, trying to hoist them up by jumping on one leg in a small circle while mentally figuring my retail footprint. I need storage, an office, at least one bath . . . and the sales floor needs to be about the same, so . . . ‘Maybe 3,000 square feet?’ I already know I’ll never be able to afford that in New York. The only way I’ve managed thus far is because it’s a sublease, and Crafty Cathy’s was struggling even back then.
Holding Out for a Hero Page 6
