CHAPTER 9
The Athlete
Another sleepless night, and stressing over my financials has put me in a tizzy for most of the day. I spent the first half searching online for retail space that’s move-in ready and compiling new overhead numbers based on the locations that met the minimum of my criteria: comparative square footage, decent enough location and low yearly maintenance fees.
With Pretty in Pink in our current location, the balance sheet is pleasantly fat and healthy. More comes in than goes out, and we’re growing. I don’t want to move, but if I legally have to, I need to see that it’s doable with the added expenses. It’s not.
For the rest of the afternoon I plugged in new numbers and rearranged what little expenses I have, but it didn’t add up. It flipped my happy, healthy bottom line to a sick and dying dud. That’s why this Seth Merriweather thinks the property owners may want the store. As it stands, Pretty in Pink generates a positive cash flow and, without rent, the profit margin is even bigger.
But no, the shop’s mine. I bought it, built it and grew it. It’s not for sale. But what’s to stop them from slapping another name on the front and stocking with similar merchandise? Would customers follow me, or would they shop there from habit? This is why I need Seth not to mention a possible buyout. I don’t want to give the property owners the idea. The problem is, I have no idea how I’m going to move in less than two weeks and keep my Pink in the black.
What a day. I’m frazzled and God, now I have a date. My shoulders drop with a sigh. I almost feel sorry for the guy; I’m in such a prickly mood. At least Nigel Harrington, the Athlete, appears better than Dr Theo, the brain drain. And he doesn’t look anything like Emilio Estevez in The Breakfast Club either. I was worried he’d show up in a tank top and hooded varsity jacket, so I made Finn email me a photo.
Surprisingly, Nigel’s quite a looker, with stunning hazel eyes and deep caramel skin, and in the pictures he’s in normal everyday clothes. His hair’s buzzed close, but it works with his square jaw. He’s rather handsome, even noticed an indent in his chin. Go, Finn.
And according to Finn, Nigel’s into extreme sports, a total adrenalin junkie, so I’m cautiously optimistic. Being able to tell Dr P. I went rappelling, bungee jumping or skydiving could paint me in a whole new light. It’ll show I’m willing to try new things and open to new people, even if I’m not. Go, Libby.
Dora and Dean are here to cheer me on and send me off before they meet with Finn for drinks. They’re up front watching the DVD I had in, while I change into my – I pull at the fabric and blanch – whatever this is. I’m grateful it’s only them. Finn can be critical and I’m in no mood to deal with his divine opinions and commentary.
I hate the clothes from our power-hour of shopping, so I’ve improvised. They think I’m too Eighties? They really haven’t seen anything yet. Stepping into the main sitting room, I stand with outstretched hands and twirl. ‘Well? Am I date-tastic?’
Dora’s mouth drops. ‘Oh, Libby, no.’ She waddle-walks towards me, mouth ajar. ‘What’d you do?’
‘What?’ I glance at Dean, then recheck my ensemble. The boyfriend pants and matching jacket are on and facing the right direction, no tags are hanging about. It’s fine. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re a maniac. This isn’t Flashdance, Libbs.’ Dora shakes her head. ‘Really, where do I even start? Pink sparkle legwarmers?’
‘I’m just a small town girl on a Saturday night?’ I smile cheeky, enjoying getting her riled.
‘It’s Friday, and we already think you’re crazy.’ Dora glares at my shoes. Her eyes pinch in dismay. ‘I asked if you had proper footwear. What are those?’
‘High-tops.’
She looks at Dean, who laughs, then closes his eyes with a truncated breath. I think he’s enjoying this as much as I am.
‘Is there a problem?’ I’m really trying not to smirk. ‘I did your makeover, and I’m in the clothes you selected.’
‘Those are graffiti neon, and they have Velcro. Velcro. Are you going to start breakdancing?’
OK, I’m not just in the clothes she selected; I’ve added a few of my own. ‘One, I used to be great at breakdancing, could even do the headspin, remember? And two, these are popular again—’
‘If you’re fourteen. Never mind, no time to fix. But it’s a definite no to the fanny-pack thing. I mean, I’m gobsmacked, Libbs, it’s see-through.’ She glances at the contents. ‘Do we really need to see your phone, a pack of gum and . . . a tampon?’
I shrug. ‘You never know.’
‘No one should know. But the worst, Libbs, I mean really . . .’ She’s shaking her head, eyeing my hair.
‘What? It’s just a ponytail.’ I hold in my laugh. Seriously, what does she expect?
‘No, you’re off your trolley if you think that’s just a ponytail. It’s jutting out from the left side of your head like an antenna. You could pick up satellite with that thing.’ She’s sweating from her rant. Or maybe that’s from the hormones too. ‘And no to the sweatband, you’re not Olivia Newton-John.’
‘Maybe she wants to get physical,’ Dean adds, trying to be funny.
He’s not and I don’t, at least not with Nigel. Flash. Dean sneaks a photo as Dora marches me back to my room. Within a minute I’m stripped of legwarmers, waist-pack and sweatband.
While Dora reaches for a brush, I snag the headband from the counter and shove it in one of the boyfriend pockets for later. If we do something radical, I may need it to keep the perspiration from my eyes, or my hair in place, or flag down someone for help. It’s neon yellow, they’d see it.
‘Here, turn about.’ She spins me. ‘And you should be excited . . .’ She yanks my hair from the rubber band and starts to brush. ‘Instead, you’re being crabby and difficult.’
‘How am I being difficult? I’m dressed and ready for an action-packed athletic date with a top athlete. Very excited.’ Very worried.
‘It’s like you’re intentionally trying to prove a point, Libbs. Fine, we get it. You’re an Eighties girl, you don’t want to change, but come on. You’re the one who asked for help.’
‘No, I asked for – whatever, it’s complicated,’ I say, knowing it’s more than that. It’s my store, it’s my birthday and it’s Ollie, so it’s impossible. And I just need a good date story to show Dr P. I’m being open-minded – not a good date that could lead to another. ‘Ow, Dora.’ I flip my hand to push the brush away instinctively.
She bats the hand away. ‘Hold still . . .’ With the rubber band in one hand, she grabs hold of the hair with the other, and secures it in the back. ‘There.’ She steps away with an approving nod. ‘I don’t understand why you can’t just try, Libbs.’
She has no idea how hard I’m trying. ‘After the first date, which wasn’t a date, can you really blame me?’ The bell chimes. My heart jumps. ‘Have Dean answer.’ Why am I whispering?
Dora cracks the door and shouts, ‘Let him in, we’ll be maybe another minute.’
We stay put, peeping through the door, Dora below and me craned above. I can’t get a good look. All I see is the back of Dean’s legs and Nigel’s stout calves with bulging muscles and clean white sneakers. Let’s hope he’s in shorts and he’s not naked. That’d be weird. Yeah, I’m not dating a nudist. That’s not an adventure date I’m willing to consider.
Dean sidesteps to allow him in, and—Oh, hell no!
I shut the door, swinging round to face Dora abruptly.
Her face contorts into a smile.
‘It’s not funny.’ I hold my hand to my chest to demonstrate the obvious problem. He may not look like the athlete from The Breakfast Club, but they do have something unfortunate in common. ‘He’s this tall.’
‘OK, I didn’t know that.’ Dora blinks, inhales sharply and lifts her delicate chin. ‘Maybe just slouch a bit?’
Nigel Harrington is lovely; he is obviously taking his health and fitness seriously. Although he’s square. And I don’t mean in a Huey Lewis and the
News kind of way. I glance over. Yes, definitely square, almost as wide as he is tall.
His chest is broad, his neck thick and corded and his thighs are huge masses of veined strength. His arms don’t even hang at his sides; they sort of splay out, like a child packed into a snowsuit. And no wonder – his biceps are bigger than my head.
How does he zip his pants? Or, for that matter –
‘You OK?’ He hollers over the music as we drive. It’s loud classic rock, and giving me a righteous headache. His squeaky voice isn’t helping. Maybe he’s hyped on steroids. I’ve heard they can shrinky-dink men, but would that alter him to a soprano?
‘Yup, just enjoying the ride,’ I say, my own voice sounding strangely baritone. For the record, I heard Nancy Reagan in the Eighties, and I said no.
Nigel’s truck is barely street legal. It’s shiny blue with red flame decals along the sides, and colossal wheels that suspend us high above the vehicle’s body and everyone else. I had to climb actual steps to get inside. And it bounces. The hydraulics are insane; every bump sends me airborne. A sharp turn causes me to clutch my seat belt with both hands. ‘Whoa, look out for—’
He swerves, just missing the motorcycle, clips the curb and pulls into a parking lot. I’d say this adventure date’s in full swing.
He pops his door and leaps out as if jumping from a plane. We’re that high off the ground. I hear a thump, but don’t see him walking round. Where’d he go?
Climbing down the two metal steps I look left, then right, and . . . no way, he’s walking under the vehicle to my side. Wow. Our height difference again stares me in the face – well, the boobs. He’s just above them. I have to resist the urge to pat him on the head like a puppy.
He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth and pink healthy gums, ‘So are you ready to kill it, Libby?’
I’m ready to kill Finn. I smile, now thinking I should have flossed, or brightened, or maybe brushed again. At least I have gum. I swiped my waist-pack on the way out.
‘Let’s go.’ He motions towards –
Oh, come on. This is the high-adrenalin, action-packed date he’s planned? What happened to zip-lining, bungee jumping, or indoor skydiving? Not that I would’ve done any of those, but High Adventure Seven Sea’s Mini-Golf?
The course is fashioned around a crazy pirate theme, which explains the name. Huge pirate ships touting heavy artillery and busted hulls sit in pools of shallow water to make up the course. It’s like a mad battle took place, leaving a shipwreck graveyard. Each hole is connected by wooden boardwalks and bridges, and the course is illuminated by football-stadium spotlights. I actually have to squint to look round.
‘Doesn’t this remind you of Pirates of the Caribbean?’ Nigel asks, as he digs through his wallet to pay.
‘I was thinking more The Goonies.’ I mumble this because One-Eyed Willie’s staring at me from behind the register.
‘Here ye go, pretty Lass. Now ye’re ready for th’ high seas,’ the eye-patched man in pirate garb says, as he slaps a huge tricorn hat with skull and crossbones on my head. My ponytail makes it skew forward, so it rests just above my eyes. The elastic hangs under my nose, and he reaches over to snap it under my chin.
‘Really?’ I look from the man to Nigel, but he’s not paying attention. He’s too busy picking one out. Glancing round, I notice everyone’s wearing pirate attire. I hope they wash these. My phone’s vibrating from the waist-pack. A quick unzip and I answer while I wait. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, it’s me,’ says Jas. ‘Some attorney stopped in from Finn’s office and was looking round. I have his number if you wanted to call him right back.’
‘Um, no, not right now. Can you leave it on my desk?’ I’m somewhat preoccupied watching the assortment of hats Nigel’s modelling for me.
‘This one? Argggggh!’ Nigel tips the crow’s-nest hat and smiles. It bends in the front and juts super-wide on each side for unobstructed views. Or so we’re told. The history lesson from One-Eyed Willie is for our educational benefit. The fake green parrot now pinned on Nigel’s shoulder is for his amusement. The employee is maybe all of twenty, and I have to wonder if his jug o’ grog doesn’t have some real merriment mixed in. My next thought is whether he’ll share.
‘Where are you?’ Jas asks.
‘Oh, sorry. Ah . . .’ I glance round. ‘Pirate golf?’
‘Oh, you’re on one of your dates—’
‘OK, must go.’ I can’t click off quick enough. This is embarrassing. Jas is gonna tease me good about this one.
Walking towards the first hole, we pass the grub hub and barnacle arcade, and the smell of burgers and chips is heavenly. As always, I’m starving. ‘Doesn’t that just make your mouth water?’ Maybe he’ll get the hint. I’m a girl who has an appetite, after all. You date me, you feed me.
‘Oh, almost forgot.’ Nigel digs in his pocket, produces two protein bars and hands me one. ‘We need fuel if we’re going into battle.’ He rips open his bar with his teeth, quirks an eyebrow and inhales his in two bites. ‘Eat up,’ he says while putting on a golf glove.
We’ll call this Strike Two. The obvious first: I’m wearing a pirate hat, he has a parrot, my dinner is a mushed protein bar, and a golf glove? At mini-golf? Looking round, I don’t see anyone else wearing one. Is he going to moonwalk? He already has the voice.
Actually, forget King of Pop: Nigel’s the king of swing. He can hardly clasp the club, let alone do a full rotation. He’s like a hulking T-rex with mini arms, using little wrist flicks to flip the putter back and forth.
‘Oh, come on already,’ the guy behind us says as Nigel lines up his shot using the club like a telescope. The man’s stout, with white-grey hair peeking from his Captain’s cap. He’s like a bullfrog, his neck and jaw connecting as one, and his lips stretch wide into a thin frown as he waits.
My stomach rumbles, loud enough that I’m sure everyone hears even over the yo-ho-ho music blaring from the hidden speakers. I carefully peel open my bar and chomp a bite.
Ugh, bleah – total crap. What is this thing? I half-chew and hold it in my mouth, not sure what else to do. Swallowing is out of the question.
Nigel looks back. So does his parrot. ‘You’re up.’ He sunk the ball in two shots. Great.
I smile with tight lips, the gunk firmly held above my tongue. Placing my ball in the mat’s groove, I tip my hat up so I can see and swing hard. Too hard. It flies up and over the laughing Captain Hook and onto another green, almost hitting an elderly gent dressed in a waistcoat. ‘Sorry!’ I mumble.
Nigel sets off to retrieve it.
I look left, then right, searching for a trash can. Do they not have bins? My eyes swivel down to the open treasure chest at the end of the green. It’s either there or my bumbag, and that’s clear. Without another thought, I spew it from my mouth, then rid the hideous taste with a few lip smacks.
Oh, gum. See, I knew my bag would come in handy. Popping a piece in, I look up, and my face flushes hot. The toady man behind me stares with a confused look. I crumple the gum wrapper, then drop it into the chest as well to assure him it is in fact a bin. My glare defies him to challenge me on it.
‘You’re up, Libby.’ Nigel says, ready to move on. He’s petting the bird.
Instead of swinging full-force, this time I tap. I make it just left of the hole. I tap again, and this time it rolls to the right. This is ridiculous. Tap, tap, tap. Oh my God! Tap, tap.
Captain Croaker behind us decides to skip, and jumps past. I didn’t know you could do that. When Nigel’s gaze follows his direction, I push the non-conformist red ball in with my foot. ‘Score!’ I enthusiastically raise my arms like goal posts, almost knocking off my hat.
‘She cheated!’ a snot-nosed whelp on the next green shouts, pointing his fake hook hand.
Why didn’t I get one of those?
When Nigel looks from my mini-accuser to me, I step close and whisper, ‘She did. His Grandma’s not very good.’ I nod towards the silver-haired woman by his side and
narrow my eyes with disapproval.
Three more holes, and it’s the same thing. I’m just pinging the ball around. I’m also running out of ways to get Nigel and the bratty tattle-tale to turn so I can nudge the ball with my foot. I keep gasping and shouting things like, ‘Oh my gosh, a real parrot!’ Or ‘Isn’t that Johnny Depp?’ He must think I’m the most easily amused person ever. I even got him to look up to the sky by shouting, ‘What is that?’
Actually, everyone looked up. I may have shouted too enthusiastically. When Nigel asked, ‘What is what?’ I looked blank and repeated ‘What?’ And that was that. I’m now out of diversions and back to tap, tap, tap.
I hate golf, the stupid costumes, and really, this whole date. And if Nigel keeps making his parrot talk, I’m going to ram a cracker down both their throats.
Tap. I follow the ball to the left.
Tap. It passes over the hole and continues on.
Tap. ‘Seriously?’ This time it stops inches in front.
‘Here, let me help.’ Nigel gives up the scorecard and steps behind me. He reaches round, but instead of holding his hands over mine, his hulking mass only allows him to guide my forearms. We flow back and forth, back and forth. So does Skully, the parrot. Yes, he’s named him.
‘Just nice and easy, see?’ Nigel says into my back, because he can’t see above my shoulder. Oddly, Skully can. His beak keeps nicking my ear, making me cringe. It tickles. Nigel says something about control, or direction; I don’t know, I can’t hear him.
He rocks, so I rock, trying to be a good sport, trying to decipher his words, and more importantly, trying to hold in mine. Did he just grunt? I’ve had enough. I mean, he isn’t an athlete, and this isn’t an adventure date, he’s just – the parrot jabs me. I flick him hard so he bends backward, and then I swing full-force. ‘Tally ho!’
The ball just misses Granny’s head, pings from Captain Scallywag’s hat, and whoa, uh-oh, it’s coming back. I duck . . .
Nigel doesn’t.
No way am I asking Captain Birdbrain to drive me home, so I sit outside on the wooden metro bench, waiting for my cab. I don’t like buses. The truth is I’ve never ridden on one to understand how they work, and now, in my thirties, I’m too embarrassed to ask. I mean, exact change or credit card? How do you know your stop? Is there a thing to pull, or do you just stand and shout stop!
Holding Out for a Hero Page 10
