‘You okay?’
I look across to the shower and see a woman wrapped in a towel with a turban on her wet head, watching me with slightly wide eyes. ‘Sure,’ I breathe, realising I’m splattered against the back of the door. I can’t blush because my face is already bright red and steaming hot.
She smiles through a frown and carries on her way, leaving me to find my locker and retrieve my shower bag. The water is far too hot. I need ice. But after five minutes of fiddling with the controls, I fail to cool it down. So I make do and set about washing my tangled, sweaty mane and soaping down my clammy body. My earlier relaxed frame of mind and body have been obliterated by the sight of him, and now the visions are replaying in my mind, too. There are hundreds of fitness centres in London. Why did I choose this one?
I haven’t time to waste thinking too much or time to begin appreciating the pleasant effect of the hot water, which is now massaging my post-workout muscles, not burning my already heated flesh. I need to get to work. It takes me ten minutes to dry my body and hair and get dressed. Then I’m skulking out of the gym with my head down and my shoulders high, bracing myself for that voice to call me or that touch to ignite the internal flame. But I escape safely and hurry to the Tube. While my eyes are thankful for the reminder of Miller Hart’s perfection, my mind is not.
Chapter Two
As soon as the lunchtime rush dies down at the bistro where I work, Sylvie is on me like a wolf. ‘Tell me,’ she says, dropping to the sofa next to me.
‘Nothing to tell.’
‘Livy, give me a break! You’ve looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp all morning.’
I cast a sideways frown to find my co-worker’s bright pink lips pressed into an impatient straight line. ‘A what?’
‘Your face is all screwed up in disgust.’
‘He texted me,’ I grumble. I’m not telling her the rest. ‘He texted me to ask how I am.’
She scoffs and takes my can of Coke, slurping loudly. ‘Supercilious moron.’
I jump forward without thought. ‘He’s not a moron!’ I shout defensively, immediately snapping my mouth shut and retreating back on the sofa when I clock Sylvie’s knowing look. ‘He’s not a moron and he’s not supercilious,’ I say calmly. He was loving, attentive, and thoughtful . . . when he wasn’t being a supercilious moron . . . or London’s most notorious male escort. I drop my head on a sigh. Landing myself with one hooker is bad luck. Two? Well, that’s just unreasonable of the gods.
She reaches over and squeezes my knee. ‘I hope you didn’t entertain him with a reply.’
‘I couldn’t even if I wanted. Which I don’t,’ I say, pulling myself up.
‘Why?’
‘My phone’s broken.’ I leave Sylvie on the couch with a wrinkled brow and no further explanation.
All I’ve told her about my break-up with Miller is that there was another woman. It’s just easier that way. The truth is unspeakable.
When I enter the kitchen, Del and Paul are laughing like hyenas, each with a vicious knife in one hand and a cucumber in the other. ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, making them both halt their happy tittering, their faces morphing into a wash of pity as they each assess my weak body and mental state. I stand quietly and allow them to reach the only conclusion there is. I still look washed out.
Del’s the one to snap back into action, pointing his knife at me, clearly making himself smile. ‘Livy can judge. She’ll be fair.’
‘Judge what?’ I ask, taking a step away from the blade.
Paul pushes Del’s hand down on a tsk and smiles at me. ‘We’re having a cucumber-chopping competition. Your silly boss here thinks he can beat me.’
I don’t mean to, but I laugh. It makes both Paul and Del jump back a little, shocked. I’ve seen Paul slice a cucumber, or I tried to see. His hand is a blur of motion for a few seconds until the vegetable is splayed out neatly, each slice perfect. ‘Good luck!’
Del smiles brightly at me. ‘I don’t need luck, Livy, sweetheart.’ He spreads his legs and lays his cucumber down on the chopping board. ‘Say when.’
Paul rolls his eyes at me and stands back, a wise move judging by the hold Del has on the knife. ‘Are you ready to time it?’ he asks, handing me a stopwatch.
‘Is this a regular thing?’ I take it and reset the display.
‘Yep,’ Del answers, focusing on the cucumber. ‘He’s beat me on a pepper, onion and lettuce, but the cucumber’s mine.’
‘When!’ Paul shouts, and I immediately press down to start the timer as Del flies into action, bringing the knife down repeatedly and savagely on the poor cucumber.
‘Done!’ he yells, out of breath, looking over at me. He’s broken out in a sweat. ‘What did I get?’
I look down. ‘Ten seconds.’
‘Pow!’ He jumps into the air, and Paul immediately confiscates the knife from him. ‘Beat that, Mr Master Chef!’
‘Piece of cake,’ Paul claims, taking up position by the chopping board and scraping away the dismembered cucumber before setting his own down. ‘Say when.’
I quickly reset the timer, just in time for Del’s, ‘When!’
Paul, as I knew he would, sails through the cucumber with finesse and control, as opposed to Del’s heavy-handed massacre. ‘Done,’ he declares calmly, no sweat and no heavy breathing, which belies his overweight frame.
Looking down at the stopwatch, I mentally smile. ‘Six seconds.’
‘Get out of town!’ Del shouts, marching over to me and snatching the watch from my hand. ‘You must’ve cocked up.’
‘I did not!’ I actually laugh. ‘And, anyway, Paul sliced, you hacked.’
He gasps and Paul laughs with me, giving me an endearing wink. ‘So now I have the pepper, the onion, the lettuce and the cucumber.’ He takes a marker pen and puts a big tick through a basic picture of a cucumber on the wall.
‘Bullshit,’ Del grumbles. ‘If it wasn’t for the Tuna Crunch, you’d be history, buster.’ Del’s moodiness only increases our laughter, both of us chuckling as our boss stomps off. ‘Clean up!’ he shouts back to us.
‘Boys,’ I muse.
Paul smiles fondly. ‘It’s good to see some spirit, darling.’ He gives me an affectionate rub of the arm, not making too big a deal of it, before strolling off and shaking a pan of something on the stove. Watching him whistle happily to himself, I realise my earlier bubbling anger has completely subsided. Distraction. I need distraction.
It’s the longest afternoon ever, which isn’t a good sign of things to come. I’m left to lock up the bistro with Paul, Sylvie having got off early to get to her local boozer to nab a front-row seat in time for her favourite band that’s playing tonight. She nagged me for a solid half-hour, trying to entice me to go, but by the sounds of things, the band is in the heavy metal genre, and my head is banging enough already.
Paul gives my shoulder another friendly rub, the big man clearly uncomfortable with emotional women, before he heads off towards the Tube, leaving me to go in the other direction.
‘Baby girl!’ Gregory’s worried call hits me from behind, and I turn to see him jogging towards me in his combats and T-shirt, looking all muddy and grubby.
I look across to the shower and see a woman wrapped in a towel with a turban on her wet head, watching me with slightly wide eyes. ‘Sure,’ I breathe, realising I’m splattered against the back of the door. I can’t blush because my face is already bright red and steaming hot.
She smiles through a frown and carries on her way, leaving me to find my locker and retrieve my shower bag. The water is far too hot. I need ice. But after five minutes of fiddling with the controls, I fail to cool it down. So I make do and set about washing my tangled, sweaty mane and soaping down my clammy body. My earlier relaxed frame of mind and body have been obliterated by the sight of him, and now the visions are replaying in my mind, too. There are hundreds of fitness centres in London. Why did I choose this one?
I haven’t time to waste thinking too much or time to begin appreciating the pleasant effect of the hot water, which is now massaging my post-workout muscles, not burning my already heated flesh. I need to get to work. It takes me ten minutes to dry my body and hair and get dressed. Then I’m skulking out of the gym with my head down and my shoulders high, bracing myself for that voice to call me or that touch to ignite the internal flame. But I escape safely and hurry to the Tube. While my eyes are thankful for the reminder of Miller Hart’s perfection, my mind is not.
Chapter Two
As soon as the lunchtime rush dies down at the bistro where I work, Sylvie is on me like a wolf. ‘Tell me,’ she says, dropping to the sofa next to me.
‘Nothing to tell.’
‘Livy, give me a break! You’ve looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp all morning.’
I cast a sideways frown to find my co-worker’s bright pink lips pressed into an impatient straight line. ‘A what?’
‘Your face is all screwed up in disgust.’
‘He texted me,’ I grumble. I’m not telling her the rest. ‘He texted me to ask how I am.’
She scoffs and takes my can of Coke, slurping loudly. ‘Supercilious moron.’
I jump forward without thought. ‘He’s not a moron!’ I shout defensively, immediately snapping my mouth shut and retreating back on the sofa when I clock Sylvie’s knowing look. ‘He’s not a moron and he’s not supercilious,’ I say calmly. He was loving, attentive, and thoughtful . . . when he wasn’t being a supercilious moron . . . or London’s most notorious male escort. I drop my head on a sigh. Landing myself with one hooker is bad luck. Two? Well, that’s just unreasonable of the gods.
She reaches over and squeezes my knee. ‘I hope you didn’t entertain him with a reply.’
‘I couldn’t even if I wanted. Which I don’t,’ I say, pulling myself up.
‘Why?’
‘My phone’s broken.’ I leave Sylvie on the couch with a wrinkled brow and no further explanation.
All I’ve told her about my break-up with Miller is that there was another woman. It’s just easier that way. The truth is unspeakable.
When I enter the kitchen, Del and Paul are laughing like hyenas, each with a vicious knife in one hand and a cucumber in the other. ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, making them both halt their happy tittering, their faces morphing into a wash of pity as they each assess my weak body and mental state. I stand quietly and allow them to reach the only conclusion there is. I still look washed out.
Del’s the one to snap back into action, pointing his knife at me, clearly making himself smile. ‘Livy can judge. She’ll be fair.’
‘Judge what?’ I ask, taking a step away from the blade.
Paul pushes Del’s hand down on a tsk and smiles at me. ‘We’re having a cucumber-chopping competition. Your silly boss here thinks he can beat me.’
I don’t mean to, but I laugh. It makes both Paul and Del jump back a little, shocked. I’ve seen Paul slice a cucumber, or I tried to see. His hand is a blur of motion for a few seconds until the vegetable is splayed out neatly, each slice perfect. ‘Good luck!’
Del smiles brightly at me. ‘I don’t need luck, Livy, sweetheart.’ He spreads his legs and lays his cucumber down on the chopping board. ‘Say when.’
Paul rolls his eyes at me and stands back, a wise move judging by the hold Del has on the knife. ‘Are you ready to time it?’ he asks, handing me a stopwatch.
‘Is this a regular thing?’ I take it and reset the display.
‘Yep,’ Del answers, focusing on the cucumber. ‘He’s beat me on a pepper, onion and lettuce, but the cucumber’s mine.’
‘When!’ Paul shouts, and I immediately press down to start the timer as Del flies into action, bringing the knife down repeatedly and savagely on the poor cucumber.
‘Done!’ he yells, out of breath, looking over at me. He’s broken out in a sweat. ‘What did I get?’
I look down. ‘Ten seconds.’
‘Pow!’ He jumps into the air, and Paul immediately confiscates the knife from him. ‘Beat that, Mr Master Chef!’
‘Piece of cake,’ Paul claims, taking up position by the chopping board and scraping away the dismembered cucumber before setting his own down. ‘Say when.’
I quickly reset the timer, just in time for Del’s, ‘When!’
Paul, as I knew he would, sails through the cucumber with finesse and control, as opposed to Del’s heavy-handed massacre. ‘Done,’ he declares calmly, no sweat and no heavy breathing, which belies his overweight frame.
Looking down at the stopwatch, I mentally smile. ‘Six seconds.’
‘Get out of town!’ Del shouts, marching over to me and snatching the watch from my hand. ‘You must’ve cocked up.’
‘I did not!’ I actually laugh. ‘And, anyway, Paul sliced, you hacked.’
He gasps and Paul laughs with me, giving me an endearing wink. ‘So now I have the pepper, the onion, the lettuce and the cucumber.’ He takes a marker pen and puts a big tick through a basic picture of a cucumber on the wall.
‘Bullshit,’ Del grumbles. ‘If it wasn’t for the Tuna Crunch, you’d be history, buster.’ Del’s moodiness only increases our laughter, both of us chuckling as our boss stomps off. ‘Clean up!’ he shouts back to us.
‘Boys,’ I muse.
Paul smiles fondly. ‘It’s good to see some spirit, darling.’ He gives me an affectionate rub of the arm, not making too big a deal of it, before strolling off and shaking a pan of something on the stove. Watching him whistle happily to himself, I realise my earlier bubbling anger has completely subsided. Distraction. I need distraction.
It’s the longest afternoon ever, which isn’t a good sign of things to come. I’m left to lock up the bistro with Paul, Sylvie having got off early to get to her local boozer to nab a front-row seat in time for her favourite band that’s playing tonight. She nagged me for a solid half-hour, trying to entice me to go, but by the sounds of things, the band is in the heavy metal genre, and my head is banging enough already.
Paul gives my shoulder another friendly rub, the big man clearly uncomfortable with emotional women, before he heads off towards the Tube, leaving me to go in the other direction.
‘Baby girl!’ Gregory’s worried call hits me from behind, and I turn to see him jogging towards me in his combats and T-shirt, looking all muddy and grubby.
