Lovestruck, p.9
Lovestruck, page 9
‘The pictures help!’ Becca laughs, and she catches herself as she turns for the back room, her eyes twinkling, her skin bright. When she re-emerges, she says, ‘I hope it’s OK to wear this? I’ve been in it all day but don’t have a change of clothes here.’
‘Your outfit is perfect,’ he says as they start to leave, noting her high-waisted linen chinos and racer-back vest. He holds the door open for her and she passes through in front of him, turning briefly to wave goodbye to everyone. ‘You,’ he says, slipping a hand into hers, ‘are pretty perfect too.’
In another circumstance Becca might push him away at that, too embarrassed to accept that he means it. But she doesn’t – she makes a choice, in that split second, to believe that she is here, with a kind man, saying kind things, and feeling great about it. That’s pretty much what she manifested, isn’t it? So now it’s here, she feels duty-bound to believe it’s real – she won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. With one hand in his and pulling her sunglasses off her head to put them on with the other, she lets herself enjoy this tiny moment.
‘Charmer,’ she says, but she’s grinning. She’s into it.
‘I do my best,’ he replies. ‘I once met a woman at a party who accused me of being a flirt, if you can believe it.’
She enjoys how her hand feels in his, his wide flat palms covering the whole of hers. Oh God, what he could do with those hands. When they kissed, his hard body had pressed against hers and it’s all she’s been able to think about since – the tenderness of his lips and the firmness of his touch on a loop in her mind.
‘She sounds wise,’ Becca bats back, and he chortles.
As they wait to cross the road, Becca watches a black BMW pass by, and for the strangest split-second thinks she sees her ex, Mike, behind the wheel. She shakes her head, knowing that she is only thinking of him because she is moving forward. Her thoughts must be expunging themselves, memories expelling to make room for new ones. Why would Mike be driving a BMW through King’s Heath? The last she heard, he was happily living the high life in New York.
‘Where are we going, anyway, Noah Brooks?’ Becca asks as they cross over and hit the top of the road.
‘We’re going’, he says, mysteriously, ‘to a place where you’ll need comfortable shoes you can walk a few miles in …’
‘Check,’ she says, throwing up her leg in front of her to demonstrate her Nikes.
‘And, actually, maybe I should have asked this before, but how do you feel about animals?’
‘Animals?’ Becca repeats. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Animals with four legs,’ he says. ‘Bigger than a shoe but smaller than a coffee table.’
‘Are we talking cats, dogs or pigs?’
‘Dogs,’ Noah says, slowing his walk, squinting to look around at the street signs, and then pointing across the road. ‘We’re going there.’ He gestures to the local dog shelter.
Becca blinks twice and then double checks she’s understood. ‘We’re going to the rescue centre?’ she asks, and Noah nods.
‘I volunteer here. And it’s dog-walking day.’
Becca’s face lights up. ‘We get to walk the dogs?’ she asks, hoping and praying she’s getting this right. ‘The little doggy-woggies who don’t have anybody?’
Noah sticks his nose in the air, insulted. ‘They get affronted if you call them doggy-woggies,’ he says, his face the perfect arrangement of solemnity. ‘Save them their dignity, please.’
‘Right-o, sir.’ Becca nods. ‘Any other words of advice?’ She likes taking instruction from him. It’s masculine and reassuring that he’s made the plan for their date, and is taking charge.
‘No baby talk,’ Noah instructs. ‘Normal human voices only. And always keep treats nearby.’
‘Lead the way, then,’ Becca trills, delighted with her own wit.
‘Who knew dog-walking puns existed?’ Noah laughs, and as he buzzes in and announces himself Becca can’t help but notice the fit of his trousers, the way they fall across his backside and sit on his hips. He’s wearing them with leather sandals that have a closed toe, in a way that Becca can only think to describe as European. The back of his polo shirt spreads across generous shoulders, the upside-down V-shape of a swimmer. He hid all that very well at the party, and even the other day in his shorts. There’s something about the smart-casualness of him that feels most quintessentially Noah, as if he’s relaxed enough, now, to be more himself, even if that self is pretty formally dressed. In the reflection of the glass Becca checks her hair, braided and tucked under so she looks like a Little House on the Prairie-style milkmaid. This is an approximation of her most authentic self, too.
‘Here we go,’ Noah says as they are buzzed through another door and into a central concreted courtyard, cages all around them in a horseshoe shape that’s only broken by one small corridor that seems to lead to a grassy area.
‘Noah!’ an older man, maybe in his sixties, opens his arms and exclaims.
‘I wish I could get a greeting like that,’ Becca wisecracks, right before Noah goes in for a hug, laughing and tapping the man’s back and saying,
‘Brian! How are you?’
Brian pulls away and lifts a hand. ‘I’m still here,’ he says, ‘so I can’t complain. And who is this?’ He looks at Becca.
‘My friend Becca,’ Noah announces, letting a hand find its way to the small of her back protectively, and she smiles, the patch of skin in contact with his touch pulsating.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Becca says.
Noah adds, ‘She’s going to help me with Sparkles and Captain today, if that’s all right.’
‘Long as the little toads get walked, that’s all I care about,’ says Brian, and with that he paddles off to one of the cages marked ‘FOXY’, telling the small bulldog inside, ‘All right, all right. I’ve got your lead here, darlin’, don’t get on at me. I’m coming.’
Becca smiles and looks at Noah.
‘This way,’ he says.
Sparkles, it turns out, is an Alsatian bigger than a coffee table. And Captain is some sort of retriever-mix, all slobber and boundless energy. They head on up to the hilly park around the back of the rescue centre, Becca with Captain and Noah with Sparkles.
‘How long have you been volunteering here?’ she asks him, struggling to rein in Captain’s enthusiasm for the acres of green open space up ahead.
‘You can give him a tug, if you need to,’ Noah says, noting her tense arm and clipped speed. ‘Like this,’ he adds, leaning over and putting a hand over hers, helping her to keep the dog in check. Then he answers, ‘Not long. Eight or nine months?’
‘It’s so nice,’ Becca says. ‘You must see a lot of dogs moving through the system?’
Noah shrugs, and as they reach the edge of the hills he says to the dogs, ‘Sit. Good,’ and the dogs do as they’re told so he can take off their leads, staying that way until he commands: ‘And … go!’ and they dash off together, making a break for it, right to the top of the nearest mound where they stop and turn around to check that Noah and Becca are actually following, before heading off again.
‘They know the way,’ Noah tells her. ‘They’ll be OK.’
She drops behind him as they navigate a gravelly path that demands a single-file ascent. She watches the long stride of his legs, his purposefulness. At the top they see an expanse of woody area, the evening sun demonstrating the precise meaning of the word dappled as it plays hide and seek behind.
‘Woah,’ Becca says. ‘How did I not know this was here?’ she marvels. ‘I don’t think I have ever been here in my life – and I’ve lived around here since I was born!’
‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ Noah says, beckoning her to keep following him. ‘I love it here. And to answer your question: yes, I’ve seen a lot of dogs pass through, even in eight months, but the bigger dogs – people are frightened of them. So Sparkles has been with me almost every day of that.’
‘You come every day?’
‘Most days, yeah. It helps with the writing, as you might expect. Walking, the meditation of it, nature and all that.’
Becca nods. ‘Makes sense. And are you working on anything right now?’
‘Trying to,’ he says. ‘I do sci-fi/fantasy crossover. I’m into the string theory of physics? That there’s several dimensions all happening at the same time.’
‘So in another dimension I’m an archaeologist in the desert?’
‘And in another dimension I’m an Olympic athlete. I’m a chocolatier in a third dimension, too.’
‘Do dimensions ever collide?’
‘They do in my books.’
‘That’s awesome. How did you even get into that?’
He shrugs, as though he doesn’t really want to be drawn on it. ‘Gave it a bash, sent it off, got a book deal. I was a very confident twenty-four-year-old. Now I’m getting older, even by only a few years, I’m not sure I’d be so blasé about it. Maybe I just know too much now.’
The mention of him being twenty-four only a few years ago lingers in Becca’s mind. He’s younger, yes, but, God, his ambition is attractive. He’s more driven and self-aware than most thirty-somethings she knows. They trudge up the hill to where the dogs are waiting for them, reassuring the dogs that it’s okay to carry on up ahead.
‘Nice spot, hey?’ He gestures to the trees. Becca looks at him, his breadth, his presence. She thinks of their kiss again. She needs another one. Craves it.
‘I’ll say,’ Becca agrees as they reach the edge. There are several winding, well-worn paths to choose from and Noah leads them up to the right.
‘You good?’ he asks her, signalling ahead. ‘I normally like to go up here, and down through the middle. You see all sorts that way.’
‘Sounds great,’ Becca tells him. ‘I trust you,’ she adds.
He turns back to look at her, but he doesn’t smile. She looks right back at him. It’s an unspoken agreement; something passes between them. Becca can’t quite put her finger on it, but as they go deeper into the forest, she has no doubt that it was there. She doesn’t think of his age again. She decides to simply enjoy the date.
After dropping Sparkles and Captain back at the dog shelter, Becca and Noah go to the Fox and Hound, passing Dave and Kaylee on the way.
‘Well, look what the cat dragged in!’ Kaylee squeals as she sees Becca, reaching out for a hug.
‘Kaylee!’ cries Becca. ‘Hi!’
They hug, aware they both have a gentleman of the species either side of them, hovering and waiting.
‘Kaylee, this is Noah,’ Becca says. ‘Noah, this is Kaylee, and this is Dave. It’s Dave’s pub, actually.’
‘Hey, man,’ says Dave.
‘Hey,’ replies Noah.
‘You two heading in for a drink?’ Kaylee asks. ‘We’re just …’
Dave looks at her, struggling to suppress a smile.
‘I can pretend I haven’t seen you, if you prefer,’ Becca offers. ‘Or assume you’re about to go and meet friends of some description?’
Kaylee looks at her, barely containing her excitement. She sucks in her cheeks and says everything without saying anything at all. Well, thinks Becca. Bloody good for Kaylee and Dave.
‘Let’s leave these two to it, shall we?’ Noah interrupts then, reading the mood. ‘We don’t want to keep you.’ He smiles, and Becca feels a rush of something for him that he has the emotional intellect to know everyone needs to go their separate ways. Fair play if Kaylee and Dave don’t want the world knowing what they are just yet. Better to keep it discreet – or as discreet as something can be in a place where everybody knows everybody.
Inside the pub Becca finds a table outside the back door just as another couple are leaving, where fairy lights glimmer in amongst ivy expertly trailed around a wooden pergola; each table has a couple of tea lights in a big jar, and citronella sticks are placed strategically around the gardens to ward off the creepy crawlies.
‘Fun fact,’ says Noah as he delivers her a white wine, and himself a neat whisky. ‘I don’t get bitten by mosquitos.’
‘What,’ asks Becca, incredulously. ‘Not ever?’
‘Not ever,’ replies Noah. ‘They just don’t find me sweet,’ he says with a nonchalant shrug.
‘Imagine that,’ quips Becca.
‘Exactly what my Auntie Pat says,’ he shoots back and they laugh.
‘So you write books, you walk rescue dogs, you get a round in,’ observes Becca as he settles into his seat. ‘I think you should cut to the chase and tell me exactly what’s not right about you.’
Noah nods solemnly, as if he was waiting for this. Of course, there’s the age difference. She hopes he doesn’t think that’s what she’s getting at.
‘I’m crap in bed,’ he replies, earnestly. ‘So I’ve been told that’s a turn-off.’
‘Understandably,’ agrees Becca, delighted by his humour. ‘Although, in your defence, a bad teacher always blames the pupil.’
‘That’s true!’ he exclaims, as if she’s the cleverest person alive. She likes sparring with him this way, likes how she never knows which conversational alleyway they’re going to turn down next.
‘What about you?’ he asks then, swilling whisky around his glass and holding it inches from his mouth.
‘What, am I terrible in bed?’ Becca asks.
‘No,’ he replies. ‘What are you like as a teacher?’
She lowers her eyes to look at the table, and then bites her lip as she finds the bravery to look at him.
‘Well, put it this way,’ she replies. ‘I haven’t failed anyone yet.’
He tips his head back and laughs throatily, pleased by her answer. It makes her laugh, too, and as she catches his eye they grin knowingly. Becca finds she can’t look away.
‘Spider-Man?’ Becca repeats, three drinks later. ‘Sorry, I feel like I’m misunderstanding here.’
Noah’s face is nonplussed. ‘You’re not.’
‘Right.’ Becca nods. ‘So you heard the question, didn’t you? I asked what your biggest passion is.’
‘And I said Spider-Man.’
‘OK then,’ Becca says, and she’s laughing now, and he’s laughing, and really, for the past two hours, they haven’t stopped laughing.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘I was a bookish child. No surprises there, hey?’
Becca takes him in, his hair, his sharp jaw, the charisma of him. He’s wearing glasses, having slipped them out as the night wears on. ‘My eyes get tired now I’m an old man,’ he says, the joke being that they both know twenty-eight is practically foetal.
‘No,’ Becca concedes. ‘I’ll bet you were very cute, though. I imagine you sat under your duvet with a torch after you were supposed to go to sleep, your parents downstairs fully aware of it, but letting you think it was a huge break of the rules so that reading felt rebellious and cool.’
‘Two things,’ he says, and he’s switched seats now. They’re side by side, and he’s leaning in, tentatively, the air between them crackling with promise. ‘One,’ he says, and Becca is pleasantly surprised to find his fingertips on the underside of her forearm, lightly caressing so that suddenly, her nipples ping to attention and her skin is alert. ‘I was raised by my dad, and he worked nights, so I read because I was afraid to be home alone in the dark, if you want the facts of the matter.’
‘Oh,’ says Becca, his admission coming more of a surprise because it’s sandwiched in between breathy approximations of flirting, and that’s how she knows it really hurts: he won’t dwell; he makes a joke of it. It’s the definition of a truth bomb, coming out of nowhere, a drive-by revelation.
‘And two,’ he continues, ‘the cute child grew into an angry, gawky, pimply teenager who felt all alone in the world. Spoiler alert: Peter Parker was the only friend I had.’
‘Noah …’ begins Becca. She wants to pull him in for a hug, find that angry teenager and make him a sandwich, tell him he’s loved.
‘Peter Parker had to learn everything on his own after he got bitten,’ Noah presses on, and Becca has a running mental list currently at 253 questions about his life, where his mum was, how he managed, where his parents are now, how he’s (seemingly) so well adjusted. ‘And I felt like that. He was vulnerable, too. In the comics there are all these speech bubbles coming from him where he talks about his feelings and difficulties. It was like being inside his head. Spider-Man made me feel like I’d be OK.’
‘I get that,’ Becca says. ‘It’s like I said about Jay-Z, about somebody else owning their vulnerabilities.’
‘Exactly.’ He nods. ‘And Spider-Man is funny, too. Sharp and witty, distracting his enemies with these zingy one-liners. Plus, he quits. He gets tired, can’t cope with the responsibility of it and so walks away. But he always steels himself again. Never gives up. And you know, the whole time he’s a kid. He’s thirteen or fourteen but everyone thinks he’s grown up because of the mask. He hides it. But he was never really Spider “Man” at all. I had to grow up too soon too. There were plenty of times I wanted to quit. But I didn’t. Because of Spider-Man, in a lot of ways. Even after my dad died, I was eighteen, but I still thought of Spider-Man. He lost his parents too.’
‘That’s …’ says Becca softly. ‘Sad, Noah. I’m sad for teenage you.’
He busies himself with a dog-eared beermat, his jaw clenched. ‘I don’t know where all that came from,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
‘Thank you for understanding the assignment,’ Becca says softly. He dares to look up. ‘I mean, I’m not excellent at date getting-to-know-yous or whatever, but I do want to get to know you. All of you.’
‘You might change your mind when you see this,’ he says, taking off his watch. It’s a tiny spider-web tattoo that has been hidden by the strap. ‘When I commit to something, I commit,’ he says, and it’s Becca’s turn to reach out and rub a finger over the delicate skin on the underside of his arm.
‘I like it,’ she declares. ‘I’ve always been too scared to get a tattoo.’
‘Imagine when I tell you I did it myself. I’m surprised I didn’t get sepsis and have my arm fall off.’
‘This piercing?’ Becca moves her hair from her neck and points at the second hole up in her left ear. ‘Was done with a needle by my best friend at school when we were fourteen. I passed out. Mum found us on the bathroom floor, me unconscious with blood coming from my ear and my friend Christy hovering over me flapping her hands and saying, “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to!” Mum thought she’d killed me!’
