Work for it, p.12
Work for It, page 12
“Bex…” My mouth opens, closes, as a thousand realisations bloom in my brain all at once. I feel impossibly soft and incredibly annoyed. “Have you stayed here this long because of me?”
“Not because of you,” she scowls, her arms folded. Then, quick and quiet, she adds, “But maybe, yeah, a bit because of you.”
I give her a stern look. “Do you want to live in York?”
“I want to be with you.”
“I hope you didn’t say that to Lewis. He’s going to think you’re knocking me off.”
She bursts into hysterical laughter at the thought of cheating on Lewis with me, which is what I was hoping for. Only, she laughs a bit too long. “Hey,” I say, fighting a smile. “It’s not that funny. I’m—” I break off, surprising myself into silence. I was going to say, I’m not a bad-looking bloke. Except, I don’t think I’ve ever thought that about myself before. Weird.
Rebecca doesn’t notice, too busy wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. I’m not really offended. The laughter is just because she loves Lewis. She really, really loves Lewis. He moved here when we were seventeen, and she set eyes on him in assembly and leaned over to me and whispered, “Oh, that’s all mine.” Turned out, she wasn’t wrong.
He makes her smile, which is why I tolerate him. And if leaving Fernley will make her smile, I’ll tolerate that too.
So I put my hands on her shoulders and give her my best I’m not fucking around face, which has been known to make people run away in terror.
Rebecca rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue.
I ignore her. “I’d be fine without you, you know.”
She looks sceptical.
“I’d be less happy,” I admit. “I’d be uncomfortable. But maybe that’s a good thing.” My mum would say: We’ll never know how big we could grow if we stunt ourselves. People are like plants. You gotta give us what we need, cross your fingers, and see what happens. I won’t be the reason Rebecca withers.
She rolls her lips in like she does when she’s trying not to cry. “But you’d be so far away!”
“There’s these things called phones. Also, cars.”
She sobs, a burst of sound cut off real quick. “You hate phones!”
“I wouldn’t hate them if you were on the other end, you donkey.” I pull her in for a hug. “Our lives have been the same for a long, long time.”
She sniffles. “Are you saying we’re boring bitches?”
“I’m saying there’s nothing you can’t do, so do it. I dare you.”
She’s still sniffing as she pulls back, but there’s a flash of mischief in her watery blue eyes. I’ve laid down the challenge and now she’ll pick it up. She never could resist a dare. In this moment, I know Rebecca’s gone.
Not completely, I tell myself. This is like moving a plant to a different side of the garden so it’ll get more sun. She’ll do better, and that’s what matters, even if I have to walk—or drive, in this case—a bit further to see her bloom.
And how will I bloom, left here in the dark? I push that thought right out of my head. It’s pointless in ways I can’t even explain.
She dabs at her watery eyes and gives me a smile that’s part rueful and part grateful. We don’t say things like thank you to each other, not when we really mean it, because of what Rebecca calls her allergy to mush. But I see it all over her face. And I hear it in her teasing voice when she says, “You need adventures, too. Maybe you could ask Keynes about that. Hasn’t he travelled a lot?”
As if Keynes would take my lumbering country arse anywhere. I can see it now: him leaning against some bar in the Maldives, or wherever it is rich people go, me hovering behind him like an irritable kid, cramping his style and growling at anyone who looks at him too long.
I expected that image to make me feel awkward, to remind me of all my worst parts, but instead my lips twitch. All I see is him rolling his eyes at me and making snotty comments that we both laugh at.
All I say to Rebecca is, “Uh-huh.”
“Of course,” she smirks, “it might be difficult to ask him anything while he’s kissing—”
I put my hand over her mouth. “Nope. Not going there. Back to you.”
She snorts. Then she cries some more. By the time she goes home to Lewis, well after midnight, she’s ready to end their fight, and I’m…
I’m ready to get used to the idea of change. I hope.
No; I know. I’ll do it for Bex.
9
Olu
On Friday night, after making a fool of myself in Griffin’s garden, I debate going all the way home to see my sister. I spend Saturday morning writing a list of pros and cons in my journal. Each side has one entry.
Pros: Seeing Lizzie. Avoiding Griff’s visit today.
Cons: Lizzie seeing me. Missing Griff’s visit today.
I’m painfully conscious of the feelings rioting in my chest like the daisies on Griffin’s lawn; a pretty profusion of weeds. They shouldn’t be there, but they are, and I don’t have the heart to remove them—though common sense says I should rip out this infatuation by the root before it spreads.
Instead, I take the journal marked F and write about us. About the fact that we’ve known each other for a week and I’ve spent most of that time being the best bastard I can be. I scribble to myself that connections don’t develop so quickly, and they certainly don’t grow in the arctic drought that is me in a bad mood. Then I remember that I’ve decided not to be in a bad mood anymore—not with Griffin, which should be easy, since hurting him makes me flinch every time. And not with myself, which will be harder, because hurting me has become a habit.
I write that down, too.
By 11a.m., Griff still hasn’t come over, which is fine. I wasn’t expecting him to come, anyway. People, especially the people I know, say things like that all the time: I’ll come to see you! I’ll visit! We should meet for coffee! But it’s just good manners. Either they don’t come, or they show up, shag you, and leave. I don’t think Griff’s the type to show up and shag me, which means he’s just not coming. Okay. Well. Good; this puts me in the perfect position to see Elizabeth.
I call her first, just to make sure she’s in.
“What do mean you’re—Isaac, get off—what do you mean you’re coming down? Are you done with your holiday?”
That’s what Lizzie calls it when I go off the rails: a holiday. “No, darling. I’ve another two weeks here.” That number is chosen at random, but I like the sound of it. I lean against the little kitchenette counter, which gleams because I woke up early and scrubbed it. What can I say? I’m awfully conscientious, just in general.
“Why are you coming all the way down, if only to go back—Isaac Montgomery, behave yourself!”
I don’t particularly want to know what Lizzie’s husband is doing. I’m going to pretend that she is still twelve years old and unmarried, and also that he doesn’t exist.
“You’re not trying to sneakily check on me, are you, Olu?” she asks. “Because I promise, I’m fine. The mushroom is terribly well-behaved, which means he doesn’t take after his father or his uncle. Thank God.”
“Very witty, Liz. No, I simply thought I’d—”
There is a knock at my door.
“Never mind,” I say. “You’re right. It’s a very long journey.”
“Well, even so, of course I’d be thrilled to have you.”
“No,” I say firmly. “We must think of the fossil fuels, my darling. We must think of the earth. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Griffin looks very well, standing at the top of the stairs that lead to my flat. When I open the door, the sun is shining around his dark, messy hair like an angel’s halo.
“Hi,” he says.
The memory of my speech last night returns to mortify me. The grossly adoring things I said hover between us, heating my cheeks. I tell him waspishly, “You’re wearing odd socks.”
It’s a weak effort. He doesn’t look offended; he doesn’t even look down to check. “Thanks for noticing,” he says, and then he pushes gently at my shoulder until I step back. Invites himself in, bold as you please, and shuts the door. Looks around. “Never been in here before.”
“Oh. So you don’t make a habit of seducing all visitors to Fernley?”
He pauses his examination of the screen that hides my bed, flashing a tiny, teasing smile. “Seducing you, am I?”
I open my mouth, then snap it shut. Awful man. “What do you want?”
“All sorts.” Before I can get a handle on that quiet, casual response, he tells me, “Mandy called. The fox is going to be fine.”
“Oh.” I am ridiculously glad. It’s only a bloody fox, for heaven’s sake, and nature is all about life and death and what have you. Yet I want to grin like a child. In fact, if I were alone, I might give in to that impulse. But since I’m not alone, I nod and say shortly, “Glad to hear it. I suppose I’d better make tea.”
“Cheers. Are you tired?” he asks, moving to sit on the tiny loveseat that separates the kitchenette from the living space. He has a knowing look in his eye, but I’m not sure if it’s because he can tell I’m pleased for the fox or because he can sense my strange, edgy mood. Neither option is acceptable, whatever the case.
“Are you saying I look like I slept in a ditch?” I’m hoping he’ll stutter in response, or something equally delicious.
He doesn’t. “I’m saying you’re not as scary as usual today.”
“You barge into my flat, squash my”—Maria’s—“sofa cushions, and now you gravely insult my character. I should invite you outside.”
“I thought you wanted to kiss me?” he smiles.
I find myself gaping like a fish. I think I’m blushing. No, let me be honest—I am most definitely blushing, and it burns. “I—you—who are you?”
His smile becomes a grin. But he must be able to tell that I’m panicking, just slightly, because he looks around and asks, “What do you do in here? For fun, I mean.”
I switch on the kettle and tell the truth. “I write.”
“You really are a writer,” he says, and I wish that were true. Lizzie claims it is, that the act itself is enough, and sometimes I almost believe her. Occasionally, I visit somewhere new and write a line that perfectly captures every facet of the jewel that life can be. Then I find myself wishing for a breathless, silly moment that I could show the world these journals—but that moment always passes. Because those lines can’t be as good as I think they are, and I don’t need anyone else to tell me so.
“Yes,” I lie to Griff. “I’m a writer.”
He gives me a strange look, as if he heard my falseness, which is impossible. I was in the closet for thirty-seven years. Put me on stage and I’ll hold my own beside Dame Judi.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks me, like we’re children at a sleepover.
I pluck a random bit of honesty from the back of my brain. “Elizabeth. My sister.”
“Tell me about her, then.”
I face the kettle and fetch the mugs, the teabags, the milk. I remember how he takes it, because he takes it just like me. For a while, the only sound is the whistle of the kettle, then the clink of my stirring spoon against ceramic. He doesn’t try to speak. But when I bring the tea over and sit beside him, I do.
“She’s wonderfully bossy and frighteningly competent. She runs a dance school.”
He takes the tea and nods. “Because she was a ballerina.”
I don’t know why I’m pleased that he remembers. “She’s retired. And now she’s having a baby.”
“You’re smiling.”
I bite my lip, then take a too-hot sip of tea. “Am I?” I ask innocently.
“You happy to be an uncle?”
“I do believe it’s what I was born for.” It’s not. I want to be a father, but I’m too old and too cold and who would ever have a baby with me anyway? A glutton for punishment, that’s who. But the thought isn’t a whip the way it has been in the past. For some reason, it just makes me chuckle ruefully into my tea.
“Lizzie’s married to an awful man,” I say. “He’s terrifyingly huge, and he never speaks.”
A wry laugh. I’m used to cold sarcasm, but Griff’s is warm. “Sounds like a piece of work.”
“Actually, I’m strangely fond of him.” At that moment, I shift in my seat. My knee brushes Griff’s, and I jerk back, my heart pounding with something that isn’t panic. Touching him sends odd sparks through my body, crackling up my thigh and across my nerve-endings until I feel like velvet brushed by a bare palm.
His smile fades as he looks at me, worry in his eyes. “You know I only came to talk, right? Not to do anything that makes you…”
That makes you a mess, is what he’s trying to say. “I know,” I tell him briskly, suddenly uncomfortable—not because I’m upset, but because I’m… not. Touching him doesn’t make me nauseous. It hasn’t since he held my hand and told me he was sorry, and I’m not sure how to deal with that realisation. I should probably be jumping for joy and then jumping him.
But for some utterly incomprehensible reason, I don’t want to. In fact, what I really want is to hold his hand again.
We sit in silence for a moment before I think, Fuck it. “You know, we’d be far more comfortable sitting on the bed.” It’s true; we are both entirely too big to fit on this loveseat. “But, just to be clear, this is not me being coy or playing hard to get. Nor will I be overcome with arousal once we’re on a mattress. You are completely safe from ravishment this afternoon.” But not safe from my sudden hunger for closeness, it seems.
“Thank you,” he says gravely. “I was worried about my virtue.”
Soon, we’re lying side by side, sunlight and birdsong washing over us from the open window, and I have made a liar of myself. Because, all of a sudden, I am overcome with arousal—but it’s not the way I remember it, like a mosquito bite in need of scratching. No; I sink into wanting Griff the way people sink into hot baths after a long day, and it’s… glorious. I’m not even worried that the feeling will turn on its head, that I’ll be punished by the revulsion again, like I have been before, because this need feels different. This need tastes like Griff, not like the random-man-at-a-bar he was last week. It’s rich earth and cool rain and careful, creeping roots.
I think it might be safe. I think he might be safe.
Griff talks in his low, slow voice, all gravel and thoughtful gaps, about the orchids he’s growing at home. I talk about my last visit to Alsace, where an acquaintance runs a wine hotel—tentatively, at first, because I don’t usually mention the travelling that took up most of my life. It’s barely ever relevant, and I didn’t do it for fun; I ran away from home and I took a path across almost every continent to do it. Plus, not everyone’s interested in travel stories.
But, for someone who claims he’s never thought of leaving Fernley, Griffin is.
At some point, I make us both a stir fry. He tells me I’m a good cook and asks for seconds, which I, of course, don’t care about, because I do not require external validation. But, hours and hours later, I make him dinner too. Might as well.
When he finally admits that he should probably leave, it’s dark outside. Summer dark; rich and fragrant and clearly later than it should be. We’ve been holed up in this tiny space for far too long, and I’m not even the slightest bit bored of him. I have a sudden urge to tell him I hate him, but I manage to wrestle it into submission and say something true instead.
“I had a nice day.”
He’s grinning on my doorstep, hands in his pockets, as if he’ll never leave. I wish he wouldn’t. “So did I. Can—wait, no.” He frowns slightly. “I was going to ask if I could see you tomorrow, but I already promised Rebecca I’d help her with… something.”
The image of my hands shoving Rebecca into a conveniently located ditch is there, then gone. “That’s okay,” I say, because I am a normal and reasonable man. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Yeah,” he smiles. “Monday.”
But the night vibrates around him and he doesn’t leave. Instead, he watches me in the barely-there glow that leaks through my door. I watch him right back, and the lust that’s danced gently around me all day seems suddenly heavy—like summer heat, or a beloved body creating a dip in my mattress.
Not that I’ve ever had a beloved body in my bed. I don’t know why I’d think such a thing. Just like I don’t know why I blurt out, “You held my hand. The other day, that is.”
“Yeah,” Griff says softly.
“Why?” It’s a ridiculous question. I know why; he did it because he was apologising, because he wanted to get through to me or to stop me from running away.
Except, that’s not what he says. No, what he whispers into the quiet is, “Because I wanted to.”
I release a breath so heavy, the bruises on my ribs ache.
Then he says, “Want me to do it again?”
I don’t know how to answer such a question. But the man I’ve become today, trapped in a bubble with Griff, apparently does—because that man murmurs, “Perhaps I wouldn’t mind.”
Griffin laughs, his smile ripping through me with all the devastation of a hurricane. Then he reaches out and catches my hand in his, and says, “Like this?”
I feel his calloused palm against mine, and something stirs in my belly; something fucking wonderful and achingly intense. God. God. I’ve been lying next to him all day, watching his fine mouth move, trying not to focus on the breadth of his body, the shape of his thighs under his jeans—and I did so well. I suffocated the confusing need in my blood until I almost forgot it was there. But in this moment, his smile and his eyes and his fucking hands all make me feel like an animal.
I hold on tight and drag him toward me, so hard he stumbles a little. Then we’re pressed bodily together on my front doorstep. Griff puts a hand on my shoulder to steady himself, and I grab his hip. The shadows between us are impenetrable, but I know he’s staring at me. Wondering what the fuck I’m doing. Thinking he doesn’t understand me, no-one could, and I’m a mess, and will I make up my fucking mind—
