Work for it, p.2
Work for It, page 2
They need a copyeditor. The use of ‘heart’ is repetitious.
Want to join in the Fernley fun? Anyone can help us pick, and we pay a pound per kilo. The farm is due to open for harvest in mid-May this year. Join our mailing list for updates!
I find myself smiling, though the action feels rusty and no-one’s here to see it. This is absolutely adorable and astonishingly perfect, from the timing to the task to the location. Join their cute little mailing list? Oh, I’ll do one better than that. My father is a piece of shit, one I try to forget exists, but I suddenly hear his voice in my head. “Hard work cures all ills, Olu.”
God, I hope he’s right.
Griff
It’s a warm, sunny Saturday—proper lovely, bright enough to beam through my rose-printed curtains and paint my living room blood-red. Which, now I mention it, looks a bit weird. But still; this is a nice, spring day.
Now, ask me what I’m doing. Go on. Say, What are you up to with your weekend, Griffin?
Right now, I’m sat in the (creepy) blood-red living room, staring at my mother’s candles on the end table. There’s three of them, burned down to different heights, all as thick as my wrist, which is pretty fucking thick. They used to be black, but their colour is messed up by the thick layer of dust that’s settled over the last ten years. Dribbles of wax cling to their edges, frozen forever, because these candles will never be lit again. Mum’s not here to do it, after all. But I’m not thinking about that.
No; on this fine Saturday, I’m thinking about ginger, and all the ways it’s causing me problems.
I stormed into the living room five minutes ago, because if I’d stayed in the kitchen, I might have tried to brutally murder a root. The twist in my latest cordial recipe, a rich orange and cinnamon spice I’m planning in time for Christmas, is frustrating the shit out of me. It’s not right. It wasn’t right on Monday evening, either, or Tuesday or Wednesday or the rest of the week, which is why I’m still fiddling with winter flavours in the middle of spring on a Saturday—because Rebecca reckons holiday options will keep the business’s momentum going, and who’ll come up with those options if I don’t? Definitely not our bloody boss. He—
Ah. Ah. I’ve fucking got it.
I jump up—or, rather, I get up slowly because this sofa hasn’t changed since Mum died either, and it whines whenever I sit or stand. Doesn’t matter. This is my, what do you call it? My eureka moment. Fuck the details. I stride back into the kitchen, pick up the wrinkled knot of ginger I threw down a while ago, and snag a red chilli from the little plant on the windowsill. If I can DIY some minor infusion, just as a test run—
Bang, bang, bang.
Aaaand that is the sound of my Saturday work session coming to a fast and definite end. I drop the ginger—at this rate, it’ll bruise like a peach in protest—and smile in spite of myself. Only one tiny fist has ever made such a racket at my back door. To be honest, only one person in this village ever comes to see me at all, not that I’m complaining.
Rebecca lets herself in after three seconds of waiting, which she’d probably describe as Oh my God like a fucking hour, and stands in the open doorway, her hands on her hips. Behind her, I see my garden, a contained little fairy forest bathed in rich, afternoon sun. The light glints off Rebecca’s hay-coloured curls and steely expression.
“Griffin Everett,” she says to me, “you best not be working.”
“Nope,” I tell her. Not a lie. I’ve just started washing up.
“Oh, Lord, you are. This is what happens when I leave you to your own devices of a weekend.” She throws up her hands. “Come on, you great lump. Let’s go and have some fun.”
I grumble and moan because that’s what I do, and she ignores me happily.
Five minutes later, we’re walking down the village’s main road. It’s called Fernley Road. The village is called Fernley. Yeah. It’s that kind of village.
Since this is the only way to get anywhere useful, and since it’s such a nice day, there’s plenty of people out and about. They walk their dogs, call absent orders to their kids, give each other cheerful hellos, ignore me and Bex. That’s part of the routine. We come face to face on the narrow path with old Mr. Holyrood and his five dachshunds, who all stop to greet Rebecca—probably because they’re miniscule dogs and she’s a miniscule human. My best friend and I are opposites, little and large, light and dark, mouthy and socially silent.
Mr. Holyrood, like everyone else in this town, watches me from the corner of his eye as if I’m one of those midnight monsters who creeps up on you when you look away. He greets Bex first, since her only crimes are 1. Being a bit brash, for a woman, and 2. Being best mates with me. The fact that she used to get with girls before she “came to her senses” and married a nice young man is seen as a teenage phase—by everyone but us, I mean.
“Rebecca,” he says stiffly, nodding all slow and careful, like the pea-sized head on his long, thin neck might drop off and roll away. Then, through gritted teeth like I’m bloody Voldemort, he mutters my name. “Griffin.”
Griffin. Even that part of me is wrong, in a place like this. My mother—my tragic, scandalous, blah-blah-fucking-blah mother—gave me a weirdo name, as far as Fernley’s concerned. People round here are called John or Beth or James. People round here aren’t born out of wedlock, people round here aren’t unnaturally massive and unnervingly quiet, people round here aren’t openly into men and completely fine with it. People round here aren’t me, unless they have the bad taste to be me, in which case you’d better avoid them or tell them what a freak they are whenever you can.
Although, most people stopped choosing that last option once I hit 6’2.
“Afternoon, Mr. Holyrood,” Rebecca says. The words are polite, right? But the way she says them, they sound like Fuck you, Mr. Holyrood, wearing their Sunday best. That’s her superpower. I don’t have a superpower, or the patience to talk to people I don’t like, so I just stand there in silence. I do that a lot, which might be part of my, er, image problem. Not that I care.
After a tense moment of awkward nodding and sharp commands at dogs, Holyrood skirts around us and fucks off. Once he’s gone, Rebecca hooks her arm through mine—which is awkward, with the height difference, but I like it anyway—and drags me down the street. “Don’t you want to know what we’re doing?”
I seriously consider that. “Is it going to give me a heart attack?” Rebecca has a talent for wild decisions and for convincing me to go along with them.
“No,” she laughs. The sound tinkles like bells. If you didn’t know Rebecca very well, you’d think she was just the sweetest doll of a woman. “We’re going to spy on Mrs. Hartley.”
Maria Hartley is a war widow with three kids, and a teacher at the local school. She has a single shock of white in her brown hair and she smiles at me like I’m a normal person. When my mother was alive, Mrs. Hartley called her Gemma, babe, and looked her in the eye. Sometimes Mum sent me round to hers with jars of homemade jam. I’m right fond of Mrs. Hartley, I am, so I frown. “Spying why?”
“She’s renting out her little flat again. To a Londoner, I heard.”
Mrs. Hartley’s flat does a not-so-roaring trade in historical tourists, usually snagging one a year. If that. “A relative?”
“Not that I’ve heard. Aly says—” Aly is Rebecca’s neighbour “—that he looks like nothing she’s ever seen.”
I have no idea what that could mean, so I mutter dubiously, “Hm.”
“Oh, go on with you.” Rebecca smacks my arm. “This is why we’re going to spy! To see if she’s right!”
“Hm,” I say again.
Rebecca laughs.
It takes all of five minutes to reach Mrs. Hartley’s big, white house with its pretty hanging baskets and green-painted fence. Her kids are in the front garden, arguing over who gets the last choc ice and who’ll have to make do with rocket lollies. The minute they see me, their eyes widen. I hover by the garden gate behind Rebecca and consider smiling at them. Then I realise I’m casting a shadow—a literal fucking shadow—over the garden. Sigh. My awkward attempt at a smile would probably send them screaming.
I don’t know how to deal with people. Never have. Plants are easier anyway.
“Mam,” the eldest shouts, already unwrapping the choc ice for herself, debate be damned. “Miss Becky’s here.”
A shout comes through the open front door: “Alright, Suzie.” And then a moment later, there’s Mrs. Hartley. She looks a little worn-out, I notice, her hair frazzled and her cheeks flushed pink, a tea towel in her hands. But she smiles as bright as ever when she sees us—both of us.
Mrs. Hartley is one of those people, like Rebecca, who makes the knot in my chest get looser instead of tighter.
“You two,” she grins wryly. “Never apart, not for a second, not since you were small.” Mrs. Hartley is only sixteen years older than me, but she sees me as a kid because she and Mum were almost the same age. And I call her Mrs. Hartley for the same reason.
Rebecca’s parents are older than Mrs. Hartley, though, and Rebecca’s not a socially awkward human statue, so she leans over the fence and beams, “Maria!”
“How are you, my darling?”
“Curious,” Rebecca grins, and lowers her voice. “A little birdy told me you’ve smuggled a handsome man into the village.” This is what Rebecca’s like. She says shit like We’re going to spy, but here are three things she can’t do: keep a secret, lie, be subtle. People love it or hate it.
Mrs. Hartley whips Rebecca with the tea towel and rolls her eyes, but she’s one of those who love it. “The gossip in this village, by God. He only arrived last night. And yes, he’s handsome, madam, but you’re a married lady.”
“You lost me at but. Lewis knows how to share.” The two of them laugh. The children edge closer, trying to eavesdrop. And me? I don’t know. The conversation sort of fades into the background of my mind, like it always does when people laugh at jokes that don’t include me. Like I said, I’m awkward. Don’t know what to do with myself. My eyes wander up to the flat above Mrs. Hartley’s garage, persuaded into curiosity by Rebecca’s determination—which happens a lot. Sunlight flashes off the windows, and I squint. For a moment, I think I see something: a man. Just the slightest impression of a sharp, brown face, broad shoulders, a hand at the curtains. Then the light glints again, and he moves away, or maybe he was never there at all.
But it feels as though he was.
2
Griff
He’s real, and I meet him the next day.
Fernley’s a tiny place. I know the name of every family here, and everybody knows who I am. Sheep block the road often, but people never care. There’s no post office or corner shop, and only one pub. So, the stranger isn’t hard to spot.
Especially since he’s currently in the only pub, sitting at the bar like a tropical flower.
“He’s ridiculous,” Rebecca tells me, clearly stunned. It’s Sunday evening now, and we’re playing pool. Well, I’m playing pool; Rebecca’s got her knickers in a twist, has done ever since the stranger strolled in five minutes ago. She’s on her tiptoes, trying to murmur in my ear, but since she’s as tiny as this village—tinier, even—her mouth is level with my armpit. The pool cue in her hand’s as tall as her. She whispers ferociously, “Everyone said he was handsome, but this is just silly.”
She’s not wrong. I study him subtly—I hope—trying to decide if he looks like a serial killer, because I always keep an eye on Mrs. Hartley’s visitors. But I can’t get a read on him, because he doesn’t even look real. He’s like a fucking sunset. Not that I’ll be admitting that to Bex. I grunt, turn, bend, and pot a red.
“Oi,” Rebecca tuts. “I wasn’t ready.”
My lips twitch at the corners. I didn’t know Rebecca had to be ready for my go.
“Oh, stop smirking,” she mutters. “I’m taking this turn.” Rules mean almost nothing to her. Keeps me on my toes.
While she squints at a yellow ball and tests 95 different angles, I look up—and find myself staring into the stranger’s eyes. He’s turned away from the bar and stands with a pint in his hand, leaning against the polished wood, watching me without shame. His head is cocked to one side, like he finds me as interesting as everyone finds him. Could be, he heard Rebecca’s awful excuse for a whisper. Could be, he noticed me because I’m hard not to notice. I look like God forgot to turn off my ‘grow’ switch. I look like I shouldn’t be allowed to hold children or small animals in case I snap their necks—that’s what a guy I once slept with told me. When I’m beside Rebecca, I might as well be a T-Rex. The stranger’s probably wondering if I’m part gorilla.
I’m wondering if he paid for his face, the way people do these days. His skin is light brown, like autumn sunlight through sparse trees, and I suppose that must be natural. His hair, cropped and tightly curled, is a tawny shade that must be natural too, since his eyebrows seem to match. But the rest—the razor-sharp jaw, the soft, wide mouth and noble nose—surely no-one’s born with all that at once, perfectly symmetrical and unnervingly striking?
Well, whether he bought it or not, it looks bloody good.
I turn back to Rebecca. “Shoot.”
“Piss off, you’re distracting me.”
“From what?”
She gives me a dark look over her shoulder. “Griffin Everett, you cheeky bastard. You’re watching a master at work, here. Prepare for a humiliating defeat.”
I snort.
She sniffs, shoots, and pots two of my balls. “Crap,” she says.
“Ta, Bex.”
“God, you’re smug.” Her voice lowers, her frown fades, and she goes up on tiptoe again. “So, about this handsome stranger.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Handsome?”
“Don’t give me that. I think you should talk to him.”
For a moment, I wonder what the hell she’s on about. Then I catch the gleam in her eye that means trouble, and the penny, slow as ever, drops.
I give her a stony look. “No, Rebecca.” When she gets these ideas into her head, I have to be firm.
“Why not? You haven’t gotten laid in eight-hundred-and-seventy-five years.”
Thanks for the reminder. Definitely needed that. Had totally forgotten. “I can’t just talk to someone like him,” I mutter.
“Why not? He’s perfect!” She starts ticking qualities off on her fingers. She’s painted little ladybirds on her nails. “Stranger, new in town, probably won’t be staying, and he’s absolutely gorgeous.”
Yeah, like lava is gorgeous. From a distance. Even across the pub, I can feel his heat, and I’m not interested in getting burned.
“I don’t do pretty,” I mutter, moving around the table to line up my next shot.
Sadly, Rebecca follows and keeps talking. “You did Annabelle Cross.”
“That was a one-time thing.” All my things are one-time things. No-one ever keeps me. But some people—usually women—find my ugly mug a bit of a thrill, and when they want to misbehave, they call me over. Problem is, like I said, Fernley’s a small village. Last couple of years, I’ve run out of one-time things to tap.
It feels like I’m running out of lots of things, lately. Like this place has nothing left for me to survive on. But I don’t dare think of that.
“Griff,” Rebecca sighs, like she’s talking to a kid. “It’s just a shag. You’re not looking for a bloody boyfriend.”
Aren’t I?
No. You’re doomed to be alone, and that’s okay.
I’ve learned over the years that I have to be firm with forbidden hopes, just like I’m firm with Rebecca.
Although, I never last long against Bex. She has this dizzying mix of charm and 1-2-3 logic that I struggle to fight. Plus, she talks really fast and it makes her sound smart. Already I can feel my remaining braincells toddling after her toward a cliff’s edge.
Still, I put up one last show of resistance. “Doubt he’s interested.”
“He’s staring a hole into you, Griff. No, don’t look, you donkey. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
I finally take my shot, and fluff it. “Year 2, you told me to pick up that stinging nettle—”
“I thought it was a flower,” Rebecca interrupts. “Don’t be petty.”
“Year 3, you convinced me to nab you a jam tart off your nana’s counter, and we both got—”
“Griffin! Are you going over there or not?”
I sigh and stare at the green velvet in front of me, red and yellow balls dotted about. But after a second, that’s not what I’m seeing: my eyes are full of the beautiful stranger. I study the memory of him, since I’m not allowed to look, and list his pros and cons.
The pros go like this.
Jesus Christ, I need a good fuck.
He’s intimidating. I like it.
His bottom lip is the rounded curve of a plump, ripe peach, and that’s my favourite fruit. I want to bite.
Yeah. The pros go off the rails pretty fast. I turn to cons.
He’s out of my league.
I’ve never seduced someone I don’t know. Fuck, living in a place like this, I don’t think I’ve ever talked to someone I don’t know.
The whole pub, also known as half of Fernley, will be watching the entire time, thinking about how I’m a changeling or a freak.
The cons are daunting, but that last one bothers me most of all—because it shouldn’t have even made the list. I’m not supposed to care what the village thinks of me. Their shit doesn’t belong in my head. That’s how my mum raised me, or tried to.
All you can ever be is yourself, so try not to second-guess it.
Fuck. Okay. Fine. No second-guessing.
Nerves crawling over my skin like aphids on a rose, I hand Rebecca my pool cue. “You sure you don’t mind?”
“Mind?” she echoes. “Oh, I’m sure, babe.”
I huff out a laugh and start to turn away.
She grabs me. “Wait, Griff—roll up your sleeves.”
