A Heat of the Moment Thing

by Maggie Le Page

  “Yeah, I figured that. My fitness regime starts tomorrow.”

  “Listen, if you’re serious about this—”

  “Oh, I am.” More than he knew, because this was me taking a stand, restarting my life, truly meaning it.

  “Well, we can probably arrange part-time work for you until your training’s complete. No high-rise stuff, obviously, but there’s plenty of other work.”

  “Really? Brilliant!”

  “The pay’s not great, but it’ll keep you fed. And no more practical jokes,” he added. “I promise.”

  * * *

  I pulled my swimming bag out of the wardrobe and the familiar chlorine smell wafted up. A knot of fear twisted in my gut. The choking, the drowning, the panic—I could feel it all, as if it were yesterday. A peaceful way to go? No way. Not for me.

  Come on. It would be fine. It’d be a swim, not a death sentence. Millions of people swam every day without getting killed. I could, too.

  But . . .

  No buts. Time to flick the finger at this ridiculous fear.

  I drew back the curtains. Fresh snow had blanketed the ground overnight. And—no. Not a good excuse, Becs. Get on with it. Go swimming.

  Right. I wrapped up warm, tramped down my five flights of stairs—which, thankfully, I wouldn’t have to suffer much longer—and through the snow to the local leisure centre. Made it as far as the changing rooms and sat on a bench, shaking so hard I couldn’t even unzip my bag.

  Okay, then. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.

  The next morning I woke feeling nauseous. Not today either, then. Funny how the nausea disappeared as soon as I let myself off the hook.

  Okay, maybe swimming wasn’t a great idea. I’d never really enjoyed it, anyway. I definitely didn’t enjoy the early mornings, and there were plenty of other ways to get fit. Jogging wouldn’t cost a penny. And I could join a gym, or take Pilates. Yes. Pilates and jogging. Good idea.

  I pulled on leggings and a big curve-covering t-shirt, then dusted off my trainers. Enough procrastinating. Time to get fit, fast.

  * * *

  I let myself into my new flat and paused at the threshold, smiling. Home. Finally. Then I stepped inside and my smile dissolved.

  Something wasn’t right.

  They couldn’t call this fully furnished. Surely.

  Had they switched the furniture on me? It hadn’t looked like this when I’d viewed the place. Look at those living room chairs! Rickety hard-backed things straight out of Tom Brown’s schooldays. Functional, but I bet they fell well short on comfort.

  I walked through to the bedroom. Joy. Saggy bed syndrome. Eyes peeled now for every inadequacy, I stalked around the flat with increasing anger. Carpet: stained. Curtains: didn’t meet in the middle. Kitchenette: filthy sink, cupboards to match. I picked up a random glass and stared, dismayed, at the crusty red wine dregs. Even Jim had better standards than this.

  I squared my shoulders. Fine. Whatever. My flat was grim. It matched my life.

  Come on, was it really that bad? Uninhabited houses always looked grim. Remember how bad my room back home had looked when it was empty. I just needed to move in.

  And spend a week or two cleaning.

  Or maybe I should give up, go back to London, and try to work it out with Matt. Because that’s what I kept imagining myself doing.

  No. This was nuts. I’d done the hard stuff. No more looking back. Time to look forward. Time to clean.

  Cleaning was good for the soul, right?

  I wasn’t convinced. Maybe a relaxing cup of coffee would help. I fossicked through kitchen cupboards until I found a mug.

  Dirty.

  So was the next one, and the next.

  Okay, I’d wash the dishes—every last one—and then I’d have a coffee. I ran the hot water.

  Hot water?

  No hot water.

  I ran the tap a bit longer. Really? No hot water? I turned to the stove-top and frantically fiddled with switches.

  Please, no. No gas? No blasted gas? I raced through to the hall and turned the heater on. Aarrgh! No blasted fucking gas. My chin wobbled. Pig-useless bloody gasman. I’d given them plenty of notice. Plenty.

  I bit down on my lip until pain stifled the chin-wobble, then lifted the phone. Thank God. A dial tone. At least British Telecom had done their bit. I punched in the number and asked the stupid, useless gas company when they were planning on connecting my gas.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” said the sales rep, not half as sorry as me. “I’ll just bring up your details.”

  Piped music shrilled in my ear. By the time she’d found my details I had a headache.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” she repeated. “It seems there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  My headache strengthened.

  “Misunderstanding?” My voice rose an octave. “How can ‘please connect my gas’ be misunderstood?”

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am. It’ll be seen to within the next twenty-four hours. I’m afraid that’s the best we can do.”

  Perfect. A whole day without heating. In January. I slammed the phone into the cradle. A piece of plastic pinged out onto the floor.

  I stared at it, aghast. If my phone no longer worked, so help me, I’d . . .

  I’d what? Ring BT and complain? Return to London?

  * * *

  An icy-cold shower the next morning clinched it. I couldn’t hurry the gas company but there were other things about my new home I could change. The bed, for starters. I needed one that wouldn’t give me backache or bites—both of which I’d acquired overnight. I also needed a heater. Not to mention comfy chairs.

  And that was just the start of my shopping list because, dammit, if I was going to make this my home I wanted a few creature comforts around me.

  I took a trip to the Ikea store, strode around as if I owned the place, and drew up a long list of must-haves. Tossed in a few what-the-hell extras. Then marched up to a counter and slapped the list down.

  “I need all of these,” I informed the startled shop assistant, and whipped out my credit card. “Put it all on this. Oh, and I’ll take same-day delivery, thanks.”

  “Um.” He ran his eyes down the list. “I’m not sure we’ll manage a delivery of this size today. Will tomorrow do?”

  First the gas, and now my furniture?

  My shoulders sagged. “I suppose so. But if you can manage it today”—I fluttered my eyelashes at him—“I’d be ever so grateful. I’m trying to transform a hovel into a home.”

  Truthfully, I wasn’t sure my flat would ever feel like home, but I had to try. It was the only home I had.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I woke with a start. What was wrong? I lay there, heart pounding, every sense alert.

  Rap-a-rap.

  I glanced at the bedside clock—eight o’clock—then staggered out of bed to answer the door.

  “Who is it?” I opened the door a smidgeon, put an eye to the gap. “Liz?”

  I flung the door wide, grinning like an idiot. “Liz! What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you to invite me in.” She stamped her feet, shivering. “It’s arctic out here.”

  “Oh! Sorry.” I stepped aside so she could enter.

  She thrust a box at me then made a beeline for the nearest heater.

  “Thanks. What’s this?” The weight shifted in my hands and I looked at her, eyes shining, heart full, knowing exactly what was inside.

  “It’s a peace offering,” she said, twisting her hands together. “I was a bitch. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You said what I needed to hear.” Only as I said it did I realise it was true. “I didn’t like it, but you were being a good friend. An honest one.”

  She smiled. Her hands relaxed. “Go on, then, open it.”

  I peeked inside the box. “Jules!”

  One very miffed cat emitted a how-could-you-incarcerate-me-like-that meow and climbed out. With a disdainful glance my way, he stalked off towards my bedroom, stopping
every few feet to sniff warily.

  I grabbed Liz in a bear hug. “Thanks so much.”

  She hugged me back. We stepped apart and stood looking at each other a moment. I wiped away a tear, reached out for another quick hug, then went and busied myself in the kitchenette. “Coffee?”

  “Please. Strong. That overnighter’s a killer.”

  I poured some milk into a saucer. “Jules! Puss-puss-puss.”

  He was instantly at my side, all grievances forgotten.

  We took our steaming mugs and settled in the living room.

  “How’s your restructure going?” I asked.

  Liz took her time answering, her hand smoothing the arm of her chair, up and down, up and down. She finally met my eyes. “It’s tough. That’s the other reason I’m here. I needed a break.”

  I studied her face, the tension in her mouth, the smudges beneath her eyes. Poor thing. The sooner this restructure was done and dusted, the better.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” I said, and I meant it. I could never hand people their redundancy notices, offering a tissue and a back pat as their world crumbled. No wonder Liz looked stressed. “Is your own job safe?”

  She sighed, leaned her head against the back of the chair. “I think so. Head office isn’t affected as much as the branches. Jim says hi,” she added, with the most unsubtle subject change ever.

  I played along. “How is he?”

  “Painful. Turns every conversation into something about sex.”

  No change there, then.

  “And the house should be condemned.” She shook her head, disgusted. “The way he lives? It’s just not healthy.”

  I smiled. He sounded just fine.

  “He needs a house-mate. Someone to keep him human.”

  “He hasn’t got one yet?”

  “No. But your bed and drawers are still there. And that chair by the window. And your computer desk.”

  Rats. I’d put them out of my mind. It was probably my fault he didn’t have a new house-mate. “I’d better ring him.”

  “And you’ve left a bunch of things at my place, too, remember?” She watched me closely. “When were you planning on moving it all up here, anyway?”

  Remnants from my old life? I hesitated. Shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll give it to Jim.”

  “Jim?” She snorted. “He’ll just let it rot. I can sort through it all for you if you want.”

  “No,” I said, too quickly.

  Her eyebrows shot up.

  “I’ll do it soon.” I felt defensive. “Maybe in spring.”

  “Spring’s almost here.”

  “Summer, then.”

  She gave me a look full of pity, and a sudden blast of anger surged through me.

  “Stop it!” I wanted to scream. “Stop analysing me!”

  I knew it was nuts and I needed to just toughen up and get on with it—but it was hard, okay? What I didn’t need was her or anyone else putting pressure on me. And if she told me to see a counsellor . . . I braced myself.

  “Any news on the job front?” she asked.

  I breathed again. This I could cope with. “Actually, yes.”

  “That’s brilliant. What are you doing?”

  “I still can’t believe it’s happening, but . . . well, I’ve just signed on as a window cleaner.”

  Her jaw dropped. Her eyes bulged. I giggled.

  “You what?”

  I nodded, keeping my face straight. “First I’ve got to do the training. No guarantees I’ll pass, either. It’s really tough.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re having a laugh, right?”

  “No. God’s truth. I’m training to be a window cleaner.” A grin burst onto my face.

  “A window cleaner.”

  “A high-rise window cleaner.”

  “High-rise?” she repeated faintly.

  I shrugged. “New life, new job.”

  “Right . . .”

  Silence. Then, “Is it dangerous?”

  “Is driving dangerous?”

  “You don’t hang in mid-air when you’re driving.”

  “You don’t share the road with drunks and psychos when you’re cleaning high-rises.”

  “I guess.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Won’t you miss lecturing?”

  “The people, maybe.” One in particular. A lump burned my throat.

  “Sal really misses you,” she said.

  Wrong person.

  I chewed at a fingernail. Caught myself and stopped. “You didn’t tell her the real reason I left, did you?”

  “No, but I should’ve.” Liz’s eyes were accusing. “She was really upset when she asked after your gran.”

  “You didn’t say Gran was . . .” I trailed off, shredded the nail.

  “Dead and buried? Yes.”

  I groaned.

  “What was I meant to say, Becs? Sal asked how she was. I didn’t know you’d fed her a pack of lies.”

  “Why else do you think she’d be asking after my dead grandmother?”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t blow your cover. She thinks you’ve been organising funerals and stuff.”

  “Thank you,” I breathed.

  She took her empty cup out to the kitchenette. “Becs, why make it so complicated? Why not just tell her the truth?”

  “I couldn’t. Imagine if everyone knew I’d been sleeping with the boss.” I drained my coffee. “Think of the shame. I’d die.”

  “Why? You’ve left. It doesn’t matter.”

  It mattered to me.

  “What else is new, then?” I kept my voice light. “Any gossip?”

  For a moment she said nothing, regarding me steadily. I blinked to break the contact.

  “No gossip,” she said. “The restructure continues. People hate me. Ooh!” Her face lit up. “Sal was telling me about—what’s her name? Melissa? . . . you worked with her at Beacon Travel.”

  “Alyssa?”

  “That’s it. She turned up at T&T a couple of times.”

  “Why? Oh.” I nodded, recalling our conversation in Dublin. “She fancies her chances as a Rec. Tourism lecturer. Can’t see it, myself.”

  “Actually, she was after your old job.” Liz sat down, gave me a quizzical look. “I thought you knew that. You were one of her referees.”

  I frowned. “That’s news to me.”

  “Oh? Sal says Alyssa says you two are like that.” She crossed her fingers.

  “As if I’d referee for her. They’d be mad to employ her.”

  Liz chuckled. “I gather Sal wasn’t impressed.”

  “Can you believe that? Alyssa spoke to me at Conference. You’d think she’d ask before she used me as a referee.”

  “Alyssa went to Conference, did she? That’ll be where she met him, then.”

  “Who?”

  Realisation dawned. My face blanched.

  “Who do you think?”

  My hearing went haywire. Her voice zoomed in and out, loud, louder, louder, until she was booming the words out at earsplitting level; then, just as quickly, back through mid-volume towards mouse-quiet, until she was barely discernible.

  “Come on, have a guess,” she said, the volume increasing again so that ‘guess’ resounded in my skull with rock concert power.

  No. This was so wrong. How could he have chosen Alyssa, of all people?

  Liz waited expectantly.

  I couldn’t say his name. Please don’t make me say his name. I gulped for air, feeling breathless, sick, trapped.

  She opened her mouth to speak, and I tensed for the bullet-thump of his name into my heart.

  “Charlie Hollingworth.”

  The air whooshed out of me. My jaw sagged. I slumped into the back of the chair.

  “Charlie?”

  Liz clapped her hands, delighted. “Yes! Small world. He knows you, apparently.”

  My thoughts were drowning in syrupy goo. “Um, yes. He does.”

  “Sal says Alyssa was like the cat that got the cream. Told S
al way too much about Charlie’s bedroom technique.”

  My lips stretched into a slow smile, a smile that grew, widening and widening until it threatened to leap off my face and dance around the room. Then a giggle escaped. Just a tiny giggle; barely audible. But the one that followed was definitely audible. And the one after that was actually quite loud. Giggles became guffaws and I gave in to a long-overdue belly laugh, flailing around like a madwoman in my chair, almost hysterical with it all and totally unable to stop. Liz’s bewildered expression just made things worse.

  Eventually I subsided into relative silence.

  “Was it something I said?” Liz asked.

  “Yes.” I clamped down hard on another giggle. Massaged my aching cheeks.

  “What’s so funny about his bedroom technique?”

  I grinned. “Nothing. His bedroom technique’s just fine.”

  She raised her eyebrows and I shrugged. “We had a wee fling. He’s good fun. Just . . .”

  “. . . not for you?” she finished.

  I smiled. “No.”

  Then stopped, surprised. Was that affection I felt for Charlie? After so many years loathing him liked chopped liver, to suddenly catch myself thinking of him in more . . . steak pie terms was disconcerting. Yet refreshing. See? Big-girl panties moment: I’d finally moved on.

  “Alyssa’s probably perfect for him, though,” I said.

  “Then what’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.” I giggled again. “I just thought, when you talked about Alyssa hooking up with some guy—”

  I stopped. Suddenly it wasn’t the slightest bit funny. I gulped. Took a breath and tried again.

  “I wasn’t expecting it to be Charlie. I thought you meant she and . . .” My throat closed around his name.

  “Matt.”

  I bit my lip, nodded.

  “Becs,” she said, her voice gentle, “why don’t you just pick up the phone and ring him?”

  She watched me. I felt like a frog about to be dissected.

  “It’ll be Valentines Day in a couple of weeks,” she added.

  As if I needed her reminding me of that.

  I shook my head vigorously. “No. No way. I can’t. It has to be a clean break or—”

  “Or what? You’ll still miss him?”