by Katey Lovell
My cheeks felt hot, and I knew they were reddening at the compliment. From most men I’d have thought it was a line, but from this man – Max, or so his name badge told me – it didn’t feel like a come-on, although he was probably a master salesman, full of charm and patter.
“Maybe I could try it on?” My voice wobbled and only partly because I was well out of my comfort zone in a shop cluttered with people’s unloved and unwanted objects. “If it’s not too much bother taking it out of the window?”
“No trouble at all.”
I studied him more closely as he clambered into the window display. As well as the deliciously-curved biceps, there was a rather biteable peach of an arse beneath his jet-black fitted jeans. A sprinkling of stubble peppered his chiselled jawline, and there was an endearing look of concentration on his face as he carefully chose where to place his feet.
“The changing room’s just over there.” Max pointed to the far end of the shop with one hand as he passed me the jumpsuit with the other.
It turned out the changing room was a metre-square corner of the shop with a pulled-back curtain, a battered pine dining chair crammed into a corner and a full-length mirror attached to the wall. It was barely big enough to stand upright in, let alone allow me to wrestle myself into a jumpsuit (why are they such a bugger to get into? So fiddly).
Drawing the curtain behind me, I began to undress. There was a sliver of a gap where the swath of material didn’t quite meet the wall, and through the space I saw Max, sitting on his stool, engrossed in a book. As I stripped down to my underwear with just the flimsy curtain between us, an irrational vulnerability came over me. There was no way he could see me (and even if he could he was totally lost in whatever he was reading), but I was still glad I’d decided to wear one of my nicest underwear sets – a mint-green bra and pants set with white lace trim. It gave me confidence as I slipped my legs into the jumpsuit and hitched the straps up over my shoulders. Fastening the zip was awkward, but there was no way I was asking Max for help so I struggled on, my elbows bashing against the wall as I tugged at the small metal pulley.
When I was finally dressed I swizzled to view myself in the mirror. The neckline of the jumpsuit seemed lower once on, my cleavage difficult to avoid. The nipped in waist made the most of my curves and the fabric clung to my bum. Thankfully the flattering cut made it appear pert and perky, even though I’d all but given up on my formerly regimented squatting routine. They might be the answer to a beautiful butt, but they’re the devil’s work. The burn. THE BURN.
“How are you getting on?” Max asked from the other side of the curtain.
I jumped, startled.
“Okay, I think. It fits. It’s hard to see what it looks like from this close to the mirror though.”
“Come out and you’ll get a better view,” he suggested. “It’s a tight squeeze in there, I know.”
Pulling back the curtain, I stepped into the shop.
Max raised his eyebrows in response.
His scrutiny made me aware of how little the jumpsuit left to the imagination. It was a snug fit, and low-cut, and way too dressy for a charity shop in the middle of an ordinary Saturday afternoon.
Exposed. That’s how I felt. I felt exposed.
“Wow,” he said finally. His gaze followed me up and down and he pushed his glasses up his nose with his index finger.
My heart quickened in delight at the one-word comment, causing me to become hyper-aware of the rise and fall of my breasts within the low-cut outfit. I felt like a superhero – Catwoman or Batgirl, or some other half-naked heroine – and although the feminist in me hated myself for it, I pushed my shoulders back until the fabric strained against my chest. For a moment I wasn’t sure what was going to pop out first, Max’s eyes or my perky nipples.
“Do you think I should get it?” I asked, although I’d already decided it was coming home with me. It was too much of a bargain to leave behind. Surely even Guy would allow me a little treat for my recent good behaviour (although as I set my sights on the jumpsuit I conveniently blanked out the make-up and the biscuits and the overpriced coffee and cake Kath had coerced me into).
“Absolutely.” Max swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the base of his neck.
“Looks like I have no choice then.” I smiled.
Back in the confines of the changing room the smile became a full-on beam. The jumpsuit was just the confidence boost I needed, and Max’s reaction to it the icing on the cake.
I unzipped the zipper, which was a million times easier than doing the bloody thing up had been, and allowed the outfit to slip off, pooling around my feet. As I slid into my old favourite dress, which I’d been so confident in before, I noticed how plain – how demure – it seemed in comparison to the glamour of the jumpsuit.
Scooping up my belongings, I peeped through the gap in the curtains once more, expecting to find Max still gripped by his book. Instead he was looking in my direction. There was no way he could see more than an inch of me through the crack in the curtain, but that didn’t stop my heart from racing.
As I emerged into the shop, he grinned, and nodding towards the jumpsuit in my hand said, “New outfit for town tonight?”
It didn’t sound like an invitation, but his interest was flattering nonetheless. It had been a while since someone of the opposite sex cared what I was doing on a Saturday night, let alone someone as gorgeous as Max.
“No plans tonight, sadly. I’ll probably stay in and wash my hair with just next door’s cat for company.”
“That’s tragic,” he replied, mock solemnly, “although my night isn’t much more exciting.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going for a drink with my brother but only to the local. He can’t meet until late because my nephew Isaac’s a devil for going to sleep and he won’t let anyone but Grant put him to bed. I’ll be lucky if he gets in much before last orders.”
“Hardly worth going at that time,” I mused. “Unless you can find someone else to join you.”
He cocked his head, a flicker of a smirk playing out on his lips. “Is that an offer?”
“Maybe,” I said coyly, as he rang the programme and the jumpsuit into the till. I searched for my purse in the depths of my bag, and when I found it pulled out a note. “If you’re asking.”
“It’s nothing special, the local,” he said, naming a pub I’d been to before. It’s near one of Tawna’s ex-boyfriend’s houses, although given the amount of exes Tawna has, most pubs in the North East are. “But a band I know are playing there tonight. Don’t decide now, I know I’ve sprung it on you. But I’ll be there from seven.”
“O-kay.” I was surprised to find I was contemplating taking him up on his offer. Then again, I’d not had this instantaneous an attraction to anyone in a long time. Not since Darius, in fact. “Thanks, Max.”
“Perhaps I’ll see you later…”
His voice trailed off, and from the expectant look in his eyes I knew he was waiting for me to tell him my name. “Sophie. Sophie Drew.”
Chapter 6
From the outside, the pub was exactly as I remembered, one of those large cube-like buildings surrounded by a car park. The lack of empty parking bays suggested it was a busy night.
I’d not been to a local pub on a weekend evening for a long time and as I stepped into the baking-hot building the noise hit me like a slap.
People were crammed in and all hope I had of finding Max sat quietly nursing a pint quickly vanished. I’d made the right choice plumping for flat knee-high boots rather than the pair of heels that had also been contenders – I had the feeling we’d be doing a lot of standing, going by the sheer volume of people.
I navigated my way to the bar, apologising every few steps for bumping into someone.
When I reached the polished mahogany counter, debating whether to order a gin and tonic or a glass of white wine, the reason for the crowds became apparent. An ear-piercing wail of an electric guitar caused me to jump back in
alarm, a rhythmic drumbeat kicking in behind it as a female vocalist drawled lyrics full of cynicisms. The band was in full swing.
The bartender raised his eyebrows at me, which I took as an invite to place my order. I opted for the house white in the end, thinking it would be the cheaper option. Spirits got expensive when miniature mixtures were involved, and I’d set myself a strict budget. I’d chosen to take the fifty-minute walk from my house to save on bus fare, and although it had been a beautiful day there was a chilly nip in the evening air. After being in the cold for so long the cranked-up heating of the heaving pub caused my nose to run, so I was sniffing in a very unattractive manner when Max tapped me on the shoulder.
“Sophie! You came.”
“I did.”
The bartender placed my drink on a cardboard beer mat, but as I offered him the money, Max interjected.
“And a pint of Guinness please.” He turned to face me, the lenses of his glasses steamy from the humidity in the room and added, “My treat. You wouldn’t be out if it wasn’t for me suggesting it. You’d be at home, washing your hair.”
It made me smile that he’d remembered my comment, and I gladly accepted his generosity.
When he’d de-steamed his glasses and the bartender had handed over our drinks, Max gestured to a doorway at the other end of the pub.
“My friends’ band aren’t due on for a while, so let’s go out the back.” His voice was loud. It needed to be to be heard over the band. “We’ll be able to talk then.”
I don’t know much about music, but I could tell the band were half decent – the lead singer had a good voice. The music wasn’t what I’d choose to listen to, but the crowd were behind them, enthusiastically singing along to the cover version of a well-known indie song. I feared for my eardrums. It was as though they were playing at Wembley Stadium rather than a local pub.
It was much quieter in the snug and luckily we found a free table. The space was small though, and equally as stifling as the main room. The window dripped with condensation, the droplets of water slithering down the inside of the pane and pooling on the window ledge. It was like stepping inside a furnace, and if I hadn’t taken my cardigan off right away I might have collapsed from overheating.
“Aren’t you hot?” I asked in disbelief, eyeing Max’s thick cream sweater. It was chunky knit – the sort of thing a fisherman would wear for a long day working on the choppy North Sea – and looked like it weighed a ton.
“A bit,” he admitted, smiling sheepishly, “but I’ve not got a T-shirt on underneath.”
I laughed nervously at the thought of his naked skin beneath the wool, and recalled his muscular arms from earlier in the day. I wondered if his abs and pecs were equally as toned. The image left my mouth dry, and I took a desperate swig from my wine to try to push all thoughts of an undressed Max to the back of my mind. Pull yourself together, Sophie. You barely know the guy.
“I’m glad you decided to come,” he said, sliding his sleeves up to once more reveal those gorgeous arms. The golden-brown hairs that covered them were ever-so-slightly visible against his skin, and I found it hard to pull my eyes away. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
“What made you think that?”
“I thought you’d be wary of being invited out by someone you haven’t met before. It’s not how people meet these days, is it? It’s all about swiping right on a dating app.”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who needs a dating app,” I replied, swilling my wine around the glass, “and it’s not like you’ve been hit by the ugly stick. I’d have thought you’d have women queuing around the block.”
My cheeks heated up as Max raised his eyebrows at me.
“Not quite, but thanks. I’ve got friends who use dating apps. One met his fiancée on Tinder.”
“Really?”
My only experience of the app had been one very sad rebound date soon after Darius and I had split up. I’d arrived early at the coffee shop we’d agreed to meet at, the hit of strong mocha not as emboldening as a bottle of wine would have been, but far more acceptable for ten o’clock on a Sunday morning. When my date had finally arrived – late – he hadn’t even bought a drink, just walked up to me, asked if I was Sophie and told me he lived in the flat upstairs if I was “up for it”. I hadn’t been up for it. I’d been looking for someone to pay me a few compliments and boost my self-esteem, not a quick shag.
“It’s the modern way, I suppose, but I’m not sure it’s for me. I’ve never been good at selling myself.”
“You work in a shop! Surely selling should come naturally.”
“That’s different. It’s easy to help someone find what they’re looking for on the rails.”
“Not so easy to big yourself up?”
“Not without coming across like a bit of a dick.” His tone was serious, but I could tell he was joking through the hint of a smile.
“You seem so confident,” I mused.
“Things aren’t always what they seem,” he said, before taking a sip of his Guinness. The creamy froth sat on his upper lip for just a second before with one quick flick of the tongue it was gone, as though it had never been there in the first place. “I learned that the hard way.”
I gave a quizzical look, but Max didn’t offer anything further, instead saying, “Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about you, how you spend your free time when you’re not washing your hair…”
Smoky eyes peered out at me from behind his glasses, the most unusual shade of greeny-grey, like the opaque wisps in the glass marbles I’d find in the bottom of my stocking each Christmas Day as a kid. And those forearms, which I had an overwhelming desire to have wrapped around me, were a distraction too. I’d bet Max gave good hugs, especially in that stupidly cuddly sweater. He’d be like a human teddy bear.
“What do you want to know?” The question was a stalling tactic as I wondered how I could make my humdrum life sound more exciting than it really was. “I grew up here and now rent a place in Northumberland Park, where my neighbour’s ginger moggie Scrat Cat is forever climbing in through my kitchen window. I spend my free time either binge-watching a TV series or making stuff.” When he looked at me questioningly I added, “Sewing, origami, crochet… anything crafty really. I find it relaxing.” And I did, although I’d not made anything other than origami flowers for months. “I’d love to be able to make a living from selling the things I make, that’d be the dream, but I wouldn’t know where to start. I work at a law firm in town.”
“Oh, you’re a solicitor?”
“Legal secretary.” I grimaced, thinking of the pile of work that’d no doubt be waiting for me when I returned to the office on Monday morning.
“But you don’t like your job?”
“What makes you think that?” I said with a laugh of resignation.
“The dejected tone of voice gave me a clue, but it was the look of sheer frustration that gave it away. I know how you feel. I hated my last job, answering the phones at one of the big utility companies’ call centres.”
I shuddered.
“Yeah, it wasn’t exactly a laugh a minute. Customers complaining about the rate they were on, wanting to know why the engineer they were expecting to arrive three hours ago to fix their boiler hadn’t arrived… all that kind of fun stuff. I should have known what it was going to be like. People don’t ring up to say ‘Everything’s working with my gas and electric, so I thought I’d phone to let you know what a great job you’re doing’, do they?”
The voice he put on made me laugh. I think it was supposed to be a Scottish accent, or maybe Welsh. Either way, it was laughably terrible.
“You’re right. It’s like that in my job too. Don’t get me wrong, the people I work with are great. It doesn’t give me a sense of satisfaction though.”
“Just what you do to pay the bills, huh?” He smiled, and I made myself smile back, not wanting to dwell on my tangled financial situation. “Luckily I love my current job. I’ve
worked in retail on and off since I was sixteen. The shop relies on volunteers to help out, because obviously if they paid for staff there’d be less money raised for the cause, so as the manager I’m the only person who gets a wage.”
“What sort of people shop there? I always imagine charity shops to be full of old grannies.”
Max rolled his eyes, and I worried I’d offended him until that playful grin reappeared. “People always say that, but the truth is all kinds of people shop there. Mums looking for cheap toys to entertain their kids, record collectors hoping to find a rare LP they’ve been looking for, students who’re into vintage clothing… honestly, normal people. You were there yourself earlier, don’t forget.”
A giggle escaped my lips. I hadn’t thought of it that way.
“If you really don’t like your job,” he continued, “you should change it. We spend a lot of our lives working. You don’t want to waste it doing something you don’t enjoy.”
“Creative industries are hard to get into though. There aren’t even any factory jobs where I could spend the day at a sewing machine, I looked into it a while back. Most of the big clothing companies outsource to other countries because they can get the work done for a fraction of the price.”
Max screwed up his nose in distaste. “Sweatshops.”
“Yeah. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that craft will only ever be a hobby. There’s no way to make a living from it, not for someone like me.”
“Never say never,” Max said optimistically, knocking back the last of his pint. He looked down at his watch, and I panicked, taking it as a sign that he wanted me to leave. I prepared to make my excuses, but he said, “Shall we go through to the other room for a bit? My friends’ band is due on at eight and I should probably be supportive and show my face.”
I picked up my wine glass, drank it dry and pushed myself up off the stool. “Sounds good. And I’ll get us another drink in too, shall I?”
“Another Guinness would be lovely, thanks.”
We left the saunaesque room and headed into the raucous melee of the pub itself, Max leading the way. As he reached his hand out behind him to ensure we didn’t get separated by the sea of people, I placed my hand in his. The soft hairs of his forearm tickled my skin. The sensation thrilled me.