by Matt Dunn
Calum waited until the office was nearly empty, then he picked up his toiletries bag and headed into the toilets. He'd initially been worried about not having time to go back home to get changed between work and tonight's date, though in actual fact, he'd realised wearing his work suit was probably a good idea, given he wouldn't have known what appropriate dress was for a date anyway. 'Smart-casual' (whatever that was) was what the frequently asked questions page on LondonDate had recommended, and though Calum had gone out clothes shopping at the weekend clutching a couple of torn-out pages from his latest copy of GQ for inspiration, he'd returned home empty-handed, having quickly come to the conclusion that skinny jeans were only good if you had skinny genes, and to wear anything else from the pages of the magazine would be to walk the dangerous line between either trying too hard, or not trying at all. Besides, if he wore a suit, Calum reasoned, the easiest way to pull off the smart-casual look might simply be to take off his tie.
A double-check of the time told him he had just under an hour, so he unzipped the toiletries bag and spread the contents - electric shaver, moisturiser, toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash, aftershave, deodorant - out on the shelf behind the sink, then examined his face in the mirror. Under the harsh bathroom light, his fast-growing but patchy facial hair wasn't a good look, hence the reason he'd waited until just before meeting Emma to shave, though for a moment, he considered going like he was. Perhaps Emma would like the 'designer stubble' look, though trouble was, with his bright red uneven growth, it looked like the designer was a five-year-old.
He switched the shaver on and carefully began shaving, under his left side-burn first, then across his cheek, down to the sporadic growth on his neck, and finally up over the left side of his chin and under his nose, then he stood back and rubbed that half of his face - as smooth as the proverbial baby's backside, to quote his mum earlier. If there was going to be kissing tonight - and he at least planned to go for a peck on the cheek at 'hello' - then that would surely do, especially once he'd moisturised. He'd never had a grooming routine until he'd started reading GQ, thinking that 'grooming' was something that only pet owners or paedophiles did, but nowadays the contents of his bathroom cabinet probably put David Beckham's to shame. It was only a pity he couldn't say the same thing about his abs.
He tilted his face to the light and checked his reflection, making sure he hadn't missed any bits, then readied himself to do the same to the other side of his face, but suddenly, the buzzing from his shaver began to get lower, and before he could start on his unshaven right side, the sound died completely. Calum froze, then flicked the shaver's switch off and back on again, but with no success. Trying to ignore the sudden feeling of panic rising in his chest, he hunted around inside his toiletries bag, tipping it upside down and shaking it over the sink, even turning the bag inside out in an attempt to find the power cord. The cord, he suddenly remembered, that was still attached to the shaver socket in his bathroom at home.
Calum examined his reflection in the mirror, wondering what on earth to do. He didn't have time to get home and back, and rushing out to the shops to buy a razor and some shaving foam just wasn’t an option, given how his skin tended to develop a rash whenever he wet shaved. He had some tweezers, so he toyed with the idea of simply plucking out the hairs on the right side of his face, but the one he tried made his eyes water so much with the pain that he soon gave up on that idea.
He told himself to breathe deeply as he considered his options. Short of emptying the shaver and trying to glue the recently-removed hair back on again, he supposed he could sit for the whole evening with his hand covering the unshaven side of his face. Or, he could make sure he got one of the corner tables at Old Amsterdam, meaning he could sit sideways on to Emma for the whole night, but that would be tricky to maintain - particularly if she wanted to do one of those continental-style double kisses when they met. Alternatively, he could just pretend he was taking part in one of those 'grow half a beard' things for charity, which would have the added benefit of making him look like a particularly generous, virtuous type, and maybe if he chose the right charity - orphaned children, perhaps, or injured dogs, given Emma's love of them, perhaps even ones that had been hurt by sparks from log fires - he'd gain extra brownie points. Trouble was, whichever of those options he chose wouldn't stop him looking ridiculous.
Then, in the midst of his desperation, Calum had a brainwave. Tottenham Court Road was five minutes away, and the home of about twenty electrical shops - one would surely stock the right kind of power cord. If he hurried, he could be there, back, and shaved within fifteen minutes, still leaving him the best part of three-quarters of an hour before his date.
He stuffed his electric shaver into his trouser pocket, gathered the rest of his toiletries up and shoved them back into their bag, then he ran to his office and grabbed his coat from the hook on the inside of the door, sprinted down the stairs, and out of the building.
Mark closed the blinds on his office window, just missing out on what would have been the delicious sight of Julie Marshall running past on the pavement outside. Aware he was in danger of wearing the carpet out, he began pacing round his office, still unable to understand what had happened today - or rather, work out how his carefully-laid plans had gone so wrong. He cursed the fact he hadn't been more up front with her, or even sealed the deal when the opportunity had presented itself to him, but then again, he wasn't a salesman, but an accountant. Ironic, then, that this was something he just couldn't figure out.
At the back of his mind, he wasn't convinced Julie had been warning him off. Something about what Nathan had said had made him suspect she might still think Nathan had sent her the card, otherwise surely she'd have mentioned him by name, and told Nathan to let him know in no uncertain terms his advances weren't welcome, and yet she hadn't. In fact, she'd sounded more like she'd been warning Nathan off. And given how it had been Julie who'd kissed him... Well, that made her behaviour today all the more puzzling.
The more he thought about it, the more Mark was convinced something just didn't quite ring true. Julie hadn't refused to join them outside Bar Italia, and surely that would have been the obvious thing to do - or a good time to mention something. With both him and Nathan there (and Sophie as a witness) she could have said what she needed to say without any of this subterfuge, but instead she'd waited to catch Nathan on his own - which meant Julie must have thought Nathan had sent her the card. Plus she knew he and Nathan were friends, and because of that, she must have known her warning Nathan off would get back to him - which meant it just might be possible she may - in a roundabout way - have been trying to tell him she was still interested. And if that was the case, well, he needed to confront her about the kiss now. See whether he had imagined it, and if not, find out whether it had meant anything at all.
He retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on, straightened his tie, then walked out of his office, carefully locking the door behind him. The building was pretty deserted already - no-one liked to hang around on these winter nights, though he'd often noticed Julie's light still burning long after Sophie and the others had gone home. He'd always been too scared to go and talk to her, though, preferring to pretend to be working late himself, his door open, listening out for her on the stairs, though usually settling for a hasty 'night' as she hurried past with her head down. This evening, though, half of them would probably be out for a drink before heading over to Nathan's Anti-Valentine's night, and the rest, if they knew what was good for them, were probably off home for a Valentine's rendezvous with their other halves. Which meant he and Julie were unlikely to be disturbed.
He heard a thundering noise, followed by a breathless 'excuse me,' and stepped back quickly to avoid what looked like a half-shaved, charging-at-full-speed Calum, then nervously made his way up the stairs. All he had to do was talk to her like a man. Be honest. Tell her how he felt. Maybe not even that - perhaps he should start by asking her if he'd insulted h
er by his actions. Most importantly, he needed to ask her out.
But when he got to Julie's office, the lights were off, and the door was locked firmly shut. And Mark couldn't help feeling that was strangely appropriate.
Sophie didn't know whether Nathan was just being kind, but so far she was ahead by around thirty points. She'd started off by pretending she didn't know how to play, and had nearly fainted when Nathan had held her briefly to demonstrate the correct way to swing her bowling arm, and then, when her game had 'miraculously' started to improve, she'd even had a strike, much to Nathan's delight (and Sophie's, when he'd hugged her in celebration). She'd almost wanted to text Darren there and then to thank him for the hours he'd made her spend on the Nintendo version.
Conscious of the time, she'd been playing as fast as she could, and in truth, she found actual bowling (as opposed to the on-screen type) hard going, but Sophie had wanted to make a good impression, so she'd tried not to wince at the effort of constantly lifting the heavy ball up to her shoulder, and done her best to ignore the weakening grip in her bowling hand. In return for the lesson, she'd bought Nathan a drink, in the hope he'd return the compliment elsewhere once they'd finished the game, and then she could go for a different kind of strike - a 'while the iron was hot' one - and certainly, the more she spent time with him, the more she thought Nathan was hot.
Every now and again, he'd glance at the door, though Sophie imagined this was probably to see whether anyone else from the office had turned up rather than because he was looking for an escape route. But she was also aware that after a couple more frames, the others would surely start to arrive, which meant her window of opportunity was closing fast. And it was possibly because that fact was making her nervous, or maybe that she was sweating from the effort of repeatedly lifting the heavy balls, or even that her hand was tired, or her fingers were wet from the condensation on her cocktail glass, but the one thing she hadn't planned on doing this evening was dropping her bowling ball from shoulder height in front of the whole bowling alley. And certainly not onto her foot.
For a moment, Sophie didn't know what to do. Her foot had exploded in the most intense agony, and even the fact that Nathan had lifted her up off her feet and was carrying her back to her seat couldn't take her mind off how painful it was. As he knelt down beside her and gently undid her laces, she was almost beside herself.
'Where does it hurt?'
'My foot,' she whimpered, fighting back the tears, and then, despite her pain, Sophie cursed her stupidity. 'I mean, the middle of my foot. Just behind the toes.'
Gently, Nathan eased her shoe off, and although Sophie was embarrassed at the old pair of socks she was wearing, that was nothing compared to how Nathan's gentle probing up and down her foot was making her flush.
'Can you feel this?'
'Oh yes,' said Sophie, responding to Nathan's gentle pressure.
'What about your toes?'
'What about them?' asked Sophie, worried Nathan was commenting on her cracked nail varnish, or the stupid bunion she was in danger of developing from those one-size-too-small shoes she'd convinced herself to buy from the Russell and Bromley sale.
'Wiggle them for me?'
Sophie did as instructed. 'Ow.'
'Well, they all work, at least.'
'How come you know so much about first aid?'
Nathan shrugged. 'Too many nights spent watching Casualty, I guess.' He gently squeezed her heel. 'How about here?'
'That's fine,' said Sophie, wishing she'd had a pedicure, or at least taken up that special offer that had come through her letterbox last week from some place in Harrow where you stuck your feet in a tank and fish nibbled the dead skin off them. At the time, the idea had revolted her (plus she'd actually considered writing to the place to tell them they should pay her, seeing as she was providing food for their fish), but right now, she'd have swum in shark-infested waters if Nathan had asked her to. At least she'd shaved her legs this morning, and maybe the bustier would distract Nathan from any other imperfections - though she'd look really sexy limping about in it later, she realised.
Just then, the girl from the desk appeared. 'Did you want me to call an ambulance?' she said, peering anxiously over Nathan's shoulder.
'No, I'll live,' said Sophie, allowing Nathan to help her to her feet. But when she tried to put a little weight on her foot, she squealed.
'Are you sure?' said Nathan. 'I'll come with you, if you like?'
Sophie thought for a moment. Through her pain, she pictured Nathan, dutifully holding her hand at her bedside, then perhaps taking her home afterwards. She'd invite him in for a coffee, and then maybe he'd carry her up to her bedroom, help her get undressed, and then... Well, the rest was up to fate. And her expensive lingerie.
'Maybe that would be best,' she said, weakly.
Chapter 9
Sophie Jones couldn't believe her luck. Here she was, snuggled tightly up against Nathan, her arms wrapped around his warm body, her face pressed into his broadly-muscled back. If only her foot wasn't killing her, she'd have perhaps enjoyed being on the back of his Vespa more.
So far, he'd turned out to be a bit of a knight in shining armour, insisting it'd be quicker if they went on the bike rather than waited for an ambulance, then carrying her outside, even letting her wear his helmet when the spare he kept in the bike's top-box didn't fit her properly, and now they were roaring towards A&E at top speed. With the throb of the Vespa's engine half-deadened by the icy wind that was buffeting her, Sophie imagined it felt just like Leo and Kate must have felt standing on the front of Titanic, and she had a wild impulse to hold her arms out horizontally and pretend she was flying, but that would have meant letting go of Nathan, which she had absolutely no intention of doing until the last possible moment. Plus, given how they were weaving swiftly in and out of the traffic, she feared she might fall off the bike.
She became aware that Nathan was shouting something at her, so she removed her ear from where it was pressed against his shoulder blade.
'Pardon?'
'I said, is your foot hurting a lot?'
'Quite a bit,' she yelled back. 'Why?'
'You're just holding on to me very tightly, that's all.'
'Sorry.' Sophie reluctantly relaxed her grip a little. 'Is it far?'
'The hospital?' Nathan shook his head. 'Just another half a mile. A couple of minutes at most.'
Sophie sighed disappointedly. The journey would come to an end soon. Though on reflection, that was probably just as well, given how much her foot was hurting.
They sped round the next corner, the bike leaning at some dangerous angle, and Sophie tightened her grip again and shut her eyes, only opening them again when Nathan pulled the bike into a space near the hospital's entrance. He lifted it - and Sophie, she was impressed to notice - up onto its stand, then held out his hand.
'Here.'
Sophie took it gratefully, then tried to climb off the bike as elegantly as possible, though she only succeeded in banging her sore foot painfully against the exhaust pipe. As Nathan lifted her down the last few inches, she enjoyed the sensation of being in his strong arms again.
'Can you walk?'
Sophie thought quickly. Saying 'no' might mean he'd have to carry her manfully in through the doors, and though An Officer and a Gentleman was another of her other favourite films, she wasn't sure she could take the excitement.
'I think so,' she said, reluctantly.
'You sure?'
She placed her foot gingerly on the floor, and wondered who she was trying to kid. 'Maybe not.'
'Okay. Hold on.'
She shut her eyes as Nathan picked her up again, preparing herself for the long carry, but instead, Nathan just sat her back on the bike, and when she opened her eyes again, he was striding away towards the hospital entrance. Sophie leant against the handlebars, wondering what was going on, and was just about to try and hop after him when he reappeared, pushing a wheelchair.
'Jump in, and faste
n your seatbelt!.'
Sophie forced a smile, then climbed off the bike again, wincing as she accidentally put too much weight on her injured foot, and as she'd hoped, Nathan picked her up again, though this time, it was only to deposit her in the chair.
'Ready?'
Sophie nodded, hoping no-one she knew could see her as Nathan wheeled her up the ramp, through the automatic doors, and up to the front desk.
'Hi,' he said, as the stern-looking receptionist looked up from her computer screen.
'Can I help you?'
'Suspected broken foot.'
'You don't look like you've got a broken foot.'
'Not me.' Nathan pointed down to where Sophie was obscured from view, and as the receptionist stood up and peered over the counter, Sophie made what she felt were appropriate whimpering noises while pointing to the end of her leg.
'What's her name?'
'Jones,' said Nathan, and Sophie smiled to herself. This morning, she'd been worried he didn't even know her Christian name, and yet he quite obviously... She stopped herself. Nathan probably knew the full names of everyone in the office. He wouldn't be able to set them up with an email address if he didn't.
'OK,' said the receptionist, handing Nathan a clipboard and pen. 'Get her to fill this in.'
'It's my foot I've hurt,' Sophie called from her wheelchair. 'I haven't gone deaf.'
As the receptionist rolled her eyes, Nathan grinned, then wheeled Sophie over towards a spare chair in the waiting room, and waited until she'd filled the form out. He dropped it back at reception, then sat down next to her.
'Bad news,' he said. 'There's about half an hour's wait.'
'Oh no,' said Sophie, trying to ignore the throbbing from her foot. Though as she sat there, close enough to smell his aftershave, she didn't think that was bad news at all.