by Dee Palmer
Except maybe that God awful stench. Ethan has tipped the contents of his rucksack on to the bed, but not left it in a neat mountain of clothes that I could smell from the doorway. He has scattered the garments far and wide across the room. They look like they are trying to escape and judging by the pungent smell, they need to head straight for the bin not waste the journey to the washing machine. God, men are disgusting. I kick his stinky clothes back into a pile and hold a deep breath, I grab an armful and dash to the washing machine. I have over-loaded the drum and haven’t bothered to separate the colours. I spin the dial to boil wash. Let’s hope he doesn’t have anything delicate. You know what? Fuck him, let’s hope he does. Let’s hope his entire wash comes out dyed pink and shrunk small enough to fit Barbie’s Ken.
His bedroom looks a little better now that the clothes are off the floor. I pull his bed covers flat, puff his pillows but that’s about it. The kitchen is a different story though. Sky really went all out with the oil. Every surface has a slick glossy sheen, and those that don’t are covered in a considerable layer of dust. This place must have been empty for a while. Sky had mentioned that Ethan lives in London, or maybe it was Kent, somewhere up country. He visits but never stays long. Looking round at the expensive fittings and unique original art work on the walls, it is pretty clear Ethan doesn’t rent this place out. No second home owner decorates to this standard. It’s normally Ikea or worse, functional but replaceable and inexpensive, because tourists aren’t so careful with the family china.
Sky said he hasn’t been back for over a year, part of the reason she felt so comfortable bringing the guys back for some fun. I start to run the hot water into the bowl but after a good five minutes, it’s still icy cold. Great, with no hot water to cut through the grease this is going to take ages and a heap of boiling kettles and hard scrubbing. I decide to text Buddy to let him know I am running late, but I can’t find my phone in my bag. I’m just having the best day. It’s only a crappy, pay-as-you-go, but even as a semi hobo I need it for emergencies. I have about five numbers stored on it that I can, if pushed, remember, but still it’s irritating that I can’t find the damn thing. I spend the next twenty minutes doing as much as I can to clean the mess. Scooping handfuls of excess yellow oil directly into the bin and soaking up the rest with kitchen towels.
It’s not great but it, at least, looks better than it did, and Ethan doesn’t strike me as the type to run his fingers along the shelves. From the state of his travel bag, hygiene doesn’t seem a priority at all. Swinging my own bag on my shoulder, I take a last cursory look around. It is a stunning apartment. The view as the sun dips low and catches the gentle waves…a million fiery sparkles dance on the horizon…just wow! Shame the owner is such a tool. I snicker and pull the door close until it clicks locked. Yeah, I could pick that lock, I think to myself, and my grin spreads a little wider. I think I have just found some alternate high season accommodation.
Panting I dash straight behind the counter to grab the nearest bar apron, and start wrapping it round my waist. I kick my bag under the counter and look sheepishly at Buddy. He has just finished serving a patron, and he wipes his hands on the trademark towel he tucks in the front of is cargo shorts. He is a good looking guy, in his early forties, about five foot ten and toned with a colourful display of ink across his upper body. He has chocolate brown eyes, a dark and permanent tan, and his ink black hair is now peppered with white, which just adds to his overall worldliness and charm. He has worked bars all over Europe since he was old enough to travel, and last year he broke every girl’s heart in the West Country when he fell for and married Honey, the sweetest girl from New Zealand. “Soooo sorry I’m late…long story that I will happily share when we close.” I flash him my best apologetic smile, but he just looks down and I can see him draw in a deep breath. I’m not that late. I decide to just get busy, but Buddy’s large hand rests on mine stopping me when I try to start slicing the lemons on the back bar.
“Ada,” he hesitates, and I can see in his eyes he is hating every second of this contact. He is always so affable, affectionate. It is where I go when I need my cuddle fix, because he has no agenda when he freely dishes out the love. “We need to talk.” His eyes look so sad, I find myself taking his hand and squeezing it for some comfort. He calls for Sky to hold the fort, and her bright blonde curls peek up from the magazine she was reading. Her smiling, green eyes crinkle, but their brightness instantly dissolves when she catches my eye. Ok, now this can’t be good.
Buddy closes the door of his office and I instantly sink into the well-worn sofa. “You’re not sick are you? Only you look like you’re about to tell me you’re dying.” My attempt at humour falls flat when he pinches his lips tight. “Buddy?” My voice catches, my stomach tightens and I feel a wash with anxiety.
“I have to let you go, Ada. I’m sorry but I know you won’t go on the books, and I can’t pay you cash any more. Christ, I’m really sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair with irritation. He looks over at my stunned face. I did not see that coming. I haven’t missed a single shift. I always cover when I am asked, and I have only ever been late when some arsehole holds my clothes hostage.
“Buddy,” I offer softly, because he looks distraught. “Look it’s not that I won’t go on the books.I just can’t. I wish I could explain.” I close my eyes and momentarily drop my head…so many necessary secrets. “ Buddy, I don’t understand. Why is this a problem now? I have worked here for a year and it’s never been an issue.” I shake my head this time because this doesn’t make sense. “Are you over-staffed, maybe? No, that’s not right. You are under-staffed, if anything. Are you not happy with my work? I don’t understand, Buddy. I can’t not have this job. I need this job!” My voice pitches with the sudden panic, and the realisation that my limited income is about to be halved.
“Ada, you’re my best worker; it’s not that. Ah fuck, this fucking stinks.” He moans into his cupped hands.
“You’re telling me! You know everyone has their staff sorted for the season by now, don’t you? There are no other jobs out there. Maybe if you had told me two weeks ago, when the other places were still hiring…Shit, Buddy! Why are you doing this?” He flinches when he catches the despair in my expression.
“It’s not me, Ada, you know I don’t have a problem; But the boss, he doesn’t like a mess, and unaccounted cash on the books is messy.”
I frown because I really don’t understand. “You’re the boss? And now you don’t like mess?” I try to clarify my confusion.
“I’m a partner in the bar, but I’m not the big boss..” He shrugs away any hope I have of changing his mind. If it was his decision, I know him well enough that he wouldn’t see me unemployed.
“So, who’s the big boss?” My head snaps to the sound of a scraping chair hidden round the alcove out of sight from the main part of the office. Buddy looks equally shocked that there is someone else in the room.
“That would be me, Ada, or is it Artemis?” Shirtless and glorious Ethan steps into view, his towel draped over one shoulder. His hair is still damp, his toned ripped torso is dotted with patches of dried sand, like he has just stepped off the beach. But he hasn’t, he’s been here the whole time. His perfectly white, straight teeth and wide grin evidently taking too much delight in this turn of events.
I close my eyes at the sight and to stop him from seeing me roll my eyes. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction that he can affect my life with so little effort. I look up to him and tighten my smile.
“Definitely Artemis to you.” I keep my voice level, and if it’s possible his grin widens.
“Ah, but now I know what you’re really called.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles of his forearms bunch and glisten with sweat.
“Only to people I like,” I snap, and go to stand. He steps forward into the space I needed, forcing me to fall back down with a bump. I squeal when my tailbone crunches on the frame of the sofa. He towers over me and I swear his eye
s darken. No, there are no windows in here, that’s why his eyes look so dark, heavy lidded. No natural light.
“But we both know you do like me, don’t we, Ada?” His voice drops and I can feel my insides tingle, hot and a little bit damp. I swallow and lick my suddenly dry lips. The salty air does that, I remind myself.
“I…I–” Can’t construct a sentence or breathe.
“Don’t be a dick, Ethan. You don’t even know the girl.” Buddy interrupts with a light laugh, trying to ease the tension, and I manage to take a much needed gasp of air. It is stifling in here.
“No, Buddy, we’ve met. We had a very nice meeting this afternoon.” His emphasis is exaggerated, and makes my cheeks instantly flush red, which even the dimly lit room can’t mask.
“Oh!” Buddy nods in understanding–a misunderstanding, by the look on his face–and his knowing grin. Sofa swallow me now, could this get any worse.
“Yes, Buddy, Ada is going to be my new cleaner.” Ethan steps back, actually ruffles my hair in a playful manner. I am just waiting for the light punch to the forearm, but it doesn’t come. He winks and tips his head, indicating I am being dismissed but I have lost the impetus to move. The thought that Ethan’s words meant more, that he felt more, have been brought into sharp focus. My body did react to his, I couldn’t help that; didn’t want to help that at the time. But obviously the only ‘more’ Ethan felt, was relief at not having to deal with his stinky laundry. Time to squish my physical reactions to him into a neat little box, nail it shut, and bury it on the beach next to my hope and future. Because the material affects he has are a little more pressing. However, unwittingly, Ethan has just made a homeless Ada, unemployed.
Buy here: Ethan’s Fall
“JESUS, FINN, YOU SURE YOU’RE not emigrating?” Hope laughs out a dirty throaty sound, as she struggles with the last of my suitcases. Stacking the final piece on the back seat on top of the mobile mountain, which pretty much contains my life or what was my pathetic life. I flash a tight smile, which sticks to my teeth, and a punch of guilt hits me in the gut, which I clearly fail to hide in my expression. “Finn?” I can hear the wobble in my best friend’s voice, her tone pitched with genuine concern.
“No, I’m not emigrating.” I make a show of rolling my eyes at her dramatics, even as I mumble ‘probably’ under my breath so as not to be accused of lying outright, if all does go well. “One month is a long time. I need a lot of shit.”
“There’s a lot and then there’s all your shit. I should know, since you’ve been camped on my sofa for the last three months. My flat looks like it’s been burgled, it’s so bare. I think the only thing you haven’t packed is Dolly here.” She pats the soft-top roof of my ancient Citrëon 2CV.
“I would take her if I could.” I tilt my head and cast an affectionate glance at the car that has rescued me from many a disaster, the most recent, moving everything I own from my home with Dave to the aforementioned sofa in Hope’s flat. Luckily Dolly is like the frickin’ Tardis, and I only needed to make one trip. Come to think of it, that isn’t lucky at all, it’s just sad. I’m twenty-six years old, and I spent ten of those with the love of my life, yet all my worldly possessions fit inside a 4-door, antique car, which has wildlife growing in the footwells.
“It’s only a month; I’ll take good care of her.” Hope’s face fails to achieve the smile she’s desperately trying for, and I take that as my cue to jump in the car and avoid eye contact. I’m such a coward.
We chat for a while, and the car falls silent. Hope reaches over and her bony hand grips mine, which is clutching the steering wheel. Her eyes are glazing again, and I try, with enormous effort, to swallow the lump in my throat, but it won’t budge.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” she tells me for the umpteenth time. “Do you really have to go? He could be a psycho.” I twist my hand in hers so our fingers are now threaded.
“He could be, but he isn’t,” I reassure her.
“I still think you’re crazy.” She states this with certainty but no judgment.
There are many reasons she has been my best friend since primary school. For a start, she’s the keeper of all my secrets. The morning after every sleepover since my early teens, she would take delight in embarrassing me, regurgitating every word I spilt throughout the night when I talked in my sleep. The worst of all habits, in my opinion, because there was nothing I could do to stop myself, and I was, by all accounts, shamelessly honest and open. I bought a dreamcatcher, which seemed to help. Nevertheless, in the end, I begged her not to keep me talking. I asked her to wake me or even add a gag as a preferable alternative to sneaking a peek inside my subconscious. She told me I was a spoilsport but agreed, because above everything else, she always has my back. Even if she doesn’t agree with my choices, she’s undoubtedly my one-woman cheerleader, crossing everything she has and wishing me all the luck in the world without so much as a twitch of a judgmental brow.
“No. Crazy would be giving Dave another chance to humiliate me and waste another God knows how many more years of my life.” My laugh is rightly humorless and filled with contempt.
“Yeah, that would be crazy. But the States? Do you really have to go all that way to find one decent guy?” I choke back a cough and feel my cheeks burn with the truth and lie I’m about to serve.
“Orange County, California, and yes, it would seem so.” Not technically a black lie, it’s vague enough. And if my damn cheeks aren’t flashing like a fucking beacon, I might get away with it.
“What aren’t you telling me, Finn?” Hope shifts in her seat, and her tone is deadly serious. Dammit.
Now I could lie, but she would know. If we lived in the Dark Ages, she would’ve been burnt at the stake years ago; it’s kind of spooky, her witchy ways. But the truth? If I tell her the actual truth, she’s likely to grab the wheel from my hands and flip a one-eighty in the middle of the motorway, rush hour traffic be damned, and probably end poor Dolly in the process. So, I have to give her something meaty, the truth, but not quite the whole truth and maybe a little bit of, nothing but the truth.
“He’s asked me to marry him.” I think that counts as meaty, and I try for a casual delivery with my level tone, though I don’t think it matters.
“What the fuck, Finn?” she hollers, causing my shoulders to shoot up to protect my ears because my hands are occupied. “Are you out of your fucking mind? You’ve ‘known’ ”—she exaggerates her air quotes and lays the sarcasm on thick with her condescending tone—“him for what, three months? And now, you’re going to marry the dude?”
“I didn’t say I was going to marry him. That’s what this month is about. It’s a trial.” My words are stark in the silence of the car. They sound ridiculous when spoken out loud. Who does this? What sane, normal woman would? She’s right; it’s nuts. I’m out of my fucking mind. Which is why none of that matters.
I’m a crazy woman, and three months ago, I said, “Fuck it.” I made this decision, and I’m not backing out.
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then.” The sarcasm is like treacle now, and her tone is tinged with bitter disbelief and disappointment.
This is not how I wanted today to go. I fix my mouth tight shut for fear of saying something I can’t take back. The tension is palpable, and I cringe when Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” crackles through the retro radio hanging from a makeshift hammock under the dashboard. Perfect.
We reach the airport and Hope helps me load my cases onto the trolley. She still hasn’t said a word. I hand her the keys to Dolly and go to walk away. She’s double parked, so I know she has to get going. She grabs the sleeve of my denim jacket and pulls me into her tiny, surprisingly strong hold.
“Wow, the gym’s been paying off for you, too. You hug like a heavyweight.” I groan under her hold.
“Or like I might never see my best friend again.” Her soft words hit me hard.
“Hope…” I sigh and return her embrace with a gentle heartfelt squeeze around her should
ers, her head resting against my neck. I feel her body shudder with the first gasp of a sob. It’s enough to make my nose tingle, and a slew of big fat tears fall onto my cheek.
“But it’s true. That might be the case.” She sniffs, sloppy wet sounds she doesn’t try to hide.
“No, it’s not true.” I pull back and hold her gaze with mine, her dark green eyes fill with tears, matching my own. I blink to try and keep focus.
“Stay, Finn…please,” she mutters, her fat lip wobbling.
She’s killing me. “I can’t, Hope.” I shake my head, and the heaviness in my heart, the sadness I feel is a fraction of the sorrow I have endured, and she knows this. “I wasted ten years of my life with a man who had no intention of marrying me, H, and he even took delight in humiliating me about the fact in front of all my friends. He made me feel utterly worthless, and now…” I stutter and draw in a fortifying breath. “I have these men, and one of them promised to marry me. I get to choose…me, I—” I clamp my mouth shut at my apocalyptic fuck-up.
“Men?” she snaps.
“Man, I meant man.” I wave my hand to dismiss my seemingly silly mistake,
“You said men,” Hope corrects and then gasps. “Finn you didn’t answer that advert?” Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes like saucers, and we both suck in a shocked breath.
“I…I…” I can’t construct a sentence. She steps up to me and interrupts so I don’t have to. I wish she didn’t.
“That’s who you’ve been talking to so secretively these last three months every spare minute. That’s what all this gym shit you’ve been dragging me to morning, noon, and night for the last three months has been all about. It’s because you need to be fit enough to take on four guys?” She stares at me, and her mouth is open so wide it’s comical, but I’m not laughing. I’m waiting for the scream, the howl of judgment to rain down on my slutty arse. I draw in a breath and brace.