The Difference Between You and Me

by Celia Hayes

  Leaving behind the gloomy ceramic reproductions of little eighteenth century ladies, which I have solemnly pledged to chuck out of the window at the first light of dawn, we move into a spacious room full of dusty furniture. Even in the dim light, I can see that it all looks to be at least seventy years old.

  “Watch your step here!” warns Morgan as we approach the rug.

  “Would you feel more comfortable if I held your hand?” I suggest, exasperated by his ridiculous apprehension. Instead of answering, however, he clears his throat, and, sounding as nervous as a child acting in the Christmas play, he exclaims triumphantly, “Miss Watts, I have the pleasure and honour of finally welcoming you to Turriff.”

  Why do these things always happen to me.

  What I did to deserve it, I don’t know. What karmic retribution am I enduring?

  Anyway, the fact is that my welcome ends with a water pipe which, perhaps due to the bad weather or perhaps just because it was old, suddenly gives way and begins flooding the floor of the room. Pleasantly damp, the only thing we can do is retrieve my bags and go back to the car to call the owners and inform them of what’s happened. I’ve no idea who they’ll manage to find to fix it at this time of night, and frankly I don’t even care. I just know that I get into the car, slam the door, and from that moment onwards entrench myself in a glacial silence.

  “Miss Watts, I’m really, absolutely mortified. Mortified. If only you knew how… How…”

  “Mortified you are?” I finish for him, attempting to cut short his incessant babbling.

  “I had no idea… The flat’s only just been refurbished. I’ve never had anything like that happen before.”

  “I can certainly believe that,” I respond half-heartedly, massaging my aching temples.

  I can’t take it any more, I’m exhausted. What else is going to happen to me? I mean, wasn’t having surprised my fiancé having sex with another woman enough? What the hell did I do in my past lives to deserve all this?

  “Listen,” I say, cutting short Mr Smith’s verbal incontinence. “It’s past eleven and I’m at the end of my tether. Please stop your chatter immediately and find me a hotel.”

  “Hotel?” he whispers, rubbing his protruding chin with his forefinger. “I’m afraid that there aren’t any hotels in Turriff.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, aghast.

  “Well there’s a thing on the motorway, but it’s more like a motel for travelling salesmen. I wouldn’t recommend it, especially because of the distance from town. How would you get to work tomorrow morning? You haven’t even got a car.”

  “Are you saying that you don’t have any hotels?”

  “No, well, no…” he confirms, visibly uncomfortable.

  “You don’t… you don’t have a hotel?!” I say again, staring into space. “So where do tourists go?”

  “That would be the B & B. Mrs Polly manages it.”

  “Ah…” I sigh in relief. “Then call this damned Polly and book me a room.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t!” he says, shocked. “Have you seen what time it is? You don’t want her to drop dead do you?”

  “Wh… What? We… We can’t call her because… Because it’s late?”

  “Oh no, absolutely not! Poor Mrs Polly is already seventy-two years old and her heart… Well we just can’t, no,” he says, shaking his head.

  “So tell me, where do you think I should sleep tonight?”

  “Of course, that’s the real problem,” he concludes, scratching his head.

  “Mr Smith, if you don’t want to spend the next ten years in court for breach of contract, I strongly suggest you find a solution.”

  “Actually, now that I come to think of it…” he says, excitedly scrolling through the phone book of his mobile, “one of the clients of the agency would… Well, yes, it would be a temporary arrangement. And I assure you tomorrow night at the latest we’ll have found an alternative solution. Yes, without a doubt… At least for tonight, though, you could sleep in a small apartment that we used to rent out for short periods. It’s on the second floor of a house a few yards away from the pub where we met. I personally know the owner and I’m sure he won’t refuse me this little favour. He lives on the floor below, but don’t worry, they have separate entrances and you’ll have all the privacy you want. I just hope I’m able to get in touch with him. Wait a moment…” Raising an index finger, he brings the phone to his ear. “Hello? Hi Ethan, am I bothering you? It’s Morgan Smith, the estate agent.” He opens the car door and gets out, leaving me alone, and the rest of the conversation continues in the street. All I can do is watch him through the windscreen. And considering how long it is before he gets back into the car, I infer that the negotiations were less straightforward than he had imagined.

  “We did it!” he reassures me, climbing back in with a relieved expression.

  “Really?”

  “Yup. It wasn’t easy, believe me. He hasn’t wanted guests lately. At first he wasn’t too keen on the idea, but as soon as I explained the reason for asking out of the blue like this…Well, as soon as I mentioned your arrival… A really friendly chap! He immediately understood how desperate the situation was. He’s a really good guy, I was sure he wouldn’t abandon a young woman in distress. Not in this weather! Anyway, I’ll take you right away,” he says, starting the engine. “And then I’ll come back here and wait for the owner to arrive.”

  “Yes, let’s get a move on,” I agree with no particular enthusiasm and I continue to watch him as he reverses out of the drive.

  Before long, we are retracing our steps and we pass the pub before turning into a tree-lined road, finding ourselves in a residential area very similar to the one we just left. The only difference, I notice, is that here the front gardens are depressingly squalid, and used mostly for parking old cars.

  Snorting in annoyance and exhausted by the endless day, I wait for the estate agent to park. As soon as the car stops, I grab my bag from the back seat, steal his umbrella and start walking towards the gate promising I’ll give it back to him soon.

  “Don’t worry. Keep it for as long as you like,” he says, cordially saluting me.

  That goes without saying!

  I paid two months rent as a deposit on that hovel, so giving me a temporary shelter from the rain is his duty.

  In the name of politeness I avoid actually saying it out loud, though, and, slamming the car door shut, I go through the gate and walk down the short path that bisects the garden. Behind me the car starts up and leaves. In the meantime, I reach the door and ring the bell a few times while waiting for someone to open up. With ears pricked, I hear footsteps approaching and a key turning in the lock, followed by the unmistakable squeak of hinges.

  Who will be behind the door?

  I’ll admit that I’m curious.

  “Good evening, Miss Watts, how can I help you?” a familiar voice asks. I move my gaze up from a particularly tight grey T-shirt and find myself staring in those blue eyes that I had, in all honesty, hoped never to have to see again.

  I don’t believe it… The rock ‘n roll bartender!

  He’s leaning in the doorway, not trying to conceal the deep satisfaction he must be feeling in taking part in my defeat. He scratches his nose with calculated indifference, then crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows, as though to say, “So, shall we make a move?”

  “Are you going to gloat for long?” I snap.

  “Is it a problem?”

  “Must I be honest? It’s totally irrelevant. Just tell me whether you’re going to take me to the flat or whether I need to make Mr Smith come back.”

  “No, there’ll be no need for that,” he says reassuringly, without taking his eyes off me.

  “Good, that’s better,” I reply, arranging the straps of the bag between my fingers. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  “Not so fast,” he holds back, without moving from the threshold.

  “What now?”

  “Nothing, I just thought
it would be nice of you to apologize for earlier on. After all, I’m offering you my help.” And he puts his hands in his jeans, pushing them down just enough to make me look elsewhere for the rest of the conversation.

  “Okay, fine, how much do you want?” I ask, looking for my wallet. “I’m not really in the mood for these stupid bloody games. Tell me how much you want – I’ve got no choice, have I?”

  “Maybe you should call Mr Smith.”

  There’s no trace on his face of the joy with which he greeted me. Now he looks annoyed, or even angry. I really just want to tell him to go to hell, but I’m not sure where else to go and it’s already very late. I have to wake up early tomorrow. It’s an important day. Not to mention the flat. Yes, I’ll have to find another place to stay and that means re-organizing the move, contacting the cleaner again…

  I look at my watch. I have only six hours left to sleep. I snort.

  “All right, I give up. Mr…” I look for a surname on the intercom, finding almost illegible handwriting on a faded label. “Mr Owen, I’m really sorry for my behaviour earlier on. It’s been a horrible day and I think I took it out on you, which was unfair as you had been so kind to me, helping me out in a time of need. Do you think you can forgive me and offer me hospitality for the night?”

  However obvious my total absence of sincerity, I still manage to surprise him.

  Perhaps he expected me to stick to my guns, or punch him in the face. Who can say? The fact is that he stares at me for a few seconds, undecided on what to do, then, out of nowhere, a smile appears on his lips and it’s as if that big boulder I’ve got sitting on my stomach disappears. I don’t know why. Maybe because that small gesture represented the end of an odyssey or because it is the first time someone’s smiled at me since… And all the fatigue built up over the last few days falls in on me and I realize that I can barely even move a muscle.

  “Whe… Where is the room?” I ask him, totally exhausted.

  “Come with me,” he replies gently.

  Ridiculous, isn’t it? This time I’m the puzzled one.

  The rain is stopping. He takes a look up at the sky and then, with a certain eagerness, takes my bag, puts it on his shoulder and walks towards the back of the building, turning from time to time to make sure I’m following him.

  Together we go up a long flight of wooden stairs that lead to the second floor. He opens a door and we walk into a large living room furnished with unexpected simplicity. A large white sofa occupies the centre of the room facing a TV table, a dark green carpet and a bookshelf crammed with perfectly ordered volumes. On the left there is a kitchenette and dining table while at the end is an archway that leads to what I imagine are the doors of a bathroom and bedroom.

  “I didn’t know if you had any with you, so I left sheets and blankets on the bed. If you’re cold there’s a quilt in the wardrobe. For breakfast I couldn’t do much, but I’ve put a packet of biscuits in the cupboard and a bottle of milk in the fridge. Otherwise you can pop down to the pub and I’ll make you a proper cup of coffee,” he says, handing me the keys.

  “Thank you. I wasn’t able to bring much with me.”

  “Don’t worry.” He walks over and lifts the suitcase onto the table as though it were as light as a feather. I would have probably dislocated my shoulder if I’d tried!

  “Look…” I murmur a bit awkwardly, picking up my bag, “I don’t know how it works, but tomorrow’s going to be a really busy day and I don’t know if I’ll have time to drop by, so if you could just tell me how much I owe you…” I say, as I open my wallet.

  “Trudy…” he says, walking over. “That is your name, right?”

  “Hum … yeah.”

  “Good! Trudy, you don’t owe me anything. Now go to sleep, you must be exhausted. I’ve still got at least an hour down at the pub. If you have any problems you’ll find a post-it with my number on the fridge door,” he says, giving me a relaxed grin.

  The silence around us makes me realize something I hadn’t noticed before – we’re alone. Just the two of us. Him and me. And he’s so terribly…

  It doesn’t seem very fair to me that he’s strutting around what is temporarily my living room, showing off his…

  I don’t know what to think. Is he trying to come on to me again? Oh God, now what?

  “I… don’t really know what to say,” I mumble, pulling back a step.

  “You could try ‘thank you, Ethan’, but if you really want to make me happy, you could try something more original,” he suggests, seemingly unaware of the vague tension that has taken possession of me more or less since I realized that those bulges under his T-shirt are actually his abs.

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know… maybe falling in my arms and begging me to make you mine?”

  “I don’t think so,” I murmur, “that type of thing has been done to death. Why don’t we forget the old clichés and experiment a little?”

  “As long as we can keep the basics intact, I can allow for a bit of flexibility.”

  I nod gratefully and then unbutton my coat with slow movements, gradually reducing the distance that separates us.

  “How much?” I say, dropping the coat to the floor with total carelessness.

  “How much?” he says, distracted by my gesture.

  “How much flexibility? What are my margins, Ethan?” I ask him, laying a hand on his chest.

  “Anything from silent assent to outright statements of total submission are fine with me.”

  I smile.

  Ethan, now certain of my reactions, approaches and gently puts his arms around my waist. As soon as our bodies touch, though, that delicate gesture turns into a powerful embrace which momentarily threatens to take my breath away.

  Shameless, my eyes full of desire, I rub my cheek against his shoulder and whisper in his ear “Too bad…”

  “Why?”

  He pushes me back just enough to see my face and I reply hoarsely, “I’m sure it would have been amazing. My nails on your back would have driven you crazy, but…” I whisper slowly. “At present, the only type of thing that really excites me is seeing a man putting his socks in the laundry basket. And since you don’t seem the type, thank you so much for your wonderful hospitality, but I think I’ll just go to sleep.” And, finally, I give him a couple of consolatory pats on the chest. “Forgive me if I don’t see you to the door, but I’m sure you know the way,” I apologize, moving away from him with an innocent expression.

  There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes and his hands tighten on my hips, as though wanting to tear away the fabric that separates him from my skin, and then he suddenly lets go and tucks both hands into his pockets.

  “Whatever you want,” he says, admitting defeat without making a fuss and loping off to the door with that walk that I’d seen him show off in the yard. “Don’t dream about me,” he says.

  “You neither…” I reply with a smile, watching him disappear down the stairs.

  I stay calm. Relaxed. Perfectly controlled.

  Just, of course, until he closes the door – because as soon as it’s shut, I lose all restraint and start punching the air and babbling victorious insults so rude that if my mum could hear me, I don’t know what she’d think…

  What the hell’s got into me?

  I don’t know, but it was fantastic!

  I burst out laughing.

  Did you see how I took him down?

  I can’t believe it.

  Ah! Take that, you second rate Mr Grey. You won’t be adding another pair of knickers to your collection.

  “Not tonight, handsome!” I rejoice triumphantly – and then head off to bed, because the alternative is passing out on the carpet.

  Chapter 9

  Savage with a Sparkle

  “Shouldn’t you start socializing with the locals?”

  “And what makes you think I haven’t already started?”

  “Ah really? When?”

  “This morning I tweeted:
‘Hello Turriff!’”

  “Sure that wasn’t a bit over the top?”

  “The thought did occur to me, but I was just overcome by this crazy feeling of optimism.”

  At a quarter to eight I’m in front of the branch and… It’s closed. Of course, I start to panic, so I make a couple of calls and I manage, I’m not quite sure how, to track down the number of one of the bank staff through an old acquaintance who works in the Liverpool branch. When I try to contact her, she replies breathlessly and tells me she’s almost there. She just needs to fill up with petrol, so she suggests that I wait for her in a small café just down the road from the bank. Apparently she knows the owner and, she implies, he’ll give me a good deal on breakfast.

  The type of thing that can change your whole day…

  After a moment’s thought, I decide to go for a quick stroll around the area, and come across a boisterous market next to the town’s car park.

  “Good morning!” a passer by greets me.

  I nod, confused, and start walking amongst the stalls, figuring that they must have taken me for someone else. Incautiously, I immerse myself in swarm of people walking and, hoping not to get lost, go into automatic pilot mode and follow them. There are loads of people coming and going, working around me. Unloading crates, carrying bags. I keep as far away as possible from the stalls and eye the piles of smoked herrings uncomfortably, consoling myself with the illusion that in two or three hundred metres all this will be just a horrible memory.

  Hard to believe that at nine o’clock in the evening there wasn’t a soul on the streets and that now, this early in the morning, it’s full of people running around chasing after these shrivelled potatoes and fruit. I’m about to turn round when the sight of a cheese of dubious origin drives me in the opposite direction. I stop in front of a donut kiosk, warily looking about me, while I catch my breath.