‘Awkward is it? Must be male.’
I sigh as the Assistant passes me the cheque back and points into the branch. ‘You'll have to pay it in at the counter.’
I follow her pointing finger. The queue is huge. ‘I'll come back another day. I’m in a rush. My mother told me these machines were great. She must have standard size unstapled cheques.’ A little spittle escapes my mouth as I speak. Calm yourself Camille before your head spins three hundred and sixty degrees. I turn my face away from the Assistant so she can see she’s dismissed. My bag's contents rattle as I put the cheque back in my bag to deposit on another day. While I'm looking in my bag, I see a shadow cross the carpet. It stops next to the Assistant.
My ears pick up as a deep male voice says, ‘I can help this lady. I have no one at my desk now.’
Whoa. I cross my fingers that his face matches that voice and raise my head.
My eyes widen as I recognise a familiar, albeit older Dylan Ball.
‘You.’ I scowl at him. My mouth pinches.
‘Surprise?’ he replies.
Chapter Two
'Well, well, well, if it isn’t the amazing Camille Turner. Come to grace Rotherham with your First Class Honours Degree have we?'
My body goes rigid. It’s as if the last five years have fallen away and I’m back in the classroom.
'I might not be Camille Turner now. I’ve been away from Rotherham for three years, apart from the odd family occasion.'
'Your mother does her banking here, Camille. I know in-depth what you’ve been up to. She likes to chat does Mrs Turner.'
I grind the small heel of my right shoe into the ground. My bloody mother. She never told me she had big buddy chats with my mortal enemy.
Dylan lifts his arm and points towards the bank desks, an amused smirk on his lips. 'Well, do you want to bank that cheque? You appeared to be in a rush.'
Sighing, I follow Dylan through the bank. I can’t help noticing that for an arsehole, his bottom is rather nice. Tight and firm.
He swings round. 'Are you checking out my bum?'
'No.' I go to flip my hair but meet nothing as it's in the damn ponytail.
'Sorry, my mistake,' Dylan raises his hands in mock surrender. ‘That’s just how it looked. You know, in the reflection there.' He points to a glass cabinet. I look and see our reflections. Fuck.
'It's a kink in the glass or something. Makes it look weird.' I fold my arms around myself.
Dylan tilts his head as he looks at me. 'Kink, hey? Hmm.’
I huff and take the cheque and paying-in slip out of my bag. 'Can you do this for me, please? There’s somewhere I need to be.'
He reaches out and takes the cheque away from me. 'Sure. Take a seat.'
I roll my eyes. Take a seat? He’s paying in a cheque for goodness sake. I need to get out of here before he tells the whole bank my name is Camille Toe.
He taps into a screen. I see his name plate on the desk. Dylan Ball, Assistant Manager. Wow. He worked his way up the ladder. Who’d have thought it? Assistant Manager at twenty-one. I shake my head. He’s got to be shagging the Manager. I bet she’s a cougar.
I see Dylan staring at me. 'Is there a reason you’re nodding your head? I don’t recall asking a question.'
'I have an itch.' I reply, scratching my head to prove my point.
'Right.' He smirks. That fucking smirk that always curved the edge of his lip in school. Unfortunately, as I look at him up close, I see that where he once appeared to have huge inflatable lips, his face has now grown to accommodate them. Now they are full, pink and well, some girls I could think of might enjoy having them on them. Not me, but some girls. Or the Bank Manager. His once clown mop curled hair is cut short, leaving tender little brown waves. He’s gone good looking, the twat. That’s so unfair. It’s a good job his personality remains repulsive.
He looks at the business cheque. 'Kid Zone?' He laughs. 'Are you working there? First Class Honours girl working in the play centre.'
I narrow my eyes at him. 'No, you smug git. I own it.'
He sits back in his chair and looks at me, eyes lit with mischief. 'I knew that. Your mum told me.'
‘Ugggghhhh,’ I yell, throwing my hands in the air.
His eyes fix on mine. ‘Big undertaking. Have to say, I admire your guts.’
I wait for the punchline about my fat stomach or such like but it doesn’t come.
His eyes flit from his computer screen to my face. ‘You’re looking well, Camille. I know how much your mum missed you. She’ll be glad to have you home.’
‘I’m not living at home. I rent now. But yes, she’s glad I’m close enough to keep an eye on.’
He taps the screen. ‘Oh, Wenlock Street. I live around the corner from there. Grange Place. About three minutes away. I’m number twenty-five if you need to borrow a cup of sugar.’
‘Thanks, but I drink my coffee black and sugar-free. Also can you not read my personal details?’
‘I needed to check the system was up to date.' He shrugs. 'Well, that’s all done.’ He hands me a receipt. ‘It was nice to see you, Camille.’
‘Well no doubt I’ll be bumping into you again seeing as you work where I bank. Thanks for processing the cheque for me.’
Dylan presses his lips together. I can almost see the thoughts crossing his mind as he meets my gaze. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry for the whole Camille Toe business.’
‘Shh,’ I glance around to see if anyone has heard him. ‘Never mention that name again.’
He laughs. ‘Like Voldemort?’
‘Yes. Like Voldemort. I’ll stay she who shall not be named, that awful name.’ Then I turn on my heel and flounce out of the bank.
Back home I throw myself on the sofa and stick Escape to the Country on the television. My eyelids droop and I fall asleep, waking up an hour later with a crick in my neck and an empty stomach that gives a feed me gurgle. I stand up and rub my neck trying to unkink it. In the kitchen, I stare in the cupboards hoping for inspiration. I give up, empty some dried pasta into a pan, place it on the hob and pour over boiling water. A stir in sauce will do tonight to mix with it. As the pasta becomes al dente the doorbell rings. Who the bloody hell is that? If it's one of those cavity wall salesmen who say they aren't selling because it's a free government grant I'll threaten their cavities. The doorbell is followed by a loud knocking. OK, bloody hell, give me a chance to get there.
Dylan Ball is standing outside the door, complete with a cup of sugar in one hand.
‘What did I tell you about my address being private? Also, I told you I don’t take sugar.’
‘I do, though, two spoons.' He tilts his head, 'Are you going to invite me in, or what?’
‘Dylan.' I put my fingers to my temple. 'We aren’t friends. You bullied me for years.’
‘Fair enough.’ He scuffs his shoe on the pavement. ‘You’re right. I’ll tell you what. You can put three sugars in my drink as punishment.’
Then he walks past me into the lounge.
I open and close my mouth, wrong-footed. Because in my house is Dylan Ball, the boy who made my life at school hell. But also, in my house is Dylan Ball, a good looking bloke I’d have tried my best to cop off with at Uni. My brain argues with my vagina about whether he can stay. While I’m subject to my internal debate, Dylan has wandered into the kitchen.
‘Something smells good.' He backs away from the pan. 'Crikey, you eat a lot.’
I feel my face flame. ‘I’m terrible at estimating a single portion of pasta, so I end up binning what I don’t eat.’
He opens various cupboard doors until he finds the crockery. He gets an extra plate out. ‘No sense in wasting food. I’ve not eaten yet. I was going to ask if you fancied a Chinese, but you cooked already.’
He opens jars in a spice rack I received as a housewarming present and adds to the pasta sauce, tasting as he goes along. ‘That’ll do.’ He serves the pasta and sauce on the plates an
d looks at me.
‘Where do you eat?’
I point to the lounge, still speechless.
'No dining room?'
‘No.' I cough and clear my throat. 'I eat in there, with the plate on my knee.’
‘Okay, grab the cutlery then and let's go.’
I grab cutlery. As I place the knives in my hand, it crosses my mind that Dylan could end up with them embedded in his body. I add two glasses and a bottle of red wine to the list of things I need. Sod coffee. I need alcohol.
Once I'm sat on the sofa, Dylan hands me my food. Next, I pass him his cutlery. Then I remember the bottle of wine and glasses propped on the sofa at the side of me. I do a juggling act, trying not to upend my dinner while I open and pour the wine. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Please.’
I taste my dinner. He’s made the pasta sauce's flavour akin to that of an Italian restaurant as opposed to that of a supermarket special. A sigh escapes my mouth.
He smiles. ‘I have a way with food.’
‘So…’ I put my cutlery down on my plate. ‘I can’t say I was expecting to converse with you twice in one day, never mind eat with you. Why are you here? I could have you fired for looking up my address.’
‘I think we should be friends.’
I turn up my nose. ‘What? Are we twelve again?’
Dylan plays with his collar. ‘Camille. I’ve had years to think about my behaviour and it was evil. I went too far, I know. When you left Rotherham, it surprised me. I didn't think you’d disappear. You were so close to your mum.’
‘How wrong you were. Sometimes a person needs to get away.’
He nods. ‘But maybe if I hadn’t been such a moron you’d have stayed. My actions cost your mum some time with her daughter. Every time she came to the bank and said how much she missed you, it killed me. I know I was just a kid, but now I’m an adult, I regret what I did. So, like I said in the Bank, I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ I shrug. ‘Plus I was leaving anyway. My mum can be suffocating. You can appease your guilt. You weren’t that influential in my life that I'd leave Rotherham because of you,’ I lie.
‘So, can we be friends? I thought I might try to make up for some of the awfulness I caused.’
I swallow the food in my mouth. ‘Perhaps, if the friendship means you tell me how to make this pasta sauce.’
‘Deal. Will you be my Facebook friend again as well?’
‘Us—friends? I don't know.' I bite my lip. 'After your stunt, I didn’t have an account on there for two years.’
‘Like I said, I’m sorry.’
‘If you ever do anything like that again, Dylan, I swear to God I’ll end you.’
He holds out his glass. ‘Can I have more wine? This girl I’m drinking with makes me anxious.’
‘My God. You’re older but you’re still bloody stupid,’ I tell him.
I take the plates into the kitchen and stick them on the side with all my breakfast dishes. Thank goodness I’d washed up the night before. I take my spot on the settee and refill my glass.
‘So have you always worked in that branch?’
‘Yes.’
‘Assistant Manager already. You must be good at your job.’
‘Yes.’
‘Please, make conversation flow with your monosyllables,’ I sigh.
‘Well it's boring, isn’t it? As if you're interested in my banking career. More like you want to know if I slept my way to the top. Don't you believe that I, Dylan Ball, could have worked hard enough to get to that position?’
‘Well, which is it?’
‘I can’t believe you can consider that a possibility. I was always good at maths.’
‘You pissed around the whole class and put everyone off.’
‘Yes, and got A-stars myself.’
‘Bully for you,’ I snap like a petulant child. Embarrassed because I don’t know how to get out of the fact I’ve just accused him of being a male whore. ‘I didn’t. I got a C because you were always disrupting me.’
‘Don’t blame me for the fact you didn’t do well. It was more likely because you were mooning after Jack Bayliss. I bet you spent revision nights staring at the school group photo.’
My voice rises. ‘I did not.’ I get madder because often I did. Examinations at sixteen are the most stupid idea ever. Who set exams when teenagers are all hormones and wish to drink their body weight in alcohol? Me and Beth spent most of the year drinking Alcopops in my bedroom, plotting how I would get Jack to notice my existence. My voice quietens. ‘I had to resit my maths. Luckily I got an A. Do you know why? Because. You. Weren’t. There.’ I wasn’t conscious that I'd moved from the sofa towards his chair. Now we were in each other's face, like so many times in the past. With every last word, I prodded him in the chest. The final time I prod him, my finger touches his nipple. A rock hard nipple that's pebbled through his white shirt.
‘Er, sorry about the, er, nipple poke and the, er, attitude,’ I say straight into his face. A face I notice is tense. His jaw is tight, and he swallows. He inches away from me. I can feel his warm breath on my cheek.
I can’t hold his gaze so I drop my eyes to his chest. A chest that’s rising and falling like its owner's done a quick run. Now with two pebbled nipples on display. A matching pair.
‘I think it’s only fair,’ he says, pausing his sentence and leaning closer to my ear. His lips skim the top of my earlobe, making me tense, ‘that you…’
Goosebumps form on my upper arms as I wait for what he will do or say next.
‘Do the washing up.’
'Ow.' I bang into the coffee table as I reverse away from him. ‘Yes, yes. I need to do the dishes. That's right.' I lift an arm and gesture towards the door. 'Well, if it’s okay with you, I need an early night, so if you could just er, leave.’
Silent, he nods and heads to the door. ‘Well, I’ll be seeing you, Camille. Thanks for the food.’
‘Hang on.’ I rush back to the kitchen and return with the sugar cup. ‘Thanks, but I can buy sugar, should someone who needs it come around again.’
He takes it. As I open the door to let him out, Bob comes hurtling in, making Dylan jump. I do a little arm punch behind Dylan's back. Can you high five a cat?
'Well, night,' he says, giving me a small nod.
'Night.' I close the door in his face.
Then I distract myself with dishes. I scrub the plates harder with the sponge than is necessary and curse that Dylan had me on the back foot again.
I vow over wrinkled fingers that Dylan Ball will never get the chance to make me feel stupid again.
Chapter Three
Sundays. A mandatory order issued by my mother. I will turn up before one pm for lunch so she can, ‘make sure I eat at least one proper meal a week.’ Having fed Bob, I tickle him under the chin. 'Wish me luck puss.' He purrs in response which I take as his reply. I grab my coat and car keys and lock the door behind me.
‘Hello, love.’ My dad kisses me on the cheek and lingers in the hallway while I remove my shoes. He passes me the slippers I’ve kept at their house for years. In an instant, I’m circa fourteen years old again. I wander into the lounge and flick my brother Tyler’s ear.
‘Ow, what was that for?’
‘Shut up, you big baby.’
‘Children,’ says Dad before relaxing back in his armchair and returning to his Sunday Newspaper. My dad is dead quiet. Well, I suppose he’d have to be, living with my mum who never stops talking. My dad is a private person. He gets exasperated with my mother who shouts like a Town Crier with any news she receives whether it’s supposed to be a secret or not.
‘Mum,’ shouts Tyler. ‘Can I have a glass of water?’
‘Get it yourself, you lazy arse.’ I toss a cushion at his head.
Our mother comes dashing in with a glass of water. She hands it to him and picks the cushion up, arranging it back on the sofa. Then she hugs and kisses me. ‘Hi, love. I’ll be with you in a tick, just at a c
rucial point with the roast.’ She rushes back to the kitchen. I get up and set the table. Beth thinks my mother looks similar to Jennifer Aniston in Marley and Me. She’s forty-five but everyone’s constantly telling me how young she looks. Today she’s wearing skinny jeans, a Game of Thrones baggy tee-shirt and has a blue fringe. When he assumes we’re not looking Dad will squeeze her backside and she’ll swat him off with a giggle. I kind of want to puke, while at the same time I’m glad they still seem content. Few of my friends parents marriages made it. Maybe the key is that my folks never married. They’ve been together since my mum was sixteen.
As we’re served dinner and tuck in, my brother asks for another drink. Once again my mum leaves the chair she’s just sat in. There’s no wonder she’s remained slim, she never sits still.
‘Mother. Tell him to get his own drink. He’s twenty-four. He’ll never leave while you do everything for him.’
She gives him his refilled glass and turns towards me. ‘I know honey but I find it hard. He’s still my little boy.’
Tyler shoots me a victorious expression. I kick him under the table.
‘Ow,’ says my dad. Oops.
My mother asks me how the business is going and I get them up to speed with developments.
‘My daughter, an entrepreneur. I said to Mandy, you watch, she’ll be judging on Dragon’s Den before long.’
‘Huh,’ huffs my brother. ‘She’s just bought a load of balls.’
‘Tyler,’ says my father.
‘She has. I saw her order them. Tons of them. Can’t wait for the first time one of them pisses or shits in there and she has to clean thousands of balls. I’d get up off my arse on a Sunday for that.’
‘More gravy?’ asks my mother, tipping a load on my brother’s dinner.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
I groan.
‘There was a nice boy from your school asking about you the other day.’
I tense. Bloody Dylan.
‘I saw him in the bank, Mum, he told me.’
Balls (Ball Games #1) Page 2