Tainted Touch

by Lucy V. Morgan

  “You’ve been thinking about this too much,” I scold.

  Drew cocks his head. “A man’s gotta eat.”

  “Man’s gotta cook it, then.” I scoop my white canvas tote bag up on to my shoulder. “I need to make a move.”

  “Want a lift?” Drew offers.

  “Cheers, but no. I need to stop by the shops and stuff.” I must acquire Pepsi, and some of that amazing popcorn with sugar and salt. A night by myself in the flat is not complete without snack fodder. “Rich–you want me to text if Vicky ends up home early? You can conveniently drop in with a research article, or something.”

  “Nah.” He sighs. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Okay.” I stand on tiptoe to accept the usual hugs. They’re warm, solid boys, and their friendly embraces should be comforting. I wish I could find that in them; that I could feel something beyond the incredulity flesh inspires. Instead I wince, and pray that they never notice. “Catch you later.”

  After a browse around the supermarket, I head home through the old main town, past the library and the majestic crash of the water mill. Our block sits four storeys high on a new-build estate not far outside the Saxon town gates. We picked our flat for the size of the bedrooms, and subsequently, the built-in wardrobes; it meant we ended up with a tiny kitchen-slash-sitting room, but for overall space, it’s worth it.

  I keep everything white in my room, from the shiny Ikea furniture to the bed linen I launder each weekend with fabric softener more expensive than wine. Colours litter my windowsill in the form of my Yankee graveyard; as Vicky says, it’s where good candles go to die. My current favourite is a sweet pea one that smells like my late grandma’s garden.

  White is my logic. My safeword, of a sort. When I decorated this room at the beginning of last term, it felt like a clean slate–I was finally free of Dominic. I replaced photos of us with my candles, and the bright sheets he soiled with fresh, pure white. Dominic was the politics to my business; he was the last push-up, but without the adrenaline to cheer me up after. And when we–he–decided it was over, I needed to remind myself that I wasn’t transparent without him, though it felt like all the colour had been drained from me. I was just a clean slate, just white. I was still beautiful.

  Even when he said I wasn’t beautiful at all.

  Chapter Two

  Good thing about working at the gym: weekends are dead, so I can bum around on my phone and drink a lot of good coffee from the cafe. And my membership is free. Bad thing about working at the gym: did I mention that I work weekends?

  I’m feeling better than usual about my Saturday shift because I finished the EU essay. The magic of Google meant I didn’t have to sacrifice Friday buried in journals in the library, and it ended up being easier than I expected. Huzzah. So I spent the morning baking, and when I present Hazel, the on-duty manager, with a Tupperware box of lemon syrup cake, her wobbling pout of temptation is too much. I burst out laughing.

  “What are you trying to do to me, McCoe?” she moans, hurrying out from behind the reception desk to grasp the box. She brings it to her nose, inhaling as her eyes roll skyward in bliss. “One day, I will ban you from bringing this stuff in. One day.”

  I admit, it’s a sly strategy–let everyone else eat my cake so I don’t end up a miserable heap of crumbs later, and two pounds heavier by Sunday. “Nobody’s forcing you to eat it.”

  “You spend too much time with Hans.” She scoops a piece of cake on to a napkin, and pulls the half-door aside so I can slip behind the desk. “I’ve got a heap of stuff to do, so you’ll be okay alone, yeah?”

  I nod, fiddling with the buttons on my uniform shirt: short-sleeved and green, with an embroidered star logo on the left panel. “Anything interesting?”

  “Harassing the maintenance company, mostly. Hot spa’s still up the spout, so to speak. And I’ve got that new therapist starting, so there’s his induction.” She clucks her tongue against her teeth–a Hazel habit–and puts a brown file in front of me. “Stick that in the HR in-tray, would you?”

  “I suppose I can’t really say no.”

  She tips her head, her red ponytail spilling over her shoulder. “You’re my minimum wage slave, so no. You can’t. Anyway–the water fridge needs restocking, and there are a heap of new member files to input, if you get a spare five minutes.” She scoops up her cake and napkin as she goes to leave. “Oh, and if a sulky himbo shows up and asks for me, give me a buzz, will you?”

  I snort. “Will you do the same if one shows up asking for me?”

  “Only if you’re also hiring a sports massage therapist. And then we can fight over him.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  I watch Hazel hurry off towards her office, and then glance at the big digital clock above the sliding doors: exactly two o’clock. And I’m here until nine, which means it’s at least an hour before it will be acceptable to order my first bucket of coffee. Sigh.

  I spend the next hour or so finding new pens for the class sign-in sheets, replacing “mislaid” membership cards, and fussing around in Lost Property for random bits of kit I’d rather not have to touch. Such is the glamour of my job. Oh, and I handed out a lot of towels, and even answered a phone call or two. It’s almost as good as actually going to the gym.

  Though the gym was how it all started to end with Dominic. We’d been together since Year Twelve of high school, and when I moved here for uni, I got this job. Hazel convinced me to try a few classes; I loved them. And the weight started to fall off.

  Dominic did not like that.

  It wasn’t that I had a great deal to lose, looking back, but it was enough to buy a new wardrobe. New, confident clothes for the new, confident Caitlyn–the Caitlyn that Dominic didn’t know anymore, and didn’t much care to try knowing. We rotted when I started this job, and maybe being here should feel bittersweet, but I refuse to give in to that. It’s bad enough that I lost last summer to misery after he traded me in. Or up. Whatever. Drew said that Dominic swapped an Italian chef for a frozen pizza; even through my tears, I laughed at that. Frozen pizza has its place, he said–in the toilet after you’ve thrown it up at 3am.

  “I’m here for Hazel?” someone says behind me. His accent is that of a public school boy, the kind of BBC English you expect to hear from suited-and-booted lordling.

  I spin on my heel, half-way through answering a text from Vicky. And I nearly drop my phone.

  “Hazel?” says Fist Candy, folding his thick arms against a green shirt that matches mine–a green shirt that barely fits the broad stretch of his shoulders, tapering down to toned hips. “The manager?”

  “Oh. Hazel,” I croak. Shit. I hope he didn’t see how obviously I just looked him up and down. “Hold on a sec and I’ll…I’ll give her a call.”

  The phone is right at the front of the desk, which is all of a foot away from him. And I have to stand there. And talk. Words need to come out of my mouth in a way she can understand them. What the hell’s wrong with me? One look at this guy and it’s like someone carbonated my blood stream.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” I reach for the phone. He offers a nod, as if all of this is normal. And of course it is. I’m doing my job, he’s doing his job…at the same place. Which is interesting. All of him is interesting, and I can’t stop my gaze flickering between his face and the floor. I couldn’t get a close look when he was boxing, and now I notice the wide sweep of his cheekbones, the fading tan of his skin. How his amber eyes burn slowly beneath strong brows. A sculpted top lip dips and rises in an artfully sketched cupid’s bow, sitting tight against his bottom lip, which is fuller. For biting.

  Didn’t Hazel say he was a massage therapist? Aren’t people in his line of work meant to be, uh, gentle? He wasn’t exactly massaging that punch bag. Thoughts shiver to filth in the back of my mind. I’m blushing like an apple, heat frothing to my cheeks as the dial tone bleats in my ear.

  I can hear his fingers drumming on the desk, see his surfy string-and-bead bracelet bobbing fro
m the corner of my vision. Jesus Christ, Hazel, pick up! What are you doing–rewiring the hot spa yourself?

  “Hey,” she says over the receiver. Finally. “Do I have company?”

  “Uh…yep.” Maybe he isn’t the new guy. Maybe Hazel’s now in the habit of hiring escorts to ease the pressure of a long day’s work. Although Fist Candy sure looks expensive.

  She gives a very low, dirty laugh. “Enjoying your job a little more today, hmm, McCoe?”

  I clear my throat. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

  “I’ll be down in two.” Then she hangs up.

  I replace the receiver and chance another look at Fist Candy. “She’ll just be a minute. Can I get you a drink while you wait?”

  “I’m good. Thanks.” He blinks a couple times, displaying long, dark eyelashes. Then he gestures to the waiting area in the lobby. “Mind if I sit over there?”

  “Oh. Of course not.”

  I didn’t notice before–I was too busy being flustered–but now I’m sure of it. He’s avoiding eye contact. Perhaps he saw me perving last week; he thinks I’m all stalky. But he barely turned around for a second, and I was sweaty and dressed in Lycra, my hair all pinned back…no, he can’t recognise me. Which just makes him a bit awkward. Or nervous on his first day, I suppose.

  When I watched him throw his fists into that punch bag, though…he didn’t look as if he could get nervous about anything. He looked ready to compete in the Hunger Games and still be home for the six o’clock news.

  “Ah. There you are.” Hazel appears at the desk, gesturing for Fist Candy to join her. “McCoe–can I have that induction pack on the thing over there, please?”

  I scrabble about for the green plastic folder. “Here you go.”

  Fist Candy stands bolt-straight beside Hazel, dwarfing her in his height. His hands are now plunged deep into the pockets of his black trousers, which only draws attention to his crotch. I must not stare at his crotch. It’s bad manners.

  “Cait,” Hazel goes on, “this is Art. You’ll probably be seeing him around.” There’s a hint of glee in her voice; she knows exactly how lovely he looks and is going to relish making him her bitch. Judging by the way Fist Candy’s glaring at the carpet–somewhere between aghast and annoyed–he’s aware of it, too.

  “Hi Art.” I’m so proud of myself for getting the words out, even if they’re high-pitched and ridiculous. Adrenaline practically swills in my ears.

  He gives me another swift nod before Hazel drags him off. I think that’s it, that’s all I’ll get of the suspiciously shy boxer boy, but then he glances back and finds me with playful, alert eyes. Nodding towards Hazel’s back, he brings thick knuckles to his mouth and bites them in a cheeky gesture of mockery. Fuck. All I can manage is a little shrug, and though it feels woefully inadequate, he’s gone before I can muster a smile.

  The image plays in my mind; teeth meet skin in a perpetual action replay. Jesus. I really need that coffee. But I’m not meant to leave the desk unattended, and here in the lobby, it’s just me, myself and I.

  And…his personnel file in the HR in-tray.

  No, no, nonono. I’m not meant to peek. I’m not. But I just looked him square in the eyes for all of three seconds–before he yanked his gaze from mine, that is–and I have to know more.

  I walk towards the stack of in-trays. My fingers flex and fizz above the file. Arthur Lyons, the label reads in bold type; I thought nothing of it when Hazel passed it to me earlier. Now I roll his name around my mouth, balance it on the tip of my tongue. Art Lyons. The words are pleasingly voluptuous, those of he who plays games with me already, pretending to be terrified and then rubbing his apathy in my face with glee. I feel like I’m fourteen again with a crush on the new boy at school, and I just found his Facebook page or something…and then I remember that I’m twenty, and it’s depressing that I feel so old already. Christ.

  Before I peel the file open, I glance about; a couple of girls file through the front doors, gym bags over their shoulders, but they breeze straight into the locker rooms. I’m good to go. About to open the file. Deep breath…and I’m in.

  There are photocopies of certificates: the London School of Sports Massage, the Institute of Remedial Therapy, and something that appears to be from a place in India. Ayurveda, whatever that is. My pulse flickers when I find his application, complete with headshot; his cheekbones are on full form, and his mouth is decidedly pinker against tanned skin, as if he’s just returned from somewhere hot. Oh, and the eyes. His eyes. They’re like the last dying embers of a fire. This is where the phrase smoking hot comes from, right?

  The really good stuff, of course, is on his CV, which is printed entirely in understated Arial and also free of cringeworthy headers. I flick through school information, pausing over the university box. He started a Physiotherapy degree at a good uni up north, but doesn’t appear to have finished it. And I work out that he’s twenty four. His hobbies include going to festivals, travelling and refereeing football matches for kids. No mention of boxing. Huh.

  If Dominic ever had to fill in a hobbies section, it would have read something like internet porn, microwave burgers and watching Rocky for the three-hundredth time. Yes, I’m aware that my taste was questionable, but he was hot in a smarmy Prince Harry kind of way. Still is, probably. I just don’t care anymore.

  I’m trying not to care.

  “Cait,” Rich calls from across the desk, which he’s suddenly leaning on. The leather satchel sits on his shoulder, and he’s rocking a hot pink mandigan with neon yellow cuffs. “I knew I’d find you here.”

  I shove the file down in a flustered hurry. “Well…yeah. I work here. Duh.”

  “I need to ask you a favour.”

  I wander over to him, still slightly jittery from my 3D Fist Candy Experience. “I need you to do me one first. Coffee, Rich. I’m desperate. Then I’ll do whatever you want.”

  He titters as he accepts a fiver from my wallet. “The usual?”

  “Tall skinny latte. Actually–screw the skinny bit. I need the lard.”

  He glances around the quiet lobby, his big dark eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Pot plants been giving you a hard time?”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Now mush.” I give him a playful shove. “And don’t come back without my caffeine.”

  While Rich is busy at the cafe counter, I straighten up Art’s file. I like the way this paper he’s touched feels beneath my fingertips–it’s a connection point, albeit a weak one. I know how pathetic it sounds, but there’s no harm in indulging my poor, neglected hormones, is there?

  Rich returns, steaming paper cup in hand. He balances it on the desk and I snatch it with an embarrassing level of enthusiasm.

  Rich sighs. “You’re welcome.”

  “Look–I’ll trade you.” I bring the cup to my mouth with one hand, and pass him my Tupperware box with the other.

  He swipes off the lid and grins at me. “Lemon cake?”

  “Good nose you have there.”

  “I’m going to enjoy telling Drew about this.” He brings a chunk to his mouth and takes a neat bite. “Mmphh. Actually…selfie time.” He jerks around in his satchel to retrieve his purple phone. Then he poses with the cake mid-bite, smirking into the flash. I’ve never worked out how to do that without partially blinding myself.

  “So…you wanted a favour?” Fingers crossed he doesn’t want me to read his script again. Rich is trying to write a play about a bunch of achingly cool students, but so far, all his efforts have amounted to is Drew poking him and jeering, how’s that novel coming, hmm? Writing a good plot, hmm? Developing your characters, hmm, HMM? in a really bad Stewie voice. Then Rich just gets pissed because it’s not even a novel, you dick!

  Rich grunts through his mouthful of cake.

  “Ah yes. One of those.” I nod. “I can totally help with that.”

  Rich swallows. “Very funny. Seriously, though….” He leans forward on folded arms and lowers his voice, as if what h
e’s about to say is shameful. “Will you teach me to bake?”

  “Finally figured out that you can’t survive on McDonalds and Pot Noodle?”

  “Yeah, and I want to add lemon meringue to my repertoire.” He rolls his eyes. “It’d be a good way to…y’know. Be at yours.”

  Lack of caffeine makes me so incredibly dim. This is about Vicky again. “Rich, you big girl. You don’t need an excuse to hang out with m–”

  “But I feel like I do! It all feels different since…since…” He shrugs, sighing deeply. “You know what I mean.”

  Oh, I know how a crush will twist you. God knows what I’d be like if Fist Can–I mean, Art–had actually slept with me, and then acted like nothing happened.

  I should clarify: it’s not like our flat is always littered with strange men. Vicky is queen of the Occasional Blowout, and while I’ve never had a problem with it–her life, her body–it’s also never affected another friend before. Maybe Vicky assumed Rich would be fine with one night because he’s got a penis. Stupid Cosmopolitan magazine logic.

  “I’ll teach you to bake,” I say, patting his hand. “But you need to do your best to get over Vicky–she’s not looking for a long term thing. Or even a thing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Mostly it’s when she says stuff like I don’t have time for a boyfriend or it’s so much easier when you don’t have to see them again.”

  Rich winces, and I join him. Gah. Must work on my apparent lack of tact.

  I bite my bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” He picks at the strap of his bag like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Poor Rich. “It’s weird, you know. When it happened…I almost said no. I thought it’d be more gentlemanly to say I wouldn’t take advantage, or whatever.”

  “So what made you change your mind?”

  A faint flush creeps over his cheeks. “I was a bit drunk. And she has really nice…eyes.”

  If Drew were telling this story, he’d have switched eyes for tits without so much as a blink. You’d never know they were brothers if they weren’t practically identical.