I don’t know who named the cafeteria–The Chow–but we have all agreed that they should be shot. There’s a black-and-white theme going on with the huge floor tiled in the alternating colours, and black and white photos of students eating suspiciously healthy meals adorning the walls. Large potted ferns sit beside wide window. They shudder slightly as I walk past.
Rich sits at our usual table, tucked away in a far corner beside the cereal station. Even at eight AM, the place is buzzing, despite the fact that Wednesdays are cheap night at the student union and thus half the populace is majorly hungover. Looking around at the baggy eyes and grey complexions in here, I’m pretty pleased with myself for being sober. Or smug. I’m smug.
“Morning, sunshine,” says Rich as I pull up a chair.
“Where’s Drew?”
“In the shower, I think. Had to ring him three times to get him up.”
I put my tote bag on an empty chair and drape my coat over the back. “Late night, huh?”
“Late night with his face in the toilet.” Rich straightens his neon green polo shirt. “Dude has issues, I swear.”
“I saw the photos on Facebook.” I was rudely awoken by a tag notification just after midnight. Drew and one of his friends from the football team were doing their Sad Faces because I’d refused to come out. “Apparently, doing coursework on a Wednesday is both an utter waste of my evening and my boobs. Were you out with him?”
“Nah. Wrote a few scenes, and went to the gym and stuff. Out-gayed myself with a protein shake.”
“We know how to live.”
“Heh.” He shakes the menu at me. “Usual?”
“Please. You know, if it won’t be a waste of my morning.”
Rich gives me a little salute as he gets up. “Back in five.”
I’m about to reach for my phone, but then Drew appears at the table. His curled hair is darkly damp, and he carries a waft of citrus shower gel. He yanks a chair out, collapses into it, and groans into his fists.
I jerk back at the gust of his smoky alcohol breath. “Jeez. Did you drink a brewery?”
“No.” He grimaces. “But I think I just shat one out.”
“Just what I want to hear before breakfast.”
He cocks a surly eyebrow. “Good fucking morning to you, too.”
“Good night, I take it?”
“Too right. You should’ve come.” He rests his chin in his big hands. “Went back to Blake’s place after, tried to make an omelette, set off the fire alarm. Spent half an hour in the pissing rain, eating my omelette.” He scratches at his stubble. “Spent half an hour this morning shitting out the omelette.”
I laugh, despite myself. “Are you trying to seduce me, Drew?”
He grins. “Is it working?”
“Alas, my heart belongs to breakfast.” I nod at Rich, who’s ordering at the counter. “Even though it’s breakfast from here.”
“Ah. You going for the classic Cait?”
“Rubber eggs, cardboard toast, cold baked beans. Always a winner.” Suddenly, I spot the faint swell of a bruise beneath Drew’s crumpled collar. “Someone got lucky last night, mmm…?”
“Eh?” He frowns, then slaps a palm over the bruise. “Oh, that. Crap. That’s not what you think it is.”
“Another Instagram-related injury?” I count on my fingers. “Angry pigeon? Walked into a door?”
“I’m going to give you a bit of advice. Ultimate Frisbee is for nice summer afternoons, and I urge you, please–use a proper Frisbee. Not a plate, and not at three AM.”
“I suppose you have to pass the time on a fire drill somehow.”
“What’s a bloke supposed to do with a plate when he’s finished his shit omelette?”
I raise my eyebrows as I nod. “Hurl it at randoms. Obviously.”
Rich returns, clutching two paper cups of coffee (origin questionable), and a glass of orange juice. I may tolerate The Chow’s food for nostalgic value, but I can’t bear to expose my taste buds to the coffee. Bland, tasteless OJ it is.
“Food’ll be here in five,” he says, sitting back down and distributing the drinks.
“Takes time to cook quality,” Drew adds with a too-straight face. “Speaking of which–Cait, we need a new date for my uber-manly baking lesson.”
Rich swallows a mouthful of black coffee, trying not to gag. “And me.”
I run through the rest of the week in my head. “It’s probably gonna be Monday again. That okay?”
“Depends.” He sits back, arms folded. “You not…at work?”
My stomach twists, and I lower my eyes to the tiled floor automatically. “No. That’s…that’s all sorted.”
He nudges my leg beneath the table. “Good.”
I have to fight to keep my feet still; I know he’s trying to be sympathetic, to offer comfort in his brash Drew-esque way. But no matter who touches me–even Art–I get the slow, sinking sensation in my limbs, the voice that curves hisses into whispers and says, what’s wrong with them, wanting to touch someone like you?
“Cait?” Rich repeats. “Hello? Breakfast.”
I blink several times, and twist to accept my plate from the bemused waitress. “Oh. Cheers, sorry.”
Rich tucks into a plate of wholemeal toast, and a dish of melon; Drew has his usual, which we’ve christened The Heap: eggs with a side of bacon, with a side of sausage, with a metric crap tonne of toast. There are probably mushrooms buried beneath the hash browns, limp and brown and screaming for their mother.
Now Drew has brought up Dominic, I’m not even hungry. A weird bit of me rejoices in this, like I’ll get even thinner just to piss him off. Just to spite him. I push beans around my plate and make forlorn little patterns in the sauce with my fork.
“So,” Rich says through a mouthful of limp melon, “who’s read up on Google algorithms?”
I raise a hand, still chewing. I may have done the reading, but I understood roughly three percent of it. Not that the boys need to know that.
Drew eyeballs me. He fingers the dull shadow of his bruise. “You would’ve done.”
“I want to do this thing called pass, shortly followed by that getting a job lark I hear so much about.”
“It’s not even nine,” he grumbles. “Way too early for optimism.”
Good job it’s feigned, huh?
*
By Saturday, I’ve heard nothing else from Dominic. I should be relieved–my armour is working, or he just doesn’t care enough to persevere (shock horror). Instead I wake up antsy and nervous, as if a piano is about to drop from the sky.
Then I remember I’m working with Art in the afternoon, and my belly turns to overshaken cola.
On my walk to the gym, I attempt to iron out my labyrinth of issues. Art vs. Dominic. Funny, hot and sorted vs. deluded scrotclown. Boy who probably isn’t interested vs. boy who never really was, but I kept him around anyway because I just felt grateful that someone wanted me. Yeah. This isn’t working so well. What was I even doing?
Half-way along a cobbled side street, I encounter a fat ginger tomcat. I’m instantly reminded of Vicky wanting to iron Art’s mythical feline, and end up chortling to myself for the rest of the journey as I envision the startled look on the poor cat’s face. I may whinge at Vicky for her tactical alarm fails, but she’s awesome for cheering me up–even when she’s not actually here.
Hazel’s waiting for me at the reception desk. She clutches a huge coffee in one hand and a pair of red shorts in the other. “Emergency,” she bleats at me, her eyes big and desperate.
“Broke a nail?”
“Not quite that bad. Still.” She brandishes the shorts with a painful scowl. “Lifeguard’s pulled a sickie. I have to fill in.”
I try very hard not to snigger. “Oops.”
“I am not built for shorts, McCoe.”
There’s nothing wrong with Hazel’s figure, but one doesn’t argue with her and live. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“I blame you. All this cake you br
ing in,” she mutters, holding open the half-door for me. She pulls at my tote as I pass, peering into it. “What kind is it today? Tell me it’s chocolate. Please.”
The only things I’ve baked this week are the skinny cupcakes for Vicky, and I took the leftovers to my public economics lecture before they all went stale. I have a nice wet blueberry stain on my iPad cover to prove it. “You can snoop all you like,” I tell her. “That bag is a cake free zone. Apologies.”
Hazel gives a despaired squeak. “What do I even pay you for?”
“Sifting through skanky old used socks in lost property. And answering the phone with my very sexy voice,” I deadpan.
Behind us, a man clears his throat. I jerk around to see Drew’s friend Blake, all bundled up in his football team jacket. His cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, which makes him look about five–all blond and strapping as he is. I’m half-tempted to give him a once-over for plate Frisbee bruises but this would be unprofessional, and I’m classier than that. Ahem.
“Hi,” I say, still shrugging my coat off. “Can I help you?”
“I’m, uh, here to see Art Lyons?”
Hazel barges in front of me and drops the shorts on the desk to search for something. “One sec–I’ll buzz for him.”
I frown at her. “Isn’t he just in the–”
“He comes out to meet his clients.” She finds the red clipboard she’s looking for, scans it, and briefly checks her watch. “Mr Montgomery, is it?”
Blake nods. “Yeah.”
“He’ll be out in just a moment. Can Cait get you a glass of water, or some green tea?”
I throw him my best reception-desk-yay smile. “Yes–can I get you anything?”
“Nah.” He looks like he wants to die, bless him. “I’m good.”
A second later, Art comes striding out of the dark wood spa door with a file clutched in his fist.
Oh, hello, Art’s fists. I’ve missed you.
His green shirt is crease-free and tucked into his trousers, highlighting wide, flat hips. A half-grin flashes across his face; first, when he sees Blake, and then when he spots me. I could swear his eyes linger on mine a second longer than necessary. Smoke, paper, adrenaline. Five minutes, I’ve been at work, and I already feel drunk on the sight of him.
“Art Lyons.” He gives Blake’s hand a firm shake. “Nice to meet you. First time here?”
“Yeah,” Blake says to the floor.
“Not a problem. Follow me, and we’ll do some medical questions before we get started, yeah?”
I’ve never heard Art’s Professional Voice before. He gave me that little speech in the gym, but it wasn’t serious; this voice is cool and calm and deep and lovely, as if he’s massaging the words with a warm pink tongue. I could close my eyes and fall asleep to it if I didn’t get so damn aroused at the same time. Not that I think it’s intentional on his part–I doubt he wants to arouse Blake. I hope.
Before he leaves, Art catches my eye again and his smile softens to a smoulder. Warm lips, warm skin. I love that he gives me this little gesture of acknowledgement. My cheeks grow hot with pride.
I have to be so careful here. I used to be grateful when Dominic even said my name. Again and again, I tell myself: you deserve more. Mills say so, Drew says so, Vicky says so. Why can’t I believe them when they say it so often? I guess scar tissue hurts no matter how many times you go over it. It grows fragile, thin cells weakening every time.
Art fixes soft tissue. Knows how to go over it just right. I shiver, though the reception area is warm.
Then the real world floods back in, and Hazel and I watch the pair of men disappear into the spa.
“We’re managing his client list?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “He suggested it. A lot of his clients are male, but they can feel a bit funny walking into a beauty spa, apparently.”
“Heh. I can believe that.” I think of Drew’s disgust at being associated with moisturiser, or his disapproval of Rich’s ‘handbag.’
“Have to hand it to him, though–he’s been here a week and he’s already got half of the local athletes pencilled in. Boy knows how to network.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that most of his clients would be sports professionals. It also hadn’t occurred to me that they might be men. I suppose, when I think of massages, I picture orchids and white sheets and panpipes music, as I would with the rest of the beauty spa. Art, apparently, has a different image to cut.
“Do you think he gets it ripped out of him for massaging men?” Judging by the things he’s said to me, someone’s mentioned it along the way.
“Oh, absolutely. Although.” She wiggles her auburn eyebrows. “Can’t pretend it’s a bad image, eh? If only we were allowed to put CCTV in his clinic…”
“That would be wrong, Hazel. Very wrong.”
“I’m quite aware of that, McCoe. I can’t believe you even suggested it.”
And with that, she hurries off to the locker room, red shorts in her reluctant hands.
*
Saturday business drops off like a lead weight at six, which means I get a break. Huzzah. I collect a sandwich and a bucket of latte, retrieve my phone, and shuffle off to the break room behind the cafe. (We’re not allowed to sit in the cafe itself in our uniforms; apparently, it makes us look lazy).
The break room is decked out with brown pleather sofas that occupied the lobby before last year’s refurbishment. I sink into one, balance my coffee on one knee, eat the sandwich, and start flicking through notifications on my phone. Taking a break always makes me feel like a fraud; when most of the staff jump around at ninety miles an hour for a living, just being the girl who sits on reception can make you look a tad pathetic–even if I do end up dashing about my coop like a headless chicken some days.
No more contact from Dominic. I’m not sure why I expect it, but I check through every social media account I have, just in case, even my hastily-abandoned Twitter account (celebrities are really underwhelming when all they do is talk about going to Sainsbury’s).
I’m about to get my stuff together when Drew rings.
“I have an announcement!” he booms down the phone.
“So important that you actually had to call me?”
“Fuck yeah.”
And at that blast of obscenity…Art walks into the room. I don’t know whether to cringe or laugh it off. He’s carrying a bottle of water which he raises to me just slightly, his eyebrow cocked in amusement. Amber eyes sparkle brown, then green. Before I even realise, I’m smiling at him. He smiles back, and then I’m ninety-nine-percent sure we’d be in the midst of an Awkward Silence if Drew wasn’t still foghorning down the phone.
“Cait?” Drew shouts.
“I’d quite like to keep my eardrums, if it’s okay with you.”
“Oh. Yeah, sorry.” He clears his throat, but doesn’t actually get any quieter.
“So you were saying? An announcement?” I ask, trying not to look at Art again lest I smile again like some weirdo.
“Drumroll, please.”
“I’m at work, Drew,” I hiss. “I cannot drumroll for you.”
At this, Art–who evidently has no worries about looking like a weirdo for eavesdropping–perches on the opposite sofa, holds up a thick finger to get my attention, and begins to drum on the mucky coffee table.
“Thanks,” I tell him, unable to suppress my laughter.
“Nice one,” Drew booms. “You ready for this?”
Art speeds up. God, I hope Drew isn’t about to announce a wank, or something. I wouldn’t put it past him.
“Tonight, I am going to be….SOBER!”
Art gives the coffee table a final strike–which looks painful–and then attempts not to snort. Badly. I get the strange urge to nudge him under the table, to tell him off for the teasing he seems to revel in.
“Sober?” I repeat.
“On a Saturday night,” he says proudly. “I know, I know. It’s unprecedented.”
“Is there any,
uh, reason for the sudden–and frankly uncharacteristic–change of behaviour?”
Drew pauses, which causes Art to chuckle again. His laugh is all low and gutsy like he really enjoys making the sound.
“It’s an experiment. To see if I can. Also…my neck still fucking hurts and if I get pissed again, I’ll probably do something to make it worse.”
“Like twat around with throwing plates?” I ask.
“You know me too well.”
“And what a lucky girl it makes me.”
Art purses his lips at that one. Gah, stop looking at him, Cait!
“I have to go,” I tell Drew. “Due back at work.”
“Well since I’ll be all SOBER,” he shouts, “shall I pick you up? Nine, right?”
“I’ve got a lift,” I lie.
“Oh. Well okay then.” He gives a hum of disapproval. “But just you remember while you’re having your lift that tonight, I am completely beer free. So if you end up coming home and making some of those pancakes, or the truffles–”
“Drew! I have to go!”
“–Or even, like, basic sponge cake…lemme know. I can totally drive over and get some.”
I laugh at him. “Good night. And good luck.”
“Night. And cheers. I mean, not cheers. Because cheers is drinking, and I am absolutely completely not doing that,” he babbles.
“Good night, Drew.” I hang up, take a deep breath, and let my eyes come to rest on Art. His face is still soft with mischief.
“You have interesting friends,” he says.
“You could say that.”
He nods. “You swimming later?”
“I think so.” He remembers. I’m not sure what to do with that. And I absolutely didn’t pack my ultra-flattering red Topshop swimsuit just in case he saw me there again. (I totally packed it). I get up to leave in the most non-committal fashion I can manage. “You…?”
“I’m gonna need it.” He rolls his shoulders, grimacing at the effort. “Busy day.”
“People really come, this time of night?”
“Saturday’s a busy one for matches, runs, all sorts of stuff. I do a lot of recovery work for people on weekends.”
“Oh. Okay.” I’m standing in the doorway like an idiot, but my feet are all fizzy and they refuse to move. I just want to hear his voice a little longer. It’s the closest thing to touch I can imagine, being brushed by those low tones.
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