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One Night Only

Page 16

by Stewart, Lynsey M.


  ‘Fuckin hell, Matt. It’s not worth straining my eyes to watch this.’ I laughed as I glanced at him. He looked good. Long gone was the yellowing skin and bloated appearance years of alcohol abuse had caused. He was wearing the jumper I gave him for Father’s Day and the trainers we’d selected together online. He called me the day they arrived, telling me they were ‘well smart.’

  Sitting on a table beside him was his obligatory cup of coffee and a packet of extra strong mints. He’d curbed his alcohol and cigarette addiction but now had a caffeine and mint habit. Ten packs a day. I was just thankful this was less of a demon than the booze, although I wasn’t looking forward to paying his upcoming dental fees.

  ‘You’re looking good, Dad.’

  ‘Not as good as you, son. Look at this heartbreaker,’ he said to Stan sitting next to him. ‘Takes after his old man, this one.’

  ‘All right, Stan. How’s things?’ I asked. He lifted his thumb but didn’t take his eyes off the game. I handed Dad the letter and he pretended to read it before pushing it back to me after a few seconds. ‘It’s the final payment, Dad. It’s due. I’ll do a bank transfer when I get home.’

  ‘Right-oh,’ he said, returning to the match. He never did find it easy to talk about the money. He knew I was paying for his treatment; we’d talked about how I’d paid off his gambling debts and credit cards, how I’d covered what he owed the bailiffs, and saved the flat from being repossessed, yet still he found the money situation and where I was getting it from hard to talk about.

  ‘Is it all looking tidy then, son?’ What he really meant was had all his debts been paid off so that he could leave with his head held high? That’s what I wanted for him. A clean start. A fresh perspective. It took the sale of Mum’s jewellery, two cars, shares in a racehorse, and most of my escorting money to do it, but…we’d done it.

  Dad knew I was escorting. Two weeks before starting rehab, when I told him I’d walk away if he didn’t agree to getting help, he asked me how I would pay for the treatment. I told him escorting would be quick money, a way to give him a new life, an identity aside from the alcoholic gambler he acquired over the years. He nodded. One simple nod was the grand total of his response.

  I liked the safety of Merryweather. It allowed me to focus, to stop the anxiety of finding Dad in a drunken stupor on a shop front or in a police cell. I knew where he was and what he was doing, and although my dad was a prisoner here, Merryweather had given me a taste of freedom.

  Dad turned to drink when Mum passed away. His lifeline, the reason for living, was gone and he didn’t know what to do with the black hole her passing created. I was nine and I’d been his carer ever since. Now that we were two weeks away from Dad being released, I started to think about how he would cope at home without the twenty-four-hour watch and group therapy. Would I have to resume my role again? Take over from the nurses? I felt the familiar twisting of nerves in the bottom of my stomach, the ones I’d lived with since I was a child.

  ‘Everything’s ready for you when you get home, Dad. I’ve re-decorated the flat, got new furniture, sorted everything.’

  ‘Yeah? Gleaming like the palace?’ he replied, smiling. I knew he was proud of me; he just didn’t say it often.

  ‘Something like that.’ I wanted to take the conversation further, ask him how he’d cope when he came home. I wanted to plead with him that I couldn’t bail him out again, wasn’t prepared to do what I’m doing now just to see him through. I knew escorting was a means to an end. I didn’t want to do it for more than I had to. He didn’t know I’d started a Psychology degree and part of me wanted to keep it that way. He wouldn’t understand the desire I had to make something more of myself. He’d lost the ability to do that when my mum died and that’s what scared me the most.

  ‘Are we going to talk about when you come home?’ I asked. He flicked his head around, scowling at me, and continued watching the game. ‘Dad?’

  ‘What’s there to talk about?’ he snapped.

  ‘The centre wants to arrange a meeting to discuss your support package when you leave.’

  ‘I don’t need anything from them,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘They want a worker to come out every week.’ There was a cost to this support, and I knew I would have to continue escorting to cover it, along with paying my course fees. ‘They can visit you at home.’

  He screwed up his face. ‘I don’t want anyone coming home, son.’

  ‘Dad, I think it will help you.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, son! I’m watching the fuckin’ game!’

  I sat back in the chair and decided this conversation could wait for another day. Another two weeks of freedom felt good and fucking awful all at the same time. I pulled my mobile from my pocket to ask Ste to come and rescue me but found a voicemail from Anna Gilmour at Upfront magazine.

  ‘Hi, Mr Shaw. Anna here. I just wanted to let you know that the article has been completed and I’d like you to read it at the office so that you can sign the Disclosure and Confidentiality Agreement…if you’re happy with it, of course. Give me a call back to arrange. Thanks.’

  ‘Ain’t it about time you were going?’ Dad said as he continued focusing on the game. I nodded in agreement, patted his shoulder firmly, and walked out of Merryweather Rehabilitation Centre with a sense of dread.

  I may have kidded myself that my life fitted neatly into boxes but in reality, I couldn’t compartmentalise any aspect of it. The escort son of a widowed, gambling, alcoholic was a heavy cross to bear, and not one I’d be able to rest on the ground for a while. I didn’t want those parts of my life to define me. I wanted to break free from the stereotypes, lifting myself in the process. I could be more than that, knew I needed to be. So why did I feel like I’d come so far, only to be dragged back to the starting line.

  18

  Stacey

  The British library was one of my favourite places to be. It oozed culture and history. I visited with my mum when I was little and researched here when I did my Media and Communications degree. I would come just to smell the books. The ornate ceilings and huge arches were inspiring when I was a child and even now, as a journalist who lived for words, I lost my breath as I entered the library archives.

  And I needed inspiration, divine or otherwise.

  I had a reader pass and decided to spend the afternoon researching the psychology of relationships in one of the reading rooms. Anna had given me the go-ahead to write a regular article about the mishaps of modern dating and I wanted to collect some ideas. I’d chosen books I wanted to take some passages from, about finding love, building healthy attachments, and maintaining relationships. I was fairly sure I would learn something about myself too.

  I’d found a book about the positive psychology of healthy relationships and decided it would be my first stop. I weaved my way through the wooden desks and matching chairs, looking for a free space to work. I spotted an empty chair in the far corner. A long leg was sprawled out by the side of the desk, an overnight bag peeking out from underneath, and there was a deeply concentrating Matt studying a large book on the desk in front of him. He had a pencil in one hand and an adorable puzzled look on his face.

  Whatever he was reading was giving him a hard time figuring it all out. The pencil went to his lip, tapping a few times before his head went down and he continued making notes. I bit my lip watching him. The overwhelming excitement of seeing him in one of my favourite places encouraged a bubble of laughter I knew would soon turn into a snort if I didn’t contain it quickly.

  I dropped my things at the empty desk in front of him. There was a large wooden partition with a small gap at either side. I smiled as I saw the top of his pencil scribbling away. Opening my note pad, I ripped off a small piece of paper and wrote hi before posting it through one of the gaps. His handsome face appeared at one side, his smile breaking open as he realised it was me.

  ‘We have to stop meeting like this,’ he said.

  ‘Hey, you.’


  ‘That’s my line,’ he replied. ‘What are you doing here!’ He spoke in hushed tones, but the warmth shone through. ‘Are you following me, Stacey Clifton?’

  ‘You wish,’ I whispered. ‘I’m researching for my new article.’ I held up a book called Relationships: Where You’ve Been Going Wrong. He laughed as I opened it and gave a dramatic sigh.

  ‘I’ve been in the Psychology section,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an assignment to write. I’ve left it a little late.’

  ‘What on?’

  ‘Gestalt Therapy.’

  ‘Ooh, interesting,’ I replied. ‘Isn’t that based on self-awareness and hugs?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He smiled as his eyes dropped to the book. ‘It keeps patients focused on the here and now. It’s a really positive form of therapy. I’d like to specialise in Gestalt when I qualify. Possibly. I don’t know. Christ, I need to get through the degree first.’

  Sitting back on the chair, I wondered if he could be any sexier? That shirt pushed up to his elbows helped the thought process immensely. His slightly messed up hair, still damp from a shower, was also adding to the sexy ambiance. But watching him read therapy books, making notes and squidging up his face as an aid to help him understand them? I almost lost my underwear.

  I cleared my throat. ‘This is one of my favourite places.’

  ‘Mine too,’ he replied, and I may have had a tiny orgasm. ‘I love the building, always have. I used to spend a lot of time studying here, especially before Dad—’ He stopped himself, but his words already added to the assumptions I’d made about his background history and the level of fucked up it had been. I decided to let it pass. He’d made it clear, many times, he didn’t want to go there, and after the last somewhat heated discussion about not knowing the boundaries of where my interview questions and general interest stopped, I didn’t want to stoke that fire again.

  ‘I used to come here when I was…I don’t know. Eleven, twelve. I’d have a notepad in my hand and a pen tucked behind my ear. I’d pretend I was a top journalist who was gathering information for my next big news article.’ I remembered my mum sitting at one of these desks, smiling as I talked to myself quietly, fake interviewing imaginary eyewitnesses. ‘This place still gives me the same excitement.’

  ‘But now you’re actually doing what you dreamed of,’ he said. ‘How amazing is that?’

  ‘Upfront isn’t quite The Guardian, but I enjoy what I do.’

  ‘Why did you want to be a journalist?’

  ‘I’ve always loved words,’ I replied, shrugging like it was obvious. There are many family stories about me reading the dictionary for fun and completing crossword puzzles for adults. I loved to create something, to put the thoughts from my head into order on a blank page. ‘It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. I find it easier to write what I want to say rather than speak it.’

  ‘I understand you,’ he replied.

  ‘Even with my Essex twang?’

  ‘That’s what makes you, you.’ He flashed his green eyes at me. Deep pools of beautiful. ‘Is your mum…still around?’ I thought about his question and how he’d chosen to word it. Was his mum still around?

  ‘Yeah, she’s back in Liverpool. Found the only man who measured up to Ringo there.’

  He smiled. ‘And your dad?’

  ‘He still lives in Essex. Happily single, bless him. He shares his home with a bright blue budgerigar and that’s how he likes it.’

  He rested his gaze on the pad where he’d been making notes. ‘Do you see a lot of them?’

  ‘When I can,’ I replied. ‘Mum will often come down to Brighton for the weekend, but Dad won’t leave Bernard.’ He looked confused. ‘The budgerigar.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘We split the holidays. I try to avoid drama. I’ll be at Mum’s this year because Dad came to help out at Whitechapel Mission on Christmas day. We were in charge of the vegetable soup.’

  ‘The homeless shelter?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s amazing.’

  I nodded as silence fell on us again.

  ‘I read the article,’ he said. I knew he’d been into the office. I was in a meeting about the Valentine’s edition and didn’t see him, but I felt him there, knew he was in the room next to me. Anna confirmed he’d signed the disclosure agreement without questions or concern. ‘I thought it was great.’

  ‘You did?’ I asked, smiling.

  ‘You have a talent, Stace. The words you chose, the detail you gave, but shielded too, was perfect.’

  I knew exactly what he meant. I’d been careful with my word choice, protective even. I was open enough to say I’d had the full escort experience but didn’t want to offer the finer details. Those would always be mine and Matt’s to keep. A flash of memories I’d always cherish.

  ‘I’m glad you’re happy with it,’ I replied. ‘That was important to me.’

  ‘It’s brilliant. Honestly.’

  ‘I’ve arranged to meet Sarah to do a follow-up article in March’s edition,’ I said.

  ‘Anna told me.’

  I nodded, watching his long legs as he stretched them out at the side of the desk, his foot a breadth away from mine. I wanted to put my hand on his knee, slide it further up his thigh, and rest it there. When I caught his gaze, I knew he felt the urge too.

  ‘Are you happy for me to stay here or would you like me to move?’ I asked.

  He looked sad I’d even asked the question. ‘Why would I want you to move?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I muttered. ‘We didn’t leave each other on the best of terms.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he replied, slicing his hands through his hair. ‘I should have understood and dropped it. I know it’s not easy to accept what I do and that is exactly why I’m not dating.’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t make it easy, though. Not after meeting you.’

  ‘You said you didn’t want me to judge you on what you do,’ I replied. ‘I’m not. I just can’t imagine ever being in a place where I could share you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be sharing me. I’d be yours.’ His eyes fell to my mouth and I’d never felt so turned on. Just a simple gesture, a drop of his gaze. How did he make my body so aware? Every rush of blood and flutter of butterflies. The electric shivers and tiny tingles falling across my skin. ‘They don’t get all of me, but you? You’d get everything.’

  ‘You make me lose my mind,’ I replied, in awe of how he could turn my doubts into securities.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When I’m with you, your job feels unimportant, insignificant, even, but when we’re apart…’

  ‘It won’t be forever.’

  I smiled. ‘Call me when you’re a Gestalt therapist.’

  ‘Done.’ I took his hand, knowing I shouldn’t, but I had to claim this moment. ‘You’re beautiful.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘I’m trying to stay away from you,’ he said, his voice low and sexy. ‘But we keep finding each other and I’m calling fate.’

  ‘Do you believe in fate?’ I drummed my fingers across a textbook called A Book About Love. I knew if I flipped it open, our names would be printed inside.

  ‘Fate…destiny, I haven’t made my mind up yet.’ He joined our little fingers together. ‘Perhaps we’re tied together with an invisible string.’ I smiled at the notion, wishing it were true. He was watching me with such a tender look on his face, smiling, sighing, taking me in. ‘Can I see you again? No expectations. I understand how you feel but I don’t want to lose you, Stace. I need you in my life, even if it’s just as friends.’

  ‘That would be enough?’ It sounded like torture to me.

  ‘The fuck it would,’ he whispered, laughing lightly. ‘But I’m a desperate man here. Give me something good, a morsel at least.’

  ‘You’re lovely and I like you a lot. Your eyes tell me I can trust you, but your profession gives me full body anxiety and that won’t do.’

  ‘Pretend I’m something else,’ he replie
d urgently. ‘A farmer or a…firefighter.’

  ‘Then I’d be worrying about your safety every shift,’ I said. ‘I’d wait up every night, phone the fire station every minute.’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone like you,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘You have a good heart.’

  I smiled shyly and an easy silence fell upon us.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the idea I had about you giving classes on sex and relationships.’

  ‘What? In the local church hall on a Wednesday night. Just after Zumba and before book club. I don’t think so, Stace.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be sex tips. What about…couple’s yoga? Massage?’ He screwed up his face. ‘Cuddle therapy, then?’ He sat back and crossed his hands over his head as he laughed. ‘I’ve always wanted to try Pilates, but I never found the right bra.’

  ‘I liked the one you wore on our date,’ he said. ‘Oh, that’s right, you didn’t wear one.’

  I tapped his arm lightly. ‘Stick to the matter in hand.’

  ‘I preferred your breasts,’ he said, his voice low, his eyes dilated. In and out. And if we weren’t in a room full of academics and glorious books, I’d have crawled over the table and spread my legs for him. My hands reached for him, sliding their way to his knee, further to his upper thigh, the line that led me to his glorious bum, the one I’d held in my hands as I had his cock in my mouth. He moved closer, leaning around the edge of the desk, and I gasped as his hand mirrored mine. A grip against my thigh that relaxed into a lighter claim.

  A vibration in his pocket pulled us apart.

  I watched as he pulled his phone from his pocket, cursing under his breath. ‘Shit. It’s Ste. He’s got me roped into a competition and I promised I’d meet him to train.’

  ‘Guess I’ll have to do my research in peace,’ I replied, cocking my head. ‘You’re far too distracting anyway.’ He reluctantly started putting his things into his bag before standing, clutching the library books to his chest. ‘I’ll put those back. I need to return these when I leave anyway.’

 

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