Blokebusters Page 27

  “Matt, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think I needed to book so far in advance – how was I to know there’d be private parties?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. She interpreted it as a snub, like he didn’t want to listen to excuses mitigating her thoughtlessness but she was wrong. He was enjoying it. It reminded him of when money was tight, just after their wedding when Kentucky Fried Chicken had been a rare treat. He’d give anything to go back to those days.

  “Do you like your watch?”

  “It’s terrific.” He glanced at it; he couldn’t have picked better himself. “I love it.”

  “It’s the radio debate next Saturday,” she said, unable to think of anything else to say. She’d never had to work at conversation with Matt before, it had always flowed naturally and she’d assumed there was an inexhaustible supply.

  “Yeah – we should think about how we’re going to approach it.” He wiped his cheeks with his scratchy paper napkin. “Have I missed any?”

  She wiped his cheek with her own napkin, his eyes flitting over her face as if he was reading her.

  “You will behave during it, won’t you?” he said sternly. She blinked at him and was rewarded with a broad grin. “I’m not sure I should tell you… but… ”

  “What?”

  “The woman’s name – it was annoying me. Elaine Rogers. I knew I’d heard it before.”

  “And?”

  “She was one of our earliest customers. Mid-November. Fi did the job; I sat with Elaine in the car. Husband was very up for it.”

  “What a hypocrite!” The teenage employee wiping the neighbouring table with a dirty cloth glanced at them, hoping Georgia was about to lay into Matt.

  “Yeah.” He wiped his fingers carefully, one at a time, on a clean napkin. “I know you don’t believe me, but I really enjoyed that.” He smacked his lips to ensure he hadn’t left any crumbs around his mouth.

  They walked home. He tentatively put his arm around her.

  “How does it feel to be thirty-three?” Georgia asked.

  “Not much different to thirty-two if I’m being honest. And thirty-two didn’t feel all that different to thirty-one, which felt remarkably similar to thirty. I wonder at what age things start feeling different. If any.”

  “And am I going to get my first experience of making love with a thirty-three year old man?”

  “If you play your cards right,” he smiled. He loved it when she offered it on a plate. Maybe it was time to lower his defences a bit. Maybe he’d got his knickers in a twist over nothing. After all, Dan Goldstein hadn’t been in contact since that night.

  *

  Fiona resisted responding to Leo’s email. She wanted to think things through. She couldn’t email, as that would reveal her real name. He’d provided his mobile number so she decided to text him. It took her until she got home shortly before midnight on Saturday to have the courage to do so.

  Received your message. Not convinced but willing to meet. Bel.

  She curled up on her sofa, switching on one lamp for company. If he responded quickly he was a prospect.

  Her phone beeped in seconds.

  Name time, date and location. I’ll be there. Leo.

  She grinned.

  Don’t get any ideas. I don’t trust you. Sunday (Tomorrow), 13:00, The Baker’s Arms, Sewardstone Road, Waltham Abbey.

  She’d been there once before. It was far enough from her home, and over the border into Essex, to confuse him about where she lived. It took two minutes for a response.

  Please give directions – I’ll be there.

  She shook her head.

  No directions. Consider it an initiative test.

  Two minutes passed.

  Mine’s a pint of Guinness. Night Bel.

  She hugged her knees close to her chest and tried to imagine what he was doing at that precise moment. She pictured him in his boxers, ready for bed and staring out of the window at the moon, thinking of her.

  At his Docklands flat, Leo frantically rooted through his laundry bin for his lucky shirt. He threw it into the washing machine and tipped in far too much washing powder. Happy it was all whirring as it should, he sat at his laptop and searched online for a map locating the Baker’s Arms, Waltham Abbey. He printed it off and tried to calm down.

  *

  By ten-thirty the next morning, Fiona had tried on her entire wardrobe twice. She couldn’t even decide on skirt or trousers. She didn’t want to look like she was flirting so trousers made sense. But she didn’t want to lose him through not displaying herself to her best advantage. For the tenth time, she looked out the window; it was clear and sunny but cold. She chose navy tailored trousers and a cream sweater. But it looked unsexy. She kept the trousers and changed the sweater for a shirt. Too masculine. She kept the shirt and changed the trousers for a knee-length skirt. Too librarian. She glanced out of the window. If still looked clear and sunny but cold. Sod him. She’d wear what she wanted. If he didn’t have the vision to see past comfy jeans and a sweater than he was obviously not the man for her. She teamed her tan suede fitted jacket with her tan boots and was pleased with the effect.

  Leo was at the pub almost an hour early. It was a dark, claustrophobic olde-worlde place. He suffocated under dark beams and dried hop garlands. He ordered a bottle of wine with two glasses and was pleased to see that it was a gastro-pub; she might have a meal with him.

  He noticed her the minute she came through the door. More beautiful than he remembered. He loved the way she hadn’t made any concessions for him and wore the first clothes that had come to hand. He couldn’t stand it when women took forever to get ready. She spotted him and felt her knees buckle slightly. He smiled at her and she returned it. He looked practically edible in his black jeans and pale blue shirt. His jacket was folded over the chair next to him.

  “Hello.” He stood to greet her. Neither quite knew how to behave. A kiss seemed wrong, a handshake too formal. He patted her arm awkwardly.

  “How do I know this isn’t a set-up?” she asked.

  “You could search me?”

  Fiona grabbed the magazine he was holding and shook it. She rooted through his jacket pockets, switched his phone off and shook his pens in case they were some secret journalist equipment in disguise.

  “I’m not James Bond,” he laughed.

  She ignored him and opened his wallet to check for, well, she didn’t know what really but it seemed a good opportunity to have a nose. There were the usual credit cards, bank notes, receipts and a couple of coupons he’d cut out of magazines.

  “Two pounds off ‘Bums and Tums workout DVD’?” she said, arching an eyebrow.

  “For my eldest sister.” He blushed crimson.

  “Yeah I believe you.” She smiled and sat down, feeling a bit mean for humiliating him when he was letting her root through his belongings.

  “Don’t you want to check my person for bugs?” he asked. “It’s where all the stuff gets hidden these days.”

  “OK, stand up.” She realised he was teasing but some invitations were too good to refuse. She patted his chest, stomach, hips and backside, noticing how shallow his breathing sounded. “Nothing.”

  “You haven’t checked my trouser pockets – you’re not of a very suspicious mind are you?”

  She patted his pockets.

  “No, no, no,” he said irritably. “Bugs these days are tiny – you need to get your hands in – feel.”

  She scrabbled about in his pockets and he rested his hand on the table to steady himself. She pulled out a hanky pitted with small crusty patches and held it up questioningly. He snatched it back and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Well, I can’t find anything.”

  “Mikes are very hard to find; you’re really not trying – it could be in my hair.”

  She admired his persistence and ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair. It felt clean and healthy, no revolting products like gel or wax. He watched her with warm eyes, turned on by he
r touch. She couldn’t ever recall feeling so comfortable with a man before. The rest of the pub wondered why she was doing a nit inspection in public, like monkeys in a zoo. Her fingers slid down to his face and rested on his cheeks, her thumbs temptingly near his mouth.

  “I haven’t found a thing,” she whispered. “I guess you’re clean.”

  “There are other places stuff can be hidden.” He matched her whisper. “But we’ll save those for later on in the relationship.”

  Unknown to him, he’d just scored the most bonus points it was possible to score with Fiona: he’d referred to their relationship. Firstly, he assumed they’d have one, secondly, he’d said the word relationship without mentioning sex; thirdly, he got pleasure from being touched without assuming it was foreplay.

  “I know you don’t trust me yet so I’m not going to probe, but is your name really Bel?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a barrister?”

  “No.”

  “OK, I can live with that – but put my mind at rest, tell me your chocolate appreciation wasn’t faked? Tell me you love chocolate? I’ll be crushed if you say you don’t.”

  “I love chocolate.”

  “Fantastic.” He sat back and studied her in a way that made her feel naked. “I wasn’t sure you’d come and meet me. I’m glad you have.” He reached for her hand and she let him. His hand was warm and squeezed hers with just the right amount of pressure. She watched him, knowing she didn’t have to speak and fill the silence. He smiled and prayed she couldn’t detect his dirty thoughts.

  “I’ll level with you,” he said, pouring her a glass of wine. “I’m a journalist for the Daily Mirror. The first time we met it was a set-up – I was supposed to find out about the business and Larry Pink and publish it before the other tabloids. I got a bollocking – pardon my French – for not getting the story and I’d get fired if they knew I was meeting you now and had no intention of writing about any of it. I know there’s no reason you should believe me but I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about you. I fancy you like mad and… well… hope you like me. If you can get over the fact I’m a journalist.” He took a long sip of wine. “This is what I propose. We talk about anything and everything. No topic off the radar. Except Blokebusters. I won’t ask, you don’t say. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” She tried to sound cool, hoping he couldn’t hear the effect he had on her heart.

  They drank the wine and browsed the menu boards that hung from every wall. As it was their first date, Fiona pretended to be healthy and ordered pasta. Leo gladly let her take some of his chips which was unusual for him; normally he felt it should be a viable defence for murder – ‘I’m sorry your honour, I had no choice but to kill her, she was trying to nick some of my chips having refused to order any for herself’. He had chocolate pudding and custard for dessert; she had chocolate tart and, for the first time, neither begrudged sharing their dessert with their dining partner. By 8 pm, Fiona started to feel stiff on the hard seat.

  “Well, it’s been a lovely afternoon.”

  “You’re not going?” he said.

  “We’ve both got work tomorrow – you’ve got to get back to… wherever it is you live.”

  “Docklands,” he said, unable to mask his chagrin at the date ending.

  “I hope you didn’t drive.”

  “No. Got the train. Well. DLR, Tube, train, cab. You’re a tough woman to get to.”

  “And was I worth it?” she asked coyly.

  “God yes.” His sincere answer was worth more than all the flattery in the world.

  “I’m going to say something and I want you to understand that I never say it – never – on first dates.” She wagged her finger at him, tipsy from hours of social drinking. He nodded eagerly, resisting making the smart-alec comment that this was actually their second date. “Would you like to come back to mine?”

  “Have you got a spare room?” he fished in order to avoid making a fool of himself.

  “Yep.” She pulled her jacket on in a far rougher manner than she normally would handle a garment that cost £300. “Not that you’ll need it. Come on – there’s usually some taxis outside.”

  He grinned and thanked whomever it was who was smiling down on him.

  *

  When Fiona’s alarm clock went off at six the next morning, she sat up with a start. It felt like she’d only had two hours’ sleep.

  “That’s a cracking sight to be greeted with,” Leo beamed and she primly pulled the duvet up to hide her modesty. “Bit late for that. I’ve seen it all close up and in glorious Technicolor.” He snaked an arm around her and pulled her under the duvet.

  She laughed, more joyously than she had for a long time, and squirmed free.

  “I’ve got to get ready for work.”

  “Take a sicky.” His tongue trailed down her shoulder, marking his territory. His stubble felt wonderful on her skin, better than the most expensive exfoliant in her bathroom cupboard.

  “I can’t – I’ve got too much on.”

  “Can I see you tonight?”

  “I’m working.”

  “All night?”

  “I’ll finish at around midnight.”

  “We could meet – I know a great café, does fantastic bagels. It’s open all night. You could come back to mine afterwards.” Up until meeting Bel, Leo had been a bit of a cynic about love. He wasn’t sure he believed in it. Now he knew he did. He tried to calculate all the nights he’d survived without her next to him. The thirty-six years he’d got by without knowing her. Yet the thought of climbing into a bed that night and her not being there was horrendous. “Please Bel.”

  “Fiona. It’s Fiona – that’s my real name.” She couldn’t bear him calling her by another woman’s name any longer, desperate to hear how her own name would sound from his lips.

  “Fiona. Hmm.” He stared into the distance. “Fiona. Fi-own-ar.” He rolled the syllables around his mouth like cigar smoke. “Can I call you Fi?”

  “Family, friends and lovers usually do,” she said before heading for the bathroom. The shower clicked on and he flopped back on her bed. Fiona Kelly. Fiona Kelly. It had a nice ring to it. Yep, more than acceptable.

  “When are you going to start decorating this place?” he asked as they dressed.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “It’s white. Every room. Like you haven’t done anything to it since moving in.”

  “Cheek – it was horrible when I moved in. Blue in the hallway, pink in the kitchen. This bedroom was a vivid lilac. It took months to cover it all up.”

  “Really? Maybe you should bring some sunglasses when you come to mine tonight – you are coming?”

  “Are you going to let me say anything but yes?”

  “No.”

  Her stomach flipped. She hadn’t had a relationship where the man had done the running; normally she was phoning and arranging things. Leo was different. She could tell.

  *

  Billy was due to arrive mid-morning. To kill the time until he turned up, Matt checked for new emails and tried to plan and allocate as many of them as possible. He opened the next email in line and narrowed his eyes. The client wanted her boyfriend, an American businessman, tested. The attached photo wasn’t great quality but good enough to recognise a more formal-looking Dan Goldstein. He closed it with a vicious jab to the mouse and replied to the email, I’m sorry but we are unable to accept your request. A refund has been processed to your credit card.

  He rubbed his hand over his face. Georgia was his wife and he was damned if he was going to let some oily shit have her. Not that he could stop it happening but he didn’t have to help. His hands hovered over the keyboard before he added, Kindly do not contact us again. We do not want your custom.

  He hit send and rummaged in his chocolate drawer.

  *

  “Matt! You look as tramp-like as normal.” Billy laughed as he swaggered into the house.

  “Thanks. Tea? Coffee?”
<
br />   “Beer please.”

  “Bit early isn’t it?”

  “Not if you’re operating on LA time,” Billy said.

  “And are you?”

  “I get around.” Billy tapped the side of his nose.

  Matt had missed this: spending time with someone more laughable than himself. He led Billy into the kitchen and took the bottle opener out of the drawer before taking the beers from the fridge; the memory of spending three hours in casualty when Billy had tried to open a beer with his teeth was still fresh in his mind. He hadn’t realised gums contained so much blood.

  “Is Georgie-girl about?”

  “At work.” Matt took a swig of beer. “I’ll tell her you were asking.”

  “I always thought she fancied me.”

  “She certainly mentioned that she found you unique.”

  “Don’t worry mate – I’d never nick your bird.” He patted Matt’s shoulder patronisingly.

  “I appreciate that.”

  Billy scanned the kitchen in what Matt supposed was meant to be his hard-man look.

  “I could get you a cracking new microwave – over a ton in John Lewis. I’m selling them for fifty. Do you want one?”

  “Thanks but I let Georgia do all that side of things.”

  Billy nodded to show he understood that women were like that. He hadn’t aged since they were at university. Like Matt, he still wore studenty clothes. He had a baby face, which sat oddly with the stubble he maintained. His hair was dark and curly and he tried to disguise it by plastering it down with gel. Since arriving Billy hadn’t removed his sunglasses. Matt asked him why.

  “Practically nocturnal these days. Live in clubs and dives. Daylight doesn’t seem to agree with me. So what’s with you? Why the summons? You look like someone who’s just opened a jar of Nutella only to realise that his granny was using it to transport a sample to her doctor.”

  “I was just at a low ebb. I shouldn’t have bothered you with it.”

  “Don’t give me that, Matty-boy. I’m your oldest mate. Spill.”