exaggerated the pain when she told
Turner, not fought it. It was a convenient and genuine reason to go home. She
could sense he was angry and hurt about her reaction - no, her overreaction -
the previous night, and she let herself seem more ill than she really was.
Fuck, I am a manipulative cow. If I'm ill, he can't have
a go at me.
Well, I am ill.
Fuck.
She knew she was lying to herself. And, still, to him as
well. She prodded back through her hazy memory of their walk home along the
banks of the Thames. He'd been drunk, over-excited, keen to please. And she'd
pretty much pissed on his eagerness and devotion.
What had triggered it?
His stupid, stupid attitude about allowing her to do
something, that was what. Riggers rose back in her mind. His words at the
soup kitchen: Does Turner allow you to do this?
Apparently, he does.
But it wasn't his place to allow or disallow, surely?
Yet if he didn't then he didn't care.
Her temples throbbed. This wasn't right. Relationships
weren't supposed to be complicated. When I was a teenager it was all angst and
worry and who-thinks-what. But I was sure that when you found The One, it was
supposed to all fall into place and become straightforward.
If it doesn't then maybe he's not The One.
She shut her eyes and drew in a long, shuddering breath.
I wish he was The One.
* * * *
She must have dozed off, because the car was pulling into
her apartment block's parking area and her headache was slightly eased. She
stretched and yawned, a thousand kinks spiking into her stiff muscles.
"Wake up, sleepy head." Turner kept the engine
idling as he looked to one side. "You were snoring." He had a
hesitant smile on his face. She understood that he was trying to be
non-threatening and make things better, the ways men do - by jokes and bluster.
"I was not snoring. I'm a lady. It must have been the
noise of the tyres on the road." She desperately wanted to make things
better, too. But without talking about the previous night. There was no way she
could explain herself.
He accepted the olive branch of her weak humorous excuse.
"Right, okay, but what explains the dribble?"
Instinctively she put a hand to her mouth in horror, but her
chin was dry. "You git," she laughed, and it was genuine this time. "I
was going to invite you up for a coffee but I'm not sure now."
His hand hovered over the key in the ignition. "Don't
you want to just go to bed?"
Her eyebrows shot up and he almost blushed as he hastily
tried to explain. "I mean, you're feeling unwell, so I just thought you'd…
I mean, not with me. Of course, that would be great. I'm not saying I wouldn't.
But… uh, you have a headache…"
She smiled, properly touched at his efforts to somehow steer
a safe course through the modern minefield of flirting without insulting her.
"My headache is a bit better and I think a coffee would do me some good.
And you would be welcome to join me. You've done a lot of driving."
He flicked the ignition and the Range Rover stilled.
"Okay. Thank you. God, it feels like…"
"What?"
He opened the car door but paused, one long leg dangling out
onto the tarmac. He looked away as he said, quietly, "Like we're almost
starting over, yet again."
She didn't know what to say. Were they? Should they?
"Come on up," she said at last, and grabbed her
overnight bag from the back seat.
* * * *
She clattered around in her small kitchen, grateful for
something to be doing with her hands. The mechanical comforts of routine
soothed her.
I've got grow up and tackle this, she thought. She
popped open the coffee canister lid and inhaled deeply, letting the rich
caffeine hit the back of her throat. She'd dropped a rung on the brand ladder,
with her budget forcing her to buy slightly cheaper coffee, but she hadn't sunk
to the lowest label yet. Instead she'd compromised by buying relatively decent
stuff, but drinking fewer cups. Now, she was glad of that decision.
She took pride in her kitchen even while
Turner, not fought it. It was a convenient and genuine reason to go home. She
could sense he was angry and hurt about her reaction - no, her overreaction -
the previous night, and she let herself seem more ill than she really was.
Fuck, I am a manipulative cow. If I'm ill, he can't have
a go at me.
Well, I am ill.
Fuck.
She knew she was lying to herself. And, still, to him as
well. She prodded back through her hazy memory of their walk home along the
banks of the Thames. He'd been drunk, over-excited, keen to please. And she'd
pretty much pissed on his eagerness and devotion.
What had triggered it?
His stupid, stupid attitude about allowing her to do
something, that was what. Riggers rose back in her mind. His words at the
soup kitchen: Does Turner allow you to do this?
Apparently, he does.
But it wasn't his place to allow or disallow, surely?
Yet if he didn't then he didn't care.
Her temples throbbed. This wasn't right. Relationships
weren't supposed to be complicated. When I was a teenager it was all angst and
worry and who-thinks-what. But I was sure that when you found The One, it was
supposed to all fall into place and become straightforward.
If it doesn't then maybe he's not The One.
She shut her eyes and drew in a long, shuddering breath.
I wish he was The One.
* * * *
She must have dozed off, because the car was pulling into
her apartment block's parking area and her headache was slightly eased. She
stretched and yawned, a thousand kinks spiking into her stiff muscles.
"Wake up, sleepy head." Turner kept the engine
idling as he looked to one side. "You were snoring." He had a
hesitant smile on his face. She understood that he was trying to be
non-threatening and make things better, the ways men do - by jokes and bluster.
"I was not snoring. I'm a lady. It must have been the
noise of the tyres on the road." She desperately wanted to make things
better, too. But without talking about the previous night. There was no way she
could explain herself.
He accepted the olive branch of her weak humorous excuse.
"Right, okay, but what explains the dribble?"
Instinctively she put a hand to her mouth in horror, but her
chin was dry. "You git," she laughed, and it was genuine this time. "I
was going to invite you up for a coffee but I'm not sure now."
His hand hovered over the key in the ignition. "Don't
you want to just go to bed?"
Her eyebrows shot up and he almost blushed as he hastily
tried to explain. "I mean, you're feeling unwell, so I just thought you'd…
I mean, not with me. Of course, that would be great. I'm not saying I wouldn't.
But… uh, you have a headache…"
She smiled, properly touched at his efforts to somehow steer
a safe course through the modern minefield of flirting without insulting her.
"My headache is a bit better and I think a coffee would do me some good.
And you would be welcome to join me. You've done a lot of driving."
He flicked the ignition and the Range Rover stilled.
"Okay. Thank you. God, it feels like…"
"What?"
He opened the car door but paused, one long leg dangling out
onto the tarmac. He looked away as he said, quietly, "Like we're almost
starting over, yet again."
She didn't know what to say. Were they? Should they?
"Come on up," she said at last, and grabbed her
overnight bag from the back seat.
* * * *
She clattered around in her small kitchen, grateful for
something to be doing with her hands. The mechanical comforts of routine
soothed her.
I've got grow up and tackle this, she thought. She
popped open the coffee canister lid and inhaled deeply, letting the rich
caffeine hit the back of her throat. She'd dropped a rung on the brand ladder,
with her budget forcing her to buy slightly cheaper coffee, but she hadn't sunk
to the lowest label yet. Instead she'd compromised by buying relatively decent
stuff, but drinking fewer cups. Now, she was glad of that decision.
She took pride in her kitchen even while
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