“And once again I find myself saying thank you,” I observed as I leaned against my front door.
Connor’s smile was white in the glow of the exterior light. “Again? For what?”
“For being such an extraordinarily kind man. For getting me home, and then for this, for now. I was on a first class express train straight into a night of loneliness and and self-pity, and you showed up like the Archangel Michael and dragged me out of it.”
“Kicking and screaming a bit, it should be noted, but still successfully, I guess,” he answered, eyes crinkling in amusement.
“This is a stupid question, and I feel a little bit like a schoolgirl for asking it… but am I going to see you again?” I stared down at him, strangely nervous, strangely cold, strangely hopeful.
“I would like that a lot,” he answered softly, after a short silence. “But I don’t want you to think I’m a serial white knight do-gooder, you know.”
“Uh huh. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.” I smiled, giddy.
“God’s own truth. I saw you there at St Thomas’, and something, I don’t know what, made me introduce myself. I don’t normally do that. Too wrapped up in my own head.”
“Aren’t we all. Well, whatever spirit of serendipity it was, thank you, Connor. You’ve taken the worst day of my life and made it one of my best.”
“I’ll take that,” he said, softly.
“Connor?”
“Ceri?”
“Come up here.”
He climbed up a step, then another.
“Close your eyes,” I whispered.
He complied, mouth curling into a small smile.
I leaned in to him, rested my cheek against his, wrapped my one good arm around him and held him to me. “You’re my guardian angel,” I breathed into his ear. Then I pulled back slightly, darted in, totally messed up the coquettish kiss I’d planned, gasped a flustered “Good night!” and closed the door, leaning back against it. I could feel myself blushing furiously and I cursed myself under my breath as I listened to his footsteps fading.
“You idiot,” I berated myself. “What a way to mess that up.”
My phone vibrated.
– You’re cute when you’re flustered. Goodnight Ceri –
“Arsehole,” I murmured, stupidly pleased.
.:.
“So did you shag him?”
“Bronwyn!” I protested, laughing. “I just met him.”
“That hasn’t stopped you in the past,” she observed around a mouthful of muesli.
“Ugh, for God’s sake, don’t talk with your mouth full,” I muttered.
She snorted, gesticulated with her spoon and waggled her head. Then she swallowed, theatrically.
“Are you done?” I asked.
“Almost,” she grinned. “So… are you going to see him again?”
“I hope so.”
“When?”
“He invited me out on Friday; some post-rehearsal social event.”
“You going to be well enough by then?”
“I’ll probably still be purple if that’s what you mean, but I feel a bit better today. Just sore and stiff.”
“Take it easy today, yeah?”
“No choice,” I muttered.
“You going to take your violin for repairs?”
“Nah, too sore. I’ll take it past Ballards on Friday and see what they say. Guess I’d better get the Vaseline ready.”
“I can get you a ward-size tub if you need,” Bron observed, deadpan.
“Thanks, I guess,” I answered, then stuck out my tongue at her.
Bron left before me, and I dallied away a minute or two before I picked up my handbag and slung it, wincing, over my shoulder. I’d chosen ski-pants and a mid-length skirt, with a soft jersey over a black cotton vest; all carefully selected so that I’d experience the minimum of discomfort from my bruises. It was a slightly warmer day, with no wind, and I was grateful for that.
The bus was quiet, for once. I sat, staring out the window, watching cyclists playing kamikaze chicken with pedestrians as we wound our way through the West End and from there into Barbican. I limped my way up to the office, and dealt with the horror and sympathy of the girls with what good grace I could muster. Ally and Sam made me tea and looked after me, and I flushed from the attention.
The morning seemed to pass by like glacial drift. But, like glaciers sometimes do, it suddenly jolted forward.
My phone beeped.
– How’s the wing? –
I snorted at Connor’s silliness, then, grinning slightly, replied.
– Somebody plucked my feathers out. –
I stared at my computer screen, internally counting the seconds as I waited. I had reached thirty one when my phone beeped again. I muted it, then snuck a glance.
– We’ll have to glue them back on then. –
– Have we got to tar and feathers already? –
– Witches are witches – came his response, and I smiled to myself. I liked his sense of humour; slightly dark like mine; quick like a trout in a stream. I let him stew a bit, then, unable to help myself, I picked up my phone again.
– I knew my warts gave me away –
– They are kind of a pretty big telltale 😉 – came his response, followed shortly by – Seriously, I hope that, despite being crippled, your day is shaping up alright –
– It is now 😉 –
I smiled to myself. “Much smoother,” I murmured. Then I tried to concentrate on work for a while while I waited for my lunch break.
.:.
“I thought I’d just phone you and save my fingers.”
He laughed. “That makes sense; you’re typing one handed after all.”
“Hardly in the usual sense of the phrase, but yes, I’m struggling through my day.”
“Now there’s an image.”
“Oh stop it, you filthy man.” I grinned to myself.
“Guilty as charged. So how are you feeling, Ceri?”
“Still really sore. Wrist is still fucked. My back and thighs, oh my god, you have no idea.”
He hissed in sympathy. “I hope the guy who tripped you has at least some twinge of conscience.”
“I hope he has haemorrhoids,” I cut in. “I hope his haemorrhoids have haemorrhoids and they marry and have incestuous haemorrhoid children.”
He laughed again, and despite myself I joined in.
“You’re a vengeful little thing,” he observed.
“Only when somebody crosses me. And I’m not that little,” I protested.
“Nah, you’re the perfect height.”
A spark; a little zing of electricity, and I shivered as the goosebumps crawled along my arms.
“How is your day going?” I asked by way of diversion.
“Shockingly, as do most Wednesdays here.”
“I never asked what you do.”
“Would you believe me if I told you I was a professional pirate, cruising the Thames looking for victims?”
“No.”
“Then I shan’t. I guess I’ll have to tell you my day job.”
“I thought your day job was picking up broken girls and fixing them, and selling them into slavery?”
“Nah, that’s just a hobby I have on the side,” he returned. “I’m collecting a set, and you were the last one I needed.”
“Uh huh.”
“Honestly, my work’s not that interesting. I’m a system administrator for a small clothing chain.”
“I can see why being a pirate would be more interesting.”
“Indeed,” he murmured.
“So, you’re a geek who sings in choirs. I guess I’ve heard of stranger things.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Where are you based?” I asked.
“Near Old Street. You?”
“Near Barbican. So, not that far away from you.”
“Damn. If I’d known that I’d have abducted you for lunch.”
“Promises, promises,” I murmured. “I’m a terrible date.”
“I had a nice time last night, so that’s patently false.”
“You took advantage of me and fed me ice cream. The horror.”
“And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
I smiled. “Do you flirt with all your rescue cases like this, Connor?”
He was silent a moment. “Given that I have a sum total of one, that being you, I guess I have to say ‘yes’. Though I guess you have no call to believe me on that; London being what it is.”
“Mm. So why me?”
“Because you have the most heart-stoppingly beautiful smile of any woman I’ve ever met, when you choose to show it.”
It was my turn to pause.
“You have low standards,” I managed, eventually.
“Never. My standards are impeccable.” He sighed. “Ugh, damnit. Ceri, I’ve got to go. Stuff’s kicking off here and I can’t in good faith ignore it for any longer, as much as I want to keep talking to you.”
“Are you going to be anywhere in my neck of the woods later?”
“Town or South Bank?”
“The latter.”
“I can be.”
“I’ll be home.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there. Chat later, Ceri.”
“Have a good afternoon. Mwa. ” I mouthed, and hung up. Then I sat for a few breathless moments, feeling strangely warm, almost alive.
.:.
I struggled out of my work clothes and sling, and unclipped my severe grey bra, opting instead for a baby-blue floral-print Victoria’s Secret push-up. Then I struggled into on a tight cream cotton Lycra shirt and mid-lengh gym pants. My assets weren’t amazing but they were still solid B’s, and I knew I could augment their effectiveness in something tight that played to my petite build.
I snuck a glance at myself in the mirror and blessed my mum’s fast metabolism. I felt skinny but I had to admit that in tight clothes I still looked good, and that made me feel better about myself. I thought a moment, and raided Bron’s overly-dramatic home first aid kit for a wide crepe bandage which I wrapped tightly around my wrist, allowing me to leave my hated sling crumpled on the floor, out of the way.
I kicked my clothing and shoes under my bed to hide them, and stepped through to our small tv room come kitchenette and dimmed the lights. I was shamelessly slutting it up, and I knew it. It had been a long, long time since a man had touched me as gently as Connor had; it had been even longer since I had felt my own desire for a man so clearly, so unambiguously. Jason and our long, drawn out, bloody denouement had left me functionally asexual, not even noticing men except maybe in extreme cases. And as for self-pleasure… well, there were likely cobwebs down there by now.