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When two a.m. crawls around, the time I’ve arbitrarily chosen to check on Neil, I’ve still not slept a wink. At least my anxiety is under control. With a few breathing exercises and my wristband, I’ve resisted pulling my hair. Below, the music stopped on the dot of one a.m. Apart from the odd car passing, the street has also largely fallen silent. In a room above me, Neil’s been silent too.
I creep upstairs, steeling myself for a barrage of swearing or worse. Movement-sensor plug-in nightlights, of the sort parents install for small children, light the staircase. Two doors leading to the bathroom and an unoccupied bedroom gape open. Both have nightlights, too. What is it with this guy and lighting?
A third door, which I deduce leads to Neil’s bedroom, is a fraction ajar. My pulse thumping hard, I push it open, then pause. Nothing but the slow rhythm of breathing emanates from the shadowy shape in the bed, and the room smells like sleep– warm, heavy, quiet. Good, I’ll be in and out and back downstairsbefore he’s barely registered I’ve checked up on him. I plan to give him a gentle shake until he says something sensible, apologise, and back out again.
Feeling foolish, I sneak closer on socked toes. God knows why I’m trying to be quiet; the whole point is to fucking wake him up.
As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I make him out more clearly. He’s lying on his front, head pillowed on his arm and the duvet pushed down to his waist. He’s naked, of course, at least the top half. I wonder if the bottom half is bare too. I tiptoe closer. I don’t need to study Neil’s back to know it will be gorgeous, but my eyes are drawn to it anyhow. And yes, as expected, he’s taut and tapering and symmetrical, with all of his dips and hollows perfectly dipping and hollowing in all the right places.
I let my gaze linger as I debate the best way of rousing him. My sexuality is fluid (not that anyone cares or has ever asked), but if I ever doubted my attraction to the blue end of the spectrum, the proof’s right here. I can’t drag my eyes away from the smooth sweep of Neil’s shoulder blades or the inviting upwards curve of his arse disappearing under the edge of the duvet. My anxiety temporarily takes a back seat. How would that warm, unblemished flesh feel against the skin of my cheek? How would he smell and taste if I press my lips into each of the dimples at the base of his spine? The texture of?—
“I’m awake and fine. So when you’ve had your fill of ogling, doc, you can fuck off.”
I leap away as if I’ve suddenly been snatched off the ground. “For fuck’s sake.”
Neil’s eyes open, heavy-lidded and idly watching me as I no doubt turn scarlet. I can feel his leery grin; I don’t need to see it. As my breathing comes back under control, my shocked panic switches to irritation. I don’t need this stress in my life. Neil cantake his chances with his head injury. I’m out of here. He’s as big a tosser as I suspected.
“Do you know something, Neil? I’m going to take you up on that offer. You’re right. Your head is clearly fine.” I back out of the door. I might be breaking every medical ethic instilled in me for the last decade but, right now, my precarious mental health feels far more important than this guy’s potentially cracked skull. “Phone 999 if you’re unwell.”
“I’ll tell Ezra.” His sing-song voice trails after me. “He won’t be very happy.”
“Pretty sure he’ll understand, actually, given that he’s spent plenty of time in your company.” My palms itch with the effort of not bringing my hand to my head. If I lose a few hairs on the short walk home, it will be this arrogant wanker’s fault. I give my wristband a vicious flick. “Frankly? I’m staggered you ever manage to get anyone to stay a whole night with you.”
CHAPTER 3
NEIL
Ezra normally takes charge of the important, unsexy paperwork side of things, such as the payroll. We’re a good team. We play to our strengths, though I take over the simple office stuff if necessary. I’m not stupid, but I am dyslexic, and Ezra deals with it much quicker. But now, what with the eye thing(I’m going blind, Ez, didn’t I tell you?)on top of every other word being jumbled on the page…
Ezra taps on his phone whilst he talks, as if ticking off a task list, relaying important information to me, and thumbing a message to somebody else aren’t three mutually exclusive actions. “That smell outside the ladies’ loos when it rains hasn’t gone away. Someone needs to take a look, asap. The details of the plumber we used last time are pinned to the office noticeboard. Check his call-out fee before agreeing a time; if it’s more than a hundred quid and his hourly rate thereafter is more than seventy, then see if Gerald or Alaric can recommend anyone cheaper. It’s not a big job, I reckon all he needs is to shove some rods down the drain or give it a quick pressure hose.”
I’m not saying weed fixes the noise in my head. And I’m not pretending I need it for medicinal purposes. It’s not even about getting high. Right now, it’s more about catching my breath, about turning the volume down a notch for a few fucking minutes so I can focus on Ezra’s endless list of instructions instead of the part of my brain yelling,you’re going blind, you’re going blind.
The tapping stops briefly. “What do you think?”
I think I need that joint like I need my next breath. “Drains. Got it.” Smile and nod. But not too much, otherwise he’ll go even faster. “Yes, small job.”
Should I tap this into my phone too?I’m going blind, Ez, you should probably know.What was the thing he said about Alaric?
“And then, whilst the plumber is here, maybe sound him out about moving the water cylinder for when we refit the whole of the basement, yeah? Just to give us a price ballpark, not to commit.”
Still not sure what Alaric has to do with it. As a urologist he deals with waterworks, but he isn’t a plumber.
“Got it.”I’m going blind, Ez. I’m lacking the courage to tell you.“And I need to do the stock take on Tuesdays.”
“Exactly. And the payroll every Friday. And go through that spreadsheet from the brewery. Oh, and talking of spreadsheets, the accountant will send our yearly accounts any day now before she files the tax return. She won’t have missed anything, she never does. But go through them, yeah? We need to file the day after I get back, so we won’t have time to check them together.”
“Sure.”
Under the table, I dry my clammy palms on my jeans. I fidget, sit up straighter, and wipe a hand across my mouth, then wish I hadn’t as it reminds me I have a painful cut on my lip. I’m trying to concentrate, really trying, effort cranked to eleven. How hard can checking over the tax returns be? I’ll muddlethrough, exactly like I’ve been muddling for a few months now. I have no choice.
“You’re only on holiday for four weeks, Ez. You’re making it sound like four years. I can handle the club without you.”
He purses his lips. “I know you can. It’s just…” He squints at me, hesitating. “You haven’t seemed yourself lately. Everything okay?”
If I sit directly across from you, with the light coming in from that angle, yeah.A fraction to the left, then no.And if you really want me to take a closer look at the basement plumbing issues, never mind my tumbles from the stage. Those rickety steep steps might see me off once and for all.
For a second, I entertain telling him the truth. Several times, in these quiet moments, I’ve almost blurted it out to him. I imagine the relief of letting it all spill from me. No more hiding behind spurious justifications and laughed-off mishaps. No more eye rolling at the near misses, the stumbles, the bruised hips, theI must be tiredorone drink too manyexcuses.
