Community Service

Chapter 32

He turned up at one minute to eight. She opened the door to find him casually dressed in knee-length khaki shorts and a marl grey T-shirt that, thanks to the straps of his rucksack pulling it tight across his chest, she could clearly see the contours of his pecs under.

She’d spent the day wondering what the hell she should wear. Something that said I didn’t try too hard, but that also conveyed seriously hot even when not trying too hard. She had clearly hit pay dirt because Jasper looked at her cream full-length hippie dress and tan wedge sandals with some interest.

‘Is that what you’re wearing?’

Okay, that wasn’t the reaction she was expecting.

‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’

‘It might get dirty.’

‘Why, what are we doing?’ she asked.

‘What do you think we’re doing?’

‘I don’t know. Drinks?’

She’d wanted to text him to ask, unsure whether she should eat first, but she didn’t have his number. She’d erred on the side of caution and had a snack.

He glanced shiftily at the roses around the flat’s front door, then back at her. ‘You didn’t think this was a date, did you?’

‘No!’

Not a date date at least. But if not drinks, what?

‘I was asking you to do some outreach with me.’

‘Outreach?’

‘Finding vulnerable people. Giving them advice. Handing out a few leaflets.’ He gestured to the rucksack.

‘Like a blue plaque tour, but of homeless people?’

He chuckled. ‘Kind of like that.’

Her face was flushing.

‘Are you blushing? I don’t think I’ve seen you blush before, and I’ve seen Gayle break a toilet door down on you.’

The capillaries in her face redoubled their efforts. ‘I didn’t think it was a date.’

He chuckled again.

‘I didn’t!’ she said.

‘Okay, okay.’ He held up his hands. ‘You didn’t think it was a date.’

His nipples were unignorable under his top. They were enjoying this as much as he was.

‘It’s weird to see you embarrassed. I thought your emotional spectrum lay somewhere between couldn’t care less and couldn’t care lesser.’

She considered slamming the door in his face.

‘And are you wearing one of those outfits that says I didn’t try too hard, but that you agonised over for ages? Like you might pick if you thought you were going out on a date.’

She pulled one of the roses off the bush and threw it in his face. ‘Just because you’re a psychologist doesn’t mean you know everything about everyone.’

He flicked a petal off his shoulder.

‘I’m not even wearing nice underwear,’ she said. ‘Here, I’ll show you.’

‘That’s not necessary.’

‘No, please, I insist.’

He covered his eyes as she made to reveal her pants.

‘Woah! I was teasing you!’

She dropped her skirt, and he dropped his hands.

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I know you wouldn’t date someone like me.’

She hunted for a hint of disappointment in his voice.

‘You do outreach on a Saturday night. Why would anyone want to date someone like you?’

‘It’s only once a month, and honestly, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.’

‘I’ll get changed.’

He groaned. ‘I’ll make myself comfortable, shall I?’

‘I won’t be long.’

‘Do you need me to Google homeless outreach attire for you?’

She smilingly closed the door in his face.

* * *

They headed east. It was one of those glorious balmy evenings you get in London, the day’s mugginess having subsided into a warm hug. Delicious smells of a hundred different cuisines permeated the air. Jasper explained how it was a good time to head out because, by that time, many homeless people had settled into their pitches for the night, unlikely to be moved on by police whose attentions had turned instead to the drunk and disorderly.

The task was simple – for him at least. Brief chat, check they were okay, highlight the services available, give them a leaflet. No judgment, no hard sell. She was terrified. It was difficult enough talking to people at the shelter, but those on the street?

‘Just be yourself,’ he said. ‘Actually, on second thoughts…’

She punched his arm.

‘Ow!’

They wandered down various alleyways and back streets, none of which she’d set foot in before. Dotted along them, like human litter, were the people who’d been discarded to live amongst the flotsam and jetsam. It was like seeing the city from a completely different angle, turned inside on itself, all the viscera and sinew on the outside. Jasper told her of all the ways the authorities attempted to ‘cleanse’ the streets – the anti-vagrancy laws, the unnecessary shuttering of doorways, the deliberate jet-washing of pavements upon which people were sleeping. Yet still they persisted, inserting themselves into nooks and crannies in the hopes of safety or slumber, because what other choice did they have?

They met an old man whose face was still swollen from a beating he’d received from a random stranger; a middle-aged former soldier, for whom a spiral of mental health issues had taken him from the front line to the breadline; a woman, probably younger than her ravaged face suggested, who refused any idea of help, but offered herself up instead, should Jasper be interested in her services. Every time he knelt to speak to them, she stayed on the sidelines, unsure what to say. But despite him being so assured, so gently persuasive, no one had taken a leaflet; in fact, no one had seemed remotely interested in getting help. It was frustrating as hell.

‘How do you keep going?’ she asked him.

‘It’s not their fault. They’ve been woefully let down time and again. It’s little surprise they’re sceptical.’

It was starting to get dark. They’d been out for over two hours and her flip-flops were rubbing between her toes, so she was glad to stop for their next ‘customer’. The guy was sat by the vent of an air conditioning unit behind a stretch of curry houses. He had keen eyes and was, seemingly, completely sober. Jasper crouched down next to him.

‘How are you doing, mate?’

‘How do you think I’m doing?’ He had a thick north-eastern accent.

‘My name’s Jasper and this is Simone. We’re here to check in and see if there’s anything we can do to help you this evening?’

‘A night at The Ritz wouldn’t go amiss.’

Jasper held out a leaflet. ‘Can’t do that, but there are resources you can access.’

‘I don’t need leaflets, pal,’ he said dismissively. ‘I need money.’

‘You can’t argue with that,’ said Simone.

The man eyed her curiously. ‘What’s a dazzler like you doing in an alleyway like this?’

‘I’m asking myself the same question.’

‘Where’s that accent from?’ asked Jasper, like it wasn’t obvious.

‘Newcastle.’

‘Ah well,’ she said. ‘Better to be homeless here than housed there, eh?’

The man’s peeved expression creased into a smile. ‘Don’t be dissing the motherland!’

‘Come on, mate. I’ve been to Newcastle. It’s as cold as Antarctica and Eldon Square is like Dante’s nine circles of hell.’

The man nodded his head in agreement.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I really like what you’ve done with the place.’ She gestured to his patch. ‘You’ve feng shuied your cardboard arrangement, and the socks drying on the air-con is a lovely touch. But you deserve better, right?’

The man nodded again.

‘Plus, Jasper here has a Jesus complex that is out of control, and today he has chosen you as the person he’s trying to save. That’s nice, isn’t it?’

The man agreed.

‘So will you put your completely understandable cynicism to one side, take the leaflet and call the number? Because the sooner we hit our targets for the evening, and I don’t even know what those are, the sooner I get to sink into a hot bath. Sorry, I know you don’t have that option.’

‘Fair enough, pet.’ He took the leaflet.

‘But you must call. This isn’t toilet paper; this is potentially life-changing information. Yes, the government are a bunch of fuck-trumpets, and yes, it isn’t going to be easy to leave this beautiful sanctuary you’ve created, and yes, everything is stacked against you, but there are people out there who aren’t total wankers waiting to do whatever they can to help. But that has to start with a phone call. Do you have a phone?’

‘Aye.’

‘Great. You probably won’t call, but we’d really fucking love it if you did.’

‘I’m going to.’

‘Cool.’

The man turned his attention back to Jasper. ‘That’s one canny lass you’ve got there.’

‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ said Jasper just as Simone pointed out he wasn’t her boyfriend.

‘Well, whatever you are, cheers for stopping by.’

They walked away, her heart beating a little more strongly than it had been. She’d got someone to engage! Once they’d reached the main road, Jasper stopped and put his hand on her arm.

‘Simone. That was…’

He had an intensity about him. Was he going to lay into her for breaking protocol?

‘…badass,’ he said.

‘Badass good, or badass bad?’

‘Badass amazing!’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Like, you were rude to him, but in a totally caring way. And he responded really well. It was only a minute, but you made a proper connection. You could be good at this!’

‘Noooo. I am not good at this.’

But he was looking at her through slitted eyes.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said.

‘I think you should do another one.’

‘I think I should quit whilst I’m ahead.’

‘One more and then we can quit.’ He was shifting from foot to foot, like he’d made some grand discovery and couldn’t wait to tell people about it.

‘What’s up with you?’

He regarded her in that weird way again.

‘Wait a minute,’ she said, cottoning on. ‘I see what’s going on. You’re like Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady when he gets Eliza Doolittle to speak proper.’

‘To speak properly,’ he corrected her, a smile playing on his lips.

‘You think we’ve had some kind of breakthrough here, don’t you?’

He nodded fervently.

‘We haven’t. It’s part of my job to persuade and cajole. That’s what I do to make up for my lack of empathy.’

‘Lack of empathy. Sure. We’ll gloss over the fact that you’re clearly well-acquainted with the finer details of My Fair Lady, a musical known for its uplifting and joyous qualities.’

‘Fine. So I like musicals.’

He did his best Rex Harrison, all bemused disbelief. ‘What a surprising guttersnipe you are.’

‘Ah, so you like musicals too, do you?’

‘My mum is a fan. You, however…’ He wiggled an accusatory finger at her. ‘I think you might actually care.’

‘I don’t.’

‘What about the suits?’

‘I was proving a point.’

‘Maybe that was true then. But now? Now you really do want to help. I’m witnessing my very own Pygmalion.’

His eyes narrowed. The amusement had been replaced by something else. Not surprise but … pride maybe? No one had been proud of her for a long time. Least of all herself.

‘On the subject of guttersnipes,’ she said, keen to move things on, ‘didn’t you say something about one more? Come on.’

‘After you, milady.’ He bowed deeply.

‘You are such a dick.’

‘Charmed, I’m sure.’

‘Can I grab a soft drink first? I’m gasping.’

‘You may.’

Nighttime had finally lain its velvet cloak over the city. She ducked into a shop whose vivid strip lighting made her vision pulse. She checked her reflection in the mirrored rear of the fridge from which she pulled a water. She was no Audrey Hepburn, in so many ways, but she could view the face that looked back at her with greater compassion than she had been able to. Okay, final push, she mouthed.

* * *

They heard the man before they saw him, his plaintive moans audible above the thrum of the city. He was doubled over on the floor, contorting and writhing as if in considerable pain, his joggers halfway down his legs, soiled boxers on show. She’d been hoping for a happy drunk, not someone acting like they were in the grip of a zombie apocalypse.

‘Jesus. What’s wrong with him?’ she asked.

‘He’ll have smoked something.’ Jasper tried to get his attention without success.

‘Like what?’

‘Spice, most likely.’

She’d joked about spice before, but had never seen anyone on it in real life.

‘Is he in pain?’

‘No. But the hallucinations make you agitated.’ He struggled to get the man into the recovery position. ‘Can you help me?’

She didn’t want to touch him, but she bent down and talked soothingly as they manoeuvred his resistant body into place. She’d barely got his legs bent when he suddenly sat bolt upright, opened his eyes, and projectile vomited all over her.

It took her a moment to register what was happening, puke pooling around her belly where she’d crouched down. She shot upright and attempted to brush it off, only that meant she now had some stranger’s sick on her hands, as well as all over the jersey playsuit she’d changed into earlier. The realisation hit her brain just as the smell hit her nostrils. She’d never been good with vomit, and this situation was like vomit to the power of vomit, with an extra helping of … fuck … she was going to throw up. Her stomach heaved, the wet fabric clinging to her abdomen despite the involuntary contraction. She urgently breathed through her mouth, trying to quell her body’s disgust, but her salivary glands had gone into overdrive, preparing for the inevitable onslaught. A couple of uncontrollable heaves later and there it was, a great acrid outpouring of the water she’d drunk, the scrambled eggs she’d had before coming out, the remains of her tuna salad lunch, all splattering violently and loudly onto the cobbles at her feet. If Jasper seeing her in this state wasn’t bad enough, she was horrified to note his hand on her neck, his fingers acting as a makeshift band to keep the hair from her face.

‘I’m sorry,’ she managed between heaves, ‘I really can’t deal with it when people are sick.’

‘Shhh,’ he said, his other hand gently rubbing her back. ‘Just get it all out.’

After a minute or so, she felt confident she’d emptied her stomach. She took a mouthful of water, swilled it across her soiled tongue and spat it out. God, this was so embarrassing.

‘Turns out you’re as good with sick as I am with blood,’ he said with a small smirk.

How long had he waited to get his own back for that?

‘I can’t believe you’re bringing that up now.’

‘I’m not the one bringing stuff up.’ He pointed at the pool of vomit.

Its sour smell caught in her throat again. ‘Oh god, don’t.’

The words had barely left her mouth before a further mix of bile and foaming saliva tagged onto their coat-tails.

‘Sorry,’ he said when she’d finished. ‘It was a cheap shot.’

She took another drink and then rinsed off her hands and feet, emptying the bottle.

Jasper examined her face far more closely than was welcome after she’d nearly retched up a lung. ‘You really are as white as a sheet,’ he said.

She stared back at him, sang-froid returning. ‘You’re not.’

His face remained straight long enough for her to think that maybe the joke was too inappropriate, but then a succulent laugh escaped from his parted lips, a rich guffaw that seemed to reverberate off the walls. Her own wasn’t far behind, her cheeks swelling momentarily as her brain wondered what possible cause for mirth might exist given the circumstances, but then it erupted from her with full force. Within seconds, their laughter had taken on a self-powering momentum of its own, increasing in pitch and magnitude as they each replayed the ridiculousness of their situation over in their heads. She hadn’t laughed like that for years, not the kind of laughter that hurt the temples and weakened the knees and had you clawing for breath.

When it finally subsided, she thought to check on the homeless man, barely stifling a second bout of hilarity when she saw he was viewing them with catatonic impartiality, all signs of distress gone.

‘Seriously, though,’ she managed. ‘I’ll never get a cab like this, and I can’t get on the tube.’

Jasper examined the full extent of the damage on her clothes. ‘I don’t live very far. You should come back to mine and get cleaned up. I feel responsible.’

‘That’s because you are responsible.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘What about this guy?’

Jasper dropped onto his haunches. ‘You okay, mate?’

The man was in far better shape than he had been. He nodded mutely.

‘How far away is your place?’ she asked.

‘About a fifteen-minute walk.’

She pointed to the vomit on her, revulsion returning. ‘I’ll pretend this is a fashion statement, shall I?’

He was thinking. He took a Swiss army knife from his pocket, cut the bottom off the water bottle, and used it as a scoop to remove the worst of it. She would have been impressed by his ingenuity had it not been for the fact he was scraping regurgitated food off her. The ribbing about the Swiss army knife could wait.

He then took off his T-shirt and handed it to her. She would have been impressed by his generosity had it not been for … oh my god, okay, she was impressed. If his body had looked delectable beneath his clothes, out of them it was, to put it mildly, TASTY AF. Every morsel of it was in exactly the place it was meant to be, each muscle sculpted into the perfect version of itself. In the pale streetlights, the overall effect was of a walnut statue, sanded and buffed to a smooth subtle sheen.

‘That should cover the worst of it if you’d prefer to head home,’ he said, calm as you like.

Her treacherous hormones told her she was heading wherever that torso was going. ‘Do you have alcohol?’ she asked.

‘I have red wine in.’

‘Great. I need a drink.’

* * *

Jasper’s place was in a large nondescript sandy-coloured block of ex-council flats, the only character being provided by the boxy balconies tacked on at various junctures along its fa?ade.

‘Did you orchestrate this so I had to come back?’ she asked.

‘Do men often pull elaborate ruses to do that?’

He’d be surprised at some of the crap she’d heard with precisely that aim.

He opened the front door. ‘Boring as it may sound, if I wanted to get you back to mine, I would just ask.’

It was a modest place, with a lounge, a kitchen and a bedroom branching off from the small square hallway into which she’d stepped.

‘The shower room is through the bedroom. There are towels in the cupboard. There should be an unopened toothbrush in there too.’

She passed through the bedroom. It was sparsely decorated, but surprisingly stylish, with elegant mid-century furniture and a bed with both a throw and cushions. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting; one of those hippie wall hangings they ship in from India perhaps? The shower cubicle was small, but the water flow was powerful. As she squeezed some body wash onto her hands, the fragrance of bergamot mingling with the steam, she was grateful to finally have the smell of bile out of her nostrils.

At first, she attempted to keep her face out of the water; she hadn’t brought any make-up out with her. Then again, he’d seen her covered in another man’s stomach contents, so perhaps seeing her without slap was no biggie. Even so, she mussed her hair in the mirror afterwards, and made the best use of the smudges of black that remained under her eyes. When she stepped back into the bedroom, a pair of jersey drawstring shorts and three T-shirts had been laid out on the bed.

‘There’s a choice of tops there,’ he called. ‘I figured you’d have a preference. The bottoms are the most adjustable I have.’

She checked the labels. Gap. George. Next. ‘I think I preferred the vomit,’ she shouted back.

‘You can go home in the towel if you like.’

She chose the George one, an inexpensive band T-shirt rip off. It would suit the smudgy eyes and messy hair.

In the lounge, also mid-century in style, he’d laid some snacks out on a teak coffee table, and chill tunes emanated from a small speaker. He handed her a glass of wine.

‘That’s a good look on you,’ he said.

‘Very funny.’

‘I’d better make myself decent too.’

Pity. She was just getting to the point where she could look at him without staring at his pecs. She helped herself to some dips and crisps and then had a nosy at the shelves that ran the full width of the wall. There were a lot of books, a mish-mash of self-help texts, airport paperbacks and more meaty fodder about human behaviour. She pulled one, The Social Animal, off the shelf and read the epigraph.

Man is by nature a social animal… anyone who either cannot lead the common life or is so self-sufficient not to need to, and therefore does not partake of society, is either a beast or god.

Did not having any social engagements that weekend make her a beast?

‘Cheers, Aristotle.’

There were only two photographs in the whole room. One of Jasper with an older woman with very pale skin, big red-rimmed glasses, and a smile that would light up the London Eye. The other was of him with a pretty pale blonde, possibly the one she’d seen him with at Secret Cinema.

He reappeared wearing the Gap T-shirt. She disliked it even more now she knew what it was covering.

She pointed at the photo. ‘The ex-girlfriend?’ It was odd to have kept the photo if so, but it would be just like him.

‘Sister.’

She took another quizzical glance at the face in the frame. So they had different dads?

‘I’m adopted.’

‘Oh.’

That was the last thing she expected.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That I was adopted? Don’t be. Could have been worse – could have not been adopted.’

‘I just mean?—’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve been through the angry, rejected, woe-is-me stage. I was quite the tearaway when I was younger.’

‘You, a tearaway? Did you wear your school tie a bit looser than it should have been?’

‘No, we’re talking police involvement-level naughtiness.’ He chewed the inside of his mouth. ‘But I got lucky. Mum never gave up on me.’

‘No adopted dad?’

‘No.’

The rug of assumption had been well and truly pulled from under her feet.

‘Was it weird being…’ She wasn’t entirely sure how to phrase the question.

‘Go on…’ he said, amused.

‘… Black,’ she hazarded, ‘in a white family?’

He grabbed his face in mock surprise. ‘You mean I’m gonna stay this colour?’

‘Eh?’

‘Sorry. Steve Martin reference. Out of the film The Jerk. It’s a comedy about a white guy raised in a Black family. I used to say it when I was a kid and people asked me the same thing. Amused me no end.’

She sat down and drew her legs up onto the sofa. ‘Aren’t psychologists meant to make people feel at ease?’

He sat at the other end of the sofa and pulled the coffee table closer to them. ‘You’re thinking of medical doctors. Psychologists are meant to challenge people’s assumptions to force them to think differently about themselves.’

She sensed he was about to go into another of his long speeches, so she pointed at the other picture. ‘Your mum, then?’

A broad grin spread across his face. ‘Yes. That’s Pat.’

It transpired that Pat, already single mum to Jessica, decided there was room in her heart for another kid. Jasper, who had been in foster care for three years since birth, was that kid. It clearly hadn’t been an easy road for them. Apart from all the standard challenges that come with adoption, he described the difficulties of feeling dislocated from his cultural roots. There had been no playbook for interracial adoption back then; the feeling that any family was better than no family persisted, and the impact of not exploring great chunks of a child’s heritage wasn’t understood.

‘I’m mixed race,’ he clarified, ‘and it wasn’t like I was the only kid like me at school. This is London, after all. But a lot of my mates called me Bounty Boy.’

She was starting to feel tipsy; drinking on an emptied stomach would do that to you.

‘As in the taste of paradise?’

The look on his face suggested she’d blundered again.

‘No! As in brown on the outside, white on the inside. I think that’s when I really started acting out.’

He poured them another drink and went on to describe a few incidences – involving truancy, weed and graffiti – that could easily have been described as high jinks by someone other than Jasper.

‘So when the turnaround?’ she asked.

‘Pat wasn’t having it. She went to work. She incorporated more of my culture into our home life; learned how to make jerk chicken and lots of other Jamaican food; went completely overboard on the Bob Marley posters and records. Then she set out to make friends in the Afro-Caribbean community. Took me to Brixton markets and community centre events there. Just imagine what they thought of us three, turning up at these rowdy socials, my mum trying to do the butterfly to Chaka Deamus Pliers dressed in her twinset!’

His eyes glistened at the memories he continued to relate.

‘I was mortified at the time, but it worked. I stopped being an idiot and I knuckled down. What can I say? I have the best mum in the world.’ He glanced at her over his glass. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s not very tactful. That business with your mum must have been tough.’

She took a large swig of her wine. ‘Not really. I’ve always dealt with my emotions by not having any.’

‘You know having emotions doesn’t make you damaged or weak, right? It makes you human.’

‘Just because I’m on your couch, Doctor, doesn’t mean I’m on your couch.’

‘You are so frustrating, woman! You think that not talking about your feelings is a superpower. It isn’t. It’s your greatest weakness.’

She needed to change the subject. ‘If I did have a superpower, it would be Atmokinesis.’

‘Which is…?’

‘The ability to control weather. Like Thor.’

‘You watch superhero movies?’

‘Yep.’

‘Isn’t that a bit nerdy?’

‘What, because I’m attractive, I can’t like nerdy things?’

‘Who said you were attractive?’

She gently kicked him, then left her leg breaching the middle cushion divide.

‘Although this is the best I’ve seen you,’ he said. ‘Au naturel suits you.’

She had the urge to hide behind one of his cushions. Instead, she shook her glass at him like you might a waiter. ‘I’ve finished my wine. More please!’

‘Stay there, your highness.’

He fetched the wine. They must have been drinking from deceptively large glasses because there was nothing left in what had been a full bottle when he finished the refill.

He settled back down on the sofa. ‘So, you don’t have any brothers or sisters?’

‘I did, but I consumed them.’

‘You consumed them?!’

‘I had a growth on my ovary; discovered it when I was twenty. I was worried I might have cancer, but it turned out to be a teratoma. Some people call them an evil twin. It was all hair and teeth and skin and body bits. Really freaky shit.’

He winced, clearly revulsed. She enjoyed that she could shock him.

‘What impact does that have?’

‘It messes around with your reproductive lifespan. And, well, I’m already thirty-five.’

‘And yet you have the jadedness of a much older woman.’

‘I try. But yeah, it means I might not be able to have kids.’

She watched for his reaction. Most people she revealed this information to, including previous boyfriends, greeted it with condolences bordering on the pathological.

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘That’s a relief! One of you is more than enough.’

It was the perfect response.

‘I think my mum would have been happy to suffer from a similar affliction,’ she said.

‘Well, we have that in common at least.’ He raised his glass.

‘Did you ever try to find your birth parents?’

‘I tried. But they didn’t want to know.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sure they had their reasons.’

She was starting to see why a belief that certain behaviours were preordained, and therefore outside the control of the individual, might be of comfort to him. Silence settled on them. She sank further into the cushions. If she’d been out with the girls, they’d have only just been getting started. She was grateful to have her feet up on a comfy sofa, and for Jasper’s easy company.

‘How did you get into reputation management?’ he asked.

‘I don’t recall telling you I was in reputation management.’

‘I looked you up on LinkedIn.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I couldn’t find you on Instagram.’ He said it in a matter-of-fact way, like there was no subtext to him searching for her at all.

Simone explained that when the photographer threw her out, she’d got a job in experiential marketing, handing out product samples and the like. She’d had to share cheap, awful digs with a bunch of other disillusioned girls, but it had been the leg up she needed. Naturally forthright, staff management followed. Then the account handling side, helping with ideas and selling them to clients. She was freelancing for Dixon Astley when they decided to create an arm of the business dedicated to events. She headed it all up. She was just waiting to be made a partner and to be added to the board, which is where the big bucks finally happened.

‘Don’t you have to smile and be pleasant to be a promotional girl?’ he asked.

‘I can smile. I didn’t get to be a Miss London finalist without being able to switch on the charm.’

‘What was your platform?’

‘World peace.’

‘How were you going to secure that?’

‘By having perky tits.’

He laughed. ‘Do you like your job?’

‘Does anyone?’

‘I like mine.’

‘You’re the exception.’

‘It’s frustrating and heartbreaking and hard, but hugely rewarding. If I can help just one person…’

‘You’d be doing a terrible job and falling way short of any reasonable targets that should be expected of you.’

‘Yeah. Probably.’ He smiled.

‘Gayle clearly doesn’t like it.’

‘Not at all. She loves it.’

‘But—’

‘I know she comes across as being a ballbreaker. But she needs to. All too often, shelters are unsafe places to be, what with drug abuse, violent behaviour and the like. She works really hard to ensure Cedar Lodge isn’t like that, precisely because she loves it.’

She’d never noticed before, but when he spoke earnestly, one of his fuzzy eyebrows kinked slightly, like there was a hidden scar holding the skin taut whilst the rest moved freely around it. He barely moved his jaw at all, the words seemingly emerging unbidden from his soft lips. Brilliant backchat aside, there was an immense authenticity to him. He was, she realised, the kindest person she knew. And quite possibly the smartest too. A fortnight ago, she’d imagined working in a shelter was a pretty low bar to have set yourself, but now she understood it to be a vocation. And, against the backdrop of the life he might have had, a startling achievement. She bet Pat and Jessica were immensely proud of him.

‘Are you still there?’

He’d said something.

‘Huh?’

‘I said the woman is a closet softie, like someone else I know.’ He put his glass down. ‘You did really well tonight.’

She was squiffy enough to take the compliment. ‘It’s not often I go out and have someone chuck up on me.’

Despite the whole chundering episode, she was grateful the girls had decided to stay in America an extra week.

‘If this had been a date,’ he said, ‘it definitely would have been a memorable one.’

He looked directly at her in a way that, had this been any other man or any other circumstance, she would have interpreted as charged. But he was probably messing with her. She wanted to say something witty and provocative to call his bluff, only her mind was drawing a blank. What time was it? They’d been talking for ages. What time did the tubes stop in this neck of the woods? She should probably think about going if she didn’t want to stump for a cab home. He really was good company though. Very engaging, relaxed, insanely sexy company. She wondered if his bottom half was as attractive as his top half, or where the smooth hair-freeness stopped, and the springy moss of his pubic hair started. She wondered what it would be like to lean forward and kiss him, for those pillowy lips to meet hers; to feel his tongue in her mouth, his hands snaking up her legs and into the baggy leg of the shorts he’d lent her. Her pants were in a ball inside her playsuit in the bathroom; would he be surprised to feel her nakedness there? How long before he was begging her to fuck him? Or that she was begging him to fuck her? She stared hard back at him, shifted slightly in the chair, felt the vague moistness of her pussy as she did so. She hadn’t had truly satisfying sex in a while. Her thing with Marcus was on a fast track to nowhere, she knew that. She’d imagined that was its charm, but Marcus wasn’t a nice guy, he wasn’t even that interesting. She didn’t have stimulating, thought-provoking conversations with him like she did with Jasper. No, she didn’t want Marcus’s ungracious groping hands on her. She wanted Jasper’s gentle assured fingers tiptoeing over her body like it was a globe to be explored. The idea unhitched itself from her subconscious and floated before her. Shit. She really, really wanted to sleep with Jasper. Of course, she’d always considered the prospect. He was fit, she was fit, and the idea of how their two bodies might slot together was an inevitable consequence of them being in the same orbit as one another. The problem, she understood in that moment, was that she really wanted Jasper to want to sleep with her. Not for sport. Not for the sake of winning some unspoken competition between them. Not because he was a man and every hole was a goal. No. She really wanted him to want to because, in some small but significant way, he might like her like she now realised she liked him.

He was still looking at her. She returned his gaze through heavy-lidded eyes. Was something going to happen?

‘Excuse me one sec,’ he said.

He got up and left the room. Had he gone to get more wine? To go to the toilet? To remove the pile of retro jazz mags from under his bed? Maybe he was getting a condom? She hoped she looked okay; there was no mirror in which she might check herself out. Were they really going to do this? Should they? Would Gayle be able to tell on Monday? Who cared, that was then. Right now, she just wanted to feel the full weight of his attention, and his body, on her. She’d worry about the consequences later. She arranged herself on the sofa in as effortlessly a sexy way as possible, rested her head against one of his scatter cushions, and closed her eyes to imagine what deliciousness might lie in wait.