CHAPTER NINE
Raina felt heat creeping up her neck as a dazed and confused Tom Branimir murmured the words. The lingering police officers were hauling away the caveman who’d punched her writer, and a medic had dashed over to check on him.
‘Can you tell me your name, sir?’ the medic asked.
‘Tom Branimir,’ Tom answered, wincing and trying to sit up.
‘Steady,’ the medic said. He was kneeling on one side of Tom, Raina on the other. ‘We lost you for a few seconds. Can you sit up for me?’
‘It’s just some hairy knuckles to my face,’ Tom grumbled as he shifted into a sitting position. ‘It’s fine.’
‘You realize this gentleman is here to assist the runners if they get injured,’ Raina said, smiling teasingly at him. ‘Not haughty writers who get into fights.’
‘I was defending your honour,’ Tom sputtered, bending his head to allow the medic to tend his bloody nose. His tone was self-deprecating and Raina was mildly charmed by it. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the situation.
‘Yes, you’re a ballsy hero.’
He snorted with mirth and then winced, causing Raina’s smile to briefly falter. There was something amusing about the fact they were huddled on the pavement, tending to a spectator’s wounds, while hundreds of charity runners flashed by in hilarious costumes.
‘You’ll be fine,’ the medic finally ascertained, handing Tom some more tissue. ‘It’s no longer bleeding.’
Tom nodded gruffly and made to get up. Raina went to help him and they were suddenly very close and practically leaning on one another in the middle of the street. Raina looked up into his face and then glanced away quickly, finding the eye contact and close proximity a little too invasive.
‘You hungry?’ she asked bluntly.
He waited until she looked at him again before answering. ‘Starving.’
She tried to ignore the heat in his gaze. ‘There’s a great cafe in Westferry. Come on, wobbler.’
They left the marathon. Raina kept an eye on Tom’s nose, ready to supply him with more tissues at the first sign of scarlet, but it behaved itself.
Upon arriving at the cafe, a place Raina and her previous boyfriend, Matt, had frequented many times, she gave a warm greeting to Mr Hsu the owner, who returned the sentiment. His face lost all warmth when his gaze landed on Tom.
‘Is he like the last one?’ he asked with thinly veiled distaste, nodding towards the slightly crusty red blood on Tom’s face.
‘Most definitely not,’ Raina replied, bundling the injured writer into a booth in the corner.
‘What last one?’ Tom grouched.
‘Never mind.’ Raina fished in her bag for the little first-aid kit she carried at all times.
It was a pink leopard-print bag the size of a make-up carrier, and it was full of plasters, bandages, gauze, burn cream, scissors, antiseptic wipes and pads and many other objects for a medical emergency.
Raina could feel Tom watching her in bemusement as she unwrapped a wipe and then slapped it, rather aggressively, onto the dried blood caking the lower half of his face.
He let out a disgruntled noise of protest, which she ignored.
She dabbed, a little more gently, and cleaned off most of the evidence.
‘Trust you to get into a fight,’ she said. ‘First time I’ve had to make a hasty exit from the marathon. And why does your accent ramp up whenever you’re yelling at other men?’
‘I’m a Scot,’ he mumbled. ‘Can’t put one thousand years into a short answer for you.’
Raina had to admit to herself that the fight had been a little thrilling.
She was used to aggressive men making life uncomfortable – so was just about every woman she knew.
She’d immediately clocked the loudmouthed oaf as the kind of person she would cross the street to avoid.
The kind that would cause her to slip out of her Tube carriage and into another.
The kind that would make Raina and her girlfriends collect their drinks from the bar and move just ever so slightly further down, so they were out of his eyeline.
Her previous boyfriend had always licked the arse of men like that.
Seeing Tom Branimir’s handsome face fill with disdain, while he stepped dangerously close to the neanderthal, had been concerning. But also quite hot.
Raina would tolerate male feminists, who always seemed to prefer lecturing women on how they were doing empowerment wrong over actually confronting male violence and systemic sexism. She would take whatever allies she could find.
But Tom Branimir risking a bloody nose? She secretly loved it.
‘A pointless display of toxic masculinity,’ she scolded him, ignoring the electricity in her blood. ‘I expected better of a famous features writer.’
‘Yeah, well,’ he mumbled. ‘Hemingway would be proud.’
‘If you care what he would think.’
‘Well, I do.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
She continued to clean until his face looked unblemished once more. Her heightened senses twinged at the chemical scent in the cloth. She crumpled it up and wrapped it in its foil wrapper once more.
His face was dangerously close to hers. He was wearing his signature white shirt with dark blue jeans.
The shirt had managed to stay pristine, despite his antics.
His arms looked strong. He still smelled incredible.
His dark curls and slight stubble made her want to run her hands over him, to feel the full texture of him against her palms. His half-lidded eyes were drinking her in, making her feel like purring.
‘Thanks for tidying me up, Raina,’ he said huskily.
‘You’re welcome. Wish I could clean up the inside.’
‘Oh, wow,’ he laughed heartily, making her fight a smile. ‘Don’t mince your words.’
A waiter approached the table and the two of them moved apart, quickly and clumsily.
‘Yes?’ the waiter asked, looking guardedly at Tom.
‘I don’t know what’s good,’ Tom said distractedly, glancing around for a menu.
‘Two scones and a pot of tea for two,’ Raina said politely. ‘And some tap water, please.’
The waiter nodded in satisfaction, threw one more unsure look towards Tom and then departed.
‘You like plain food?’ Tom remarked.
‘Mostly,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘Heightened senses. And also a texture thing. A lot of neurodivergent people are sensitive about food. Not all.’
The admission made her feel instantly vulnerable.
While she was proud of who she was, she found it uncomfortable to reveal things to neurotypicals.
There was a shorthand she reserved for her community, and things that she would willingly disclose for her doctor and her work commitments, but when it came to anything else, she was a great believer in privacy.
Especially with journalists.
She wondered how Tom would retell this incident in his final feature.
Or if he would even mention it at all. For all of his nonchalance and gentle probing, Raina was never unaware of the fact that he was collecting intel on every single interaction that they shared.
If he looked at her intensely, she told herself that it was nothing to do with her.
He was merely constructing a sentence in his head, figuring out a way to document what was happening in a pithy, witty segment.
‘You still don’t like me, do you?’
He asked the question unemotionally and Raina made certain to keep her expression blank.
‘You haven’t given me much reason to like you,’ she said. ‘You weren’t exactly charming on our first meeting.’
‘I’m sorry. I think you made me nervous. You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met before.’
‘You’re not going to endear yourself to me by insulting other women, I’m afraid. I don’t go for that “not like other girls” crap.’
‘But you’re not.’
‘Not what?
‘Like other girls.’
All she’d ever wanted was to be just like other girls. But he didn’t deserve to know that.
‘So, how does someone like you end up in a house in Barnes? Family home?’
‘I rent it. Pretty standard.’
‘So how does a poor girl become friends with someone like Pepper?’
‘I’m not poor, per se. Family are pretty middle class. I met Pepper through work.’
‘It’s sort of refreshing to hear someone say they’re middle class,’ he said.
‘How so?’
‘In the circles I move in, you meet a lot of people our age who say they’re working class. They go on and on about how they’re self-made, self-sufficient, the embodiment of entrepreneurial spirit. How they’ve clawed their way to the upper echelons by working harder and being better.’
Raina smirked, knowing what was coming but still saying, ‘And then?’
‘And then you find out that their American Express bill is paid off by their parents. That they live in a nine-bedroom in Crouch End or a penthouse in Vauxhall. That their 2:2 was scraped up to a 2:1 by a sly phone call from their father, who got them into said university through a favour. No student loans. Just a six-figure loan from their mother or grandfather to invest in whatever tedious start-up they’ve got, which is based on an idea they’ve stolen from a classmate. ’
Raina let out a low whistle. ‘You’re a very judgemental man, Tom Branimir. Fuck.’
Silently she agreed with him, though. She’d cleaned a few of those people’s houses.
‘I like nuance, I like seeing the best of the human condition,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But sometimes it’s just not there, Raina.’
The words hung in the air as the waiter returned with a jug of water and two tumbler glasses. Raina smiled warmly and thanked the server for pouring her a generous amount, before he dropped a customary splash into Tom’s.
‘People seem to quite like you here,’ Tom observed, dryly inspecting the small thimble of water he’d been given. ‘Why did you leave Poplar?’
‘Fancied a change of scenery.’
‘A breakup?’
Damn his perceptiveness. ‘Perhaps.’
‘It’s not the waiter, is it? Is that why he hates me?’
Raina laughed at that, proudly holding up her full glass of water. ‘No, but judging by this, I think I’m in with a chance.’
He grinned, but Raina’s own smile faded a little.
She cast a glance out of the window at the familiar road, winding up and away to the towering skyscrapers of Canary Wharf.
A sometimes-soulless scrap of the city, where photographs would have you believe you weren’t in East London.
However, Raina liked to remember a piano that sat in one of the long underground corridors of Canary Wharf.
A piano that young bankers came to play during their lunch hour, their soft hands covering the keys and making beautiful music which echoed up and down the long tunnel.
She fondly recalled sitting in a coffee shop, where three young lawyers in royal-blue suits met with a local schoolgirl and her teacher, giving her heaps of advice and enthusiastic encouragement.
Promising to help her find a work-experience placement that would look good on her university application.
The girl’s quiet voice admitting that she would be the first in her family to go.
Raina saw humanity everywhere. Painted into the cracks of the city. Lined on people’s faces.
‘Have you got everything you need from me now, Tom?’ she asked quietly. ‘Are we done?’
His features morphed from cheerful enjoyment to confusion. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m not here because we’re friends, Tom,’ she said bluntly, but not harshly. ‘I came here to show you what I love about the London marathon and answer your questions. Are we finished?’
Tom was startled. He couldn’t figure this woman out. Every time her guard dropped a little, he liked more and more of what he saw. But each time he thought he knew what made Raina Lewis who she was, everything was shaken up like a snow globe.
When the snow settled, she would be gone again.
‘Off the record,’ he heard himself say, a little desperately. ‘This won’t be for the piece.’
That earned him a quizzical gaze. ‘Then why else would I stay here?’
The words were uttered without unkindness, not even a hint of bite, but they still wounded his heart. In some part of himself, he was under the impression they shared . . . something. Something that he wasn’t able to name. More than his usual detached fascination with a subject.
That was the thing about Raina. While she was careful to keep so much of herself hidden from view, what she did choose to reveal was so often drenched in honesty.
She didn’t mean to hurt his feelings; she was just confused as to why he would think she wanted to spend any more time with him than she needed to.
Tom suddenly felt very exposed.
‘Good point,’ he said stiffly. ‘Well, I’ll ask you again. Why did you start the podcast?’
‘I’ll take the scones to go please, Mr Hsu,’ Raina called to the owner of the restaurant, who beamed at her and nodded. She then opened her beaded purse to put some notes down, using her now empty water glass to pin them to the table.
‘I don’t want to answer that, Mr Branimir,’ she said softly. ‘Okay?’
She moved to go. Tom stood up so jerkily he bumped the table and knocked over the glasses. Raina turned around, startled by the sudden noise.
‘This can’t . . .’ Tom stumbled over his words, something he’d never done until her. ‘This can’t be goodbye.’
She blinked at him. ‘I’ve answered your questions. I won’t answer that last one. Anything else, you can find online. I think you’ve seen enough.’
No. Never. Not even close. He didn’t know her favourite films. Books.
He didn’t know why she never brought up her parents.
He didn’t know how she’d got the tiny little scar on her right eyelid.
He didn’t know the name of the stalker she’d so casually mentioned.
He didn’t know her bad habits. He didn’t know which hair dye she used.
Her romantic history. What she liked in bed.
And he wanted to know all of it.
‘Raina,’ he said slowly. ‘This can’t be the end.’
She smiled sadly. ‘Goodbye, Alice. I hope Wonderland wasn’t too boring for you.’
He watched in dismay as she collected her baked goods and left the cafe, unpinning her long hair to let it fall down her back as she walked away.
Tom knew he had no right to feel devastated, but he did. He was bereft.