Chapter 15 #2
“Everything. Nothing.” I listen to the rhythmic sound of Blake’s breath, the soft thump of his two feet hitting the track, waiting, heart racing, for what he’s about to say next. “How’s your day been?”
“Same shit, different day,” I answer on a sigh. “What do you mean everything and nothing, I—”
“How’s McAvoy been?”
I tell Blake what happened today in the staff room, hearing his feet pick up pace and his breathing quicken.
“Wish I’d gone back to the gym and taken Hudson’s offer up to box with him.”
“Boxing?”
“Yeah, so I could pretend it was McAvoy’s smug looking face.”
“It is smug looking,” I agree, grinning even though I know I shouldn’t. “But maybe it won’t be when he sees us together on Friday.”
“For our date.”
“Yep. At Asado’s. Do you want me to make—”
I can only imagine the way Blake is shaking his head. “No, I’ll ring and get us a reservation. If we’re doing this, then we’re going to do it right.”
“Do what right?”
“Date. You best believe I’m gonna be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had, Calla. You’re not even gonna know what’s hit you.”
That draws a belly laugh out of me, my cheeks beginning to ache from smiling so hard. “I don’t think it’ll be too difficult, all of my ex’s have been right dicks, but still, I’m going to hold you to that.”
“I promise.” Blake swallows thickly. “And you should know I never break my promises.”
Sliding my feet into my most comfortable pair of heels – a strappy black pair I picked up in the after Christmas sales – I smooth my hands over my jean clad hips and peek at myself in the mirror.
Piercing blue eyes, framed with lightly coated mascara lashes, stare back at me. I’ve purposefully kept my makeup simple, hoping for the attention to be on my blonde strands, messily teased into beach waves and the all black outfit I’m wearing.
A satin top clings to my upper half, highlighting the shape of my tits, whilst it swoops low behind me, showing off the entirety of my bare back.
I’ve paired it with a tight-fitting pair of dark denim jeans and my heels, keeping my jewellery as simple as my makeup – a pretty gold bangle and a small set of matching hoops through my lobes.
Swiping a coat of clear gloss over my lips, I dab my perfume onto my wrists and the hollow base of my neck before gathering my gold sequined clutch.
A quick check of my phone confirms I’m right on time for Blake and I’s first fake date.
I must admit, it’s felt good tonight to have a purpose to get dressed up. You might think the dating pool for late twenty-something’s like myself, in the heart of London, would be spilling over. But that couldn’t be any further from the truth. Not in my experience anyway.
A quarter of the men are already wife’d – or husbanded – off.
They’re the ones who are simply out to enjoy a quiet beer and watch their single friends make a fool of themselves.
Another quarter are married, as told by their desperately-in-need-of-a-clean wedding band that they’ve stored in the pocket forgetting that the tell-tale tan line around their ring finger gives them away.
They’re usually out looking for the next best fling.
Yuck.
Absolutely no way.
Next, we have the men who are actually single. Finally! The only issue? They aren’t – in their own words – looking for anything serious right now.
God, if I had a pound for every man who’d ever uttered those words to me, while I sipped from the drink they’d bought me, I’d be a very rich woman.
That leaves the last group – the good guys. The ones who are actually looking to commit to someone, who aren’t already involved or playing the field like a wannabe pro footballer.
The only catch?
Finding these men is liking finding a prized needle in a haystack. Near on impossible. Or at least, it has been in my experience.
So far, I haven’t even caught a glimpse, hence my lack of dates recently, but I know they’re out there.
At least, I hope.
Knocking back the rest of the white wine in my glass that I’ve been sipping on while I get ready, I open up my camera app, snapping a few pictures of myself.
I pick my favourite, quickly uploading it to my twenty-four-hour stories on my socials while I look and feel good.
There’s no point in pretending that tonight’s date with Blake isn’t the main contributing factor to how good I feel. My stomach is a bubbling pit of excitement and arousal just at the thought of seeing him again.
It’s slightly silly, I know, owing to the fact Blake clearly doesn’t want what is going on between us to go any further than a couple of months after I’ve gotten Thomas off my back.
But I don’t see the point in pretending that I’m not attracted to him; that after both of our previous sex-capades I’ve sated my thirst to rip his clothes off.
Because I haven’t.
Not even a little bit.
So, I’m going to drink up every second with Blake while I can, while he lets me. Otherwise, I’ll regret not doing so.
And if that gets Thomas McAvoy off my back, too, then I’ll consider it a win-win.
I refresh my social media page, tapping on the bottom left icon when I see a certain somebody’s profile pop up.
Speaking of the devil…
Of course he would be watching.
Of fucking course.
With a huff I swipe away Thomas’ smug looking face peering out at me from his profile picture.
I swear that man is a certified stalker and a stage three clinger to boot.
Either that, or he’s been sat with our co-workers, the ones who agreed to work late simply because they we’re too scared to say no to their boss’ nephew, refreshing his phone to see if I was really telling the truth about having a date in the first place.
Shoving my phone into the depths of my sequined clutch, I lock up and duck into my apartment’s elevator, jabbing my thumb into shiny silver button marked G.
Stepping out onto the ground floor, my heels click against the marble of the lobby as I cross it confidently, striding down the concrete steps and out into the city beyond.
As a little girl, I never saw myself living in London.
I was born down by the coast, where the air is forever tinged with the tang of saltwater no matter the time of year.
Where the winters are brutal, the seemingly endless sea a harsh gunmetal grey, cold enough to rip your breath from your lungs.
But the summers are scorching, creamy ice cream, dripping from its cone, leaving a sticky trail along the back of your hands while the blue waves lap at your toes.
As a child, I could happily watch the sea for hours – relishing in the constant ebb and flow – before I was called back home for dinner. I never wanted to leave, wanted to bottle up the sea and the sand, the smell and the emotion it stirred deep inside me.
My mother, a school counsellor by trade, would say the fascination started because of my father; a man I hardly knew.
A man I had hardly ever grieved for because I was too little to remember him, let alone his passing.
But I’d heard the stories. In my mother’s mind those stories still kept him alive and well.
A brave member of the coastguard, my father had been out searching for a missing boy aged eight, when the water took him.
I had been three years old.
I’d never been told any of the more explicit details as a child, my brain not quite fully formed enough to understand or process.
But I hadn’t asked as I got older, either. I didn’t need to know.
I didn’t want to.
I felt my father’s presence most strongly when I sat by, visited, even looked at, the sea. That was enough for me.
So no, I hadn’t seen myself living in London, where the air is polluted with people and engines, the tang of saltwater only accessible in my imagination. Where the nearest sliver of sea is almost two hours away.
But, like the current of the ocean, life has a way of carrying me along whether I like it or not.
I’ve found its most enjoyable when I stop struggling and simply let it be.
Raising my hand to rest above my brows, I wish I’d had the forethought to remember my sunglasses, as I blink back spots emanating from the blinding sun sparkling against the glass skyscrapers.
It’s not quite my coastal home, but as I walk through a puddle of golden sunshine laying itself bare across the uneven pavement, noticing the green burst of trees from the park, thriving in the warmth, I must admit summertime in London is beautiful.
I’m still grateful for the cover of the underground station though, the air cooler down here as a tube flies past, kicking up dust which sticks to the thin layer of sweat covering my skin, causing it to become tacky.
I scan my Oyster card, slip onto the underground and inhale the familiar musty scent of the carriages tinged with a mixture of sweat and sunscreen that scream summertime in the city.
Even though it’s after 7 p.m., it’s officially the weekend and with the weather being as warm and as sunny as it is, I’m not surprised to find the carriages still packed to the rafters with tourists, shoppers, and businessmen looking to let their hair down.
Choosing to stay standing, rather than fight for a seat, I wrap my hand around a vertical pole beside the automatic door, just before the underground jolts, the wheels creaking against the old metal track.
Seven stops later, I’m bursting back out onto the streets, sidestepping through the throngs of people to get to my destination – Asado’s
The small pub is nestled away between the corner of two bustling streets; notoriously known for the slice of Italy it brings to the heart of London.
Not only that, but it has the freshest pasta, handmade following a Nonna’s secret recipe that has been handed down for generations, with to die-for rich tomato sauce, and don’t even get me started on the garlic dough balls.
Each ball simply a bite of heaven with its crisp outside shell, perfectly fluffy inner and an ooze of mouthwatering handcrafted garlic butter.