14
I don’t participate in the rest of the activities on the farm and only watch from afar. During lunch, we all sit at the back of the house on makeshift benches, eating our various sandwiches. John sits next to me for a while, sharing his Coronation chicken sandwich with me, and this time, he doesn’t attempt to flirt. He’s extremely polite which is very unlike him.
I try to filter out Alex’s presence two benches away, but his eyes bore into the nape of my neck with unnerving intensity. Since our truce, he hasn’t stopped peering in my direction when he thinks I’m not looking.
To avoid kids overhearing him, John leans closer, and his head ends up in my personal space. As soon as he realises what he’s doing, he respectfully pulls back.
‘Are you going to Becky’s birthday party next Friday?’
Despite not being much of a party girl, I said yes to Becky because she’s been nothing but nice. ‘Yeah. Are you going?’ I enquire politely.
‘Hell, yeah.’ He raises his hand to high-five me. I end up high-fiving him back like a ten-year-old because I don’t want to create any more tension today. He must misread my assuaging gesture because a brilliant smile spreads across his face. I thank whoever above for the fact it’s half term next week and I won’t have to see anyone for a week.
He leaves to sit next to Danielle after that, but to my surprise, I’m joined by Becky, and then Alex, himself, who says he just wants to check on me but stays with us until the end of lunch. Immediately, Danielle’s expression turns distinctly sour like an unripe lemon. I can smell her eau de disapproval all the way from the back bench she’s sitting on with John.
Alex ends up sharing a cinnamon madeleine with me, professing he’s too full, but I know that Alex has always been obsessed with madeleines. I guess he’s really trying this truce thing.
That night, I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow despite my leg being uncomfortably propped up on two pillows. But I’m not given any respite as one vivid dream chases another.
In one of them, I’m swarmed by an angry herd of guinea pigs, ill intent glowing in their rat-like eyes as they’re swiftly closing the distance. When I look about for a weapon to fight against the deadly rodents, I notice I’m wearing denim head to toe. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, and now that I think about it, it reminds me of the infamous double-denim outfits worn by Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake in 2001. I’m also shrieking like I’m in one of those B-movies while my fake cowboy hat attached to my head with a red plastic string keeps falling into my eyes.
A thunderous galloping of a horse and the heavy breaths of an animal pushed to their limit are sounding in the air. Blocking the flaming sunset, a lonely rider rushes to my rescue. His heavy hat hides his face, but I catch glimpses of brown hair that resembles John’s. The urgency of the situation is forgotten for a moment as I take in the powerful thighs dressed in heavy cowboy leathers. The rider’s long limbs dig into the beast’s sides when he speeds up. But then the thighs morph under the leathers into slimmer, more athletic legs and when they press against the horse’s body, something clenches inside me almost painfully. The rider’s shoulders broaden, and his waist, strapped with a heavy belt, tapers. My pulse picks up at the familiar shape of the man’s body.
The cowboy’s pale throat, not obscured by the hat’s brim, is glistening with sweat. When he closes the distance, his hat slides to the side and reveals Alex. My body clenches deliciously. His hair is longer, like it used to be at school, and his mouth piercing is back in place, gleaming on his bottom lip. It makes me think of what it would feel like between my thighs.
During my torrid thoughts, all the guinea pigs have progressed close enough to nip my feet, which are suddenly bare. Just as the closest guinea pig opens its maw to bite down on my left toe with its overlarge front incisors, Alex’s long arm releases the reins and grabs me by the waist. He heaves me in front of him with an easy swoop. His warmth surrounds my body, and the solidness of his chest presses against my back, his upper body muscles shifting as the horse spins. Alex’s powerful thighs squeeze my legs as he urges the horse to move faster and away from the danger.
The feel of his physique raises all the hairs on my body, the anticipation of what might happen next unbearable. The front of the saddle digs into my intimate parts in an almost painful way, and the motion of the rocking horse and Alex’s body pressing against me is making my core melt.
My body starts moving. Up and down. Up and down. Until I fall apart so hard I wake up. I curse and wipe the sweat from my forehead. I feel ashamed and angry at Alex for being the main protagonist of my dream. Now I definitely won’t be able to look him in the eye. Truce or no truce.
So, I just had a sex dream about ALEX , I message Lydia and Catherine.
Within thirty seconds, three dots appear next to Lydia’s name as she’s typing furiously despite the clock’s hands pointing towards four in the morning. When I got home after the trip, I updated them on everything, including the fact that Alex and I buried the hatchet.
What the fuck? How hot on a scale from one to five?
I miss sex dreams , Catherine types wistfully and then adds, Gabby has been on one tonight. I’ve slept less than two hours. She must be eager to know too because another message pings straight after. How was it?
I would need to go into two-digit numbers , I message as my cheeks burn in the dark. My body shifts against the bed covers, but my skin feels too sensitive and hot, so I push them off with my legs.
Lydia’s next message includes some very descriptive images of emojis with flushed cheeks and a plethora of vegetables. Cucumbers, courgettes, aubergines and such. She must have raided all the phallic-shaped emojis available on WhatsApp. She adds enthusiastically, Tell me more. How did you do it? I’ve just returned from the most boring work do, and I need cheering up.
Why would you stay at a party that was boring until four? I question.
Free booze. A few hot individuals. Now, tell me.
I retell the dream as succinctly as I can, but Lydia keeps asking probing questions.
I was with Aaron for years and had precisely zero sex dreams about him. Our sexual experiences were OK, sometimes even good, but he always cared more about his needs than mine. He rarely touched me the way I needed him to, and I was too shy to tell him what I wanted. I didn’t feel exactly unsatisfied, but it always felt a little one-sided, a glass half empty. Maybe that’s why he strayed and looked elsewhere.
Even though Alex and I never did it, the things we did never felt unfulfilled. However, I know that time tends to wash away the finer details and maybe I’ve just put my physical experiences with Alex, despite his betrayal, on a pedestal over the years because he was the first one to touch me like that.
Lydia pulls me out of the dark, spiralling pit that my mind has turned into. Dinner tomorrow night? To celebrate the start of the half term? Her message, as per custom, is trailed by a line of emojis of all the alcoholic beverages available on the chat. One must love her enthusiasm.
I message a thumbs up. Immediately my response is liked by Catherine.
I wish I could join you. My mother is staying over, but I want all the details. Especially what Alex looked like in a cowboy outfit .
I snort despite my misery. Catherine is never dirty, so her message amuses me greatly.
Around seven o’clock, I give up trying to fall asleep. Still dressed in my silk pyjamas and with a bad case of bedhead that would totally secure me an audition for an Edward Scissorhands remake if there was one, I log into one of my favourite auction sites that sells vintage shoes and start bidding on a few items. This is my happy place. That is until the internet connection goes. I grrr and pad barefoot to the router to see what the issue is. Unfortunately, never having been tech-savvy, I can’t fathom a reason why it’s not working even after I reset it. I check my phone, but my data plan is shocking. I grrr some more, hoping that my discordant interjection will work magic in the ether, but no luck.
I pull on my baggy jeans and threadbare grey sweatshirt that always makes me feel I’m ready to weather a storm and pack my laptop. There’s an independent café nearby that sells OK croissants and offers its customers decent-speed Wi-Fi.
As soon as I walk into the café, the smell of roasting coffee beans envelops me like a fluffy blanket. I breathe it in, finding my inner zen. Even the loud noise of a coffee grinder, a milk frother and various whirring machines create a cacophony of sounds that’s music to my ears. I’ve always loved coffee shops. And because I got paid last week and it has filled my bank account with hope and a few zeros preceded by an actual positive number, I don’t regret spending a few pounds in the establishment.
With my still tender ankle, I hobble towards a tucked-away corner of the café and focus on the auction unravelling in front of me. A few minutes later, I’m glad I made the choice of coming here because one item in particular, a pair of 1940s blood-red ballroom shoes, is causing all bidders to go full loco mode like it’s Bonhams Auction House and not a small niche online auction site.
I’ve always loved the auction environment, both online and offline. Knowing when to start and stop bidding and how high to go is an art. I love the way my bid can spur others into action or freeze them. It’s all about timing, and I’ve always been good at it. I get hot from too much thrill and take my hoodie off, realising belatedly that underneath I’m wearing a vintage Spice Girls top that, despite being able to fit at least two of me, barely reaches my belly button. I think during my crop-top phase in my early teens and my obsession with ’90s bands, I just decided to cut off the bottoms of all my band tops with scissors and never bothered to do anything else with them due to my inferior dressmaking skills. Only Spice Girls and Aqua crop tops have survived, but I’d guard them with my life.
The image of the girl band in their prime with Ginger Spice in the iconic Union Jack dress posing in the middle is so bleached out it would be nearly impossible to see which Spice is which if it wasn’t for their distinct outfits, a combo of latex skirts, strappy shoes and brightly coloured tracksuit bottoms. Because I don’t ever see anybody familiar in the café, I don’t mind too much that I look like I’ve just stepped out of the ’90s.
After obtaining the said 1940s shoes for peanuts, to celebrate, I head to the counter where a small queue of five people has gathered in my absence. I consider what to order when I notice a familiar ginger-haired man dressed in a blue zip-up jacket and grey joggers with one earbud of his earphones still plugged in while the other is hanging over his shoulder is standing in the queue two people ahead of me. My insides turn into a can of wiggly worms. Next, the bell over the front door rings and Aaron and Eva walk through. My already-queasy stomach flips upside down, threatening to send all the food I’ve eaten today back up. I consider my options and come up blank. I try to find a safe route that would lead me back to my table without being discovered, but the café has transformed into the Ninja Warrior obstacle course in front of my eyes, and I cannot see a way through.
As if reading my thoughts, Alex turns his head, and when he spots me, he smiles before his forehead puckers up as he registers my panicked state. I can hear the couple talking, coming closer to the counter with every step. The end is nigh.
All the blood drains from my face. I must look dreadful because when the barista asks Alex what he wants, he steps out of the queue and heads towards me.
‘Holly?’ Concern lends his voice a soft undertone. I almost don’t notice his hand on my elbow because all I’m trying to do is stop myself from looking behind me. But I must not succeed because Alex glances over my shoulder. I could still run, but vexation makes my shoulders stiffen. Why should I cower? They’re the ones that should be ashamed. This is my territory. I know I sound ridiculous, but Aaron has taken too much away from me already.
Trying to suppress the image of Alex in riding leathers, I say the most insane thing I possibly could. ‘I’ll buy your coffee and whatever you’re having if you pretend you’re here with me.’
Alex is the last person I want to witness my despair, but beggars can’t be choosers. I’d choose beggars over losers right now. Despite my urgency, his musky smell combined with Lynx, my favourite deodorant, takes my nose by surprise. I can’t not notice the sweat on his brow and how it adds to his masculinity. I shake my head, trying to empty it of unhelpful invasions while I’m in the middle of a crisis.
His eyes fill with confusion for a moment until they widen at reaching a realisation about who the person approaching from behind might be. I shove my embarrassment into the most remote compartment of my brain and throw away the key; there’s no room for it now. I’ve made a choice and there’s no going back. I remember he heard me speaking to Catherine all those weeks ago and that he potentially knows everything.
‘OK,’ he says breezily, like I’ve just asked him about the weather rather than pretending to be my something in front of my ex and his very pregnant girlfriend. Alex’s expression doesn’t betray any emotions, and I can’t fathom what he’s thinking.
Before I have a chance to ponder further on this, he spins around because it’s our turn to order. Because I’m still having a mild panic attack, I can’t focus on what he’s saying to the barista, but I watch her fill a tray with two hot drinks and two plates of pastries. Before I can stop him, Alex pays.
When we’re about to move, a familiar hit of too-strong cologne accompanied by a sickly floral scent fills my nostrils. Aaron and his mistress-turned-mother-of-his-child have joined the queue. I remember smelling the exact fragrance in the bungalow months before I discovered he was cheating on me. I kept complaining to Aaron, the gaslighting bastard, about it, but he pretended he couldn’t smell anything. My shoulders shudder at the memory, but Alex wraps his arm around my waist as he leads me away, slowing down to match my hobbling pace.
He leans into me. ‘Where are you sitting?’ His breath is hot against the shell of my ear.
I nod towards the table in the corner, and he seats himself in my chair, forcing me to turn my back on Aaron and the rest of the café. I shut my laptop, but before the screen turns black, Alex catches a glimpse of my online activities. His lip twitches for a moment before his features become unreadable again. Right now, I envy his ability to look casual.
My name is spoken somewhere behind me, but I don’t react. Let Aaron come to me if he really desires to see me that much.
Instead of having a sip from his own coffee cup, Alex moves my drink in front of him and starts gathering all the sugar sachets on the tray into a small pile. Then, he opens them carefully one by one and empties the contents into my Americano. He’s remembered not only my favourite hot drink but also how I drink it. For a few moments, I watch him as he empties sachet after sachet, my mind wandering to another morning in a different café ten years ago. Again, I wonder how somebody can change so much, and yet, stay the same. Suddenly, I’m transported back ten years.