Chapter 9 #2
‘Take a seat. Back in a sec,’ he says before disappearing through another door that I presume leads to an ensuite.
There’s nothing like the prospect of hearing your male friend having a wee to snap you out of any strange feelings.
Glad to be back on firmer ground, I shake my head a few times, smiling at my silliness and take my chance to snoop while unattended.
I walk over to the side of his bed to take a look at the books he’s got piled up on his table.
I’d have imagined Elliot would fall asleep each night after reading a few pages of heavy tomes like Dombey and Son or Anna Karenina.
Instead, he’s got a neat collection of novels piled up including a Richard Osman and the latest Lisa Jewell I read over half term.
As well as the door Elliot has just gone through, there’s another door next to it, which must be some sort of fitted wardrobe.
Seeing as I’ve not heard the toilet flush yet or him turning on a tap, I figure I’m safe to take a quick look to find out if my hunch that Elliot hangs up his jumpers in colour order with protective covers over them is right.
I swing open the door but find a small shower room rather than a wardrobe, which is odd.
‘You can use the bathroom down the hall if you like. It’s bigger than the ensuite.’ Elliot’s voice comes up behind me making me jump.
‘It’s OK, but if this is an ensuite, what’s that room?’ I ask, turning around. Elliot’s tall frame is right in front of me, but I can still see behind him and get a glance into the room he’s just left.
‘Holy shit. You have a dressing room?’
‘Yes, but can I just say for the record I didn’t plan to or anything.
It’s not like I asked for it to be built specially.
It happened to come with the flat, and …
’ He pauses. ‘Actually, sod that, why am I acting like I shouldn’t have a dressing room?
Yes, Lizzie. I do. I have my own dressing room, and I’m very proud of it. ’
‘Er, you should be,’ I say, gently pushing him out of the way and stepping into the small, perfectly ordered room with a fluffy carpet, spotlights, racks on each side and a very expensive looking table in the middle with sections on the top for him to put his cufflinks and watches. ‘This is incredible.’
‘I know,’ he says, flushing with pride. ‘It might be one of the main reasons I bought the flat. Now we’re in here, can we deal with my emergency?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ I’d forgotten why I was here in the first place. ‘What’s going on?’
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes a belt from his table, uncurling and curling it up again before letting out a long breath and looking up at me.
‘I’m meeting Teddy in a few hours for our next date, and I’ve not a clue what to wear. She’s so trendy, and I’m so not, and I need you to tell me what she’d like, so she doesn’t take one look at me and write me off.’
He looks at me with pleading eyes, and at first, I’m not sure whether he’s joking, but I catch the worry in them too, and a crease on his forehead tells me he really does want my help.
‘OK, sure,’ I say automatically, ignoring how tight my chest is feeling.
This is a perfectly normal request from one friend to another, I remind myself.
I couldn’t count the amount of what the fuck do I wear conversations I’ve had with Teddy and Karina over the years.
It’s nice that Elliot is asking me for help, nice that he wants to impress my friend.
‘Or I could just remind myself I’m a thirty-year-old expert at dates and sort it out myself,’ he says, letting out a self-conscious laugh.
‘No, no,’ I tell him. I take deep breath and feel the knot in my chest unravelling. This might be a strange conversation to have with him, but he’s nervous. He cares about his date with Teddy, and he wants to get it right. I should be pleased he’s taking it seriously.
I am pleased he’s taking it seriously.
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll find something perfect. Now tell me what the plan is?’
‘Sushi at a restaurant in Manchester and on to a new cocktail bar called Project something in Spinningfields that I made the mistake of googling. It looks intimidating and I’m not sure I’m going to get past the bouncers.’
If I didn’t know Teddy better, I’d say this second date sounds very much like it’s been set up as a test for Elliot, and I can see why he’d be worried, but Teddy genuinely enjoys these places.
‘Project Halcyon? Crap. No, sorry, I mean, no problem. In situations like this I find it’s always best to go classic.
You’re never going to compete with half the people in there, so there’s no point trying.
The good news for you is I can see looking around your wardrobe that you excel in classic, so come on, show me the best shirt you’ve got. ’
Elliot pulls out a grey shirt I deem too work-like, a thick tartan wool shirt I deem too down-the-pub-with-mates-like. His third selection, a navy-blue soft cotton shirt, is ideal. I can tell it’s going to suit him perfectly, the dark colour bringing out his blue eyes.
‘I’ve not worn this for years. Best try it on and make sure it still fits.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Good idea.’
‘Here, or—?’ he starts to ask, his voice uncertain.
‘Wherever you like, I’m not bothered,’ I say, pretending to be nonchalant, like we’ve not just careered into the most awkward situation we’ve been in for many months.
This is far, far worse than the hug. The hug did not involve seeing Elliot’s naked torso, whereas, depending on Elliot’s decision, I could be seconds away from that now.
Only, where to change is a decision he seems completely incapable of making.
I catch the panic in his eyes, and I can imagine him weighing up his options.
We’re in his dressing room, the natural place he would get changed.
On the one hand, him leaving it in order to swap a shirt could make the whole thing seem a big deal when it should be nothing, but then again, him not leaving would mean him getting half naked in front of me, if only for a few seconds, and there’s no way that wouldn’t feel strange.
‘I’ll just … shall I?’ he eventually says, going for the pretend-it’s-no-biggie option and gingerly moving his hands to the top button of his shirt.
‘Yep. You do that,’ I tell him, and a little laugh escapes that I’m hoping he takes to mean I’m laughing at him and this weirdness rather than it being the nervous giggle it really is.
He stares at me for a few beats, his eyes still larger than normal before he gives a shrug and unbuttons his shirt.
I look anywhere but at his body while he changes.
I pretend to study the rails of clothes, the Perspex shoe boxes, the shelves of T-shirts organised by colour, the ridiculous amount of beige chinos he owns, making out I’m completely engrossed by it all.
But despite my efforts, there are still times I catch sight of his bare chest in my peripheral vision, the muscles on his arms and what I think might be the outline of a six pack and my stomach tightens in response.
I make myself focus only on the dressing room I’m in and not the man in it, until I hear a small cough.
‘OK.’
I turn back to him and discover I was completely right. The navy shirt fits across his wide shoulders beautifully, and his eyes when I look up at them are deeper and more brooding than I’ve ever seen them.
‘Does it look all right? Like I said, it’s fairly old.’
‘Good.’ The word comes out as a whisper, and I swallow before trying again. ‘It looks good,’ I say in a clearer voice.
‘Are you sure? It’s not too tight here?’ Any embarrassment seems to have evaporated from him now he’s changed and is in front of his mirror studying his reflection.
He points to his chest, where the buttons meet, and I step forward, willing my own embarrassment to disappear so he won’t notice it.
‘No, you just need to readjust the material a bit. Here.’
He turns to face me, and before I know it, my hands are on his chest, and I’m pulling the material off his warm skin.
He looks down at me and our eyes meet. I’ve looked at Elliot’s face hundreds, probably thousands of times.
I’m great at reading his expressions, at knowing his moods, sometimes before even he does, and he’s the same with me.
But I don’t know this face looking back at me.
This expression I can’t read, this mood I don’t know.
He narrows his eyes and I’m sure he’s thinking the exact same thing about me.
Unthinkingly, I start to glide my fingers over his chest, taking in not only the feel of the material but how tight the muscles are underneath, how warm his skin is, how I can feel the rise and fall of the deep breaths he’s taking.