Breaking Leila (12 page)

“Did you get
everything sorted?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said
tentatively, making sure Poppy didn’t pick up on his disapproval.
“Just got a bit confused over some of the sub-clauses and didn’t
want to do a Bhan.” I waited for his petty remark, but it didn’t
come, and that made me feel more uncomfortable than if he’d said it
in the first place.

In the end, we
were finished long before ten, though I was too brain-dead to
endure anything remotely as chipper as a conversation with Aidan.
I’d cancelled with him earlier on.

Matt and I
walked almost the same route home and that night, as the past few,
I deliberately stayed later so that I didn’t end up loitering
awkwardly behind him.

It seemed he
had cottoned on to this because he waited by the Starbucks on the
corner.

“Are you
avoiding me?” he asked.

“I thought you might want to avoid
 
me
,”
I said feebly.

“Well.” He
shifted from one foot to the other. “I did, for a bit.” He started
forward. “Walk with me?”

Fortunately, we
needed to focus on weaving through the knitted pedestrians–a good
excuse to ignore the elephant in the tomb. We walked like that for
about five minutes until the streets became quieter, the trees
denser before the rows of imposing Victorian builds.

He stopped
suddenly. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Um…nothing, I
think.”

“I’ve got this
rugby fundraiser thing. You should come with me.”

“Oh?” Ooh.

We walked
shoulder-to-shoulder now, albeit about half a foot in height
difference.

“Do you want
to?” He blatantly knew why I’d gone into Joseph’s office, and along
with everything else that had occurred, the last thing I had
expected was another proposition.

“I just…I suppose…
why
?”

He caught my eye for the first time that evening. “Because
against my better judgment, Leila, I do like you.” He lowered his
gaze again to fiddle with his bag strap. “And I figured that
while
 
I
 
know
he’s a fucktard and I’m infinitely better, I need to show
you.”

I couldn’t help
it, I started laughing. How did a girl refuse that line?

“I’m glad you
find me so amusing,” he grumbled.

“No, it’s not
that. It’s just…well, you were very blunt.”

“I’m trying to
be assertive. Do you like it?”

“Yes,
actually.” I smiled. “I do.”

“So…if I
assertively tell you to come with me, that’s that then?” he said
hopefully.

“What happened
to not wanting me with all the Joseph stuff going on?”

He was quiet
for a few steps. “I figured we could just have a good time, you
know. Talk. Assault the buffet.”

“A buffet? You
spoil me, Matthew.”

He elbowed me
playfully. “So will you come?”

Ask him ask him ask him ask him ask him!
 
“Yes, okay. But I need you to
return the favour.”

“If you think
of this as a favour, maybe you shouldn’t come after all.”

“No, no…I
meant, this wedding thing I have to go to. I wondered if you’d like
to come with me.”

He looked
surprised. “This weekend?”

“Is it a
problem? Because if it is–”

“No, no. I can
go. Who’s getting married?”

I hummed
awkwardly. “People from my, er, other job.”

“Oh.
 
Oh
.” He started to laugh. “Is it
going to be like one of these big, pink porn star jobs?”

“Nooo! William
was my boss. He’s very low key, actually. But there will be whores
everywhere.”

“You say it
like it’s a bad thing.”

“Man whores,
mostly,” I added. “They will be worse than the insolvency queens, I
warn you now.”

“Will I need to
wear some sort of protective codpiece?”

“Yes. With
sequins.”

“I’m sold.”

In the moments
we continued walking, it was almost as if we’d never ended up in
that hotel room. We were easy with one another, everything flowed,
and yet, I couldn’t help but notice the dimple flashing in his
right cheek, the way his almost-black hair spilled over his eyes,
how his trousers were cut over his thighs and buttocks. The primal
stirred beneath the placid facade.

We paused at
the corner where we went our separate ways.

“Where shall I
meet you tomorrow, then?” I asked.

“I can come to
your flat, if you’d like.”

Charlotte oozed quietly beneath my skin.
 
Not there
, she said, as if the flat was as much her space as me. “I’ll
meet you here,” I said quickly. “Does that work? What
time?”

“Is eight
okay?”

“Yep. Do I need
to dress like I’m posh?”

“Nah. It’s
pretty casual.”

Fuck. I didn’t
 
own
 
anything casual! “Right.
Well.” Should I have hugged him, kissed his cheek, touched his arm?
I couldn’t bring myself to do any of those things. Our
reconciliation felt too smooth to believe. “I’ll see you tomorrow,
anyway.”

“Yeah.” He
lingered in the same uncomfortable fashion. “So. Bye.”

He pulled his
iPod out of a pocket and stuffed the headphones in as he walked
away.

For somebody
who didn’t want to date anyone, I rippled with too many cool
shivers.

Not that it was
a date, of course.

* * * *

“I’m sorry, you need to borrow
 
what
?”

I grimaced over
the phone. “Clothes, Clemmie. Casual ones.”

“You were
actually being serious about not owning jeans?” Clemmie snorted. “I
can’t really refuse now, can I? What’s the big hoo-ha?”

“A date.” I
paused, sitting up on the sofa. “A date-type-thing.”

“Ah yes, one of
those. What the heck is a date-type-thing?”

“Well,” I began, “it’s one of those things you have when a
colleague asks you to join him somewhere, but you can’t
actually
 
date
 
because you’ll fuck up your work relationship.”

“Oh gosh. It’s
Shares-Your-Desk, isn’t it?” she breathed, giddy and envious.

“His
 
name
 
is Matt.”

“So what will
you do all evening? Sudoku?”

I cocked my
head. “Possibly.”

“Ugh.” Bath
water splashed in the background. “Are you sure you didn’t
misinterpret when he said to keep it casual? Perhaps he was just
talking about sex?”

I laughed. “He
meant the dress code. It’s a rugby fundraiser.”

“Perhaps you
could just have sex with him anyway, and then tell me about
it?”

Baha.
 
Well–

“Clothes, Clem.
Can we concentrate on those?”

“If you
insist.” I could practically hear her pouting. “Raising money for
rugby, or rugby teams raising money for charity? Because that will
have bearing on what you wear.”

“Really?”

“Anything to do
with charity ramps it way up in the style stakes. Rugby, on the
other hand, means they’ll be pleased if you just have your own
teeth.”

“Erm.” I
swallowed. “Can I just come and raid your wardrobe a bit later? I
need the clothes for tomorrow.”

“I’m a bit
tight for time–I think James wants us to play tennis.”

“You’re going
to dump me to play with big yellow balls?”

“Oh, okay.” She sighed. “If it means
 
that much
 
to you.”

“Slutface.”

“Frigid bitch.”
She giggled, sloshing water about again.

“I know,” I
tutted. “I don’t know what he sees in me.”

Chapter 6

Joseph
constructed Thursday’s activities just to be mean to me. He sent me
through to the “real” solicitors in his department to peer over
their shoulders and make feigned noises of interest. They were the
people I could be working with in just a few weeks, after all.
Algie Bach spent the best part of the afternoon trying to explain
some weird nuance of acquisition law to me. I did much nodding and
humming and wondering if he was gay–he kept checking out Matt’s ass
every time he came through to use the library.

Not that I
blamed him; Matt had beautifully cut trousers.

Would I get a
chance to unzip them later that evening? I knew I wasn’t allowed,
but still, the thought gave me something to concentrate on. Matt
swanned by every half an hour, that knowing little smile playing on
his lips...mean tease.

The two sides
of me–my two jobs–had always been separated, by difference in hours
if nothing else. Now, the two mingled as if someone had sliced
right through the skin. I liked being wounded like this. I liked
the risk and the pain of being tugged in so many directions, the
fragility of it all.

I was a house
of cards, waiting to be blown.

* * * *

I talked Algie
into letting me leave work early by pointing out how little he had
done all afternoon, except waffle at me. I had three glorious hours
to prepare for my not-date and learn how rugby worked.

Okay. I didn’t
give a flying toss about rugby. See what I did there? No? Gah.

Clemmie had
loaned me clothes for what she called postmodern Sloaning: an
invisibly tailored denim skirt that skimmed my thighs, and a fitted
cardigan from Gap.

“Are you sure about this?” I’d asked, twisting in front of
her Laura Ashley mirror. “Legs
 
and
 
cleavage?”

She had waved a
hand dismissively. “You’re wearing flats, chickadee. Your legs
don’t count.”

“I look like a
seventeen-year-old going to the cinema.”

Clemmie
snorted. “Be thankful you can pass for seventeen!”

I stood at the
corner, waiting for Matt in the cool breeze of the evening and
slowly submerging myself in the panic that he wouldn’t turn up.
When he finally appeared on the horizon, I went dizzy with
relief.

He squinted at
me in the melting sun. “You look different.”

“I straightened
my hair,” I said dryly.

He grinned.
“You look normal.”

“You look like
it’s fresher’s week,” I retorted, gesturing to his jeans and rugby
shirt. “Are you going to treat me to a tacky alcopop or two?”

“Pfft. That’s
only for the classy ladies.” He nodded in the opposite direction.
“Shall we?”

We fell into
step with each other.

“So what will
we be doing tonight, exactly?” I said. “Have you brought me to sell
as a slave?”

“You’re awfully
preoccupied with being bought, aren’t you?”

I paused. “I
suppose I am.”

“But you don’t
do that anymore.”

“No. It’s force
of habit.” I shrugged. “And I never did see it as a bad thing.”

“If our brief
encounter was anything to go by, I can believe that.” He seemed to
wonder what to do with his hands for a moment before shoving them
in his pockets. “But in other news…tonight is a bit like a village
fair. Stalls and raffles and bad home-made cakes.”

“You said
there’d be a buffet.”

“There will!
It’s just made of butterfly cupcakes and ginger loaf.”

“You know your
cake.” I giggled. “I like that.”

“Over-zealous
stepmother.”

“But
still…cake. Yum.”

We arrived at
the rugby club to a car park packed with Brownies and Scouts.
Wind-tickled bunting danced overhead and awful nineties dance music
spilled from a loudspeaker. As we weaved our way into the stuffed
hall, Matt’s hand melted against the small of my back as he
steered. I wanted to stop just for the inevitable collision of our
bodies.

“Do you want a
drink?” His voice was husky as he hovered behind me.

I nodded.

He disappeared
toward the bar and I rifled through an old Garfield annual on the
book stall. I will always have an affinity with anyone so adoring
of lasagne.

Matt returned a
few moments later with two paper cups of Coke and ice, and a trio
of gangly men behind him.

“We’ve come to
meet Matthew’s girlfriend,” said the stocky blond one, flashing a
grin at me.

Matt turned a
shocking shade of raspberry as he handed me a cup. “Don’t listen to
them, Leila. They’re filth.”

“Oh?” I cocked
an eyebrow, smiling. “Is that the name of your team?”

The one with
the shaved head laughed. “The Filth. I like it.”

“Leila,” Matt
said, rolling his eyes, “this is Greg, Johnny and Eton.”

The one with
the designer stubble winced. “My name isn’t actually Eton–”

“He’s a public
school twat.” Greg elbowed his friend. “Besides, his real name is
too embarrassing. We wouldn’t want to be associated with him.”

“But now I want
to know!” I protested.

“No, really. It
 
is
 
embarrassing.” Eton nodded in
defeat.

Matt touched
the small of my back again. “I’ll tell you later.” The last word
was punctuated with a conspiratorial wink.

We wandered
around the hall for a while, pushing the ice round our cups with
bendy straws. Behind us, Matt’s friends sniggered between
themselves, and his embarrassment amused me. Maybe the skirt was a
bad idea after all.

I bought a
plateful of lush baked goods and we found a quiet corner with a
sofa.

“Do you know
when cake tastes especially good? When it’s in the name of
charity,” I declared. “Which charity is this for, again?”