The Gentleman Has Left the Building (7 page)

And I find
myself wondering how the punch bag feels. How it gives like flesh
beneath his fingers.

"Caitlyn?"
Vicky pokes me in the ribs, but I don't flinch. "Are you getting
anything?"

The boxer
glances back just for a moment, allowing me a glimpse of his
profile. I can't tell the colour of his eyes from here, but I
notice how they widen briefly. How they flare. I swear white teeth
play along his full bottom lip. As he twists, a flash of colour at
his hip becomes apparent; ink, rough slashes.

Then he's lost
to the punch bag again, all thrusting fists and flushed skin and
breath spewing in soft grunts. A stranger showing more than he
ought to in public–things I couldn't touch if I wanted to.
Undercurrents. Prickles that needle the back of my neck. He's
angry, but it's more than that.

"Cat? Are you
getting a drink, or what?"

I glance around
at Vicky, whose brow is creased in annoyance. "Yeah, sorry." I
fumble about, trying to position my bottle beneath the fountain. At
least I'm too red for her to notice my blushing. "Should probably
put some water into my Pepsi stream."

I can't help
it–I peer back through the gym doors, where he's moved on from
beating living shit and appears to be going for the firmly
deceased. The flush has spread to his shoulder blades, and they
glide up and down like knives in the hands of an astute butcher.
Cold water gushes over my fist as the bottle overflows; I do
nothing about it. How embarrassingly Freudian.

Vicky
mock-huffs beside me. "When you've finished perving, I'll be in the
locker room," she announces.

I don't even
bother to answer; I just mirror her good-natured, crooked grin, and
bring my wet hand to my forehead. It's cold enough to make me
sigh.

In a minute,
I'll have to follow Vicky, if I want to make it in time to swim.
But I let my gaze linger over the boxer's back one last time. I
gulp down cold water and drink in the sight of him–punch after
punch, slap after slap, and the water cools my belly as his punches
warm me, lower down. He is Fist Candy, and deserving of proper
nouns.

The heat of my
pulse is opiate and delirious. I want more of it.
More,
more
, says the quiver in my blood. I've become a junkie in the
space of two minutes and I can't find it in me to be embarrassed
for a single blink.

Shame lifts
like a shadow, easing its stiff fingers one at a time.

***

The thing about
the boxer is that he's an unfamiliar face.

I spend my
weekends working on the gym reception, so I usually recognise
customers. But not him, and not because I mostly just stared at his
back. I'll probably never see him again–even if I did, I doubt he'd
look twice at me–but there's always a sliver of possibility in the
unknown, and tingles of hope flood my veins when I remember him,
stirring nerves long-neglected and muscles unstretched. He's like
my own personal Cupboard of Shame.

So of course,
now there's only one way to survive a lecture on the European
Working Time Directive: close my eyes, let the drone of my tutor
fade away, and conjure the filthy look on Fist Candy's face when he
took out his frustration on the punch bag.

Only I'm yanked
from my revelry by a firm hand grasping my knee.

"If you don't
stop tapping your bloody foot," Rich mutters as he pushes my knee
down, "I'm going to–to–"

"To what?" I
hiss.

He scowls at me
from beneath his mad explosion of chestnut curls. "I dunno.
But...something. Be afraid."

"I'm terrified.
No, really."

"You should
be," Drew, his twin brother, warns from my other side. "In fact,
don't let him use your bathroom. No good can come from that."

"You're both
disgusting," I whisper back, weary of other students' eyes as they
twist in their seats to glare. "I don't know why I put up with
you."

Drew grins,
wide and white. "Because we're clever shits?"

"Photogenic
clever shits. I bet you were never as popular on Instagram before
you met us," Rich adds.

I snort. I'm
hardly "popular on Instagram," but Drew and Rich are Gods of the
Selfie and insist on recording our study sessions in pixels,
usually between ordering cheap pizzas from the Iranian place around
the corner, and trying to outdo each other on Candy Crush. Ah, how
grateful I am that they fell into my life–literally. On the second
night of Fresher's week, around about two AM, a monumentally drunk
Drew crashed clean through my dorm room door with his trousers
around his ankles. Apparently, he got lost on the way back from the
bathroom. We've been friends ever since–they came as a package
deal– but not a friends-with-benefits kind of thing, you
understand, despite Drew's initial lack of trousers. They're both
awfully
photogenic
; all caramel skin and glossy black eyes,
and Drew wears his curls longer, tied back in a ponytail. But
they're also not afraid to fart in front of me or tell me that I
have lipstick on my teeth.

Our lecture
finishes with a bunch of graphs suggesting that the EU directive
has boosted employment figures, and thus benefited the economy. We
have to write an essay on its political implications; deep joy. I
chose a business degree because, as Drew once put it, I like to
manipulate logic for my own personal gain. Ahem. Politics, however,
is the manipulation of
lies
, so politics and I do not get
on. Finishing this essay will be like the last five minutes of a
Hans beasting. Not funny.

I'm escorted
from the new-build lecture theatre–and back into the old
building–in a Rich and Drew sandwich. People have no choice but to
walk around us, even if it means holding their iPads aloft. The
School of Law, Business and Economics is, for the most part, a
sixteenth century behemoth that Foxfield University calls Earl
Waverley. We call it Hogwarts due to its hilltop position, mess of
staircases and eerie stone spires. On bright March afternoons like
this, the sun spills down through high windows in arched rafters
and turns the halls milky gold. We all look drizzled in syrup.

"So." Rich
yanks a bottle of Sprite from his leather satchel. "Plans for
tonight?"

Drew groans.
"He's got the handbag again. I told him, I can't be seen with a
bloke who has a handbag, but–"

"It's a
satchel
. And it's fucking fashionable." Rich throws me a
pout. "Isn't it?"

"It is. I
think." I nod. "It's very metrosexual."

"See?" Drew
holds up an accusatory finger. "Handbag."

"You talk as if
metro's an insult," Rich goes on, completely unaffected. "It's not.
In fact it's not even a sexuality–it's a state of self-awareness
that suggests one values their appearance over the opposite
sex."

"It's like
talking to Wikipedia," Drew complains. "I haven't even got a
brother anymore, you know that? I've got a SatNav that thinks it's
a black David Beckham."

Rich rolls his
eyes. "Ignore him and answer my question, Cait. Out tonight?"

We duck out of
the huge doors and stalk down the stone steps to the car park. A
light breeze ruffles my hair, and exhaust fumes mingle with the
scent of fresh greenery.

"Why? You
angling for an invite?" I ask.

He looks
shifty, clasping the strap of his bag. "Maybe."

"What Becks
here is getting at," Drew announces, "is whether Vicky is going
with you. And if so, will you please let him tag along on the off
chance she decides to grace him with her vagina?" He smirks.
"Again."

Rich withers
back into himself, blushing.

"Oh. I
see.
I see what's happening here." We reach the boys' red
Volkswagon and I lean against it, folding my arms. "I'm flattered
you're so desperate for my company, Rich."

"It's just–I
mean...." He shrugs helplessly. "She hasn't texted or
anything."

"And she said
she would?"

"She gave me
her number."

"When he asked
for it," Drew adds, shaking his head. His ponytail bobs from side
to side.

"Hey. She took
my number, too," Rich protests. "Wasn't like it was one-sided, or
anything."

I give him a
sympathetic poke in the shoulder, which is the closest I get to a
comforting touch these days. "If you were worrying about it all,
you only had to ask me."

"Maybe he asked
Wikipedia first," Drew muses, "and panicked when it didn't
know."

"
You
can
sod off," Rich mutters. "I just wondered if she'd be around
tonight, is all."

"She's at the
theatre, I think. They're practising loads for this big
production."

"Oh." He looks
crestfallen. "I s'pose I'll leave you alone, then."

"I'm going to
make a start on that stupid essay," I say forlornly. "You're more
than welcome to do that with me, if you like?"

Drew glances
over, his eyes wide with hope. "Is there cake?"

"Haven't baked
any."

"And why the
fuck not?"

"Because I'm
not your slave?" I end up talking into his armpit as he grabs me
for a playful squeeze. I have to spit out a mouthful of check
shirt. It sets my teeth on edge. "Suffocating me won't help, by the
way."

"Sorry. I'm not
allowed to release you until I have a confirmed date for cake."

Rich brandishes
his phone, where an image of last week's amaretto apple muffins
lights the screen in all its Instagram filter glory. "Actually,
it's been eight days since you baked anything, Cait. You feeling
okay?"

"I've been busy
having a life," I protest, trying to step out of Drew's grasp as
casually as possible.

He releases me,
looking wounded. "It saddens me that it doesn't include looking
after your menfolk."

I scrunch my
face at him. "Ew."

"I meant in the
kitchen!"

"Keep digging."
I tuck handfuls of hair behind my ears, trying to control the
wind-teased frizz. I'm absolutely not going to admit that I've had
too many Fist Candy butterflies this week to think about baking
anything, but I feel exposed, as if they can
tell.

"I'll come and
help with the essay. Because I'm a clever shit," Drew says, his
expression perfectly stoic. "But if cake doesn't happen in, like,
three days, I'm calling the authorities."

Rich titters to
himself. "Cake happens."

"I mean, I'll
let you coast for a bit, since I'm nice like that. I'll settle for
pancakes or something. Those blueberry ones you do with the syrup
and yoghurt, or maybe those truffles you make by bashing up
digestive biscuits–"

"You've been
thinking about this too much," I scold.

Drew cocks his
head. "A man's gotta eat."

"Man's gotta
cook it, then." I scoop my white canvas tote bag up on to my
shoulder. "I need to make a move."

"Want a lift?"
Drew offers.

"Cheers, but
no. I need to stop by the shops and stuff." I must acquire Pepsi,
and some of that amazing popcorn with sugar and salt. A night by
myself in the flat is not complete without snack fodder. "Rich–you
want me to text if Vicky ends up home early? You can conveniently
drop in with a research article, or something."

"Nah." He
sighs. "I'll figure it out."

"Okay." I stand
on tiptoe to accept the usual hugs. They're warm, solid boys, and
their friendly embraces should be comforting. I wish I could find
that in them; that I could feel something beyond the incredulity
flesh inspires. Instead I wince, and pray that they never notice.
"Catch you later."

After a browse
around the supermarket, I head home through the old main town, past
the library and the majestic crash of the water mill. Our block
sits four storeys high on a new-build estate not far outside the
Saxon town gates. We picked our flat for the size of the bedrooms,
and subsequently, the built-in wardrobes; it meant we ended up with
a tiny kitchen-slash-sitting room, but for overall space, it's
worth it.

I keep
everything white in my room, from the shiny Ikea furniture to the
bed linen I launder each weekend with fabric softener more
expensive than wine. Colours litter my windowsill in the form of my
Yankee graveyard; as Vicky says, it's where good candles go to die.
My current favourite is a sweet pea one that smells like my late
grandma's garden.

White is my
logic. My safeword, of a sort. When I decorated this room at the
beginning of last term, it felt like a clean slate–I was finally
free of Dominic. I replaced photos of us with my candles, and the
bright sheets he soiled with fresh, pure white. Dominic was the
politics to my business; he was the last push-up, but without the
adrenaline to cheer me up after. And when we–
he
–decided it
was over, I needed to remind myself that I wasn't transparent
without him, though it felt like all the colour had been drained
from me. I was just a clean slate, just white. I was still
beautiful.

Even when he
said I wasn't beautiful at all.

Books by Lucy V.
Morgan