Commitment Issues by Ali Ryecart
Chapter Four
Freddie
“Freddie?”
The guy standing above me in the crowded café with the apologetic smile is so much more than his photograph on the internet which, in comparison, looked like a grainy photocopy. Lickable, Cosmo said. That, and some. Elliot Hendricks is an ice lolly on a hot day.
“Yes, that’s right.” I glance around, looking for James.
James, who said he’d meet me with Elliot.
James, who said he’d discussed everything with Elliot, who was in complete agreement.
But James isn’t here, and he won’t be here, and Elliot’s lopsided, apologetic smile is all I need to know that James has got me to the café — got both me and Elliot to the café — under false pretences. Or a lie, to be precise. Heat sears my face, and I open my mouth to stutter out an apology, but nothing comes out as it dries on my tongue like sandpaper.
Elliot has every right to be angry at the clumsy set-up, but as I gawp up at him, it’s not anger I see reflected in his pale blue eyes, but focused, sharp concentration.
He pulls out the chair opposite me, and sits down.
“There’s been a mistake, or misunderstanding. But that’s putting it mildly. Whatever James has said, he’s misled you. I’m sorry.”
And you’ve shown yourself up to be a gullible fool, he might as well add.
The burn creeps its way past my hair line and onto my scalp. Because, seriously, if this guy needs or even wants a companion to take with him to some fancy wedding, he can do a lot better than me, a cash-strapped student who works part-time stacking shelves in a supermarket. In his sharp, dark grey suit that fits him like a second skin, the crisp white shirt, and magenta tie that’s he’s tugging at to loosen a little, he’s a world away from who I am. I’ve worn my best jeans and hoodie, or the hoodie that’s the least faded from a gazillion washes, but I feel like a scruffy kid next to him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid…I’ve let myself be swayed by the promise of a cash injection, a much-needed break in the sun, and a picture of a guy who looks like he could be playing the next James Bond. I want this embarrassing agony over with, and I want it over with quick.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced.”
I shove my chair backwards as I leap up, almost knocking it over. In my haste to get away, I grab my rucksack and heft it onto one shoulder, but it’s not fully zipped up and out tumbles a packet containing a half-eaten and dingy-looking ham sandwich, a toy Viking, and a copy of The Norseman with a horn-helmeted, bearded guy on the front cover who looks less fearsome warrior and more like he’s on his way to a night out at a bears’ club.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter under my breath, but before I can swoop down to pick up all my embarrassing crap, Elliot’s doing it for me.
Putting it all on the table, his lips quirk in ill-concealed amusement.
“A toy Viking and a magazine about… Vikings? Are you part of a re-enactment society?”
“What? Re-enactment society? No, I’m a student. I’m doing a PhD.”
“Really?” Elliot picks up the magazine and flips through it. “So you’re studying — Norse weaving techniques?” He flicks through a few more pages. “Sea Shanties and Their Origin in Norse Folk Song: An Exciting New Perspective. Exciting? Really? Does anybody honestly study this stuff?”
“Somebody’s got to.” I pluck the journal from his fingers.
“Really?” he says, one brow raising slightly.
“Yes, they do.” My words come out with more of a snap than I intend. My subject’s niche, okay very niche, but I do believe somebody has to study these things. “If nobody cares about this stuff, or studies it, then nobody would know about the past, and if you don’t know about the past how can you really understand the present and future?” That’s stretching it a bit, at least when it comes to Vikings and sea shanties, but I do believe in the general principle. “I’m sorry we’ve both had a wasted journey,” I say, modifying my voice a little.
I start packing everything away, including the nasty, clingfilm-wrapped sandwich, but to my horror Elliot picks it up and dangles it between finger and thumb, looking at it as though it’s something the cat’s dragged in. I don’t blame him, because that’s exactly what it tastes like.
“We’re both here under false pretences but it doesn’t have to be a totally wasted journey. At least stay and have a coffee with me, and maybe something to eat that’s a little more appetising than this.” He swings the limp-looking sandwich from side to side and I can’t help laughing.
“Yeah, it’s not great, but it was all that was left in the university canteen.” It had also been half price, which had been its main attraction.
“I think Barista Boys can do a little better than this. I’m going to have something to eat, so will you join me? I feel it’s the least I can do.”
I hesitate. My skin’s still prickling with embarrassment, but at the same time Elliot’s taken the whole thing really well when he’s every right to be royally pissed off by what James has done.
“I, erm…”
“You can tell me all about, what is it? Norse folk songs?”
He’s smiling, and the skin at the edges of his eyes crinkles. And they’re lovely eyes, pale blue with flecks of silver. But they’re also tired eyes, and the slight shadows staining the skin beneath makes it look like he’s not slept properly in days, if not weeks.
I nod and sit back down, and his smile widens as he pushes a menu across the table to me. I scan it, looking for the cheapest item. The coffee was great, and the food looks even better, but it’s pricey, and I need to conserve as much cash as I can until pay day in a few days’ time.
“This is on me,” he says.
“No, I wouldn’t dream of it.” My eyes land on what I’m looking for. A plain scone with butter and jam. God, even that’s £3.25.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m going to issue James with an invoice for wasted time and sundry expenses. He’s going to be paying for this, so my advice to you is to fill your boots.”
I look up and meet his eyes, which are lasering into mine. A shiver scampers down my backbone and heat bursts low in my belly.
“Well, erm…” I clear my throat, which is as dry as the ham sandwich I’ve stuffed back into my bag. “If you put it like that…”
In silence, we make our choices, before Elliot gets up to go to the counter and I follow him with my eyes.
He’s drawing admiring glances from many of the customers, men as well as women, and no wonder. The suit he’s wearing fits like a glove. Bespoke, it just has to be. Slim fitting, it emphasises his narrow waist, broad shoulders, and his long legs. His hand reaches up to his throat, loosening the already loose tie, and I hear a strangled whimper I know is coming from me. He looks up and reads the specials board, at the same time pushing his fingers through his thick hair, steely grey and threaded with dark strands.
Next to the counter a door flings open and a well-built man emerges, talking into a mobile. He’s not quite as tall as Elliot but his build’s heavier, almost burly. His intense, and slightly grumpy face splits into a wide, bright smile, transforming him, as he shoves his phone into his trouser pocket, and gives Elliot a hard hug. They fall into conversation, both their faces wreathed with smiles, as though they’ve not seen each other in a long time. Perhaps they haven’t. Elliot glances my way and the other guy looks over, too, and I wonder what they’re saying.
My embarrassment from earlier washes back over me. Is Elliot telling the guy what’s happened? About the student of the niche and obscure being stupid enough to fall for James’ ridiculous plan? But something deep in my gut tells me that’s not so. What was it Cosmo said? Honourable. That’s it, he said Elliot was honourable, and as I watch him talking to the other guy, smiling and full of affection, I know that’s exactly what he is.
“That was the owner, Bernie,” Elliot says, returning to the table a few minutes later. “The café runs a sandwich round to many of the local offices, and my company uses them to cater our meetings. I haven’t actually been in here for ages but it’s good to be back. So, James’s devious little game has had one positive outcome.”
One positive outcome? A late lunch in a local café, not meeting me. My stomach falls, and I don’t think it’s got much to do with being hungry. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.
“What, exactly, did James tell you about my situation?” Elliot leans back in his seat, tilting his head to the side. His eyes are on me, watching and waiting, more guarded than before.
Taking a sip of the last dregs of the coffee I bought when I arrived, I’m buying myself time. It’s a potentially tricky question to answer but there’s no reason not to be truthful. And I reckon he has a right to know. So, I may as well tell him everything, because after today I’ll never see him again.
“This wedding, in France. James said you needed a pretend boyfriend to go with you. He also said your ex would be there…” I think it’s best not to mention that the ex has been described as both a turd and a shit.
Elliot’s looking hard at me, as though he’s trying to dig beneath and behind my words. I resist the urge to shift in my seat and fill the silence with meaningless babble.
“James,” he says on a long sigh, “can be extremely persuasive when he wants to be, so don’t feel bad for being sucked in.” He shakes his head hard. “I’m one of two best men, as he’s no doubt explained. He’s been on at me for weeks to take a companion with me. The whole production is four days. A long weekend. Did he tell you that?”
I nod. The promise of hot sun and warm sea…
“What else did he tell you?”
His tone’s clipped, almost making me want to sit up straight, pull my shoulders back, and address him as Sir. He’s annoyed, despite how well he’s taking it, and he has every right to be. I can’t help but wonder how his next conversation with James will go.
“He, erm, thought it would be a great help for you to have somebody with you.”
To give your shitty ex the big fuck off.
“Yes, I expect he did. How well do you know James?”
“Well enough, I suppose. Or maybe not well enough. He’s my flatmate’s cousin.”
Sod it, Elliot deserves to know exactly why I’ve ended up waiting for him in a Soho café. I’m not some kind of amateur escort, and I’m going to make sure he knows it. I sit up straighter, square my shoulders and look him in the eye.
“James knows I’m skint. And that’s the truth of it. I said no, of course I did, because it’s a ridiculous plan but if I’m honest I need the money. My studies cost a fortune, and I’ve got a stack of bills I can’t put off paying any longer. The money he was offering would remove the immediate pressure and let me breathe a little easier. I haven’t paid Cosmo, who’s not only my landlord but my best friend, any rent this month, and I feel really bad about it. He’s not bothered, but I am. It’s — it’s degrading, not being able to pay my way, so although I could’ve come up with a thousand and one arguments to say no, saying yes was a way of getting myself out of a financial hole that part-time hours shelf stacking in Tesco can’t do. I don’t hire myself out for things like this. I don’t want you to think that.”
I’m breathless by the time I’ve finished. My shoulders droop and I sag back into my seat like a deflated balloon. It’s a pathetic little story, but it’s true, and the truth is no more than he deserves.
“None of this is your fault,” Elliot says, his voice gentle. “James has a way of winding a person around his little finger. He knows all the buttons to press, so if he knew you were struggling financially, that’s what he would have played upon. James can — well let’s just say he can twist and turn things. I’ve known him since we were boys so I know what he’s capable of. How—?”
“Americano with an extra shot, and a chicken salad and mayo sandwich on sourdough. Flat white, and a cheese and ham Panini. And, two passionfruit crumble bars on the house. If you like them, don’t forget to tell all your friends.”
My head snaps up, at the guy Elliot had called Bernie. He’s the owner, he has to be. There’s an air of confidence about him that shouts I’m the boss, cross me if you dare, but his smile’s broad and friendly and his light blue-grey eyes hint at warmth and humour. Exchanging a few words and some laughter, Bernie squeezes Elliot on the shoulder before he turns and disappears through the door that he’d emerged from earlier.
I groan in pleasure as I bite into my sandwich. God, but it’s good, with about as much in common with the rank ham sandwich as a fish has with the moon.
Elliot laughs, the sound as rich and full as the coffee, and I glance up. Catching his eye, we both smile.
We don’t say anything for a couple of minutes as we both give all our attention to our food and drinks. But when Elliot does speak, it’s with the question I know he has to ask.
“How much did James offer you?”
How much cold, hard cash were you going to do this for…? I fight my inner squirm, but it’s getting the better of me and once again my face throbs with heat.
“Five hundred pounds, plus all my expenses.”
It’s a lot of money, and Elliot’s no doubt wondering what I’d agreed to do for it. I put down my sandwich, which is no longer quite so tasty, and the coffee that was so good is now sour in my mouth.
“Five hundred?” Elliot’s brows arch, shooting up towards his slight widow’s peak. And it hits me. How could it not? Who would be paying me? I assumed James, but…No, it would have been Elliot footing the bill.
He’s staring at me hard and thinking, no doubt, that even though he’s not going through with any of it, James has wildly over promised regarding the fee. My earlier embarrassment’s nothing to what’s surging through me now, but there’s an added edge. For the first time in all of this, I feel cheap and venal.
“Then he’s done both you and me a gross disservice,” Elliot says quietly. “Because I think we’re both worth more than five hundred pounds, don’t you?”
“What?” I’m blinking at him, trying to take in what he’s saying. “It’s big money to me,” I blurt.
Elliot’s lips curve up in a crooked smile. “It’s a lot of money to many people. And as for expenses, there are none. The wedding party will be staying as guests of the grooms at their villa.”
Disservice or not, five hundred pounds is still a fortune, and a fortune that won’t now be coming my way. I’ll have to try and pick up some more shifts at the supermarket, not that I haven’t already tried.
“It’s for the best that James’ little scheme has been stopped in its tracks, because when push comes to shove, I’m not sure I’d be able to carry off the pretence… of, erm, being your boyfriend.” My words limp across the finish line.
Elliot doesn’t answer, which is all the answer I need.
The scheme’s derailed before it’s even got started. And it’s just as well, because the chances are high I’d have only made a fool of myself, and Elliot, in the process. But a few days in the South of France, sunshine on my skin, the sand between my toes, and the caress of a warm sea, and all in the company of this gorgeous man… It’s a nice little fantasy but a fantasy is all it is. Instead, all I can look forward to is stacking up cat food, washing powder, and tins of baked beans in between grabbing whatever scraps of work might, or might not be, doled out by my departmental head at university.
Neither of us speak as we finish off our lunch.
“Thank you for that, it was lovely,” I say when I finish, crumpling my napkin on my crumb-strewn plate.
“It was the least I could do. I really am very sorry for all this.” Elliot’s lips tilt in a lopsided smile.
“You’ve no need to be. Really. But I reckon James will be, when you’ve finished with him.”
Elliot throws back his head and laughs. It’s rich and deep, and oh boy, but doesn’t that send a shot of heat straight to my groin. Elliot Hendricks is pushing buttons I didn’t even know I had. I shift in my seat and tug my hoodie down.
“He will be, no question. I know exactly how to squeeze the little runt until the pips squeak.” He looks at me with a huge and open smile spread over his face.
There’s something infectious and bright and joyous in that smile and I can’t help smiling back. The man’s stunning, it’s as simple as that.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t be too hard on him, he was just doing his best to be a good friend. Just like he always has, even if he does go about it in a hamfisted way.”
Elliot’s words echo in my head. Cosmo had said much the same, friends looking out for friends and having their backs.
I catch sight of the clock over the counter, where the baristas are hard at work. I’ve been here, with Elliot, for over an hour.
“I’m sorry, but I really have to go. I’ve got some first-year undergrad essays to mark for tomorrow. But thank you for lunch.”
“Oh, do you really have to leave?” Elliot does a good job at sounding disappointed. It’s sweet of him. “Will it take you long?”
“Depends. I’ve got a couple of hours to get them done, or mostly, before I start my shift at the supermarket later on.”
“What’s the subject matter you’re marking? Viking pottery-making techniques, by any chance, or salmon curing?” he says, his face deadpan.
Oh, very funny, Elliot Hendricks.I can play at this, too.
“Not this week. The subject’s Dildo Production in the Reign of Eggnog the Bad. There was a technological innovation that proved to be transformative. They’d previously been made of reindeer bladders, stuffed with moss, but they tended to be floppy, and a floppy dildo’s not much good to anybody. So they began using wood, which was often carved with intricate patterns. But we’ve evidence to suggest that early versions tended to result in splinters.”
“Splinters…?” Elliot swallows. He’s gone pale, and I burst out laughing.
“Touché,” he says, shaking his head. “You almost had me for a second. Almost, but not quite.”
“Almost? You sure about that?”
“Of course, because what use is a floppy dildo?”
“Err…” How can I answer that? So much for thinking I’d got him.
“Seriously, what’s the subject matter?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Of course I do, I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”
Wow, that’s a first. A man being interested in my niche little subject.
Unbidden and unwelcome, an image of Paul fills my head, with his glazed eyes and barely held back yawns whenever I mentioned my studies. So, I soon learned to stop mentioning them. A major part of my life, swept out of sight as though it didn’t matter, and it didn’t, not to him. But Elliot’s waiting for me to answer, his stare intense, and I know, because I just do, that he really wants to know.
“Nothing as interesting as Viking dildos, unfortunately. It’s on early shipbuilding techniques.” Which I honestly am interested in, even though it can’t claim to be as exciting as Viking sex toys. “The Norse were highly skilled and innovative, ahead of their times when it came to sailing.”
He’s nodding his head, a tiny frown wrinkling his brow, as though he’s considering what I’ve just said.
“Yes, I saw a documentary about a group who built a longship from scratch, using the tools and techniques of the time, and then sailed to Newfoundland. It was fascinating.”
Have I just died and gone to heaven? Elliot, as hot as they come, really nice, and interested in my quirky subject. It’s not fair, not when I’ll be out of his life and him out of mine in just a few short seconds.
“And after marking the essays, shelf stacking, eh? It’s very important to ensure the nation gets its supply of tinned goods. But really, wouldn’t you rather come to France with me?”
