Читать книгу The Vintage Cinema Club - Jane Linfoot - Страница 11

Wednesday Evening, 4th June

XANDER & IZZY

His building site in Bakewell

A vandal would have been so much less trouble

‘At least lads would have legged it by now.’ Xander was muttering under his breath, not that it was helping any.

As he rubbed his hands absently on his biceps, he stared at the wobbling girl he’d just dropped onto the ground. Somehow he couldn’t shift the warmth of her off his skin. Broken glass might well have been preferable to a stroppy woman, who was so small and weedy she couldn’t even climb out of a skip. Given the appalling state of the house, a few more smashed windows would hardly have mattered anyway.

He’d bought what he thought was a house needing slight refurbishment, in an up market area on the outskirts of Bakewell, and thanks to the combined efforts of builders and vandals, he was now the proud owner of what passed at best for a shit heap. Even if Bakewell was on the Telegraph’s Top Ten Places To Live In The UK list, he was failing to see the attraction himself. Served him right for buying a place for the wrong motives, and shutting up your sister was no kind of good reason. Christina might be kicking his ass big time, but one land registry transaction was never going to transform his life from dysfunctional to socially acceptable. Although he hated to disappoint her, some leaps were too big to make.

He’d given up on relationships, stable friends, and places to live so long ago he’d forgotten what normal was. Glossy women throwing themselves at you came with the territory, when you were in film production and finance, but he had his avoidance tactics honed. One glance at the wasteland of a building site was enough to show anyone that even as a seasoned developer he was currently lacking the necessary motivation to push this large family house renovation to completion on his own behalf, let alone move into it. Now it was actually happening, it was going to be just another place to turn over, the same as all the rest.

‘Thanks for that.’ The words interrupted his thoughts. Her voice was smaller now, momentarily less objectionable.

Presumably she was referring to him putting her feet back on the ground. She was flapping her hands over her skirt, and the buttons on the front of her dress looked set to bust with every gasp. Worse still, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Today just got better and better. Not.

‘Okay, the show’s over.’ She said, attempting to straighten herself out. She then jutted her chin at him. ‘I’ll just get my shoes and I’ll be off.’

So that was good news. Right now his priority was to get her as far away from here as he could, and fast.

Shoes.

If he grabbed her shoes she could go. To his untrained eye, the pointy yellow heeled shoes he picked up looked completely inappropriate for scrabbling around on a building site, but what did he know.

‘There you go.’ He picked them up and tossed them in her direction, then turned away quickly.

‘Thanks.’

From the corner of his eye he saw her make a lunge to retrieve them. ‘Ouch.’

Xander heard her sharp cry, and pivoted in time to see her jack-knife to the ground.

‘Okay, what now?’ This time he made no attempt to hide his exasperation.

She crouched, then slipped back to sitting and grasped one bare foot, and a mile of thigh slid into view as her skirt bunched-up.

Christ. Not what he needed.

‘Damn.’ Her fingers were dark as she pulled them away from her foot.

He leaned in for a better look. ‘Is that blood?’

Ignoring both him, and the scarlet smears all over the lemon leather, she rammed her shoes on, got up, and began to hobble past him.

‘Wait.’ Somehow he’d already stepped into her path, and was barring her way. ‘Let me take a look?’

As she screwed up her face and hesitated for a minute he suspected she was about to argue. Then she thought better of it, and stuck out her foot.

He’d take that as an okay then. Crouching, he grasped her ankle, and her weight wavered against his arm. ‘You might want to grab my shoulder if you don’t want to fall over.’ Given her scowl, he’d let her decide for herself.

‘Right. Now bend your knee so I can see the bottom of your foot.’ Brushing away the blood with his thumb, he closed his eyes to the view straight up her skirt and focused on the wound. ‘It looks quite deep.’

‘I’m fine, it’s nothing.’ She was rifling through her skirt pocket now, sending a shower of sweet wrappers past his cheek. ‘You don’t have a hanky do you?’

‘Sorry.’ He gave a helpless shrug.

‘I thought men in suits always carried them.’ She let out a snort of disgust, and yanked her ankle away. ‘In that case I’ll go.’

He was on his knees, her dress so far in his face he was breathing in the scent of fabric conditioner, and more. No matter how much he wanted her gone, no matter how fast his heart was pumping, he couldn’t let her go when she was hurt.

‘No.’ He was already on his feet. ‘There’s a first aid kit in the car, I’ll get you a plaster.’

She hesitated, then began to shake her head.

‘How about I’m not taking no for an answer.’ Part of his brain was telling him he should never have touched her, and another part was telling him he had to touch. ‘I’ll carry you so you don’t get more dirt in the wound.’

‘I don’t think…’

There were times when you had to overrule an argument, even if it made you look like a caveman. He sprang forward, and this time he grasped her under her arms and knees.

‘Hold on tight.’ A curiously strong, sweet scent drifted up from her hair. No way was he going to enjoy the feel of her body, hot and heavy, bumping against him with each stride. Judging by her squirms and squawks of protest, she’d decided the same.

He supported her easily with one arm, as he undid the tailgate, and slid her onto the carpeted floor of the Range Rover. ‘Can I smell bubble gum?’

‘Oh, it’s probably my tutti-frutti kiddy de-tangler, I use it when I’ve got paint in my hair, and I don’t have time to wash it.’

‘Right.’ That information dump left him none the wiser. ‘Lean up against the back seat if you like, pretend you’re in Holby City…’

He grabbed the green plastic first aid box and flipped it open. He rested her dusty calf on his hand and set about examining the base of her foot before tearing open an antiseptic wipe.

‘Sorry, this may sting.’ He felt her flinch with the first touch, then he began to clean away the blood, determined not to look above her ankle.

‘You don’t have to do this.’

Xander carried on wiping. ‘I’m responsible. You trod on my broken glass after all.’

‘But you’re a Range Rover driver, and by definition, Range Rover drivers don’t know the meaning of responsibility.’

He gave her ankle a tug. ‘And you’re more stupid than I thought, making comments like that when I’ve got your foot in my hand.’

She gave a snort and sank back down.

‘I don’t think you need A & E. There was a lot of blood, but I think an Elastoplast will do the job. Maybe a dinosaur plaster to go with the tutti-frutti?’ If he talked seamlessly there would be no space for her belligerent comments.

When she didn’t reply, he dared to look directly at her, taking in the flecks of freckles across her nose. Her cheeks were paler than he’d remembered, she almost looked…

Shit. He slapped the Band-Aid into place. ‘Are you feeling okay? If you’re going to pass out you need to lie flat.’ From back here she almost looked green. ‘Lie down, breathe deeply, you’ll be fine again in a minute.’

Her face was an unearthly white now. He needed to sound reassuring not exasperated, because exasperation would only prolong things.

He gently pushed her back flat, and began to fan her with a map he’d grabbed from the back seat, trying to ignore how small and helpless she looked. He winced as he caught sight of a slice of a bright pink bra between buttons, and rammed his spare hand firmly in his pocket. He flapped the map harder.

‘Don’t worry, just lie still, and you’ll be fine again soon. There’s some water here for you to sip when you feel better.’

Jeez, he spent his life avoiding women who were vertical, the last thing he needed was a horizontal one, in the back of his car. She gave a low groan. With any luck, she’d be insulting him again at any moment. He waited, and the silence stretched to what felt like forever. Perhaps conversation would drag her back to consciousness.

‘So did you bring anything out of the skip in the end then?’

‘I left it…’

A mumble, but at least she was conversing. That was a good sign.

‘You’re telling me you didn’t get whatever you went in for?’ He shook his head. All this for nothing. How stupid was that? ‘What was it?’ He leant in towards her to see if she was moving. The scent of tutti-frutti engulfed him again, but there was another, indefinable, delicious overtone, that set his heart on edge. Warm woman. How long was it since he’d smelled that?

‘I was rescuing a cherub.’ She was almost coherent again.

‘Save a whale, adopt a tiger, rescue a cherub…Would you like some water?’

Xander held his breath as she lifted her head, pushed back her hair, and stuck out a hand to grasp the bottle he was holding towards her.

‘Please…’

She lifted the bottle to her lips, and the way the column of her neck moved as she swallowed sent his stomach into spasm. As he waited, he counted broken window panes in the garage, and shut out the knots in his gut. She was sitting up now.

‘Stay there.’ He wasn’t sure that she had any choice about that. ‘I won’t be long.’

One impulsive thought, and he was heading off towards the skip. At least it was an excuse to put distance between himself and the girl, and good thinking on that. What he didn’t understand was the sense that on some deep and hidden level he wanted to please her.

He vaulted over the skip side, found the elusive cherub in the dirt, and twenty seconds later he was putting it into her hand.

‘Thanks for that.’ She examined the cherub, rubbing the dust off it. ‘But why throw it away in the first place?’ One coherent reply he could have done without, and, grateful might have worked better than an insolent pout.

‘I only hope you think it’s worth a cut foot.’ He wasn’t up for a wastefulness lecture.

She shrugged, and her mouth curved into an involuntary smile as she turned the cherub over in her hand. ‘He’s beautiful. I love cherubs. Are you sure you don’t want him?’

As her face lit up, Xander’s pulse raced, and he gave himself a hard mental kick for that. ‘No, rubbish really isn’t my thing. How come cherubs are always male?’

He watched her smile stretch further at this, and when she turned to look up at him, he caught the smoky blue of her eyes, and something about her raw vulnerability shot him through.

Shifting, she tossed him a grin. ‘Not sure, just a fact of angel life.’ She began to scramble out of the back of the car.

Result. Or maybe not.

Because now she was pointing at his thigh and wailing. ‘Oh no, I’ve got blood on your trousers…’

‘It’s nothing.’ He looked down at the splodge next to his fly, not sure he could stand the scrutiny.

‘I’m really sorry.’ Her eyes had locked onto his cock. ‘Can I pay for dry cleaning?’

‘Really, not a problem.’ Except there would be if she didn’t stop staring.

She raised her eyes at last and looked at him. ‘I’d better be going then. Thanks…for the stuff…and for looking after my foot.’

Was she hesitating? Fleetingly Xander wondered where she was going next, what she was about to do, who she was going to be with. Whatever, it definitely had nothing to do with him, and he really didn’t want to know.

‘Wait. Do you need a lift anywhere?’ He heard himself make this polite query, and was appalled by his sudden reluctance to see her leave. Any excuse to prolong the contact?

‘Thanks, but I’ve got my own transport round the corner.’ As she limped away she shot a grin over her shoulder. ‘In any case I’d rather have my finger nails pulled out than travel in a Range Rover.’

Xander watched her uneven progress across the site. Just as she was about to reach the gateway, he raised his hand, and shouted after her. ‘Just don’t let this happen again, okay.’

If a voice inside his head was insisting that he wouldn’t mind one bit if it happened again, he really wasn’t going to listen. Automatically he stooped to pick up the rubbish she’d scattered across the dirt when she’d gone through her pockets earlier. Tidying up was futile, but maybe someone needed to start. There was one tattered card in amongst the sweet papers. Vintage at the Cinema. That faded retro font might have come straight from one of his sister Christina’s colour boards. The address rang a bell, probably from a property alert. Due to his spending power, he was first in the agents’ email firing line when new properties came up. The card was in his pocket before he realised. To pass on to Christina, obviously.

When he looked up again, the girl had reached the tall stone gate post. She turned to give him a last defiant smirk, and then a second later she’d disappeared into the dusk.