Читать книгу Match Me If You Can - Michele Gorman - Страница 9

Rachel inspected James’s office from the doorway. How did he get any work done in such a tip? It looked like an overfull recycling bag had exploded on the floor. Magazines, hardback books and plans were piled everywhere, weighed down with coffee-stained mugs. He didn’t even bother putting his files on the shelves the right way around – they were shoved in there on their sides.

Scientists could grow disease cultures on his desk.

She felt her lips pinching with disapproval. It was a signature move inherited from her mum. Ordered space, ordered mind; that was her motto. Rachel had inherited that too.

He was hunched over, sketching furiously. She could see the red pen in his hand. That meant he was working on interior walls. He was as obsessive about his colour-coded pens as they all were.

‘James? Want to try the new sushi place with me?’

Light and breezy, that’s what she was aiming for. No ulterior motives here.

He glanced up from his tracing paper. ‘Thanks, I would but I’m kind of busy right now.’

‘Come on. I’d rather eat in and you know I hate sitting by myself.’

He didn’t look up again. ‘Why don’t you ask Alison or Beth?’

Creeping across the litter-strewn floor, Rachel hovered over his shoulder. The sketch was good. ‘I’ll buy.’

He threw himself over the paper like she was trying to copy his exam answers. ‘Could you get me takeaway if you’re going? You know what I like.’

‘Come with me.’

His head snapped up. ‘What’s up, Rachel?’

Damn.

‘Nothing’s up. Can’t a friend buy another friend lunch?’

He sighed, putting the cap on his Sharpie. ‘How long have we known each other?’

‘Around five years, I think.’

Five years in January, actually, plus extra credit time for the year they went out.

‘And after that long don’t you think I can tell when you’re up to something?’

‘You’re no fun to try to manipulate, do you know that?’

She pushed the rolls of tracing paper off his extra chair so she could sit. She’d hoped to do this over maki rolls.

‘James.’

‘Yes, Rachel.’

She didn’t expect him to make it easy for her. ‘Do you feel like you’re getting everything you want, romantically, from your life? Because I don’t.’

She felt too wooden, rehearsed, but she had to push on.

‘I keep going out with these guys I meet, and they keep disappointing me. If they don’t just want sex then they’re too clingy. If they’re not too clingy they’re emotionally unavailable. If not that then they have a girlfriend already. I’m so sick of it all.’

He nodded. ‘Uh huh, I see. Just so I know, Rach, are you just telling me about your dates or is there a question in here somewhere?’

‘There’s a question.’

‘Then can we please …’ He made a winding-up motion with his finger. ‘Make this as painless as possible?’

‘You don’t want any background at all?’

‘Well, you’ve already told me about the bloke who wanted to wee on you.’ He pulled a face.

Rachel sighed. ‘Exactly my point. I can’t keep meeting random guys in pubs. I need a more structured approach if I’m going to meet anyone worthwhile. I’m joining Catherine’s website.’

‘Fine, good for you.’

‘You know, James, this is exactly why we broke up!’

‘Why, Rachel? What do you want me to say? That I’m thrilled you’re joining a website to meet guys? Maybe I don’t really want to listen to you talk about the shitty men in your life.’

‘No! Because you’re totally dismissive. Not to mention that you’re an absolute pig,’ she added, looking again around the office. ‘I’m asking for your help.’

‘Calling me a pig isn’t really making me warm to your request, you know.’

She shrugged. ‘I had other words in mind, so I was actually being kind.’

He smiled. ‘Tell me what you need, Rach.’

Her tummy churned at the way he said this. It was easier being his friend when he wasn’t being tender.

‘I can’t join unless I bring an ex with me. It’s really simple. We sign up and give each other feedback about what we were like in the relationship. You know, an assessment about what we did right and wrong.’

He rubbed his chin. ‘Do I really want to know what you think is wrong with me?’

‘But you’ll get to do it to me too. Just imagine, James. You can outline every single one of my flaws and I’ll have to sit there and take it. Besides, nobody else sees the assessment. Only us. Then I write an endorsement telling women why they should go out with you.’

‘Hmm, that’s interesting.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Tell me more.’

‘That’s it, really. Once we’re on the website we can go out with whomever we want to.’

‘No, I mean tell me more about why women should go out with me. You’ll throw me this tiny bone, won’t you? It might be the only ego stroke I get this year. Come on, Rach, tell me, tell me. Is it my hair? It’s my hair, isn’t it?’ He flicked his head and pursed his lips.

She laughed. James was many things – cheapskate, workaholic, smart-arse – but he wasn’t conceited. He never minded making a fool of himself to make her laugh. ‘Yeah, I guess you have good hair.’ It was a thick dark mop, long and shaggy. He wore it side-combed over his forehead like they did in the boy bands. ‘And you’re not too short. That would be a plus for women who aren’t very tall.’

They were nearly the same height when she wore her high heels and, though he wasn’t classically handsome, his regular features were a decent backdrop for the most startling blue eyes she’d ever seen. His mouth was perhaps a bit too small, but it suited his narrow chin which, in turn, suited his slender frame. His personality would attract women as much as his looks.

Of course, he’d rather hear that he was devastatingly god-like handsome.

‘Will you do it?’ she asked. ‘Will you join with me? I have to bring someone with me.’

‘Are you saying you need me?’

‘Yes, James,’ she muttered. ‘I need you.’

Thank God that was no longer really true. A few years ago it would have been.

‘And all I have to do is fill in a few forms and you’ll let me go back to work? I can do that. Wait, this doesn’t mean the sushi offer is off, does it?’

‘I’ll still get your sushi, James.’

‘Cool. Extra wasabi please.’

Rachel beamed all the way to the restaurant. That wasn’t as hard as it could have been.

The house was empty after work when she unlocked both deadbolts and the door lock to let herself in. They weren’t paranoid, fortressing themselves in like this. When they’d first come to look at the house, the door had been patched at the bottom where someone had kicked through it. One of the first things they’d bought was a solid replacement. The little buggers would break bones now if they tried forcing their way in.

Even with the risk of burglary, Rachel loved their house. Back when it was built, Victorian families needed lots of rooms. Clapton wasn’t overrun by Poundlands and chicken shops then.

There were little traces of those more affluent days left – ornate cornicing and plaster roses on some of the ceilings, tall sash windows and wide-beam oak floors. But cheap dividing walls scarred the floors where they’d been put up in haste and disintegrated at leisure. Big holes and cracks pockmarked the plaster. Wires and pipes ran in the shortest distance between two points. Basically, they lived in a semi-derelict building site.

But that’s what they’d signed up for when they bought the house. None of them could afford their own flat in the area. It might be dirty and dangerous but property prices there were rising faster than Jude Law’s hairline. So they bought something together that could eventually be subdivided. One day, when the time came, they’d each have their own flat. Till then they added a working fridge and settled into the original shabby chic decor. Pictures hung on wires straight from the mouldings. Those covered up the damp-stained walls, and threadbare rugs were strewn over the scratched and splintery floors. They’d scavenged through the charity shops to find velvet sofas and reading chairs to fill the cavernous sitting room.

People paid good money for decorators to give them that kind of distressed look. Their home’s distress was authentic.

Still, what a huge tick on her Adult To-Do list. She’d got the degree, she had the job and she’d invested in the house with Catherine and Sarah. Soon she’d be working on the relationship.

Sometimes she had to remind herself that there was nothing wrong with her. Just because she wasn’t married or doing the school run each morning didn’t mean she had a tail or anything. Millions of women were in the same boat, with high standards and a low tolerance for wankishness.

She made her way down to the kitchen to flick on the kettle, glancing at the 1950s black Bakelite wall clock as she went. It was after seven. She’d kill for a cup of coffee, but the bags under her eyes were now suitcases and she had to sleep. Herbal tea wasn’t top of her favourites list but it was better than nothing. And she did feel virtuous drinking grass clippings.

She spotted the Bake Off application still in the tea drawer, as unfilled-in as when she’d first printed it off. Not surprising. Sarah was the last person to sing her own praises.

Her eyes darted to the kitchen doorway.

She’d be coming back from Sissy’s on the train now, like she did every Tuesday and Thursday. And often at weekends too.

Rachel stared at the application. The teabags were under it anyway …

She picked up the sheets.

When the kettle finished its furious boil she poured her tea and rummaged in her bag for the thriller she’d been devouring. There were only around fifty pages left and she was pretty sure she knew who’d done it.

Her glance bounced between the book and the application.

She should read her book and drink her tea.

But she did know who’d done it.

Her eyes wandered to the Bake Off questions.

How long has the applicant been baking?

That was easy. Sarah was already great by the time she moved into the old flat. It was her promise of home-made scones that won her Catherine’s vote when they first met.

Her mum had taught her to bake when she was little (the next question). Every year when she got tipsy on her birthday she told them how she’d baked her own Victoria sponge when she turned six. Every year they pretended this was new information.

Glancing again at the doorway, Rachel’s hand found a pen. It seemed to have a mind of its own.

I started baking my own cakes at six, she wrote.

Next question: What did she personally get from baking?

Sarah never really talked about it but it seemed to make her really happy. She usually sang when she baked, and filled the whole kitchen with a homeliness as she worked through her recipes. Rachel said as much on the form, but skipped the part about the singing in case that might be distracting on set.

Next were a load of questions about skills and knowledge. She had to guess at those. Sarah seemed to know how to bake everything, so Rachel just listed the main categories from one of her cookbooks as examples. The judges probably wanted a broad idea anyway.

When she got to the questions about hobbies and ambitions, it started sounding a lot like a dating profile. I like long chocolate eclairs on the beach, enjoying sunset cheesecakes, and I live life to the fullest-fat cream. The questions were handy though, given the conversation she’d have with Sarah when she got in. Two birds, one stone.

She let out a little yelp when the front door opened upstairs.

‘Anybody home yet?’ Sarah called from the living room.

She shoved the application back in the drawer. Somehow it seemed less sneaky to keep it there in relatively plain sight.

‘Been home long?’ Sarah said, throwing her bag on the table. ‘Whatcha doing?’

‘Just finishing my book. I got home a few minutes ago. Have you eaten?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Let’s order from the Noodle Shop.’

She moved toward the tea drawer to get the noodle menu.

‘Let me do it!’ Rachel cried, launching herself at the drawer to shove the application beneath the menus. ‘You’ve just walked in the door. Go change into something more comfy. You want the Thai noodles, right?’

Sarah stared at her jeans and baggy dark blue fisherman’s jumper. ‘Catherine wants to get me out of my trackies and you want me in them. I wish you’d make up your minds,’ she called over her shoulder.

Rachel’s heart hammered. So much for feeling less sneaky. Still, Sarah would be grateful if she got the chance to have Paul Hollywood compliment her iced buns.

Twenty minutes later, Aziz was at their front door. His parents owned the Noodle Shop.

‘All right?’ he said, handing Rachel the steaming plastic bags.

‘Good, Aziz, thanks. You?’

Something about him looked different but Rachel couldn’t put her finger on it. Was it his hair? Yes, that was it. She could see his hair. ‘No helmet? Where’s your scooter?’

‘Got nicked yesterday,’ he mumbled, hunching further into his winter coat.

‘Oh no! Your parents aren’t making you deliver on foot?’

‘Nah, we’re not doing deliveries till we get the insurance money to replace it.’

‘Well thanks for making an exception for us.’

‘No problem, you’re our best customers. See you later.’

Poor Noodle Shop family, thought Rachel. As if the people in their neighbourhood didn’t have enough trouble making ends meet.

‘Aziz’s scooter got nicked,’ Rachel told Sarah as she unpacked their order.

‘That’s shite! It’s probably halfway to Africa by now.’

‘It didn’t run away, Sarah. It was stolen.’

‘I know. They’re selling them in Africa.’

‘Are you sure that’s not bicycles?’

‘Maybe.’ Sarah shifted her container of noodles aside to make room for her sketch pad. ‘What do you think of this? I’m pitching it at the ideas meeting tomorrow.’

Rachel pulled the pad closer.

She loved Sarah’s sketches. No wonder her cards were consistently bestsellers. Her company was very lucky to have her.

She’d done some preliminary colouring in on the pen-and-ink sketch. Two figures stood hand-in-hand beneath an arch of summer flowers.

‘What’s the theme?’ Rachel asked.

The man in the sketch was balding, with a big tummy beneath his suit.

‘It’s an Asian lady marrying an English man,’ she said, scooping up some noodles with her chopsticks.

The lithe young woman smiled adoringly at her paunchy groom.

‘Seriously?’

‘Harry’s always looking for ways to expand the wedding cards. I know everybody thinks she’s a mail-order bride but sometimes they must really be in love. Don’t they deserve a nice card too?’

Sarah was such a romantic at heart. Maybe it was the cause of her success as a wedding card designer. Or a consequence. Either way, it worked for her.

‘Well, good luck in the meeting,’ said Rachel through a mouthful of steaming noodles. ‘It is quite romantic. Speaking of which, I talked to James today. He’s joining RecycLove with me.’

Sarah peered at Rachel from beneath her blonde fringe. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay with James dating right under your nose?’

‘Womankind is welcome to him! We are absolutely just friends. So now you have to join with me,’ she continued. ‘And don’t say you’ll think about it. I know that means you won’t do it. We’ll do it together.’

Sarah sighed, closing her sketchbook. ‘Rachel, I don’t even know where to start with the profile.’

Rachel thought about the Bake Off application. ‘But I do. I’ll help you. It’s probably just some questions about your hobbies and stuff. Please say you will. All you have to do is ask Sebastian. If James said yes, then a horndog like Sebastian definitely will, just to get access to all the women. Please say you will. Please? What’s there to lose?’

Sarah ticked off on her fingers. ‘My dignity, my self-esteem, hours out of my life, just off the top of my head.’

‘At least try, Sarah. If you hate it you can always quit. Nothing ventured, nothing gained … Shall I text Catherine and tell her we’ll do it together?’

Rachel reached for her phone.

‘I’m texting. If you want me to stop, say so. No? Okay. Texting.’

Sarah squirmed, but didn’t move to stop her.

‘Texting. Texting. Sent. RecycLove, here we come.’