‘And working out?’ There I go again with the blurting. He laughs a little, thank God, and looks down at his chest, dark strands of hair falling forwards and, I swear I’m not making this up, I amsurehe flexes his pecs – not for my benefit, it’s like he’s just checking they’re there – and he’s looking all shy and kind of pink under his summer tan. When our eyes meet next we both stifle laughs and my cheeks burn a little.
We’re saved from further nerdery by the distraction of a scratching sound at the pub door and a solemn little woof. We watch as Bella places a bowl of something on the floor by the bar and then opens the door.
‘Aldous!’ Elliot cries, as the raggedy mutt pads inside and tucks into what has to be his favourite treat: chicken soup.
Bella doesn’t try to pet him, she just carries on with her job, and nobody in the bar pays the dog any attention – except for the bewildered tourists who don’t look too pleased to share a meal with the Littlest Hobo. When he’s finished noisily sloshing the broth onto the floorboards – I’d estimate only half of it ended up inside the dog; it can’t be easy drinking soup with only eight teeth – he turns for the door and waits sullenly for Elliot to spring up and let him out onto the harbour again.
This place, I tell you, it’s certainly got character.
‘It’s OK, you can go first,’ I say, squirming.
We’ve met at the bathroom door. I’m clutching my jammies and my toothbrush to my chest and feeling ridiculous.
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll take the mattress downstairs now. Is it OK if I go in your room to get it?’ Elliot hikes a thumb at the bedroom door.
‘Sure, knock yourself out.’
Once I’m safely inside the bathroom, I freeze, listening to him grunting and breathing as he drags a single bed mattress down a spiral staircase. He’s swearing under his breath but if anybody’s built for heavy lifting, it’s Elliot. I’d offer to help but I’d be useless and I’d get in the way. I hear him shout, ‘Holy shit!’ followed by a bit of clattering and bumping, letting me know the mattress has reached the bottom of the stairs with or without Elliot.
It’s not like I’m in the wrong for asking him to sleep down there. Where else could he go? And I was here first, remember? He’s still the interloper. Even if he was helpful today running the café and everything. This definitely wasn’t how my trip was meant to shape up, and I’ve still got major reservations about all this.
On the way back Up-along after dinner (no dessert; we split the bill fifty/fifty with a tip – Elliot did the maths, thankfully), I broached the subject of how we’ll handle this bookstore rental, and between us we laid out some ground rules. It went like this.
‘First off, we can’t keep eating out together. I definitely can’t afford it,’ I told him. ‘We need to get some groceries and we can look after our own meals, OK?’
‘Like being in student digs again? Will you label your beans can and marker-pen a line on your milk bottle, make sure I’m not stealing it?’
Elliot had laughed, but it’s all right for him. He clearly has money, or at least he comes from a family with money. I’ve got next to nothing in my bank account and need to freewheel until I can get back to Marygreen and find a job.
‘I’m just saying… we don’t need to eat together at night. You can do your own thing.’ It came out sounding meaner than I’d intended.
‘Got it,’ he said with a nod. ‘While we’re making rules, I’ve got one.’
‘OK?’
‘Let me handle any phone calls that come in.’
‘Uh, all right. Why?’
He was silent for a moment, looking down at his feet on the cobbles as we climbed. ‘I’d just prefer it that way. OK?’
‘Is this about the money?’
‘Huh?’
‘You think because I can’t count, I can’t talk to customers?’
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m just saying, let me handle the calls, please.’
‘Fine, whatever,’ I relented.
‘You,uh… you can’t count?’
‘Tsk, no. Everybody can count.’
