There’s also the question of her mother. She’s not his type, but there’s something about the warmth in Kirsten’s eyes, the dimple winking in her left cheek when she grins, and the lush curviness of her body that he finds intriguing. He was surprised by a flash of heat prickling his skin when their fingers brushed in the library after touring Albie’s cottage. She’d been handing out pieces of mouth-watering Victoria sponge cake, and the simple touch felt like foreplay. Maybe it’s just the fact she baked for him. Don’t they always say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach? Well, he has two hearts now, so maybe he’s more susceptible to temptation. He doesn’t really know the new one, which is doing most of the beating. Maybe it yearns for things he’s never dreamt of. Perhaps it has unfinished business or is pining for someone.
He shakes off the ridiculous thoughts, taking the junction into town and passing residential estates. These musings aren’t like him. Besides, love is a transaction, just like everything else, and he has no currency left to barter with. Neither does he have any intention of striking something up, and certainly not witha single mum living under the same roof. Talk about close to home. After what happened, he isn’t making the same mistakes again.
After a brief stop at the garden centre to load up with soil, pots and a new hose nozzle, he drives to the built-up area hugging the high street. Guiding the van into a space outside the bank, he wonders if he’s protesting too much when it comes to Kirsten. There’s something about her making him ache to touch, taste and smell. To bury his face between her glorious breasts and?—
The fantasy flees as he slides his debit card into the cashpoint machine and a worrying figure prefaced with a minus sign appears. He can’t withdraw even twenty pounds. Shit. He ran out of money weeks ago and is on borrowed funds until his meagre new salary hits his account. At which point, it’ll be swallowed up by the mammoth overdraft. Double shit. He needs to eat and is also out of shower gel. Gulping, he tugs his baseball cap lower and enters the soulless bank.
The carpet’s corporate grey, and posters with smiley people advertising loans and ISAs hang on the wall. If only he’d saved during the years of tournament wins and advertising deals. Instead, he overextended himself, relying on sponsors and being able to play tennis until his planned transition to sports presenter, once his body slowed down. He’d been up there with the greats, Rafael ‘Rafa’ Nadal, Tim Henman, Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer. Until he lost it all in an unpredicted catastrophe. If only his father hadn’t walked out and then died young, the truth of his genetics would’ve been known. If only… Sometimes those regrets wake him at night in a slippery sweat, teeth clenched with anger and reproach. You can’t rewind time, but it doesn’t stop him wishing.
When he reaches the counter after a lengthy wait, his jaw is tight. A sour-looking woman asks how she can help whilelooking anything but helpful. He requests an overdraft extension in a low voice. This is embarrassing enough without people hearing the conversation. If he’s recognised, he might combust with humiliation.
‘Sorry, this queue’s for banking cheques and withdrawing funds.’ She sniffs, looking down her nose before pointing to a closed door bearing aBanking Advisersign. ‘My colleague’s on a half day, but you would’ve had to book an appointment in advance anyway.’
Cheeks darkening, he mutters, ‘Generally speaking, when people need to extend an overdraft, it’s an emergency.’
Her shoulders square, eyes flicking to the person behind Harley as if in apology. ‘Call Customer Services and explain the situation. They might help.’ Pointing to the gap beneath the plexiglass. ‘If you give me your card, I’ll show you the telephone number on the back.’
‘I’m not thick,’ he bites. ‘Forget it.’ Shaking his head, he strides from the building, annoyance carrying him two whole blocks, making him blind to his surroundings. ‘What a cow,’ he mumbles. ‘One of those people who gets off on power trips and belittling others.’ He’d never behave like that. His footsteps slow.Except you did, a little voice murmurs, notherthis time, just his conscience.You know you did.He’s not ready to fully explore those thoughts yet.
Take a breath, calm down, everyone makes mistakes, her voice arrives,what’s important is how you deal with them.
He shakes off the advice. ‘Not today, please. I’ve hit a new low.’ A man walking past with a floppy-eared tri-coloured beagle gives him a funny look, making Harley realise he spoke out loud. ‘Just having a bad day,’ he tells the stranger. With a nod, the man carries on up the street, his dog pausing to sniff numerous lamp posts and shop fronts.
There are no bad days, only bad reactions,the voice insists, as he sinks onto a bench.
Oh, why fight it? She, whatever it is, whether a coping mechanism his brain has invented or a tumour or an echo of someone who once lived, has taken up permanent residence. He at least remembers to answer inside his head this time.Give it a rest. Have you swallowed a self-help book or something?
Before he can wonder if he’s offended her, she rejoins pertly,No, I’m just unusually wise.
He snort-laughs, before rolling his eyes. Slumping forward, he stares at his scuffed toe-capped boots. They’re a far cry from the Nike tennis shoes he wore on court, or the Berluti leather Oxfords he’d shown off in interviews. A pair costs more than he now earns in a month. Wincing, he takes his cap off and scrubs a hand through his inky hair. The action causes the sunlight to glint off the blue face of his Tag Heuer Carrera watch. It’s the last link to his life before Beaubrook Manor, both a status symbol because of its hefty price tag and a reminder of what he’s lost. Can he bear to give up the last vestige of his pride?
Yes, you can,she says reassuringly.Surviving is more important than pride.
He needs money and the only other way of getting it – selling his story to a tabloid paper – isn’t something he’s willing to do. He can’t bear to draw attention to himself. The idea causes a tennis-ball sized lump to lodge in his throat. ‘Fine.’ Sighing, he stands, shoves his cap in his back pocket and marches over to the nearby jewellers withItems Boughtdisplayed in the window.
Twenty minutes later, he’s in the DIY store, wallet bulging with folded notes. Gallingly, he only got a third of the original price despite haggling with the canny silver-haired shop owner, but in the end, desperation won out.
The sum will pay off half his overdraft after buying essentials, and help him scrape by until pay day. He can almost hear hisex-wife commenting,how the mighty have fallen. Grabbing a trolley, he wheels it around the aisles, loading goods in. Thank God he has the business account to buy work supplies with. Stopping at the accessories section, he spots pink polka-dot children’s gloves. Something in the region of his hearts melts a little, and with a flick of his hand a pair sail into the trolley, along with a mini trowel and spade set.
After paying, he heads to the van with two canvas bags dangling from his shoulders. Spotting a coffee shop, he enters, needing a caffeine hit. The décor is a blend of calming blues, and current chart-hits play through hidden speakers. Being somewhere public hasn’t been so bad, he thinks, ordering a take-away flat white.
‘Excuse me. Aren’t you that famous tennis player?’ A petite, blonde woman touches his arm, long eyelashes batting coyly.
‘No. Sorry.’ Bollocks, he forgot to replace his baseball cap.
‘But I saw that Graham Norton interview recorded last year. You’re that player’s spitting image, except for the beard.’ She produces an iPhone from her handbag. ‘Are you sure?—’
The edges of the room close in, and he steps back. ‘I know who I am.’ Yanking his cap on in a panic, he turns to leave. ‘And I’m not him.’
The Barista, noticing his intended exit, holds up a cup. ‘Harley, wait, your coffee’s ready.’
Bollocks again. He unthinkingly gave his real name.
‘I knew it!’ The blonde beside him squeaks. ‘Can I have a selfie, please? My friends will never believe this. Harley Bellmont! What are you doinghere?’
‘Give it to the next person in line,’ he yelps at the Barista, cutting across the woman’s excited squawking. Dipping his head, he grits out, ‘Haven’t you ever learnt to read the room? I’m not interested. You don’t own a piece of me because of what I used to do. Leave me the hell alone.’
Fleeing, he opens the door so hard the handle hits the wall, bringing an instant hush to the room. Feeling the multitude of eyes on him, he swears under his breath and spins around. Guilt washes over him as he sees the red flush creeping up the blonde’s face, andthat was harshechoes in his mind from his invisible companion. ‘I’m sorry.’ He gulps, wondering if someone will call the press, before glancing around. ‘Sorry, everyone, I’m having a bad day.’ He barks out a laugh. ‘Make that a bad year.’ The latest noticeboard message flashes through his mind. Something about paying for something for someone. Whoever’s writing them is in a generous mood. It would probably be good karma, given the scene he’s made. Taking his wallet from his pocket, he yanks out a fifty-pound note and tosses it on the counter. ‘Drinks are on me today. For as many people as possible. Enjoy.’
