Kev nods. “Bless.”
“I have a mortgage.”
“Do you?”
“No, but I could.”
Mish makes a small sound into her clipboard. Pippa, standing beside the breathing apparatus set, does not join in. She checks the straps instead, her face composed, her mouth almost too composed, which tells me she is enjoying this privately and intends to be professional about it.
Dan takes a sip of coffee. “Do we need a consent form from his mum?”
“I’m not a baby.”
“No,” Mish says, kind enough to sound as if she means it. “Not a baby.”
“Thank you.”
“A toddler, maybe.”
Kev laughs.
I close my eyes briefly. “I am beginning to feel this workplace may not be psychologically safe.”
Pippa lifts the BA set. “You’ll survive.”
“Is that your official assessment?”
“For now.”
There is a dangerous amount of amusement in the room, but it does not feel cruel. Not exactly. More like I have been given a place in the morning’s entertainment because I have arrived with an article, a beard sacrifice and too much confidence. I can probably allow that.
Also, I am too tired to fight properly.
Pippa steps closer with the set. “Turn round.”
I do.
The cylinder settles against my back with enough weight to make my knees reconsider their contract. I keep my face neutral, which is easier now no one can mistake the beard for emotional support.
“Shoulders back,” Pippa says.
I obey.
She adjusts the straps, then tightens one across my chest. The movement is brisk, efficient and very hard to ignore when her fingers are close enough to brush the front of my jacket.
Not intimate.
Not even close.
The trouble is that my body has recently suffered a shaving-related identity crisis and is apparently looking for new problems.
“Too tight?” she asks.
“No.”
“Can you breathe?”
“Yes.”
