A Quiet Kind of Thunder(25)

[rhysespieces has logged off]

I wait for five more minutes before Tem reappears at the end of the road. When she reaches me she is panting and contrite.

‘Sorry,’ she says.

‘Sorry yourself,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the breathing time.’

She grins. ‘Everything I do, I do it for you.’

‘I just had a weird conversation with Rhys.’

Her eyes widen. ‘Oh my God. Show me.’

‘I can’t, it was on jackbytes. It doesn’t save the conversations.’

‘Well, that’s a bit bloody useless. What’s the point if you can’t reread the conversations afterwards? Tell me, then. We can walk back, if you want.’

We meander back towards my house and I recount what Rhys said as best I can. She listens, a grin broadening on her face. When I tell her how he went back to playing video games with Alfie, she outright laughs.

‘Stef, you know he’s in love with you, right?’

I flush. ‘No he isn’t.’

‘Oh my God, he clearly is. He wanted you to say that you were madly in love with someone, and that someone was him.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense. Why would I say you were talking about a guy if I really meant me?’

‘Because people are weird.’

‘Oh great. That helps. And people wonder why I get anxious about talking to people? Why can’t people just say what they mean?’

‘Because people are weird,’ she says again.

‘But he has a girlfriend,’ I add. My throat is getting tight with a confused sort of panic. ‘How can he be in love with me if he has a girlfriend?’

Tem looks at me, a slight frown on her face. ‘You don’t actually know if he has a girlfriend or not, right? That’s all in your head. Remember?’

‘I’m pretty sure he does.’

‘Based on what? The fact that he had a girl in his Facebook picture a few weeks ago? God, Steffi. I thought you were smart.’

‘I . . .’ I’m suddenly so confused I don’t know what to say. ‘I’m sure he does. He . . .’ What am I basing it on? ‘He must have.’

‘Incorrect. Besides!’ Tem continues triumphantly – she is clearly enjoying this – ‘He could have a girlfriend and be in love with you. That’s totally possible. More than possible. It’s probable. You are Steffi Brons, complete knockout.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ I say, shoving her.

‘You could be a knockout if you stopped hiding.’

‘Tem,’ I almost whimper, completely pathetically, and she stops walking, turning to face me.

‘Steffi,’ she says, very seriously. ‘It is my duty as your best friend to explain these things to you. One: this Rhys guy clearly likes you a lot, whether that’s with or without an existing girlfriend. And two: he has good taste, because you’re awesome. You can be a knockout without being some kind of supernaturally beautiful extrovert, you know.’

‘I don’t think you can,’ I say. ‘That’s what “knockout” means. Like, you knock them out with how gorgeous and cool you are.’

‘Oh, spare me.’ She rolls her eyes again. ‘I think you’re a knockout, in a special Steffi kind of way. And I bet that’s what he sees too. Can I meet him? I like him already.’

I try to imagine Tem and Rhys meeting. Him, cool and calm and sweet. Her, bubbling over with warmth and fire. There’s no question over whether they’ll get along, because they’re both the kind of people who get along with everyone. I’m the awkward one: the mutual, the hanger-on. I’ve never had people to introduce before.

‘Do you really think he likes me?’

‘Yes.’ Tem cocks her head, Rita-style, and gives me one of her piercing looks. Her black curls are bound tightly into her running-bun, and her make-up-free face is open and gentle. ‘Do you like him?’

I open my mouth, close it, nibble on my lip. This is a far more multilayered question than it may first appear to be. It is ‘Do I like him?’ and ‘Can I admit to myself that I like him?’ and ‘Can I admit out loud that I like him?’ all in one.

‘Maybe?’ I say eventually.

Tem grins. ‘I knew it,’ she says.

On Wednesday, Rhys surprises me by turning up at the kennels during my shift. I come to reception with Ana?s – a whip-smart Frenchwoman who always looks immaculate but owns the scruffiest, dopiest terrier cross you’ve ever seen – so she can sign some forms, and there he is. Standing by the desk, holding a Labrador puppy in his arms.

‘Hi!’ I say out loud, startled into speech.

He grins at me but doesn’t reply, his arms otherwise occupied with the weight of the puppy, whose name, incidentally, is Sally.

Just a second, I sign to him, gesturing to Ana?s. I’m so flustered I mess it up and have to repeat myself. I’m suddenly very aware of my uniform – grey, long-sleeved T-shirt under green overalls. Not exactly high fashion.

‘It’s not a problem to move from three to four days a week,’ I say to Ana?s, reaching under the reception desk and pulling out the right file. I flip through it and pull out the Day Request form. ‘But it’ll be a notice period of two weeks to make the change, and an increase of ￡30 per month.’