Million Love Songs(8)

Finally, I splat my way towards the pool in eight tonnes of gear, fins flailing. Joe climbs in first. He doesn’t look anywhere near as ungainly as I do. He waits for me at the bottom of the steps as with much huffing and puffing I go down backwards into the water, not entirely unaware that my own derrière is descending perilously close towards his face. Joy.





Chapter Seven





Joe helps me as I flop into the water with all the grace of a baby elephant. Taking my hand, he guides me out into the pool. The water only comes up to my chest and I’m hyperventilating already. I can’t even see what the others are up to as it takes all my effort to pull my fins along.

‘The first thing we’ll do is put our masks on and sit on the bottom of the pool.’

That doesn’t sound too onerous. I can do sitting down. In fact, I’m something of an expert in it.

‘I’ll give you this sign to check that you’re doing all right.’ He makes OK with his fingers. ‘If you’re feeling good, you do the same. If you’re unhappy, thumbs down and we’ll come straight up again.’

‘OK. OK. OK.’ Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. ‘I can do this.’

‘Masks on. Breathing tube in your mouth. Just take normal, relaxed breaths. Easy does it.’

I follow Joe’s lead, trying not to think how my face must look squashed into my mask, my mouth beautifully distorted by the tube. A moment ago, Joe looked very handsome; now he looks like something out of a horror film. An underwater horror film, obvs. So there’s no way I want to see how I look in a mirror. He gives me the OK sign as I try not to spit out the tube. It feels as if I’ve got a pair of socks wedged between my tongue and my tonsils.

He takes my hand and signs that we’re going to sink beneath the surface of the water and we do so in harmony. I can hear my breathing in my ears and I know that it’s too rapid, but I’m surprised how much I can see beneath the water. This is not particularly a good thing. The swimming pool is clearly the place where all Elastoplast go to die. There’s surely more silty stuff on the bottom than can be classed as hygienic and I wonder how many little kids have weed in here. But I try not to think about that and concentrate instead on relaxing and enjoying the moment. Actually, the last bit is a step too far. I concentrate on surviving and trying not to scream.

Joe and I sit cross-legged on the bottom of the pool, still holding hands. He gives me the OK sign and I echo it back to him. I am OK. Sort of. However, he didn’t tell me the sign for ‘I’m barely coping’. We sit and sit a bit more and, eventually, my breathing returns to a more even keel. I know it’s one small step for man and all that, but it does feel like a giant step for me. It’s the first thing I’ve done in a long time that’s all my idea. I’m not doing it because some bloke enjoys it and if I want to see him at all, I need to tag along.

Despite all the weights I’m laden down with, my bum keeps bobbing up from the bottom of the pool and making a bid for the surface. Believe me, it’s surprisingly hard to sink when you need to.

Joe signals that I should try to slow my breathing and I do. He gives my hand a squeeze and I take it to mean that I’m doing all right and I get a little thrill from that. Get me, Ruby Brown, fearless scuba-diver! Joe gives me the thumbs up and my bum touches the floor of the pool once more. He puts his fins on top of mine and we sit perfectly still for a few more moments. As I finally start to relax, he gives me the sign that we’re going to the surface and I feel surprisingly disappointed that it’s all over.

We come up together and Joe helps me to take my mask off. ‘You did well, Ruby.’

‘That was completely brilliant.’ Well, I wasn’t quite so keen on it when I was down there, but once it’s stopped, I want to do it all over again. Immediately! I have a rush of something – blood, adrenalin, testosterone – that makes me feel more buzzy than I have in a long time.

Joe laughs. ‘Good. Think you’ll come back next week?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Excellent. I’ve never lost a student yet.’ He shrugs out of his gear and then helps me with mine. For a moment, Joe looks hesitant and then he says, ‘We normally go to the pub afterwards. Just a few of the lads. If you fancy joining us.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘Great,’ he says. ‘I’ll wait for you in reception.’

So I hurry off back to the changing rooms, run round the shower, letting the warm water dispel my goosebumps. I use a lot of shower gel in the hope that I don’t still smell of chlorine. I give myself a quick rub round with a towel and blast the hairdryer over my sodden locks so that I don’t drip in the pub. Not sure I can count it as a hairdo, but I can’t really keep Joe waiting for too long while I style it properly.

Still carrying a faint whiff of Eau de Bleach, I hurry into reception.





Chapter Eight





Despite my attempt at speed changing, Joe is, indeed, already standing there. He’s reading notices on the board in the manner of someone who’s pretending to be busy and isn’t really. He spins round when I say, ‘Here I am.’

For a brief moment, the sight of him takes my breath away. He’s dressed in a black hoodie over a white tee and jeans and, for some reason, he looks a lot more handsome than he did in the pool. Could be that his face isn’t squashed out of shape by a mask. Just guessing. Or perhaps I was too traumatised by my impending ordeal to take a proper look. Well, now I’m getting an eyeful and very pleasant it is too. He has dark hair, almost black, curly and long into the nape of his neck and there’s a shadow of dark hair along his strong jawline as is the fashion. I think he’s probably a couple years older than me. I’d make a stab at forty-two or three. He’s got a strong, vibrant face, though his eyes seem tired if you look closely.