The Switch(67)

Arnold’s next message pops up, but I press the minus button to shrink it away again.





23


Leena


When the doorbell rings I’ve only just got out the shower; I quickly tug on some jeans and an old blue shirt of Grandma’s. It’s probably just Arnold – he pops in for a cup of tea from time to time now, and, after much frustrated insistence from me, has started coming to the front door instead of the kitchen window. My hair drips down my back as I dash down the hall, still buttoning the shirt.

When I reach the door, I discover that it is not Arnold. It’s Hank. Or rather, it’s Jackson and Hank, but Hank really demands my attention first, standing on his hind legs at the full extent of his lead, desperately trying to reach me.

‘Hello,’ I say, as Jackson pulls Hank back into a sitting position. I hurriedly finish my buttons. ‘This is a surprise!’

‘Do you want to come for a walk with me and Hank?’ Jackson says. His cheeks flush a little. ‘This is a peace offering, in case you couldn’t tell. From Hank, I mean.’

‘I … Yes!’ I say. ‘Yes, absolutely. Thank you, Hank.’ I do a weird sort of bow to the dog, then try to move on very quickly as though that didn’t happen. ‘Just let me …’ I point to my head, then, realising this might not be sufficient: ‘My hair needs sorting.’

Jackson looks at my hair. ‘Oh, right. We’ll wait.’

‘Come in,’ I tell him, as I head back inside. ‘The kettle’s still warm if you fancy a drink. Oh, does Hank want one? There are plastic bowls under the sink.’

‘Thanks,’ Jackson calls.

Drying my hair usually takes a good half an hour, so that’s clearly not an option. In front of Grandma’s living-room mirror, with Ant/Dec weaving between my ankles, I scrape it up into the bun I wear for work instead – though, Christ, this is uncomfortable on the scalp. Do I really wear it like this every day? It’s like having someone pulling my hair at all times. Never mind, it’ll have to do.

‘Did I leave my phone in there?’ I call. I’ve grown accustomed to the solid, heavy weight of Grandma’s Nokia in the back pocket of my jeans; I wonder if it’ll take me a while to get used to my iPhone again when I go back to London.

I drop my chin to finish tying the bun, and when I lift my head Jackson’s there, his face a little different in the mirror, that crooked nose bending the other way.

I turn to face him; he smiles, holding out Grandma’s phone. ‘You getting used to this old brick, then, are—’

There’s a noise somewhere between a meow and the sound that a birthing cow might make. Ant/Dec streaks by, and then, in a flash of black fur, Hank comes bounding between us, nose outstretched, the cat in his sights, his path cutting directly across in front of Jackson’s shins, so that mid step Jackson finds his left leg connecting with a fast-moving puppy and the phone in his hand goes soaring and—

Oof. He tumbles forward into my arms, or rather he would tumble into my arms, except for the fact that he probably weighs twice as much as I do. It’s more like being on the wrong side of a falling tree. The back of my head connects with the cold mirror, my back heel with the skirting board, and Jackson’s pinned me against the wall, his right arm taking the brunt of his weight, his belt buckle pushing hard into my stomach.

For the briefest moment we’re body to body, the lengths of us pressed close. My face is against his chest, turned aside so my ear can hear the thud of his heart. His arms frame me, and as he pulls back, his chest brushes my breasts. I breathe in sharply as the sensation zings. My cheeks flush; I should have worn a bra under this shirt.

Our eyes lock as he pushes off the wall, and he pauses there, arms braced on either side of me. His irises are speckled with darker flecks, and there are sandy freckles just beneath his eyes, too pale to see from far away. I find myself thinking about the muscles standing out in his arms, the way his T-shirt pulls across his broad shoulders, how it would feel to—

Hank licks my bare foot. I squeal, and the stillness between me and Jackson becomes a frenzy of awkward motion: he pushes off the wall and shoots backwards as I duck to the side and busy myself fetching Grandma’s phone. Ant/Dec seems to have escaped unscathed; Hank is wagging his way around me, tongue out, as if I might produce another cat for him to chase if he hangs around a while.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask Jackson, twisting the phone between my hands. I’ve left it an awkwardly long time to meet his eyes again – I drag my gaze to his face and find him looking slightly ashen, fixed to the spot a few feet away.

‘Aye, yes,’ he says, in a strangled voice. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘No worries! No worries at all!’ Too much exclaiming. Stop exclaiming. ‘Shall we head out?’

‘Aye. Yes. Good idea.’

We make our way out of the house and down Middling Lane. We’re both walking extremely quickly. Too quickly to talk comfortably. Perfect. Silence is just what I’m after right now.

The walking seems to be working out some of the awkward tension between us. Hank’s loving it – he’s trotting right at Jackson’s side, tail wagging. I take a deep breath of crisp, spring air as the Dales open out ahead of us. I can smell the sweetness of something blossoming in the hedgerows, hear the chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff of the little birds darting between tree branches above us. The beauty of nature. Yes. Focus on the beauty of nature, Leena, not the sensation of Jackson’s broad, muscled body rubbing against your nipples.