Blood Lines. Grace Monroe
that they created. If I didn’t look at it, it wasn’t there. I liked that view of the world. At least for now. I was obviously quite good at only recognising what I wanted to recognise, given that whatever I had expected when I left the office last night hadn’t involved squelchy undies and drunken sex.
Especially with him.
I’d felt so moral going in on a Saturday – it’s usually the quietest time to work, much better than Sundays when people sometimes panic and decide to get a head start on the week. Even Lavender sometimes isn’t there to give me directions on how I should spend my time. But yesterday, a combination of dull reports and accounts followed by too much rotten wine in a nameless Rose Street pub had brought about a distinct lack of continuation of my moral superiority.
Where the hell was my left shoe? I was at the stage where staying and looking would have probably been more embarrassing than leaving in my bare feet and answering lecherous questions from a taxi driver.
‘Are you looking for this?’ a voice called from the bedroom.
Shit.
No escape.
I’d have to go back and retrieve it now or have him think I was too lovestruck to face him rather than too hung over to think about it. If only I had just gone home after the office. If only I hadn’t bumped into him making his way back from a Saturday shift. If only I hadn’t said hello and noticed how bloody gorgeous he was. I hobbled my way along the hallway like Long John Silver on a bad day – although, for all his worries, I’m sure he didn’t have to deal with not taking his mascara off and being covered in stubble rash the morning after.
With one shoe off and the other dangling from his hand, I lurched towards him. Towards it. Towards my shoe. Towards Mr Jack Deans, Esquire.
I was very upset. Very, very upset. Unlike me, the bastard looked good. Even in the morning light after a very heavy session I could see why I’d finally been unable to resist. Before last night, I’d only ever seen him in his work clothes – crumpled suit, clichéd raincoat. Now, covered only by an impressively white bath towel, he looked damn fine. Just back from the South of France – research, I’m sure, not a piss-up – he was dark, handsome, and absolutely chock-full of himself. A very useful bout of food poisoning had knocked a stone off him and there wasn’t a moob in sight.
‘I bet you’re just thinking what a lucky girl you are,’ he crooned as he launched himself off the bed and walked towards me, twirling the shoe on one finger.
‘No, no … I was “just thinking” that fat looks better when it’s brown.’
‘Liar,’ he whispered into my ear, giving it a surreptitious lick for good luck.
I was back to our familiar double-act of winding each other up much quicker than he was. I took the end of my jacket and wiped the inside of my ear dry. My gesture of dismissal was wasted because Deans was already in the kitchen – with my shoe.
What had once looked a very attractive half of an LK Bennett leopard-print combo was now just pissing me off. It was a shoe, not the bloody Holy Grail, yet he was dragging it from room to room as if I was in thrall to the wonder of a well-turned heel at the cost of my pride.
The offending article was on top of the kitchen table.
‘Don’t you know that’s bad luck?’ I said, forcing my foot into the shoe. It scraped on my skin, hurting my little toe. Actually, come to think of it, they’d always nipped – I should have left the buggers whilst I had the chance.
‘Let me guess, Brodie – that’s one thing you don’t need more of?’ He wriggled his pelvis at me in a way that would have put a geriatric Chippendale to shame. ‘Aw, I don’t know – looks like your luck might have turned. Do you want sugar in your coffee?’
‘You know I don’t take sugar.’
‘With a face like yours this morning, you look as if you could do with a little sweetness.’
‘You weren’t complaining about my face last night.’
Damn. I was the first one to obviously refer to the sex thing.
‘Last night I thought I was the sugar you were needing, darling.’
‘You must have been drunker than I thought then. But definitely nowhere near as comatose as me – obviously.’
‘Frankly, Brodie, I was a bit hurt that you were going to sneak out without saying goodbye. I felt used. A piece of meat. Just a plaything for you.’
For the first time that morning I actually looked into his eyes – only to see his smile lighting them.
‘I’m in no mood for jokes, Jack. I’m pissed off, I’m late, and my shoes hurt.’
‘I can see that. Well, I can see the pissed-off bit anyway. Christ knows what you’ll be like when you get a look at your face – it’s dragging along the ground.’
I tried to ignore him, took my coffee and wandered round his tiny kitchen. I did what I could to avoid facing the fact that he was almost naked.
‘What are you up to today?’ he asked.
I hesitated to answer in case he was going to ask me out.
‘Don’t worry – you’re safe. I’m just going to bide my time and catch you when you’re lonely – again.’
‘Was I that pathetic?’
I didn’t have to turn to know that Deans was nodding his head.
‘Actually, I do have plans. I’m supposed to be seeing my grandad and my moth— and Kailash – they tell me they’re worried about me, so I need to go and calm them down.’
‘They’re not the only ones bothered,’ he commented.
I looked at him sharply. Insulting me, glorying in finally getting me into bed, I could take – but care and concern?
‘Not me.’ He looked as aghast as I felt. ‘It’s the hairy-arsed sheep-shagger you hang around with who’s all het up.’
‘Glasgow Joe?’
‘Aye, the one and only.’
‘Jack – you’re the only one I know who could consider Glasgow the heart of sheep-shagging land. It fits in so well with your impeccable journalistic credentials. Never let facts get in the way of a good insult.’
My heart started racing at the thought of how Joe would react if he knew what we’d done.
‘Whatever you want to call him, he’s the one who’s concerned.’ I sighed. One problem after another. Right now, there was one particular issue that I had to bring up with Jack.
‘Jack? Do me a favour? Don’t mention last night to Joe.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t – under usual circumstances it would be the talk of the steamie, but …’
‘But you’re rather attached to your bollocks?’
‘No, it’s not that – actually, Brodie, you won’t understand this, but I like Joe and I wouldn’t want to hurt him.’
‘Don’t give me that crap – if you really felt like that you wouldn’t have dragged me back here last night,’ I countered.
‘As I recall, Miss McLennan, it was you doing the dragging.’ He paused for effect.
Jack moved towards me at the kitchen table – I expected him to kiss me or try to do the dragging to bed this time. I don’t really know whether I felt relieved or disappointed when he only reached down for his battered briefcase which he threw on the table.
‘Like I said, Kailash and old man MacGregor aren’t the only ones who are concerned,’ he said, handing me some sheets of paper. ‘Take a look at this.’
‘You sad git, Jack. I didn’t know you were into