At his words I actually spit the wine I just drank right out of my mouth and it sprays all over the table. Shit. Nicholas is shaking with laughter and Nora's laughing too, though in a slightly more hesitant manner.
“I can't believe you just said that about Fred's boobs,” she remarks, a hint of flirtation in her voice. She gives his arm a friendly slap. “You're terrible.”
“Yeah, just terrible,” I say sarcastically.
“I wish I had ones as big as yours Fred,” she continues with a pout. “Mine are like little fried eggs.”
“I happen to admire all shapes and sizes.” Nicholas gives her a dashing smile which seems to lift her spirits. God, Nora is one of the best people I know, but for some reason she can turn into a total stereotype when she's around a man she's interested in.
“What, even square and rectangular ones?” I ask. “You are a true connoisseur, my friend.”
He laughs loudly. “Triangles too, oh and octagons. I'm an equal opportunist for breasts.”
We finish up eating, and thankfully nobody mentions my chest region for the rest of the meal. Nora glances at her watch and begins rushing around, grabbing her things for work.
“I lost track of time in such good company,” she says to Nicholas, slipping on her coat. “I hope you'll visit again.”
“I'd love to,” he replies, giving her a peck on either cheek. She blushes and slips out the door.
Nicholas strides confidently toward the table and starts helping me clear away the dishes.
“You can go now you know, I've got this,” I tell him.
“I'd like to stay for a while, if that's okay with you?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Sure, if you want. But be warned, I usually go to bed pretty early, so there'll be no late night shenanigans, if that's what you're after,” I tease.
Nicholas puts his hand to his heart. “Ah you wound me, beautiful lady. I had been hoping to romance you. Late night shenanigans are not my forte.”
I ignore the “beautiful lady” bit and continue with the cleaning up. Once the dishes are washed, dried and put away we switch on the television and sit down on the couch. I slip off the flip flops I'd been wearing and tuck my feet up under my legs. Nicholas' hand slowly drifts over to me and he picks up a lock of my hair, splaying his fingers through it.
“This is some great hair Fred. It's so silky, I'd love to get it in a wig.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “I think you might have a few kinks in your armour there, Viv.”
His grin borders on devilish. Yes, devilish. “Lots of kinks, lots of quirks, my sexuality is multi-faceted.”
“Right. And wigs are your thing.” I say. “Each to their own, I guess.”
His smile is confidently secretive.
“Isn't it supposed to be chinks in your armour?” he ponders.
I snicker. “Well, that wouldn't have worked as good as kinks.”
He grins. I focus back on the TV, even though I'd much rather study his pretty face. After a minute he pokes me in the side.
“Hey, stop that,” I complain, but he keeps on doing it. Each time his touch lingers a little longer than the last. Soon he begins full on tickling me, and I laugh involuntarily. I fight back, finding his ticklish spot in his stomach, and he laughs too. I try not to think about how toned and nice his abs feel. He takes the lead in our tickle war when he climbs on top of me and holds down my wrists with one hand, while tickling my stomach with the other. I squirm beneath him, unable to take the torture.
He stares down at me and abruptly stops the tickling. His hands are still holding mine captive. A heavy tension fills the air and I suddenly realise what a compromising position we've found ourselves in. His expression turns serious. “You're very pretty, Fred,” he says, matter of factly. Then he brings his face closer and traces his lips along my ear. “I'd really like to fuck you.”
I flinch at his words. “Christ Nicholas!” This is the first time I've spoken his proper name out loud to him. He lets go of my wrists as I shoot up from the couch.
He leans back, sitting up with his legs spread apart, absolutely comfortable and at home. His lips tilt up at one side. “We're both adults here Fred. Are you really that offended by my proposition?”
I unnecessarily focus on straightening out my top. “Um, what...yes, of course. I hardly know you.”
“You've been flirting with me all night, darling,” he replies gently.
I furrow my brow, momentarily confused. “Have I? Oh my God, you're seriously mistaken. I absolutely have not. I was being friendly, joking around. Do you say you want to...to have sex with every girl who talks to you?”
In the back of my mind I know I've sort of brought all of this on myself, and I guess the way I spoke to him this evening could be mistaken for flirting, but only vaguely.
“No, not all of them,” he replies. “But I can tell we'd be very compatible in bed. What's the problem if I'm direct about it?”
I shake my head at him, my mouth hanging open in wonder. I've never met a man like this in my life.
“This coming from the guy who said he wasn't interested in late night shenanigans,” I say, trying to make the whole thing back into a joke so that I don't have to deal with my own embarrassment. I may act like a snarky bitch at times, but that's mostly a front for the scared, shy girl who's hiding behind her. Never have I had a man say words like this to me. And really, I'm ashamed, because I wish I had the confidence be the kind of girl who would simply reply, “Okay let's get it on then,” before hopping right into the sack.
He gazes at me for a long moment, before looking away and running a hand through his dark hair. “I apologise. I just thought we could keep each other company for a night. We're both lonely, it makes sense.”
I look at him and protest, “I'm not lonely.” What I really want to do is ask him, Are you lonely? I don't understand how he could be. He's handsome and confident and has everything going for him.
“You seemed lonely today, all soaked from the rain with your shopping bags in your hands.”
“I was more annoyed than lonely.”
His eyes study me. “All right, my mistake. You're not lonely Fred. I better go, I've got my first show tomorrow night to prepare for. You should come along. I already mentioned it to Nora. The club is new, it's called The Glamour Patch, it's not too far from here.”
“Oh, sure. Yeah I might come. I'd like to see you perform.” I pause and bite my lip. “By the way, you probably should have put the moves on Nora instead of me, she likes you if you hadn't noticed.”
His expression is warm. “I noticed. I'm not interested in Nora, Fred, I'm interested in you.” And with that bombshell, he leaves the apartment.
Chapter Two
Punk Rock and Cupcakes
The next morning I'm up at the crack of dawn to get my cupcakes made, business as usual. It's Friday and I'm really looking forward to the weekend when I can sleep a little later in the mornings. The first thing I do is put the oven on to pre-heat it. I'm in a Green Day Dookie sort of a mood, so I fire up “Longview” on my mp3 player and let the drums and heavy bass wake up my vacant brain and tired, puffy eyes.
Once I've gotten the cake mixture all ready, I set out the baking trays. I put the paper cake holders into the little grooves and then spoon a dollop into each one. I pop them in the oven and go about preparing the toppings. I don't make my cupcakes in the traditional fancy smancy way with an icing bag, instead I just dump on the toppings for a more rough and ready rustic appeal. People seem to like the whole lucky dip nature of it, because you could get one with lots of icing or one with just a small bit.
The smell of cake fills the apartment by the time I get around to making myself a cup of coffee.
I turn off my music and sit down by the television to flick through the stations, keeping the volume down low so as not to wake Nora. If there's one thing I've learned about that girl after having lived with her for three years, it's that you do not mess with her sleeping patte
rn. People who work at night are quite cranky about getting their shut eye. My mum once worked the graveyard shift in a twenty-four hour supermarket, and I tell you the woman was like a monster if you woke her before her time.
It's just after seven forty-five when I get myself dressed and load the finished cupcakes into their boxes. I keep my bike out in the small storage garage at the back of the apartments. Once the cakes are secured firmly in the back carriage, I hop on and make my way over to The Cake Shop, which is located smack dab in the centre of O'Connell Street.
My favourite thing about early morning cycling is the fresh air. Well, it's as fresh as you're going to get in the city. Out on the road I zoom down Aungier Street, past George's Street, and turn right onto Dame Street. I fly by the morning traffic and people dressed in suits and office wear as they scurry like ants through College Green to their various destinations. My music blasts through my earphones, the sound track to my life at this moment in time being Green Day's “When I Come Around”. I take a left turn off College Green onto Westmoreland Street and head over the O'Connell bridge to O'Connell Street. That's my morning cycle in a nut shell.
Pulling up outside of The Cake Shop, I secure my bike with a chain lock before removing the cupcake boxes and heaving them inside. I have to make two trips to get them all in. There are a good few members of staff about, but I'm not real familiar with a lot of them. The place is full with the breakfast crowd, having their morning coffees and pastries.
I don't have to get here before the place opens at eight, as the manager Patrick (a friend of mine from my Culinary Arts college course) told me that cupcakes are more of a mid-morning/lunch time sort of item. So eight-thirty is my delivery time. Early morning customers go for fancy little French numbers, like croissants, fruit danishes and brioche. A nugget of bakery wisdom for you there.
Having Patrick as a connection is actually how I got the job here. It's a bit of an unconventional set up, but I abide by all of the health and safety standards, even though I work from home. Anyway, with a Culinary Arts degree I'm well over qualified for the work I do. I just don't possess the nerves of steel it takes to work in a professional kitchen.
“Fred!” Anny shouts energetically in greeting as I step in the door. She's one of the workers I am familiar with and a real nice girl, for the most part. She comes on nights out with me and Nora the odd time. Although, between you and me she might have a bit of a penchant for drinking too much and having thrilling one night stands with men she's never met before.
She's one of those people who are fun to drink with, but you wouldn't really want her as an everyday friend, as she's sort of hyper and will talk your ear off given half the chance. Remembering Nicholas' gig tonight, I decide that she might be interested in coming along.
“You up for going out tonight?” I ask her, as I snap on some plastic gloves and put the cupcakes into their display cases at the front of the shop.
“Great minds think alike, I was just going to ask you the same thing,” she exclaims. “What did you have in mind?”
“Our next door neighbour is putting on a show at some club, he asked us to come see it,” I tell her, finishing up with the cakes and stacking the empty boxes to bring them back out with me.
“Sounds like a plan,” she agrees. “I'll pop 'round your place at about eight or so. We can have a few drinks first. Wet the old whistles,” she elbows me in the side, with a very nudge, nudge, wink, wink tone to her voice.
God. She's the only one who'll be getting up to any nudge, nudge, wink, winking. I never go home with people, and Nora does only very rarely. If you didn't know us well you'd probably think we were wizened old shrews. I like to think of it as being selective, as in selecting no one. In some ways I haven't outgrown the age of sixteen, when you're too insecure and nervous to take up the advances of prospective “suitors”, as my granny would have called them.
At this, somebody creeps up behind me and pinches me on the bottom. Without even turning around I know who it is.
“Harry, I'd recognise the pinch of those chubby little fingers anywhere. In for your usual breakfast is it? Six cream donuts and an extra large mocha frappuccino?”
Harry comes to stand beside me and Anny, hands on hips. He works as a teller in the bank down the street and tends to come in here for his morning coffees. “Nope, sure you've probably eaten them all,” he remarks. “I'm on a diet, so I'll just have two custard danishes and a chocolate croissant to go. Oh and a small frappuchino.”
He's joking, obviously. We like to tease each other about being big fat pigs, though neither one of us is obese. We're more what you would call “cushioned”, in the sort of way that shows we enjoy the finer things in life.
“I was just saying to Anny that me and Nora are going out tonight to a gig, you want to come with us?”
Harry places an arm around my shoulder and kisses me on the cheek. “I wouldn't miss it. I'd resigned myself to a night of dinner for one and a DVD rental. A gig sounds like much more fun.”
“It will be,” I tell him. “Come to ours at eight for pre-outing drinks. I better be off, my shift at the shop starts at nine.”
“Right, see you later then,” says Harry.
“Bye,” Anny waves as I exit the crowded cake shop.
Cycling back over to George's Street where the charity shop I work in is located, some bastard in a Mercedes honks his horn at me because I block him from pulling out around a corner when he'd had the chance. I go one-handed on the bike and give him the classic middle finger. I can't see his face properly through the glass of the car window, but I like to imagine his expression would have shown him to be appropriately shamed. Sheepish, even. Although it's more likely that he got angrier and made some similar gesture back at me. An Italian style chin flick perhaps.
I situate my bike outside the shop and lock it up. You probably think that I'm one of those women who give their bike a name, like Bertha or Betty. Well I most certainly am not. I find that sort of carry on highly irritating. Not to mention annoyingly self-important. Oh look at me, I'm so wonderful that I have to give every item in my life a human attribute. A girl I went to school with did that with her shoes, each pair had a different name. She called her comfortable flats her Marys and her sex kitten high heels her Tatianas. I told her that her Tatianas sounded like an Eastern European prostitute. She didn't talk to me again after that.
Inside the shop my co-worker Theresa is sorting through some of the new donation bags. Because all of the proceeds go to charity, we get people giving us bags of old clothes and such that they don't want anymore. Oh and by the way, I'm not a volunteer. I do get paid for working here, just a little over minimum wage, which isn't so great, but at least it's a job.
The shop is an outlet for one of the big charities, I won't mention the name. I wouldn't say it in front of Theresa if asked, but my personal opinion is that most large charitable organisations are fronts for evil money making administrators and hot shot CEOs. You'd be astounded by how small a percentage of the money donated actually goes to those starving African babies. I suppose you could call me a sell out, because even though I know all this I still continue to work for the place. What can I say, I have to pay my rent.
Theresa's been working here for almost a decade. Unlike me, she's innocent enough to believe that her work is contributing towards the greater good. She's in her sixties and has that whole kind of hippy floaty look going on, with her long skirts and grey hair in a plait down her back. She's a lovely woman and we get along, although I think the generational gap means that we misunderstand each other at times.
Like when she asks me about what I did over the weekend and I tell her about my antics with Nora and Harry and how we drank a whole bottle of tequila together, she'd draw the wrong conclusion and think I was trying to tell her I have a drinking problem. She comes from a very upper middle class background and doesn't get the whole casual abuse of alcohol that the “young people” get up to these days.
“So, w
hat treasures have there been bestowed upon us this time, Tessy?” I ask her, shoving my coat behind the counter and going to sit down beside her. I always love looking through the donation bags. However it's a good thing I'm not squeamish, because there can often be some questionable looking stains on the clothing. And sometimes they're quite – fresh.
“Morning Freda. Oh the usual, old clothes, some books, children's toys,” Theresa responds. She has a problem with calling me Fred. She doesn't understand why I'd want to go by the name of some middle aged van driver when I could go by a pretty name like Freda. I told her I like to be economical with syllables. Another example of me saying something to her, and she not getting it in the slightest.
I pull out various items and fold them neatly into a pile. “Wow, take a look at this bad boy,” I say, showing her an extra large man's Hawaiian shirt. The bright colours hurt my eyes. “I don't think I've ever actually seen one of these in the flesh before.”
Theresa eyes me with a wan smile, her head tilted to the side. “You're a bit of an odd duck, aren't you Freda,” she says, her glasses hanging too low on her nose.
“Quack,” I reply, deadpan.
We spend the next hour taking inventory, while intermittently serving customers at the register. I work here part time, Wednesday to Friday from nine to one o'clock.
At around twelve forty-five the shop door swings open and in walks Nicholas, wearing aviator sunglasses, a crisp navy shirt and dark designer looking pants. He casually strolls over to the cash register, slipping the glasses up to rest on his messy black hair.
He puts his hands out, gesturing around the shop. “Look at this place, so vintage, so cute,” he says.
“Theresa, I'd like you to meet my new friendly stalker. His name is Vivica,” I joke.
Theresa's standing over by the bookshelves, adding some new items to the display. She smiles vaguely and waves hello to Nicholas, although she looks slightly confused. “That's nice,” she says and turns back to the books.