‘So,’ he says. ‘How are you finding it working here?’
I shrug. ‘I like it. It’s very different to what I was doing before.’
‘Which was?’
Even if he read my CV, he’s clearly forgotten. It was Jay, our manager, who took me on. ‘I was in finance. At the local council.’
Mason nods sagely. ‘Is that as interminably dull as it sounds?’
‘Yes,’ I admit.
He gives a guffaw and, call me stupid, but it makes me glow to think that I’ve made him laugh.
‘I only watched you in action for a few minutes,’ he says, ‘but I liked what I saw. You’re a natural.’
‘Thanks.’ My cheeks burn and I’m glad that the lights in the bar are turned down low.
‘Why the sudden change of course?’
‘Oh, you know.’ I’m a bit reluctant to reveal my mid-life meltdown, my divorce, my lack of direction. ‘New year, new me. All that. Thought it was time for a change.’
‘Well, I’m glad that you ended up here in the Butcher’s Arms.’ He makes it sound terribly salacious. Is he flirting with me?
‘I can’t think of a better place,’ I bat back.
Mason checks his watch and swigs back his coffee. ‘I’d better be making tracks or I’ll be in trouble.’
A very large part of me thinks that someone like Mason Soames is probably in trouble quite a lot. And likes it that way.
‘Sure you won’t change your mind?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘I’m going to be around much more from now,’ he says as he stands. ‘I want to develop the business here. We could do so much more. We’ll have time to get to know each other better.’
There it is again.
‘I’ve got to grab my bag and my jacket from the staffroom.’
‘I’ll wait,’ he says. ‘We can lock up together. I’ll get the lights.’
So I go through to the back of the pub and gather my belongings, such as they are. Back in the bar, Mason has turned off the lights and is standing waiting for me in the darkness. I tell you for real, his bloody eyes are still twinkling.
‘Ready?’
I nod. Which is stupid because he probably can’t see me clearly at all.
As I pass, he rests his hand gently on the back of my waist and steers me towards the door which he holds open. Outside, the night air is cold, the moon full and bright. Mason walks me to my car and I try not to fumble with my keys as I open the door.
‘Enjoy your party,’ I say.
‘I’d rather be going home to bed,’ he replies and, again, it’s ridiculously loaded. He winks at me. ‘Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’
In a moment, he’s back in his own car and roaring out of the car park. I sigh. I know which of the residents will come in and complain about that tomorrow.
I sit in my own less sleek and less shiny Mazda, gripping the wheel, waiting for the rapid beating of my heart to slow down. He was cute, I think. Young and cocky, but also cute. I feel myself smirk into the darkness.
This is bad, Ruby Brown. Very bad.
Chapter Six
I’m not on the same shift as Charlie the next day. Which is a good thing, I think. I’d have to confess to her that my thoughts about Shagger Soames aren’t exactly in keeping with her own. He seemed nice. Too smooth, I’ll give you that. Though he was much more charming and entertaining than I’d imagined him to be. Flirty even. But then Charlie said he flirts with anyone with a pulse. It wouldn’t do to tell my friend that I was actually quite taken with him.
In keeping with my recently divorced status, I told you that I’d rashly booked a course of scuba-diving lessons – which, of course, I am now slightly regretting. Actually, very much regretting. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. I’ve paid up now and won’t get a refund if I bottle it, so I might as well give it a go. I could have gone for a Discover Scuba-Diving taster evening – that would have been the sensible thing to do. Right? Try it out, see if I like it. But no, fool that I am, I signed up for a full-on PADI Open Water Diver Course. Why did I do that? Because I was feeling reckless and independent and wanted to show the world that just because my man had left nice loyal me for a total slapper, I wasn’t through with life. Great plan! Though I’m currently wondering why I didn’t prove that I am a rock chick by joining the local knit-and-natter club or booking Indian cookery lessons.
My first session with the Wolverton Sub-Aqua School is tonight after I’ve finished work and anxiety is gnawing at my stomach already. Lunch and afternoon service goes without a hitch. No breakages, no complaints, no hissy fits from the chef. Fabulous. I’m out of the Butcher’s Arms on time and head straight to the leisure centre, bag ready and waiting on the passenger seat. Organised or what?
At the swimming pool, I get changed in the cramped and slightly chilly cubicle, realising that it’s several years since a swimsuit has graced my body. This is an ancient thing found in the very dark recesses of my wardrobe and it’s a miracle that it even still fits me. Reluctantly, I emerge in public, thinking that burkinis are, in fact, the most excellent thing ever invented. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and whilst my swimsuit might fit, just about, the Lycra is stretched to the limit and is struggling to contain the more comely of my curves. This is borderline obscene. I try to cover as much as I possibly can with my cheery towel and, worrying about whether I’m going to take some other scuba-diver’s eye out with my puppies, I head off to meet my fate.
The pool area is brightly lit to an intimidating level. I feel as if a spotlight is following my every move and my stomach is a churning mass of regret and terror. I rue ever signing up for this and I’m terrified of going underwater. Surely they won’t make you do that on your first lesson? Perhaps we’ll just have a little paddle about in the shallow end while discussing the finer points of scuba-diving. That would suit me. While my mind is urging me to get dressed again and make a run for it, I take a shower and tiptoe my way through the hideous water bath – which, far from making me feel cleansed, always remind me that there are veruccas lurking everywhere – and on to the side of the pool. I’d forgotten what chlorine smells like too. It hits me like a wall and starts me off sneezing.
At the far end of the pool, there’s a group of men huddled together and no one else in sight, so I’m guessing that these are my fellow novice divers. No other women. Just blokes. That either makes me a rufty-tufty go-getter or an idiot. The only comforting thing is that the majority of the blokes look worse in their swimmers than I do. Secretly, I was hoping they might be all off-duty lifeguards or firemen, all pumped and ripped – but no. These are the male diving equivalent of the Lycra-clad, middle-aged ladies at Zumba.
All except one and he steps forward. ‘Hi. Welcome.’ This man is tall, handsome, broad in the shoulder and lean in the waist. There is a six-pack very much in evidence and he wears his swimmers rather more pleasingly than the rest. He holds out a hand and I shake it. ‘I’m Joe Edwards. I’ll be running the session this evening.’
‘Hi. Ruby Brown.’ I remember to give his hand back.
‘Good timing. We’re just about to get started.’
Which I read as Cutting it fine there, love. I pull my towel a little bit tighter around me.
Without further preamble, Joe takes us through the equipment we’re going to use, his voice echoing the way voices do in swimming pools. There seems to be an awful lot of stuff we need and I learn that those massive flipper things that you put on your feet are actually called fins by those in the know. Who knew? He gives us a run-through of some safety basics and then, before I’m quite ready for it, he says, ‘We’ve got some really experienced guys here to help you, so let’s get into the water and we can show you some more.’
Water? So soon? I thought it might be lesson two or maybe even three before the dreaded water would be introduced into the mix.
While everyone else picks up their equipment and partners up, Joe sees me dithering and comes over. ‘OK?’
/>
‘Just nervous.’ I try to stop my teeth chattering.
‘Your first go at diving?’
I nod.
‘It’s easy. You’ve just got to be methodical, safety-conscious and stay chilled. I’ll buddy up with you for this lesson. You’ll be fine.’
Hmm. I think I’ll be the judge of that. Though the idea of buddying up with Joe does have a certain appeal. He gets my equipment while I stand there like a wet fish. Joe patiently explains what it’s all for, one more time, while he loads me up but I’m not sure that I take any of it in as terror has turned most of the information he’s imparting to gibberish. First the fins go on and then a weight belt which weighs a ton and makes me wonder how I’ll manage to move at all. Then I’m kitted out with air tanks which weigh even more and I’m feeling like a beached whale rather than the vision I previously held of sporty sleekness cutting a dash through the water. I tell you, I’m going to drown, not scuba-dive.
‘This is the glamourous bit.’ Joe raises an eyebrow. ‘Now you need to spit into your face mask and smear it around.’
‘Seriously?’ I’m sure I gag a bit. When I was a child, my mum used to spit on a tissue and rub it round my face to clean it – didn’t all mothers? Totally gross. I don’t think I’ve ever recovered from the trauma. Thank goodness some bright soul invented Wet Wipes.
‘You’ll thank me for it later when your mask doesn’t steam up.’
‘There’s no other way?’
He shakes his head. Someone ought to patent a waterproof mask gel or something for moments such as this. I compromise and lick my finger then rub it, reluctantly, round the inside of my mask. Joe laughs.
‘Wait until we do a cold open water dive and you need to wee inside your wetsuit to keep warm.’
That day is never going to happen, I can tell you now. If I’d known that scuba-diving involved being bathed in your own urine, I’d never have signed up. More than ever, I am finding the thought of extreme crocheting or a bit of macramé more and more appealing. However, I’m here now, so what else can I do other than subject myself to it?
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.
‘The others have gone on ahead,’ he says. ‘It’s just us two.’
‘I had to do my hair,’ I offer apologetically. It must be so much easier to be a scuba-diver if you’re a baldy.
‘No worries. The pub’s only round the corner.’ Joe holds the door open for me and we head out into the cool evening, falling into step side by side. There’s hardly anyone around as we walk up the side street towards the main road in Wolverton. A few lads hanging around by the school look as guilty as hell as we pass and there’s the heady whiff of cannabis coming from their general vicinity. I’m wondering whether I should have left my car parked by the leisure centre or whether I should have driven to the pub. I hope Joe walks me back.
As if I haven’t got enough to worry about, I’m fretting about catching pneumonia or pleurisy by going out with damp hair – the things that your mother tells you leave scars for life – when Joe says, ‘You did well tonight. You were nice and calm. Not everyone does so well on their first session.’
I get a rush of pride. ‘Thanks.’ We make our way along the street of slightly downtrodden terraced houses before turning onto the main road. It’s dusk now and the street lights are flickering into life.
‘Have you always wanted to have a go at diving?’
‘No,’ I admit. ‘It was recently added to my To Do List. I’m currently embracing the whole post-divorce, independence, new-me thing.’
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I can empathise. I’ve also found myself recently single and staring at divorce papers.’
‘Me too.’ Even as I say it, a secret evil part of me is glad to hear that he’s not happily married. He kind of looks as if he would be. That doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s on the market, of course. ‘Sucks, doesn’t it?’