‘Twenty-three isn’t old.’
‘It’s a bit old to be starting again.’ Starting again, again. ‘And I’ll be getting into a massive amount of debt for a degree that probably won’t pay very well. The streets aren’t paved with gold for early childhood education graduates.’
‘That sounds like something your dad would say.’
‘Yeah, but he’s right.’
‘But you love kids, and you’re so good with them!’
‘Still, I suppose a teacher’s wage is better than that of an au pair.’ Which is pretty much all I’ve done since leaving uni, living in other people’s homes. Mostly in London, but also France for a while, and always feeling like the hired help.
‘And your dad won’t help?’
‘Nope.’ I pop the p. My dad is a very wealthy man. He’s kind but very exacting. And though I’m welcome to move home, we both know how his current wife feels about this. I really don’t want to have to deal with her and my stepsiblings. Valentina, Versace, and Chanel. Yes, really. And I don’t want to be anywhere near them when Dad invokes the prenup on wife number three. Call it more than an educated guess that things are heading this way. I’m not built for drama, so I’d prefer to stay well away.
‘He said he’d pay if I go back to finish my degree or study something sensible like business or economics. He doesn’t see a future in teaching.’
‘A bit of an oxymoron,’ she says with a shake of her head.
‘I think that’s his middle name. But I’m welcome to go home to live, apparently.’
‘Which isn’t viable.’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, it’s not perfect, but you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.’
‘Thank you, but I won’t impose more than a week or two, tops. Girl Guides honour,’ I say, holding up my fingers in a Girl Guides salute. ‘My plans are to get a job, get somewhere cheap and grotty to live, try my best not to return home, and save like mad between now and September.’
‘If nothing else, that calls for a toast.’
‘To new beginnings,’ I say, touching my glass with hers.
‘And may your next family have a father with a hot bod, not a dad bod.’
‘That’s not strictly necessary,’ I reply, laughing. ‘I’d rather have a family that’s nice.’
‘Nice with something to look at,’ she says, clinking her glass against mine again. ‘Annnd, may the next man you bed screw you really fucking well.’
‘I can drink to that,’ I say, and I do.
4
Mac
I try, when possible, to get a workout in before I start my workday. Unfortunately, this means my alarm goes off at a ridiculous hour, and it’s dark when I leave my flat for at least part of the year. Thankfully, that’s not the case today. It’s as if Sunday was a whole season ago and not just yesterday. In contrast to that cold, wet Sunday, this morning, the birds are tweeting, blossom covers the trees like candy floss, and the low sun is already cheerfully warming the air as I make my way to the car. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to matter how early I head to the gym; I’ve always got to contend with the traffic. I love London, I really do, but I hate the fucking traffic. Almost as much as I hate Rory, Fin’s new husband. Only that’s not really true. I can’t truly hate a man I don’t know. But I can envy the fuck out of him.
I park, then use my key card to enter the building. The chain of gyms I own are open twenty-four hours a day and situated in urban areas. Low-cost models with minimal staffing overheads and affordable membership fees. But this gym is a little bit different. My flagship gym. Very high end. We have the usual equipment; though all state of the art. The usual spaces; areas for exercise classes, yoga, and the like. There’s also a spa with vibes of Bali and the Far East. And luxury. A pool. A juice bar. And a well-financed clientele.
With its blond wood, mirrors, and chrome, I never fail to be warmed internally when I step through the door.
As well as the chain of gyms, I also offer a custom design of commercial gym spaces. Usually country clubs, office blocks, and hotels, but sometimes this service extends to London’s rich elite for their multi-million-pound homes. It often seems that, for each of these types of contracts, there’s a bored, rich housewife to hit on me in the process.
I bet you look impressive in your gym kit.
You look more Italian than Scot.
What does a Scotsman really wear under his kilt?
This all addressed to the vicinity of my cock.
I’m not blaming them. Not exactly. Their husbands work a hundred-hour week in the city while they spend their years running the children between school, fencing, and piano lessons, consumed by constant cycles of redecorating and personal care. Endless salon and personal training appointments. Fillers and lip pumping and all that kind of stuff. And eventually, trips to Harley Street plastic surgeons as they fight the ever-present tide of age. There seems to be a point where many of them seem to look for fulfilment elsewhere. It’s the ultimate cliché, isn’t it? Me with my rugged looks and accent—they’re all looking for their own Lady Chatterley experience, as far as I can tell. I can empathise, but as far as I’ve ever been concerned, they can keep on looking. I’ll never be the reason for someone’s marriage breakup. I’m no one’s Oliver Mellors.