Denied (One Night 2)

‘Because I rock that bingo hall.’ She winks, smiling a little, and I mentally plead for her not to hit me with another pep talk. My plea goes ignored. ‘I spent years mourning your grandfather’s death, Olivia.’ Her words stun me a little, the mention of my grandfather the last thing I expected. My stirring slows. ‘I lost my lifetime partner and I cried oceans.’ She’s trying to put things into perspective, and it’s in this moment I wonder if she thinks I’m pathetic for being so blue over a man I’ve known so briefly. ‘I didn’t think I would ever feel human again.’

‘I remember,’ I say quietly. And I remember how I came close to multiplying Nan’s grief. She wasn’t even over my mother’s disappearance before she was cruelly faced with the premature death of her beloved Jim.

‘But it did happen.’ She nods reassuringly. ‘It doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’ll see that life can go on.’ She’s up the hallway now, while I’m considering her words, feeling a little guilty for mourning something I barely had and even guiltier that she’s comparing it to the loss of her husband in an attempt to make me feel better.

I slip deep into thought, running over encounter after encounter, kiss after kiss, word after word. My washed-out mind seems hell-bent on torturing me, but it’s my own stupid fault. I asked for it. Hopelessness has taken on a new meaning.

The chime of my mobile makes me jump back in my chair, bringing me out of my daydream, where all of the misery is real again. I don’t particularly want contact with anyone, least of all the man responsible for my heartache, so when I see his name appear, I quickly drop my spoon into my bowl and stare blankly at the screen. My heart is sprinting. I’ve clammed up with panic, and I’m far back in my chair, putting as much distance between me and the phone as possible. I can’t move further away because every useless muscle in my body is on shutdown. Nothing is working, except my damn memory, and it’s torturing me some more, making me speed through every moment that I’ve spent with Miller Hart. My eyes begin to pool with tears of despair. It’s not wise to open this message. Of course it’s not wise to open this message. I’m not being very wise at the moment, though. Haven’t been since I met Miller Hart.

I swipe up my phone and open the text.

How are you? Miller Hart x

I frown at the screen and reread the message, wondering if he thinks that I may have forgotten him already. Miller Hart? How am I? How does he think I am? Dancing on the ceiling because I got myself a few rounds of Miller Hart, London’s most notorious male escort, for free? No, not for free. Far from free. My time and experiences with that man are going to cost me dearly. I’ve not even begun to come to terms with what’s happened. My mind is a knot of questions, all jumbled up, but I need to unravel it all and get it in order before I try to make any sense of this. Just the fact that the only man I’ve ever shared my whole self with is suddenly gone is hard enough to deal with. Trying to fathom why and how is a chore my emotions refuse to bear on top of my loss.

How am I? ‘A f**king mess!’ I yell at my phone, stabbing at the delete button repeatedly until my thumb gets sore. In an act of pure anger, I throw my phone across the kitchen, not even wincing at the crash as it smashes to smithereens against the tiled wall. I’m heaving violently in my chair, barely hearing the rushed clumping of footsteps down the stairs over my angry gasps.

‘What on earth?’ Nan’s shocked tone creeps over my shoulders, but I don’t turn to see the stunned look that’ll most certainly be plaguing her old face. ‘Olivia?’

I stand abruptly, sending my chair flying back, the screeching of wood on wood echoing around our old kitchen. ‘I’m going out.’ I don’t look at my grandmother as I escape, making my way quickly down the hall and viciously snatching my jacket and satchel from the coat stand.

‘Olivia!’

Her footsteps are pounding after me as I swing the front door open and nearly take George off his feet. ‘Morn— Oh!’ He watches me barrel past, and I just catch a glimpse of his jolly face drifting into shock before I break into a sprint down the pathway.

I know I look out of place as I stand near the gym entrance, clearly hesitant and a little overwhelmed. All the machines look like spaceships, hundreds of buttons or levers on each one, and I haven’t the first idea how to operate them. My one-hour induction last week did a great job of distracting me, but the information and instructions fell straight from my memory the second I left the exclusive fitness centre. I scan the area, fiddling with my ring, seeing masses of men and women pounding the treadmills, going hell for leather on the bikes and pumping weights on huge lifting devices. They all look like they know exactly what they’re doing.

In an attempt to blend in, I make my way over to the water machine and gulp down a cup of icy water. I’m wasting time being hesitant when I could be releasing some stress and anger. I spot a punchbag hanging in the far corner with no one within thirty feet of it, so I decide to give it a try. There are no buttons or levers on that.

Wandering over, I help myself to the boxing gloves hanging on the wall nearby. I shove my hands in, trying to look like a pro, like I come here every morning and start my day with an hour of sweating. After securing the Velcro, I give the bag a little poke. I’m surprised at how heavy it is. My feeble hit has barely moved it. I draw back my arm and poke harder, frowning when all I get is a little sway of the giant bag. Deciding it must be full of rocks, I inject some power into my weak arm and throw some effort into my next hit. I grunt, too, and the bag shifts significantly this time, moving away from me and seeming to pause in mid-air before it’s on its way back towards me. Fast. I panic and quickly pull back my fist, then extend my arm to prevent being knocked to the ground. Shock waves fly up my arm when my glove connects with the bag, but it’s moving away from me again. I smile and spread my legs a little, bracing myself for its return, then smack it hard again, sending it sailing away from me.