“Gemma,” Izabel said as her best friend entered the yoga studio foyer. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course, what’s up?” Gemma’s perfectly platinum hair was pulled up in a high ponytail, while she looked like a sportswear model in her leggings and bra top.
“You have a request. Some big wellness guru is having a conference at the convention centre and wanted to know if you’d be interested in coming up with an in-chair stretch program between sessions. It’s a paid gig in September.”
Gemma came around the back of the desk to look over Izabel’s shoulder at the calendar. “Can I make it work?”
“It’s three days after you get back from your honeymoon.”
Izabel waited while she scanned the invitation.
“What do you think?” Gemma asked. They’d met at Manchester Uni and by the end of freshers’ week, they were inseparable. Gemma’s Dad was wealthy, like, really wealthy. The kind of wealthy that gets you a yoga studio on a prominent corner in the Northern Quarter as a graduation present for scoring a 2:2 in Medieval History. Izabel had got a first in Marketing and a congratulations card from her mum with a tenner in it and a note to buy herself a drink with it.
What Gemma had in enthusiasm, Izabel matched in organisation and effort. Gemma had adopted the highly annoying title of Chief Ideas Officer which seemed significantly grander than the two-story studio which ran up to three classes in parallel and operated a smoothie bar which had just switched over to the Prosecco bar they ran after five in the evening, deserved.
“The fee alone makes it worth doing. But if we are smart, you can parlay it into members. Let’s say we’ll give every member a voucher for a free session. If ten percent of the attendees take us up and on it, that’s three hundred. And then a third of them sign up, it could lead to a hundred new memberships. And they are a warm audience because they are already into fitness. You wow them, and it’s a done deal.”
Gemma nodded thoughtfully. “Fine. Can I leave the details with you? I’ve got enough with wedding plans. And, shit, I’m going to have to watch what I eat the second week in Tahiti, or I’ll have a carb belly.”
Izabel looked at Gemma’s naturally lean frame and highly doubted it. Plus, she was likely more distracted by the fact she was getting a second studio in Hale as a wedding present from her father. Gemma had been hinting it was time for Izabel to go full-time and oversee both studios which wasn’t something she wanted.
“Okay, I’ll respond in the morning. I’m off to the city councillor drop-in about the shelter.”
“Oh, good luck. Hope they help you out. We still on for the bridesmaid dress fitting tomorrow evening?”
Izabel nodded as she grabbed her bags together. “Definitely. But I’ll see you in the morning, right?”
Gemma shook her head. “Only the afternoon. In the morning, Dad’s taking me to a possible building. I’d like the reno to be done while I’m on honeymoon.”
“Okay. Cool. Hope it’s perfect.”
And not too far of a commute from here.
She didn’t own a car and didn’t have any immediate means of affording one.
Roiling grey clouds filled the sky as she hurried down Tib Street. As she passed Affleck’s and cut across the tram tracks towards St. Peter’s Square she checked her bag for her umbrella.
The Central Library was a truly beautiful building from the rotunda, made from huge slabs of light stone that reminded her of something from ancient Rome. She made her way to the second-floor meeting rooms and paused outside to straighten her shirt and smooth her hair.
“Come in, come in,” Barb Collington said, urging her inside. “Have you come for the drop in?”
“I have. If I could have a quick word before others get here. I’d appreciate it. I’m assistant manager of the Anderson Shelter in Ancoats, and we think we’re about to be evicted because the landlord has received an offer for the building from a developer who wants to rejuvenate the area.”
Barb nodded. “Of course. Carry on.”
“Well, I know the City Council started the Local Plan to review the city’s development. And we really hoped the plan would ensure no-one in Manchester is left behind. But it’s no secret the redevelopment of many of Manchester’s central neighbourhoods in the last decade have been about aimed at the middle to upper class lifestyle. Low-income family housing and means to address homelessness have been left behind. That’s where the shelter comes in. I guess what I want to know is what you’re willing to do to help the Anderson shelter stay open in light of its potential sale?”
Two men came into the room and Barb eyed them over her shoulder. “I’m not sure I have the opportunity to fully discuss this further, but if you have some materials, I could read and perhaps comment on…”
Izabel rummaged for the copy of documents in her bag and handed them to her. “I’m sorry you don’t feel this is critical enough to discuss now for a few more minutes, but I will say this. If the building is sold, ninety-seven tenants will lose their homes. These are low-income homes. I don’t know where those tenants will go. The shelter occupies part of the ground floor. If it closes, fifty homeless people go back on the streets. I don’t know where they will go either. But when we take this to the press, I will tell them I came to see you.”
She hurried from the room before she said any more. Her knees shook with adrenaline as she left the building and hurried toward the St. Peter’s tram stop just as the East Didsbury tram pulled into the station. She hurried across the tracks, jogged up the steps, and with a second to spare, she rushed through the door of the packed tram and slammed face first into a solid chest. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
Paint-splattered tattooed hands grabbed her biceps. “It’s me, Iz.”
She looked up, beyond the polo shirt advertising his Uncle Allan’s decorating company, to Matt’s face. He hadn’t shaved, and she liked him best when he had a bit of scruff. His dark hair was standing up in all directions which told him he’d had a tough day. Hell, so had she.
“Sorry. Mad dash and all that.” The tram pulled out of the stop and Izabel stumbled. Matt grabbed for her arm again to steady her. There was nowhere for her to go. With the doors closed, bodies were packed up closer to each other than sardines in a tin. Which put her way too close to Matt. She could see the outline of his pecs through his polo shirt and wondered what it would feel like to just rest her forehead against them and close her eyes for a few moments as he hugged her tightly.
He reached for the handrail attached to the ceiling with one hand and held on to her with the other. “Heading home?” he asked gruffly.
She pulled her gaze from the glass angles of the Bridgewater Hall building. “Yeah. Shitty day. I need a drink.”
Matt huffed. “Know that feeling.”
When they pulled into the Deansgate-Castlefield station, the doors opened, and a flood of people left the tram and new ones clambered on board.
“Izzie?” she heard from behind her. “Oh. Matt.”
Izabel noticed Matt’s eyes widen as his jaw twitched, something Matt did when he was angry. Izabel turned to look over her shoulder. Harry. And the bitch she’d caught him fucking.
As if her world couldn’t get any worse today.
“Harry,” she said, curtly, and turned back to Matt. His eyes were on her. Like really on her, as if trying to read how she was doing. She shook her head infinitesimally then looked down at the floor.
Matt gripped her arm momentarily, a squeeze of reassurance.
“I’m glad I’ve seen you,” Harry said. “I wanted to talk to you about Gemma and my brother’s wedding.”
Fortified by Matt’s touch, she took a deep breath and turned to face him again. “What about it?”
“Well, we’re both in the wedding party.”
“No shit, Captain Obvious.”
Harry rolled his eyes, then shared what could only be described as a knowing look with the woman. Matt gripped her hip, the move grounding her. She’d no idea why he was suddenly touching her again after avoiding her all this time, but it almost made it worth it that she had to deal with Harry for it to happen.
“Please, Izzie. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I don’t want it to be weird. For Gemma and Ollie’s sake. And…”
“And what?” she asked, as the tram jerkily came to a stop at Cornbrook.
“Well, and to remind you you’ll need to book your own room, and to let you know I’ll be bringing Sophia with me.”
Sophia.
Such a pretty name for a piece of trash with overly drawn on eyebrows.
Wait?
Own room. Shit. Of course, they’d need two rooms now. In the upset of splitting up and moving out, it hadn’t even registered.
And the idea of spending the day with the two of them getting all smoochy on each other.
Bleurgh.
Yeah, her day sucked. She debated jumping off the tram and waiting for the next one, but just as she made a move to go, the chimes of the door started, and the door closed.
“I spoke to my brother,” Harry continued. “And he said it was fine for you and me to add a plus-one to our invitation.”
She wondered if Gemma knew what Harry had arranged with Ollie, because she was certain her best friend would have mentioned it. Matt slipped his hand around her middle and pulled her close to him. “Don’t worry, Iz. We’ll get our own room.” His words rumbled thought her.
Harry’s eyes went wide as Izabel’s heart bounced around inside her chest cavity like a ping-pong ball. “You two are a…like…are you dating? I don’t know what to think about that.”
Izabel floundered for something to say. Matt was surrounding her, and she clutched on to him like a life raft. How could she answer Harry?
“What I think is it’s none of your fucking business.” Matt felt her skin against his lips as he spoke, and it was the only thing stopping him from wringing Harry’s neck. That, and the two transit cops standing part way down the carriage.
“Izzie?” When Harry finally decided to respond, he had the audacity to look wounded. Standing there like a jumped-up jerk in a fancy suit from who the fuck knows where with the side piece he’d been banging.
Prick.
Izabel squeezed his wrist, and it took everything in him not to shove Harry down the tram. The heat of her back warmed his chest, and he mentally instructed his dick to stay down while frantically processing what he’d just got himself into and the fact he finally had Iz in his arms.
“What do you want me to say, Harry?” Izabel said, finally, her words filled with exasperation. “I’ve moved on to someone who treats me better than you did.”
Harry scoffed. “Treats you better? Didn’t realise painting and decorating paid well.”
Ouch.
Of course he wasn’t as financially secure as Harry. But in the scheme of things, was a bank balance and paycheck really the measure of a man? “You’re a bigger twat than I thought if you think she’s talking money. No flash suit, flash car, or flash holiday can make up for the size of your dick. Money can’t make her forget how you screwed her over. Literally. You can’t buy loyalty, Harry.”
“But before we met, didn’t you and Jase…you know?” Harry continued.
The words cut through him. He didn’t want to think about it. Not when it felt like the walls of the tram were a metaphor for his whole life closing in around him.
The tram juddered to a halt at Trafford Bar. Matt kissed her cheek, intent on playing his fucked-up part until the very end. Her skin was smooth, smelled like fresh air. “Send me the details, Iz, and I’ll get everything booked.” He turned at looked at Harry. “Call her Izzie again and I’ll break your fucking fingers.”
And without another word, he stepped off the tram as if he’d always intended to leave two stops before home.
Fucking fuckity fuck.
He should stay on there. Should make sure she was okay with the two of them. But her. Him. His already fraught temper before he’d even got on the tram. It was gunpowder, and Harry was a lit match.
Matt looked up at the sky. Grey clouds rumbled restlessly, and the first drop of rain splatted on his face, then the shoulder of his polo shirt. Then the ground.
He could wait for the next tram, but impatience crawled through him, itching beneath his skin.
It was a thirty-minute walk home, but the idea of squeezing onto another tram packed with warm, damp bodies was too depressing to think about. He jogged out of the tram stop and headed toward home. He’d taken maybe three steps when the heavens opened.
A mum dragged her two young kids under the shelter of a store awning. And elderly lady battled her shopping trolley to withdraw a long umbrella she swiftly opened.
Rain soaked through his top, causing it to stick to his skin, pulling in places as he walked. His jeans started to drop on his waist from the weight of the excess water tugging them down. Thankfully he’d worn his boots and not his trainers, the only saving grace right now was dry feet.
His mood was about as dark as the clouds above him.
Fucking Harry and his Izzie this and Izzie that.
And fucking Iz. Smelling like roses, and a smile brighter than sunshine.
And now he was stuck taking her to a wedding. Like, how was he supposed to explain it to Luke? Luke who had threatened to leave the band and ditch both Palmer brothers after Jase had fucked Izabel. Luke, his best friend, his music co-writer, his band mate.
Matt’s promise to keep Jase away from Izabel was one of the few bits of glue holding the band together.
He should just quit. Build a new group. One that didn’t take so much energy to keep on the straight and narrow.
As he stepped up his pace, the rain followed suit. Rain splashing down so hard it bounced. A small flood gushed down the side of the road, taking debris and litter rushing towards to drains. A car drove by, too close to the curb, sending water flying into the air like a fan. It drenched the bottom of Matt’s jeans and flooded his untied boots.
“Motherfucker,” he gasped.
He began to run. Sure, he wasn’t dressed for it. But fuck it. He needed…something.
The quicker he ran, the louder his boots thudded against the pavement, the faster people moved out of his way. He ran aimlessly, without any purpose beyond causing his muscles to burn and the ache he suddenly felt in his chest to ease. The pain in his body took over any other thought as he sucked in air.
Twenty minutes later, he found himself outside of the bar Jase worked at. He paused for a moment, gasping for breath, his hands on his soaked knees.
The rain stopped; the air filled with the rich scent of petrichor.
Matt pushed the door open and stepped inside. The post-work pre-dinner drink crowd were in.
“Did you forget to take your clothes off before you showered?” Jase said. “You look like a drowned fucking rat.”
“You weren’t at rehearsal,” Matt said, attempting to bury the frustration.
“I scored an extra shift here. Needed the cash more than I needed a rehearsal to sing shit I already know. It’s like singing-by-numbers.” Jase folded his arms.
“You couldn’t text?”
“Phone died.”
“Just give me a pint.”
“Say please.”
“I’m not in the mood, Jase. Just give me a fucking drink.”
“Oh, now. What could have gotten you so pissy?”
“Drink. Jase.”
“Now let me think. Soaking wet. Foul mood. Can’t just be me.”
Matt reached over the bar and grabbed Jase by the neck of his shirt, yanking him so hard, his shoulder rammed against one of the beer taps. He could see the shock in Jase’s eyes and then felt Jase’s hands trying to uncurl his fingers to slacken the hold. “Unless you want me to beat the shit out of you right now. You’ll get me a beer. You’ll shut up. And you’ll be at the next rehearsal, or I’ll fire your fucking arse. You’re good, Jase. But you’re not irreplaceable.”
He shoved Jase back, sending him into the low refrigerators. Bottles rattled inside.
“Fuck you,” Jase snarled.
“Lads. Take it outside.” Steve, the pub’s burly landlord and Jase’s boss, appeared between them.
“Just wanted a pint, Steve. Your employee wouldn’t get me one.”
Steve looked at Jase, then Matt, and shook his head. He tapped a pint of Deuchars, Matt’s favourite IPA, and handed it across the bar. “Taking that out of your trips for being a dick to a customer,” Steve said to Jase before turning back to Matt. “And you, I’ll kick your arse out of this bar so fast it will bounce if you lay a finger on a member of my staff while they are in my building and working.”
Matt didn’t say a word, just picked up his pint and downed half the thing before setting it down on the bar.
What a clusterfuck of a day.
I’m supposed to be grateful I have a brother
One who’s supposed to have my back unlike no other
But we both know you’d stab me
In the back before you’d tell me
We’re here for one another.
You’d watch me bleed, you motherfucker.
He eyed Jase as he reached for his phone to jot down the lyrics.
Once done, he downed the rest of his beer.
“You want another?” Jase asked, his voice hard but edged with fear. Matt recognised the tone. It was the one he used when he knew he’d gone too far. When he pushed their nan over the edge, or goaded a teacher into losing control, or pushed Matt to his limits. It was the one that said he was scared of the fallout but would never apologise. Jase would prefer to lose just about anything else before losing face.
Some days it was enough to be able to interpret it as the closest thing to an apology.
But not today.
“See you at Nan’s,” he said.