Love...Maybe Page 18

  A loud gurgling noise erupts from the next room.

  ‘A shower, eh?’ Rufus shakes his head in mock despair.

  I smile foolishly.

  The emptying bath sounds like the agonising death throes of a drowning monster.

  I do try. Especially since meeting Rufus. He’s taught me so much about protecting the planet. I know full well that showering is the way to go if we don’t want our bad habits to affect generations to come. But sometimes I just long for a bath …

  Furtively, I shove the banana skin deeper into my dressing-gown pocket. Bananas are a bit of a guilty pleasure these days. Rufus won’t have exotic fruit in the house. (It’s the air miles, you see. Utterly appalling. Carbon footprint and everything.)

  He’s kissing me now. Urgently.

  I once had a boyfriend who couldn’t work up the will to shag me if Arsenal lost. But if the team was riding high on the crest of a wave – well, lucky old me! In a similar way, Rufus is extremely passionate about the environment.

  And when he pulls me into the bedroom and rips off my dressing gown, I can tell he’s had an astoundingly successful day rescuing trees.

  *

  The first time I saw Rufus, he was in vigorous form, compelling the wide-eyed attention of passers-by at my local shopping centre, handing out leaflets and passionate declarations under a banner that read: Stop Airport Expansion. It’s Just Plane Ignorant.

  It was a Saturday morning in August and I was out shopping with my friend, Eliza.

  She nudged me. ‘I need one of those leaflets. As a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Why?’ I shot her a look. ‘Are you intending to take all your clothes off and lie down on the runway?’

  ‘No, but I’d definitely lie down on him.’

  I laughed and followed her gaze – and found myself transfixed.

  It was his passion that got me.

  He was practically roaring with fury at the injustice, slamming a leaflet with the back of his hand to emphasise the point. ‘We have to act before it’s too late! Did you know that aviation emissions are rising faster than in practically every other sector?’

  We sidled over and a girl with long red hair, behind the little podium, passed a leaflet to Eliza, then one to me. But we were mesmerised by the main event. Two thirty-four-year-old adolescents with their tongues practically hanging out.

  Suddenly, those furious dark eyes landed on me. ‘Guess how many people in the world actually get on a plane!’

  I gulped. ‘What? Me?’ I glanced over my shoulder.

  ‘Yes. Go on. Guess! Give me a percentage.’

  ‘Er – fifty per cent?’

  ‘Wrong! It’s five per cent! That’s all. A measly five per cent! So the rich world produces the emissions but it’s the poor world that suffers most from the devastating effects of climate change. Where’s the fairness in that?’

  I had to admit, he had a point. (And impressively broad shoulders.)

  ‘Are you interested in green issues?’ He moved closer to me and I flinched.

  Yikes. Was I interested in green issues? Didn’t most people do their bit? I mean, I was fairly good about putting the right stuff in my recycling bin. And I sometimes reheated the previous night’s pizza and had it for breakfast. Did that count?

  ‘Er, yes, I am, actually. Passionately interested.’

  Eliza snorted and turned it into a cough.

  He was eyeballing me with great intensity, silently urging me to get all my environmental worries off my chest.

  I glanced in desperation at the banner above his head.

  ‘Yes, I – erm – I say No! to airport expansion.’ I gave the air a feeble punch, which sadly was less hail the revolution and more what the hell was that? ‘No, I say! Because it quite obviously is an – erm – travesty of the highest order. I mean, really. Puh! Cuh!’

  I turned to Eliza for help and she frowned in agreement.

  Then we both nodded furiously, like a pair of Churchills desperate for a bone.

  Rufus took me out to dinner that night, which made Eliza go all sulky on me. But I knew she wasn’t one to bear a grudge. And sure enough, next day she was on the phone pronto, demanding a blow-by-blow account and snorting with laughter at the unintended pun.

  So I told her about Rufus picking me up at eight. And how he was obviously a little bit nervous because he talked non-stop, all the way to the restaurant, about the incredible anti-gas-guzzling properties of his brand new Prius.

  Then I described how good it felt, staring deep into those dark, tortured eyes as he spoke about methane gas and cows’ farts and all manner of worrying things like that.

  ‘What does he do?’ Eliza asked. ‘Apart from single-handedly saving the planet.’

  ‘He – er – works for the council,’ I said, trying to dredge up the details. ‘He’s – um – spearheading a brand new initiative to improve recycling in the region.’

  ‘So he’s in charge of the bins, then.’

  I let that pass. Definite whiff of sour grapes there.

  No, Rufus was a man with fire in his belly. A man with a cause. A man who cared about the important stuff.

  And I was finding that oh-so-sexy.

  ‘What did you eat? Details please.’

  ‘A posh burger. You know, with delicatessen cheese and exotic leaves dressed with truffle oil.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘But I’m turning vegetarian.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘Something Rufus said. Apparently for every hamburger that originated from cows grazing on rainforest land, fifty square feet of forest have been destroyed. Or something like that. I can’t remember the exact details, but I remember being shocked.’

  That’s silenced her, I thought. I’d give her time to absorb the enormity of this dire situation.

  ‘Miranda.’ She sounded strangely calm. ‘We don’t have rainforest in Barnsley. Not the last time I looked, anyway.’

  Might have known. Total ignorance when it came to ecological issues.

  ‘Eliza. That’s hardly the point.’

  ‘So what else did you talk about?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said airily. ‘This and that.’

  Her scepticism was clear. Probably best not to tell her about the experiment Rufus was carrying out. He was endeavouring to shave precious minutes off his morning shower (for optimum energy savings) and we talked at length about the relative merits of using individual bottles of shampoo, conditioner and shower gel, as opposed to combi-products that did the whole job in one but perhaps not quite as effectively.

  His energy and enthusiasm were irresistible. I could have listened for hours.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We went back to mine for coffee. His suggestion.’

  ‘And?’

  I laughed. ‘Well, that’s what was really lovely. He wanted coffee.’

  ‘I know. You just said that. But what happened?’

  ‘Nothing happened. We drank our coffee, he popped up to the loft to look at my insulation and then he left.’

  Which wasn’t strictly true.

  At the door, he slipped his hands round my waist, pulled me to him and kissed me so thoroughly I had to hang onto the door frame for support when he moved away.

  ‘Thanks for a lovely night,’ he murmured.

  One flash of a stomach-flipping smile and he was gone.

  *

  ‘When we first met, you told me you were passionate about the environment.’

  ‘I was. I am!’

  We’re lying in bed after the bath debacle, well and truly tangled up in the sheets. He leans over and picks something up from the floor.

  ‘So what, may I ask, is this?’

  My face turns pink.

  It’s my box of tumble-dryer sheets. I’ve been keeping them hidden from Rufus in my knicker drawer. I must have forgotten to put them back. Careless.

  I do a mock pout, leaning up on my elbow to look at him. ‘It’s just I hate having washing draped all over th
e place. I mean, I know tumble dryers are evil beyond belief but sometimes I can’t help myself. Am I forgiven?’

  He leaps out of bed. ‘Go on, then.’ Grinning back at me, he strides into the bathroom and turns on the shower. ‘Get in here, you eco-disaster!’

  And even though I’ve just had a bath, I don’t need asking twice. We always shower together at my place.

  For obvious responsible reasons. And others, too. (Rufus, brilliant teacher that he is, has shown me it’s possible to save energy in the shower and at the same time, expend energy in lots of interesting and imaginative ways.)

  I head happily out of the bedroom, a spring in my step. It feels so natural being with Rufus. Of course, because of his commitments, we can only get together once, maybe twice a week. But I’d rather have quality than quantity any day.

  And anyway, he’s going to make up for it next week. We’re both taking time off work and he’s even hinted he might sweep me off for a couple of nights in a posh hotel. It also happens to be Valentine’s Day. I’m so excited, I’ve gone off my food, and believe me, that’s pretty unheard of.

  I’ve already been shopping with Eliza for a sexy new dress, and when I tried it on in the changing room, she took a photo of me in it and suggested I get it framed and give it to Rufus.

  ‘Just so he doesn’t forget what you look like between dates,’ she said with a sly smile.

  I flicked my eyes upwards. ‘Okay, so I don’t see Rufus as much as I’d like. But he’s busy. He’s a man on a mission and I love that about him.’

  She grins. ‘I still think my cousin—’

  ‘Talk to the hand!’ I cut her off, the way I always do. It’s a standing joke between us. After I split up with Ben, my last boyfriend, she was convinced that going on a date would snap me out of my gloom, so she made a project out of dredging up all the men she’d ever known who might currently be single. (This was extremely tiresome when all I wanted to do was hibernate for a year.) I finally called a halt to her ridiculous scheming when she said her cousin had always had a crush on me at primary school and did I think she should give him a call? I vaguely remembered her cousin. Nerdy Ferdy. Gangly and pasty with carrot-red hair.

  But anyway, I did what she said and gave Rufus the photo. He raved over it and declared it would have pride of place by his bed.

  After our shower, we eat toasted cheese in the kitchen then he gets some papers out of his briefcase and I start tidying the plates away.

  ‘Meant to say,’ he murmurs, ‘it looks like I’ll be away next week.’

  I pause, my hands in the washing-up bowl. ‘I know. We’ll both be away, won’t we?’

  When he doesn’t reply, I turn to find him engrossed in a newspaper clipping.

  ‘Rufus?’

  He looks up, startled. ‘Oh, right, no – what I mean is my boss needs me to go to a conference. On climate change.’

  I swallow.

  ‘Boss can’t make it and he needs me to go in his place.’

  He returns to his clipping and I stare at him, wondering if he could possibly have forgotten.

  ‘But – what about our plan to take off for a few days?’

  ‘What plan?’

  ‘We’d talked about that hotel you like on the coast? Long walks on the beach. Stuff like that.’ I don’t care where we go, as long as we get to spend some time together.

  He looks up guiltily. ‘Oh, that. We can do it some other time, can’t we? It’s not like we’ve booked anything.’

  I hide my crushing disappointment, putting crockery away and tackling the rubbish bin. How stupid thinking Rufus would be as excited as I was about our first trip away as a couple.

  ‘I’ll try and come back early.’ He gets up, catches me round the waist and smooches my neck. ‘You know I’d rather be with you, baby. If I could.’

  I flash him a bright smile, wriggle away and finish tying up the rubbish.

  ‘You know, some women consider taking the rubbish out “men’s work”. But you’re different. I like that.’

  Despite everything, I feel my chest swell a little with pride.

  I shrug. ‘I don’t need a man to top up the oil in my car or fix plugs because I can do it all myself.’

  And actually, it’s true. I’m proud of my resourcefulness and independence.

  Of course, it probably stems from the fact that my only long-term relationship was with sexy – but in the end, rather useless lump – Ben, who’d live in a darkened hovel rather than bother himself to change a light bulb or buy toilet cleaner and actually use it. Bone-idle Ben. Charming, funny but utterly incapable of carrying out a plan or thinking any further into the future than his next curry. If anything practical needed doing, I had to do it myself. And if I didn’t know how, I found out.

  It’s been a boon in the long run, though. I’m now fiercely independent. I can even fix a dripping tap if you give me the right tools.

  Bone-idle Ben and Rufus are worlds apart.

  After Ben’s infuriating lethargy, Rufus is truly a breath of fresh air with his dynamism and passion.

  If only he would stop hugging so many bloody trees and spend more time hugging me!

  I head out to the bins, thinking grumpily that it’s just as well I can fend for myself because Rufus is never around to help. He sort of swoops in, like today, dazzles me with his brilliance, then before I know it, he’s swooped out again.

  And now, with him away at his conference, I’ve got next week off work and nothing to do with it.

  Marvellous.

  *

  On Sunday night, I come down with a really stinking cold. And joy of joys, the boiler in my flat packs up so I’m without heating or hot water.

  When Rufus phones later, he picks up on my despair and insists on picking me up and bringing me over to his place to stay while he’s away. I can’t believe how sweet he is about this. He cooks me dinner then insists on tucking me up in the guest room because he knows I’d prefer to be alone when I’m feeling so rotten. (Actually, I’d rather have snuggled up to Rufus, but it probably wouldn’t be a good idea giving him this stinking cold.)

  Next morning, he’s all chirpy, singing in the shower then bringing me a cup of tea in bed and promising to phone later.

  After he’s gone, leaving a cloud of his gorgeous aftershave behind, I take a sip of tea and wince. He knows I don’t like fruit teas. I don’t know what they taste like, but it definitely isn’t fruit. I suppose he must have forgotten in his rush to leave on time. And anyway, it’s the thought that counts.

  I crawl back under the duvet with my splitting head and a box of man-sized tissues. I can’t believe I’ll be living here, in Rufus’s home, for the next few days and nights! He must really like me to want me here. It feels exciting, as if our relationship has moved up a level.

  What’s not quite so exciting is the dull thud of the bass coming from the flat above.

  After a while, I try to block it out by putting a pillow over my head. But that makes my stuffy nose completely unbearable. The beat of the music is horribly in sync with the painful pulse in my head and – having ransacked Rufus’s cupboards for painkillers and come up with nothing (he probably believes human suffering can combat greenhouse gasses or something) – I’m beginning to feel desperate.

  And now, it isn’t only the noise that’s troubling me.

  When I was searching through bedroom drawers in my quest for pain relief, I found something I definitely wasn’t expecting to find in there.

  My photograph.

  The one Eliza took of me in the low-cut, sexy green dress. The one I had framed for him. It’s not by his bed, as he promised. But shoved out of sight in a drawer, under a neat stack of monogrammed handkerchiefs.

  As if this wasn’t dispiriting enough, I finally identify the music.

  Barry Manilow.

  I’m currently being treated to ‘Mandy’ for the nine millionth time and I’m singing along in my head. (The scariest part of all is that I’m absolutely word perfect.)
<
br />   Suddenly, the beat shifts jauntily uptempo. The invisible vice screws my head even tighter.

  And something snaps.

  Frigging ‘Copacabana’!

  I don’t bloody think so!

  Whipping back the covers, I’m a woman on a mission. Barry’s biggest fan must be stopped. (For her own safety as well as my sanity.) She’s probably some middle-aged, romance-obsessed housewife. Deaf as well, if the volume is anything to go by.

  Pulling on my dressing gown, I blunder out of the flat, stagger blearily up the stairs and rap on the door.

  The effort of all this makes me quite literally see stars, like in an old cat-and-mouse cartoon.

  I know what I’m going to say. Sorry, I’m a Barry fan myself so I can understand why you would want to play his music all day, but I’m not feeling great, so … (Who knows, one day this might even be my permanent address – so I’ve got to get on with this woman.)

  But when the door opens, my nice little speech flies right out of my head.

  ‘Copacabana’ blasts out so pulsatingly loud, it would seriously lift my wig off if I were wearing one.

  But even more hair-raising than the music is the near-naked giant of a man standing before me.

  We stare at each other.

  He looks rumpled and vague, like he’s just woken up, tawny hair sticking out at all angles. My eyes are drawn to his solid thighs – but only because he’s wearing the most ridiculous pair of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer boxer shorts I’ve ever seen.

  His eyebrows rise in query. Then he yells above the din, ‘Hi. Are you from the cleaning agency?’

  What? My head is throbbing in time to the cacophony. ‘Do cleaners generally go to work in bathrobes?’

  ‘Sorry?’ He cups his ear, struggling to hear over the full-on ‘feathers in her hair’ cabaret going on in the room beyond.

  ‘Music’s too loud! Turn it down!’ I bellow. Ooh, that hurts!

  He shakes his head. ‘No use. Still can’t hear. Music’s too loud. Wait while I turn it down.’

  He saunters over to the music system and I’m treated to an eyeful of Santa in his sleigh undulating across the back of his shorts. Thankfully, he grabs a dressing gown from a chair on his way back.