Lamplight

This one has been sitting part-finished for a long time. With endless thanks to EmilyMiller for providing the requisite kick up the bum to get it finished.

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She shifted behind me, and her soft, warm, tee-shirt-sheathed breasts brushed against my shoulders once again.

It was as excruciating as ever.

I squirmed on the faux leather of the chair, trying to ignore the usual dull, almost unpleasant ache in my lower belly.

"You okay?" she asked in her lovely little voice.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm okay, thanks... just... restless..."

"I know what you mean. I always get so bored waiting for the colour to take," she confessed.

I shivered as she ran her gloved fingertips over my scalp, working the dye into one or two spots she wasn't convinced had been properly addressed.

"You're wise to stay so close to your natural shade - the big changes are murder. Some of our other clients fall asleep while waiting. Yours is far... simpler."

"It's... nice here. I can see why they'd nod off. That couch is terrible; I could curl up on that and never move again. And these chairs are... sublime..."

"Oh, it's a complete trap," she agreed. "Maggie designed it that way, you know. She's very devious."

She grinned at me in the mirror - an artless little pixie smile as it always was - a pixie smile on a lovely, sculpted little face that Father Time hadn't yet noticed.

She hummed softly to herself over the background of soft nineties Pop.

She fitted this space. She didn't own it, but it was utterly and completely hers.

I mouthed her name again when she wasn't looking. I tasted it, tried it on for size.

Julie.

I'd been coming to Maggie's salon for several years, now. A little slice of olden-day's charm and a haven from my frequent storms - leather and wood rather than steel and neon, tucked between a Bengali takeaway and a moth-eaten Newsagent, it was far nicer inside than its location would imply to a casual observer.

I liked it here.

I liked the old, worn hard cover books on the shelves. I liked the antique brass lamps in the corner that were only turned on in winter. I liked Maggie's rickety old tabby cat who was always "purrched" on his equally-ancient pink towel in the window, placidly watching the outside world go by with only the slightest of tail flicks giving him away.

I liked the simplicity. I liked the timelessness.

And I really, really liked Julie.

She'd arrived some months before, and Maggie had quickly handed me off into her care. I'd been uneasy at first, not enjoying the change. I didn't suit change well...

But oh how well this change had ended up suiting me.

I loved the sense of... warmth that always stole over me when she wrapped the towel around my neck and washed my hair for me with the water that was always at the perfect temperature - as if hand-chosen to soothe my tatterdemalion soul.

I loved that she was completely happy to talk about her day or mine or anything else under the sun.

I loved that she could read me and knew how to be quiet - she had her own busy world behind her warm hazel eyes and on my worst days I'd attempt to divine it by watching the small flickers of expression that flitted over her face.

I loved her one slightly-crooked tooth and her blonde hair and freckles and the little almost-but-not-quite-wicked smile that she seemed to keep for me.

I loved her voice and the way it always made me happy, no matter how black and shitty everything else might be.

There was something that I loved most of all about her, though.

Her touch.

Especially when she brushed herself so, so innocently up against me.

It was so stupid.

Here I was, just gone twenty-seven, supposedly an adult woman - and the highlight of my fortnight was my lunchtime dalliance in Maggie's Salon. Aching for a few seconds of tenderness and physical contact from this pretty young thing who was so casual with her personal space.

And with mine.

And I'd recline against sink or chair and go into this strange fugue state where she was the puppet-master and I her little dancing marionette - lift your head, look up, tilt it that way, hold still, close your eyes... and I'd do it mutely for her, heart quietly aching with longing.

And she'd smile and pamper me and preen me and trim my fringe and natter away with me about wherever our often inane conversation went, completely comfortable and normal.

Half an hour or more of carefree happiness.

Half an hour or more of mattering to someone - however ephemeral that mattering might be.

Half an hour where I was demonstrably alive.

And then I'd be forced to shatter the illusion as I concluded our time together with a sordid financial transaction.

And I'd walk out into the wind or sun or, sometimes, rain - feeling like I'd just visited some strange Bordello where they knew my face but not... me.

And I'd mope.

And then I'd try to be strong.

But I'd dream about Julie most nights.

And want her almost every waking hour of every day.

.:.

"I found another grey hair," I lamented.

"You're dark; it's a peril," she sympathised. "But on the plus side, your hair is so thick and lovely. And with your cheeks you'll look great with grey when you get eventually there."

"Not... for a couple of years yet, I hope," I said. "I'm barely out of my teens. I'm not ready to be an adult."

She laughed.

"So... same as always?"

"I... don't know," I admitted. "I probably should. But... I feel... dull."

I met her gaze in the mirror for a moment.

"I've got a suggestion," she said, "if you trust me."

"Um... okay?"

"I think you would look absolutely stunning with some red undertones - still this frankly sublime walnut of yours, but you'll have more colour in the sun."

"Hmm."

I stared at her in the mirror, pondering. She waited placidly, lips curving delicately upwards...

She was very, very good at what she did.

I decided to trust her skill.

After all, it could always be undone later if I wanted.

"Okay... can you show me?"

"Of course I can," she trilled.

She opened a drawer and lifted out a book. She opened it to a page and removed the bookmark that had marked it.

"You've been plotting," I said, levelly, as I noted the clear signs of preparation.

She glanced up at me. "Yes. You got me. I... I've been waiting for a long time to suggest this. But it's not my place unless you're willing to try. Here."

She pointed at a colour chart. "Look. This is what we usually use for you. And this one here is what I'd like to try."

"It's... almost the same."

"Yes. A very slight change. Extremely subtle. But it will be very noticeable in the right conditions. So... are you feeling brave, Catherine?"

Her eyebrow arched up as she issued her challenge.

I couldn't back down.

"Yes," I decided. "Yes, I am. Fix me."

She smiled. "It's not fixing, it's... making even better. I promise you that you won't regret it."

And she was right, of course. I didn't in the slightest.

Red suited me, I decided, as I caught sight of myself in a window as I stepped over a sunny patch of pavement.

Julie's red.

It was perfect.

Just like her.

.:.

"Bad day?" she said, softly; my thundercloud expression was anything but subtle.

She gently ran her fingers down my neck - not strictly correct, but I didn't exactly mind and would never dream of protesting.

I never objected to her touch.

Quite the opposite, really.

I shifted, and gathered my thoughts as her fingers paused then resumed.

"Horrid," I said softly, not meeting her eyes.

She eased her hands down to my shoulders and slowly finessed a tiny bit of pressure into them.

"Tell me," she encouraged me.

I glanced up at her, then away, demurring.

She sighed.

"Lie back, then," she said, the bubble gone from her voice. "I'll wash your hair and get you ready. Just a trim today, right? The colour still looks fine."

"Yes. Just a trim," I agreed, in a listless monotone, hating myself for upsetting her but unable, just yet, to snap out of it.

And I slumped down into old, familiar melancholy.

Redundancies had been on the air for a while and now my name had at last come up; I and others like me were going to experience "accelerated performance-related reductions," as our Human Resources fem-bot had so succinctly wrapped it up for us with her fake, collagen-infused smile.

I made a face and stared down at my lap.

She brushed her fingers against my left shoulder once more.

"Hey," she said, soft and low. "Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong. I'm right here for you."

I took a deep breath and sighed it slowly out.

"My job's officially at risk."

"Fuck," she said, soft and short. "So the rumours you'd been hearing were true, then?"

"Yes."

"Fuck. I'm so sorry, Catherine."

"I'll be okay," I sighed. "It's not ideal... but I'll be okay."

"Mm. What will you do?"

"Sulk a bit. Maybe drink a bit too much. Misbehave, maybe."

She smiled that pixie smile. "That sounds like fun."

"For someone," I said, sourly.

"Relax. Stop frowning," she scolded me, her small smile taking any sting out of her words. "You're too lovely for frown lines. Let me get rid of some of that negativity for you."

And she went to work with her fingertips, slowly massaging my scalp and temples and turning my insides to useless, deprived, sexually-frustrated goo.

"Oh God," I breathed, when she was done. "Oh God, I wish I could have that every day. You're so good at that. Oh God..."

"I know," she said, with a smug little smile. "You're my most appreciative client. It's why I put all the extra effort in for you."

"Oh," I said.

Client.

The word scalded a million times more than it should have.

I sighed and hid my sadness somewhere deep and distant.

She quickly rinsed my hair for me.

"Sit up," she said, as she gathered all the strands and bound them up with a towel.

I swallowed hard as my favourite parts of her brushed up against me.

She never seemed to notice how she affected me.

She never seemed to realise how much I loved it when those small, perfectly-shaped breasts touched me.

Well, truth be told, when any bit of her touched me.

It made me want her so much it sometimes actually hurt.

But I'd never admit that.

This time with her was far too precious to risk ruining it with some stupid, stillborn crush on yet another straight woman.

Especially one who viewed me as a client.

That's unfair, Cat. You know what she meant.

I moped quietly, and I sat, mostly mute, as she neatened my fringe and trimmed my split ends and blow-dried my unruly mop into the gentle waves that she'd long since decided were right for me.

And then, the usual sordid payment at the contactless terminal.

For services rendered, such as they were.

But this time... she paused.

She seemed to want to say something.

So I, too, waited - instead of stalking off as I always did.

"What is it?" I prompted, after a moment's uncomfortable silence.

"... no, it's daft and I'm being silly, never mind..."

"No, tell me, please," I said, curious.

Her cheeks had gone a fetching shade of pink.

She watched me for a moment more, then drew a shaky breath.

"I was just going to... to ask if you wanted company for that drink. When you do it."

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, then away again, as if she'd admitted something she'd been scared to...

My breath caught in my throat.

Yes! Yes! Say yes for fuck's sakes, you useless tart! screamed the unhelpful internal part of me.

"Oh... um... I hadn't really..." I flailed.

"Oh! Okay. Never mind then..."

"No!" I yelped. I blushed hot, somehow got my act together to continue. "No. Um. I'd love it. Company. Your company. Er. How about... tonight? Um... after... after work? What time do you... finish?"

"We close up at seven," she said softly, clearly unsure.

"Um... how about I... meet you here, then? Er... would that... be okay? I mean..."

She glanced up again; she held my gaze and I honestly felt like my heart stopped for a moment.

Then she smiled - a completely lovely, unrehearsed, utterly disarming smile, and my stupid avalanche of words juddered to a premature end.

"Okay," she said. "That will be great. I'll... see you later, then? At seven? Here?"

"Seven. Yes. Tonight. At Seven. Um... see you... bye..." I said, horribly off-balance and stammery and aware that I was flushing as crimson as a fire engine.

I staggered off, fought in panic with the door, caught my handbag on the handle, damned it and its mother, fought with it again, unhooked myself and glanced back in horror to see her, standing placidly, grinning at me.

She waved.

I turned and stalked away into the crowds, flustered almost beyond belief, wishing that both I and my uselessness could just die and be consumed without trace right then and there.

But as I walked the immediate mortification faded and a frantic overexcitement replaced it.

"It's just drinks, it's just drinks," I told myself over and over again like a mantra.

But... she'd smiled...

She'd waved goodbye...

She had asked me...

Just drinks.

It was just drinks.

Don't read into it, Cat, don't do it, you know you do it, stop it babe, don't get your hopes up, it's just drinks...

But some other part of me was screaming and dancing and kicking out its heels in a maniacal melange of terror and euphoria.

And I remembered very little of the remainder of the afternoon.

Very little at all.

.:.

She gave me a quick glance before she stepped out onto the pavement. She paused just long enough to give Maggie a goodbye wave. Then she pulled her faded pink denim jacket closed around herself and fastened several of the buttons; the evening was chillier than it should be; I was also huddled into my slightly-too-thin jumper.

"Brr. Nippy, isn't it? So," she said.

"So..." I echoed her, helplessly.

I felt horribly exposed.

Horribly excited too.

Horribly, horribly hopeful...

She smiled. "Do you have a local, or do you feel like trusting me again?"

"I... don't have a local, no. People from the work go to the Deacon down near the river but it's a bit... suity... for me."

"I know a place," she said. "It's... nice. It's casual. "

"I'll follow you then," I said.

"It's not far. Come on."

She stepped off and I tucked in next to her, heart in my throat.

She was intimidatingly lovely - even at her half-a-head height deficit to me. Her scuffed turquoise Converse sneakers and black jeans seemed natural as breathing for her; she carried no bag, just the phone that I'd seen her slip into a pocket in her jacket. Her hair floated loose, the gentle blonde waves lapping like ripples just over the top of her shoulders, her bangs partly veiling her eyes.

She almost seemed to glow in the twilight.

She was utterly wondrous; thoroughly exotic and almost... unreal.

I felt old and plain and foolish beside her.

I had no right to this divinity's time.

"You're... quiet," she said, with a sideways glance at me.

"Just... it's been a long day. It's nice... to just walk like this."

"Yeah. It is nice to walk with you. It's nice to... see you away from the Salon."

I stammered something non committal, and silently cursed my inability to just be normal for once.

"So... Catherine..."

"Cat.... just Cat, please. Cat will do."

"Cat, then," she said. She glanced up at me. "Any more news on your job?"

"No. Just... lots of very stressed people. The sales guys all went for long lunches and didn't come back afterwards. It was... quite horrid, actually. One of the girls had just bought a flat and now she might lose it. She was... inconsolable is probably a good word. Her partner showed up and was glaring daggers at anyone who looked like management before he took her away. "

"Ugh. It sounds... messy."

"It's unnecessary, is what it is," I said. I stared down at my feet as I took step after step. "There's ways to do things like this that aren't so... destructive. Anyway. At least I'll be okay... for a bit at least. I was paranoid so I've got some money squirrelled away in case and I'm... I'm pretty frugal. I don't need much."

"Mm," she agreed. "Still, it's not great. Especially at this time of the year."

"Yeah. Going into autumn and winter worrying about money isn't nice."

"Anyway, I'm sure you'll be fine. You're bright and smart, you'll find something quickly."

I flushed hot.

"That's... kind of you."

"It's the truth though, isn't it. You're one of those people who will always land on your feet. There it is."

"There what is?"

"The place I'm taking you to. My pub and...well, it's home away from home is what it is."

"Oh... that was... closer than I expected."

"Yes," she admitted, smiling. "Which is why I like it, on the odd occasion that I feel like... having a drink. I don't often."

"Oh... um... why not?"

"Nobody around here to do it with," she said, softly.

"Oh. You're... single?"

"Not just single - as alone as a stone, little Julie no-friends," she said, with a weird lilt to her words. Then she laughed. "Sorry, just being dramatic. It's not that bad. But what friends I have are almost all back home. Here we are. The "Anchor" awaits. Let me get the door for you."

"Oh... thanks..."

I slipped through the portal; she jostled in behind me and nudged me onwards with a distracting touch of her hand to the small of my back. "Find us a table, will you? What are you drinking? I'll get the first if you like."

"Oh... um... I... don't know?"

"Still trust me?"

"Yes," I said, without hesitation.

"I'll choose something nice then."

She sauntered over to the bar and slid in between two groups of men in a mix of what I usually thought of as working man's clothes. One of them quite blatantly stared down at her bum.

I, meanwhile, sat down on one of the gloriously-weathered old armchairs in a quieter corner.

Nautical paraphernalia was everywhere - old brass telescopes, long-ago-maps of coastlines, paintings of tall age of sail ships in all their glory. Here an antique globe, there lanterns with candle-shaped bulbs in place of modern lights.

The pub was old, and weathered, and utterly gorgeous.

It was precisely the sort of place I loved - with character that you could taste on the tip of your tongue when you inhaled.

Julie seemed to be in conversation with older man behind the bar; I felt a momentary stab of jealousy as she laughed with him, but the emotion dissipated as she returned, still grinning, with two brimming glasses of dark red wine.

"My favourite," she said, as she put one down on the small table in front of me. "I love this one; I hope you will to. It's the house red, but Pete has excellent taste."

"Pete?"

"The owner - he's behind the bar. I worked some shifts here for a bit when I was an apprentice. He still gives me a family discount," she added.

"Oh. Oh, I see..."

"Well... here's to surviving the day and ending it in good company," she said, as she raised her glass. I clinked mine to hers and took a hesitant sip of the dark red wine.

It was a lot better than I'd been scared it would be.

"Wow," I said.

"I know, right? It's cheap as chips but absolutely lovely; I have no idea where he gets it. So. Cat?"

"Uh huh."

"Tell me about you."

Her honey-dark eyes caught me and trapped me; I felt a strange little crawling shiver down my spine.

"I see you once every two weeks or so. I know almost nothing about you."

"I mean... ditto?" I said, hopelessly off guard.

She grinned. "Oh no. Nice try. You first. Then I'll see whether you deserve any of my secrets."

She cocked her head to one side. "Or... we could always just sit here awkwardly for the next hour or so and..."

"No! No. Oh God, no, please, not that..."