The Shop Girl and the Priest

The next morning, I woke to a mug of tea and a 'how are you' from Gem, and I thanked her for her care of me at what must have been gone one in the morning.

"You're welcome, Babe," she said to me, "We all need a mate that we can talk to about that kinda thing, and I know you're always there for me!"

I stopped myself from crying at that, conscious that if I started, I might not stop.

We drank our tea in silence until her TV came on automatically as her usual morning wake-up call.

"Right," she said, sounding far more grown-up than she ever had before, "Shower, breakfast then..." she paused, "Call him and check about Timbuktu!"

I did what she suggested and rang his mobile, only getting an engaged tone, then his 'You're through to Russell's mobile, please leave a message..." answerphone.

I walked down into town having already rung my tutor, crying off (not literally) that morning's lectures for a bit of a sore throat and runny nose. She went for that.

I walked down into the town and found my way to Chris and Ronnie's place, but there was no one there other than a very business-like lady in the parish office.

I asked after Father Chris or Ronnie.

"No dear, Father Chris and his family are away at the moment, he's at a quite significant meeting in London so they stayed over the weekend!" she said, "back Wednesday evening."

"Is Father Russell around?"

"He's working nights at the moment; I haven't seen him for days my dear."

"Do you know anything about his project, his trip?"

"Why?"

"I'm Jaime Connor, I work at the supermarket that delivers the almost expired groceries to him."

She looked at me with narrowed eyes.

"His London project?" she said.

"Yes, is he still going on it?" I adopted a managerial look. "My Boss needs to know who the shelter leader is—for the insurance, that kind of thing."

The lady pursed her lips, then nodded. I had contrived a very plausible lie for her and needed to find out if Russ had as well.

"I should bloody well hope so!" she said, holding up a brown file, "I've got all of his flat rental bookings and new furniture requests right here." She broke eye contact as if she was giving away national secrets and stopped. She looked up at me again, with disapproving raised eyebrows, "Going to cost the London parish a for-tune," she sang with a shaken head. "Insisted on a double bed in his flat, apparently his 'fiancée' is going to be moving in with him in at the end of March, that's a fine how-do-you-do I think," she said with a disapproving shaken head. "Don't see why the diocese should have to pay for HER to live in London rent free for six months."

"Don't you like her?" I said, fishing for info.

"Never met the woman, just heard about her," she snapped in that 'No one tells me anything' tone hard pressed secretaries have about them the world over. "Got engaged at Christmas apparently, known the boy six months, would have been nice to have been told about it!" "Oh," I said, stopping any reaction that might give things away.

"Can I take a message for Father Chris?"

"Errr... no," I said, adding, "I'll catch up with him when he's back."

"Okay, I'll wish you a good morning then," she said, looking back at her computer screen.

End of conversation, and end of story.

His fiancée was going to be moving in with him in the next five or six weeks was she?

End of our relationship then.

I rang him again and left some swearing on his answerphone about his fiancée, saying that if our month-long relationship had just been about sex for him then he could have told me.

I know I was a virgin; he was my first boyfriend as well as my first lover and I could have taken the let down and would have made my choice whether to keep seeing him or not when he told me about his fiancée.

I unfriended him from his little used Facebook account and stopped following his Twitter feed.

Bastard.

I did for a few bottles of booze with Gemma, quite a few tissues on the phone with Cheryl, and it's fair to say that I did have a few very sad nights on my own hugging his pillow and smelling his aftershave before I dragged off all of the sheets and pillowcases and boil washed them.

I threw myself back into my studies, so much that my tutor even said, 'Aah, we've got Jaime back again; that flu must really have thrown you off your game.'

It wasn't the flu; it was a lovely, sexy, good-looking vicar I'd fallen in love with who had dumped me as soon as I told him.

I begged off taking stuff to the church hall after work and all it reminded me of, going back out on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays with Gem and the gang; bless her, she even started to nag me about 'getting back out there again.' I demurred, but on a couple of nights I was greeted by one of the girls and a new guy,

"This is Jaime, she's newly single."

I tried to laugh, but wasn't the proud of the title and would send the generally younger lad on his way with a sad smile. If the guy had asked me the details, I'd have to admit that I'd been had, quite regularly in fact, right up to the point that the guy made up some story of a trip to the ends of the earth so he could dump me before moving in with his real girlfriend that he'd proposed to just before he'd met and had started sleeping with me.

*****

As the weather changed and the clocks went forward, I was asked by Dave the boss if I'd take some things to the shelter, seeing as I hadn't done in a while. Although no money changed hands, it did show on our store records that we hadn't dumped so much food. Two of the other weekend and evenings lates managers didn't do it, the other one that did left for another store, and our figures were back up and Dave wanted them back down again. I agreed, of course, I had no excuse, after all.

Russ was long gone and hadn't replied to my phone message, my second phone message drunkenly three nights later apologising for the first and the few, 'I miss you' texts I sent him.

This mid-week night I bit the bullet and there was the usual shoulder-straining collection of stuff that I used to deliver there eight or nine weeks before and I felt safe knowing that Russ would be safe in London on his new double bed with his fiancée who was due to move in with him six weeks before. I even knew where the nearest supermarket was.

I pushed the kitchen door open and smiled at a few of the regulars.

"Hi, Jaime." it was Tom the student who had talked down to me those months before.

"Hi, Tom," I said, handing over the bags of sandwiches, pies and pasties and the half-dozen bags of still reasonably fresh doughnuts I'd thrown in as well by way of apology. I explained that my shift had changed, hence I hadn't been back in some time.

"Perfect timing," said Tom. "Come through to the church hall."

"I've really got to be getting back to my rooms, Tom..." I looked at my watch.

I had found out from Russ on first date that Tom was gay so I didn't feel that I was going to be pounced on or have one of those embarrassing 'you're on your own and so am I...' moments.

"Only take five minutes, honestly," he said taking my hand and pulling me through the kitchen to the hall, the camp beds being prepared. "Look."

He pointed into the hall and towards some old-looking red felt covered display boards with dozens of photographs around the edges of a map. I looked.

"Russ has been mailing them to us every three or four weeks," he said brightly. "He's got such a tan going on, his emails are such a good read—they are mostly him talking about the other priests, complaining about how hot, sweaty and dusty it is." He grinned. "You can tell he's having just the best time though."

I looked closer at the pictures; it was indeed Russ.

Russ on a camel, Russ wearing a bright red and white Shemagh wrapped around his head, Russ with Ray-Ban Wayfarer's and a week's beard growth looking devastatingly attractive in his tan shirt. Shit, but he looked good.

FUCK.

"Where were these taken?" I said with a positive smile.

"Didn't he tell you he was going to North Africa?"

I thought quickly for a moment.

"No," I said convincingly. "Last thing I heard was he was heading to South London for six months, moving in with his fiancée."

"He doesn't have a fiancée," said Tom with narrowed eyes. "Anyway, the London gig got changed right at the last minute. A girl was supposed to be going but during her medical it turned out that she was three months pregnant and she got bounced right at the last minute—I mean he had, like, less than two days' notice."

"Wow!" I said, adding some surprise but guessing I hadn't quite come across, seeing as I'd been there that night and Dinah might have said.

"Not sure if she was keeping it quiet on purpose, her baby that is, or what but she ended up with the six months on the London job and Russ got North Africa for three, lucky bugger."

"Yeah," I said brightly. And she would have had a nice new double bed to sleep on.

I wandered along the display boards as Tom prattled on about Russ having to spend a few hours on Google trying to find the stuff he'd need for a flight he'd be taking in no time flat, the vaccinations he had later that day, having to start taking anti-malaria tablets although he should have started taking them two weeks before that.

I stopped myself from saying, 'Yeah, he said he'd have to pay privately for them'.

I looked at more pictures of that gorgeous man. The gorgeous man that was crazy about me—WAS, HAD BEEN crazy about me.

Shit. He'd been telling me the truth all the time. I'd got all spoilt brat on him just like my dad would have done when I should have just believed him. Part of me desperately wanted to believe him, I did remember, but another part of me just wouldn't have it.

Fucking Timbuktu!

Like anyone ever went to Timbuktu.

Only Russ actually had. On the display board was a large map of the North African Sahara with pins and red string indicating how far they had travelled on each leg, and where they were now, and photos of other members of the party, another couple of young priests and pastors, a young rabbi, a young Imam, I even noticed a very pretty blonde Tabitha 'Tabs' Watkins from the...

Fuck off.

Seriously?

The Oxford Atheist, Secularist and Humanist Society.

She was visible in lots of the team photos, looking blonde and gorgeous; bronzed, pretty and having a figure every bit as good as mine. A figure that would be sleeping in a tent in walking distance to his.

Fuck.

"They're doing very well," said Tom, "Almost a week ahead of the time they'd estimated, they'll be back in a fortnight!"

"Oh...oh!" I stuttered stupidly. "Oh, well, do tell him that Jaime sends..." I couldn't send my regards, no way, "sends her love."

"Of course," he said with that simple grin of his. "Look, we're having a bit of party for him Saturday fortnight, two or three days after he should be getting home. Won't you come?"

I thought about my shift, I'd be working late that Saturday and would be the duty manager and was already providing cover for a friend so couldn't take leave.

"I'll try to drop in, but I won't finish at the supermarket until after 10 o'clock that night."

"Oh," said Tom expansively. "Don't worry about that, we'll probably party into the night."

"Okay," I said, "I'll put it in my diary."

Party late into the night, yeah—that was bound to happen in a church hall where the rough sleepers bedded down.

Those two weeks I was feeling quite nervous. I reconnected to his Twitter feed and his Facebook page, and there were all the photos of his amazing trip and something that could have meant me contacting him and apologizing for my stupidity and us chatting online and emailing each other like he'd said we would when I was having my tantrum.

I figured he'd get messages telling him about my friend request and that I was following him on Twitter again.

But he was in North Africa, where the fuck would he get access to Wi-Fi to check his profile.

Shit.

Patience Jaime, PATIENCE!

That whole Saturday dragged on. I had an assignment to finish in the morning and emailed it off to my lecturer, took at bit of a nap then woke up to my alarm and went to work. It was a six-hour shift that was sooooooooo slooooooooow.

I had a whiny wingy couple that wanted to return an electric fucking toothbrush. A FUCKING TOOTHBRUSH!!

WHO RETURNS A FUCKING TOOTHBRUSH! The bristles on the brush head were bent and still bloody damp.

I told them that while I understood they really didn't like the feeling of the vibration in their mouths, perhaps they should have thought of that before they spent thirty quid on the thing, I even gave them the customer service smile.

For some reason, they just weren't hearing the word 'no' that had repeatedly came back from the girl on my team, and then from me. The raised voice from the man even offered to buy new toothbrush heads to replace the old ones once I pointed out the previous usage.

He said that he wouldn't mind using a second-hand toothbrush, and they had really washed it well, had sprayed bleach on the thing even. I grimaced and pushed the box back to them with a shaken head.

He demanded to speak to the manager, and I said that I was all he was getting at nine-thirty on a Saturday night, even with a used, fully-functioning, bleach-sprayed toothbrush that the receipt suggested they'd both been using for almost three weeks.

"Oh, no more than two," the soppy wife said.

They stormed off, claiming all kinds of infamy and how they'd never shop in our store again, report us to Trading Standard and would tell all their friends. I said I would take that chance.

They stormed further off, then the wife came back with an apologetic grin and picked up the toothbrush they'd left behind.

The clock ticked and I waited with bated breath, rushing around and chasing up the security guys so that the second the big hand hit the ten, the entrance doors were locked and the last slow-walking shopper was escorted to the checkout and thank-you'd out the door. At ten twenty, I was out the door and on my way, trotting along, quickly breaking out into a girl-run with my three bags of food for the kitchen.

I knew how long it took to get there, and even as I trotted along that alleyway in my work shoes and quite-tight work trousers, I could see people drifting away from the church hall and onto the main road, and I slowed my run. I was hot and a bit sweaty and wouldn't look that attractive at all, even to a man that I'd dressed up in my sexiest clothes for and had blown him, so that he'd made wonderful love to me and I'd told him I loved him—almost three months before.

I walked up to the low window and peaked through, and while the red display boards were still up, I saw that chairs and tables were being packed away and no sign of a buffet or a table with drinks and just a few late-stayers packing up, and no sign of Russ.

So much for Tom's promise of partying into the night, it was ten forty on an April Saturday evening, and the place was being transformed into a dormitory for the queues of rough sleepers who would inevitably be lining up for their supper and the limited numbers of beds for the night. I guessed that the party goers had headed off into the bright lights for a piss-up, and I thought about following them—into any one of the dozens of pubs, clubs, restaurants and eateries.

Shit.

Ah well, it had been worth the look. I'd been buzzing with a strange but hopeful adrenaline all evening, hoping I might be able to just see him; talk to him, apologise, ask for his forgiveness and perhaps a second chance.

Too late now though, so I turned and with a bowed head walked from the darkened car park to the illumination of the main road and my slow walk back to Oriel.

I'd read all of his blogs and how this tour had the suggested by the Government of Mali and supported by The French military to show that they were back in charge of things now.

This had gone on to get the support of the General Synod, General Secretariat of the Catholic Bishops' Conference, the Chief Rabbi, The Foreign Office, Oxford University, everyone—there was even a recording of his chat with the Archbishop of Canterbury from 'somewhere in the southern Sahara' via a satellite phone.

Russ, the good-looking, rough and tough young deacon from the Oxford diocese would go all the way, and I doubted he'd ever be back looking after his clutch of rough sleepers and troubled souls a short walk from my supermarket and my college.

Shit.

I turned and walked away but remembered the three bags of food stretching my elbow and shoulders muscles. I stopped, closed my eyes, and turned to plod back to THAT kitchen door.

It swung open as it so often did.

"Oh, so I spend three months in the Sahara and you're just going to go home and go to bed and ignore me, Jame?"

That voice!

It was him!

And he called me 'JAME!'

I stared into the now opened kitchen door and the shadow illuminated by the lighting from inside.

"Russ?" I said as loud as my shocked voice would allow.

"The very same." He stepped out towards me, the security light came on and lit him up. He was wearing his black 501's and a simple grey Fred Perry shirt. He had a short beard, a heavy tan, but still looked just as gorgeous as he used to when he was stood at the door of my rooms all those weeks before.

Fuck, but I'd missed him so much, more so I'd missed the thought of him, the thought that as soon as he got back I could... well I wasn't quite sure what I could do but I would try anything.

"Russ," I stepped closer to him. "Russ, I'm really sorry for not believing you, sorry that I..."

He stepped closer then put his arms around me, kissed me and just held me, breaking to push me back slightly to look me up and down. I dropped the shopping bags.

"You sent your love, Jai," he said quietly, stroking my hair back from my face as he had before. "Tom told me, said you looked at my pictures and your face lit up." He stepped closer to me, and I could smell his aftershave. "I was in the kitchen putting some stuff away and saw you running up the street." He just smiled at me. "I saw your shoulders drop when you thought you'd missed me. That was enough." His face was lit up, too.

"I'm so sorry, Russ."

"Yeah, you said already, Jai—I've had a few early nights in dark tents to think this over." He slipped his arms around me. "I spent six weeks telling you I was spending six months on my project in London and telling you that you can come and stay all summer; you tell me you love me then then that evening I'm in shock and drowning in the news that I'm going to Timbuktu." He looked at me, "Not Mali, not an international, Joint-Church led, Trans-Saharan expedition, I tell you I'm going to 'Timbuktu.' I'm going to the one place that the civilised world has used to define 'the ends of the earth' the day you tell me you're in love with me." His eyes went wide. "My fault."

"How about if we call it a fifty-fifty?"

He laughed, hugged me tighter and kissed me again.

"Whatever." He smiled that perfect smile and kissed me—it took my breath away for a short moment.

"How about sixty-forty," I gasped, with a rising sense that this could just be okay. "Seventy-thirty, my final offer..." I leaned forward to kiss him hard. Wow.

"You've no idea how often I've dreamt about that," he said.

"Oh, I have, Russ," I hissed to him when we'd caught our breath. "How about you come back to my place I can show just how much."

"Why, Jame," he said, "Are you, an attractive, brunette atheist trying to lead me astray?"

"Away from the paths of righteousness? Hell yeah," I slipped my arms down from his neck to rest them on his chest pushing my face against his, "Russ, you can walk down my paths any time you want, and they are SO fucking unrighteous it'll make your handsome evangelical head spin." I kissed him again.