Page 5 of Falling Fast
‘Me too.’ Gio’s already heading towards the floor.
‘I might get a drink first,’ I say. I know how my brain works and I’m not ready to dive on to the dance floor yet. Even with Maisie here, I need time to acclimatize to my surroundings.
‘OK, but don’t be long.’ Corey grins at me. ‘Look after her, man.’
It takes me a moment to realize who he’s talking to, then another to process the fact that it means Leif’s not dancing either.Shit. I flex my hands to stop them from curling into fists. I can’t believe nobody else has noticed or called him out on his rude behaviour, but then Maisie and Gio are so wrapped up in each other and maybe Corey’s used to it …
‘Just water, thanks,’ I say to the hostess who approaches at that moment. I never touch alcohol in places like this because I prefer to stay in control, although for the first time in forever I’m tempted. If anyone could drive me to drink, I have a feeling it would be Leif I-stare-at-people-for-no-apparent-reason Olsen.
The silence between us seems to drag on forever. Not that it’s really silent, obviously. The music is actually deafening. But standing side by side like this feelssouncomfortable. My skin is prickling because I’m so acutely aware of him, but I’ve made at least two attempts at conversation and I refuse to try again.
Thankfully, the hostess returns with my water, which I gulp down and set aside in record time. I’m still not ready to dance, but anything has to be better than this.
I’m just turning to say goodbye when somebody bumps into me from behind, knocking me straight into Leif’s chest. Automatically I lift my hands, fingers splaying outwards, while his come up to grasp my triceps. I get an instant impression of rippling pectoral muscles and an earthy fragrance thatbypasses my brain and rockets straight to a low-down spot in my body. We’re pressed against each other so closely I can feel his heartbeat thumping hard and heavy through our clothes, making mine race in response.
I’m totally unprepared for the volcano of heat that erupts inside me at his touch. I jerk my head up in surprise, but meeting his gaze makes the situation a hundred times worse. His pupils are so dilated his eyes look thunderously black rather than blue and a muscle is twitching in his cheek, like touching me is some kind of punishment, which is kind of ironic when he’s the one holding me.
‘Sorry.’ I yank myself backwards, wrenching my arms away.
‘It’s OK.’ He speaks –finally!– and even though I’ve heard his voice plenty of times in interviews, hearing it in person is a shock. It’s deep and accented and seems to vibrate across my skin and through my body, making me feel weirdly off-balance. Perhaps he senses it, because his gaze flickers down to my legs and then quickly up again. I have no idea how to read his expression this time either.
‘Um, I’m going … to dance …’ I mutter, gesturing in the direction of my friends. It’s all I’m capable of at this moment. Despite the water I downed, my throat’s drying up and my arms are tingling like they’ve been scorched by his fingertips.
Panic flashes through me. I have to go, to get as far away from Leif Olsen as possible. My composure isn’t just undermined, it’s utterly wrecked.
1. Shower
2. Unpack
3. Coffee
4. Find a job
5. Shopping (milk, lasagne, apples, thank-you gift for M&G)
Ava Yearwood, To-do List, 26 May
TWO
I COME TO A decision. I’ve pined for long enough. I need to forget Quezada (at least temporarily), be practical and get a job. Preferably one with a six-month contract.
I decide this the morning after the Monaco GP – approximately two minutes after Gio and Maisie drop me back home after our early flight – and I get straight to work. My flat, which I rent cheaply from my cousin, is as clean and tidy as I left it, so I write a brief to-do list, take a shower, unpack my small suitcase, pull on some purple leggings and my Eras Tour T-shirt and head for the kitchen.
Placing my laptop on the table, I arrange a row of cue cards and pens beside it, make an espresso and then start browsing employment websites.I should have done this sooner, I think – at least a couple of months ago – but I just kept hoping that some kind of opportunity would come up with Quezada. Since it hasn’t, however, I need to devote today to finding employment.
An hour later, I have a list of possibilities and a satisfying sense of being back in control. It might sound weird to some people, but I find lists inherently soothing. There was a timewhen I maybe went a little too far with them –get out of bed, get dressed, brush teeth– but now I’m in a much better headspace, and I know how to stay there.
I’m halfway through my first job application when there’s a distinctive knock on the door, two sharp bursts of three raps. I don’t need to look to know who it is, though I’m surprised to hear it at noon on a Monday.
‘Dan!’ My brother’s apparel is an even bigger surprise. Instead of his usual smart suit, he’s dressed in blue shorts, a Nirvana T-shirt and a pair of new and expensive-looking Nike trainers. More alarmingly, he’s clutching the edge of my doorframe, his copper-brown curls damp with sweat as he bends over and gasps for breath. ‘Have you –’ I peer closer – ‘been jogging?’
‘Yes.’ His green eyes, the same seaweed shade as my own, glance up and then away. ‘Don’t look so shocked.’
‘I can’t help it. I thought jogging was my thing, not yours.’
‘I’ve just started.’
‘OK.’ I make a face because he’s still panting really hard. ‘No offence, but I’m not sure you’re doing it right.’
