Sweatpants at Tiffanie’s: The funniest and most feel-good romantic comedy of 2018!

Sweatpants at Tiffanie’s: The funniest and most feel-good romantic comedy of 2018! Pernille Hughes The knock out romantic comedy of the year!This brilliant, funny love story is perfect for fans of Jo Watson, Mhairi McFarlane and Zara Stoneley.True love packs a punch…‘Punchy, pacy and packed with wit and warmth’ Sunday Times bestseller Cathy Bramley‘Absolutely loved Sweatpants at Tiffanie’s… I devoured every page’ Holly Martin‘A fun, smart, sassy read full of likeable characters that stayed with me long after the last page’ Bestselling author Alex BrownTiffanie Trent is not having a great week. Gavin, her boyfriend, has dumped her unceremoniously on their tenth anniversary, leaving her heartbroken and homeless.Frank Black, the owner of Blackie’s boxing gym and where Tiff has been book-keeper for the last decade, has dropped dead. He's not having a great week either.And if that wasn’t enough, Mike ‘The Assassin’ Fellner, boxer of international fame and Tiff’s first love, is back in town and more gorgeous than ever. Tiff can’t seem to go anywhere without bumping into his biceps.When she discovers Blackie has left her the gym, Tiff, with her saggy trackies and supermarket trainers, is certain she’ll fail. Can Tiff step up and roll with the punches, or will she be down and out at the first round? A division of HarperCollinsPublishers www.harpercollins.co.uk HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018 Copyright © Pernille Hughes 2018 Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com) Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018 Pernille Hughes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008307707 Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008307691 Version: 2018-06-28 To Ian, my love, as always. Table of Contents Cover (#ud529d17b-2c2f-55b5-8483-00b50691c48f) Title Page (#u77bf0889-3379-529f-a853-2749d7d213ff) Copyright (#ub5f793bf-e991-5cac-857d-080f2621edd4) Dedication (#u8570869b-e7c5-59fc-93e0-24008b49f1a1) Chapter 1 (#u23a6f05f-2dd4-5752-b21f-825842aa50d3) Chapter 2 (#uc1c0c072-e3d8-50e9-9ea0-ca6a6b1eb6c3) Chapter 3 (#u0bb66803-c8f2-5c23-bd8b-63ae471c2d38) Chapter 4 (#u82edbeda-ca68-5649-95e0-57af3004057b) Chapter 5 (#u2e07b345-b081-5c10-a8cf-89cb2289de7a) Chapter 6 (#u2104bca6-703e-543e-baec-bab4a96cae92) Chapter 7 (#u017a889f-dda4-5e5e-a0ef-60711fc2481f) Chapter 8 (#u06867cfc-e5d5-5ac6-ba1b-86de746f1805) Chapter 9 (#uc0ecb2ce-b977-5138-b808-4c37f187d522) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 (#ue4f00a25-5f47-57f2-8688-cb447ead8811) It took balls to dump someone on your anniversary, but that was one of the things Tiffanie had always admired about Gavin: his single-mindedness and determination (not his balls as such, because he’d recently developed a thing for all-over waxing and she’d never been quite sure). ‘So today felt like the right day to draw it to a conclusion, Tiff,’ he said, scoping his eyes over his plate, the steak still steaming from the skillet. Usually she liked the smell of steak, tonight it made her want to hurl. ‘Closure, you know? Neat and tidy. So when you look back on it you’ll know it was ten years exactly.’ Tiff couldn’t quite work out why that would be relevant, but it seemed logical to Gavin. ‘What about when you look back on it?’ she asked, totally dazed and not a little confused. She’d been delighted when he told her they were going to Lorenzo’s; their usual table booked in the bay window. She’d bought herself a new dress to mark the occasion. Ten years. Many marriages didn’t last that long. Marriage. That was where Tiff thought the night might head, as she’d given him a handmade card that morning and a new watch. He’d simply thanked her, kissed her forehead and deposited the box on the bedside table. She figured he’d wear it later to the restaurant where he’d give her Forever in return. That’s what she’d thought. ‘Me?’ he asked surprised, as if the notion of recalling their relationship after tonight hadn’t occurred to him. ‘I’ll think we had a decent innings. A neat ten-year package.’ He popped a chunk of steak into his mouth, and she watched as his delight at the taste crossed his face. ‘But why?’ she asked, at a loss. Gavin was her Everything. ‘Why does it need to be a package? Why can’t we carry on?’ While he saw some neat package, all she could see was her world unravelling and changing. In Tiff’s experience, change was rarely a good thing. Gavin sighed deeply. He took his time chewing the meat. Gavin had always been a keen masticator. ‘We’ve been over this, Tiff.’ He’d been talking for some time, calmly and persuasively, but she’d zoned out approximately when, instead of saying ‘I love you and will you do me the stupendous honour of being my wife?’, he’d pronounced the words, ‘Tiff sweetheart, we’ve had a good run, I think we should call it a day.’ Everything thereafter was a foggy haze. ‘We’re going different places, Tiff. You’re happy where you are, but I’ve got ambitions I need to realise, and it’d be unfair to drag you through all the stress I’m going to face. You’ll be happier without all of that.’ ‘You’re dumping me, so I can be happier?’ This did not make any sense. Despite a disrupted education, Tiff had always thought herself quite a bright, logical thinker and this sounded bonkers. ‘Not dumping, Tiff,’ he insisted, throwing an eye-roll in for her apparent crassness. ‘More like setting free.’ ‘You’re setting me free like some orphaned animal?’ She pinched herself, in case it was a hallucination. Nope. Maybe if she stabbed her thigh with her fork… ‘Hmm, okay, no,’ Gavin conceded, ‘maybe more like protecting you from pain to come.’ He seemed happier with that analogy and took another mouthful of the steak. Tiff looked down at her lasagne. Never had comfort food looked so unappealing. ‘But Gav, I’m willing to support you through any stress. That’s what being a couple is about. Supporting each other, right?’ She needed to understand how he saw this as sensible, before she could suggest how nonsensical it truly was. Breaking this down to basics seemed the logical way to go. She wasn’t used to this, the disagreeing with Gavin. He was a born leader and she’d always considered it a blessed part of their relationship. She didn’t know where she’d be now – in life that is, not this bizarre conversation – if it hadn’t been for that. ‘’Course it is, and we’ve done that, haven’t we? I’ve supported you through all the stuff with your parents, but I couldn’t put you through more. I need to do this alone, for your sake.’ Honestly, Tiff couldn’t make head nor tail of it. She was fighting an awful lump in her throat and her eyes were rather stingy. ‘For my sake?’ ‘Definitely,’ he nodded and attacked his food again. She didn’t want hers anymore. Lorenzo’s lasagne was epic and she always chose it, even though she’d known it wasn’t the smartest idea. The dress she’d splashed out on was a snug fit. Shops had obviously started changing their sizing again. ‘After ten years together, Gav,’ she asked carefully, keen not to offend, ‘are you really choosing tonight and here, where we had our first date, to tell me you want to end it?’ Putting it as plainly as that, surely he’d see how ridiculous it was? And if not ridiculous, then at least appalling. Tiff was confused; he’d never been either of those two things before. In Tiff’s world Gavin was simply the best thing since sliced bread. ‘Start on our new paths,’ he corrected, underlining it with a gesticulation of his knife. Tiff watched the splat of horseradish sauce land on her wine glass. ‘New paths,’ Tiff repeated, ‘which are in opposite directions.’ ‘Well, more like mine is moving forward,’ Gav said, giving it due consideration, ‘and you’ve already reached where you want it to be, I think. That’s probably quite lucky, you know. Reaching your point of equilibrium. I’m still searching. I may never find it, Tiff, all I know is I need to try.’ Tiff had never gone looking for her equilibrium before, least of all assessed its status. She looked down at her lap, where she’d twisted her napkin to the point of fully wrung-out. It matched the feeling in her chest. Lorenzo’s choice of melancholy violin music wasn’t helping. ‘Have you been watching those life coaching DVDs again, Gav?’ She didn’t know why he was so addicted to them. He’d brought more home this week, with some cap-toothed tosser in a sharp suit evangelising about ‘finding your path, pursuing it with tenacity and fortitude and casting off the deadwood from your life’. Not for a second had Tiffanie considered that she might be the deadwood. Gavin abruptly stopped chewing. ‘They talk a lot of sense, Tiffanie,’ he said, affronted and treating her to a rare view of his semi-chewed food, ‘They teach you to focus. If I want to attain a state of contentment like you, then I need to focus, and not get distracted.’ ‘You … you think I’m a distraction now?’ How had she gone from partner to distraction in the matter of fifteen minutes? At this rate she’d be rendered a fleeting acquaintance by dessert. The sense of her life evaporating before her made her sway. ‘Sweetheart,’ he smirked, ‘you have always been a distraction…’ Momentarily, Tiff’s heart fluttered. If he still desired her then …, ‘But I need to be stronger now. For both of us.’ He punctuated the sentence by wolfing his last morsel. Breaking up clearly wasn’t affecting his appetite. ‘What makes you think I’ve reached the end of my path?’ she suddenly asked. ‘What makes you think mine isn’t the same as yours?’ ‘It isn’t,’ he stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the history of obvious things. ‘It might be,’ she said, hoping he’d reconsider. ‘How would you know?’ ‘You’ve settled, Tiff,’ he said, looking at her intently. He came across, she had to admit, as utterly sure. ‘You’re comfortable, and you’ve stopped striving. And that’s great for you. It really is. I’m delighted for you.’ His benevolent smile supported every word he said. ‘But I need to go on. I haven’t found my place yet.’ ‘You’re leaving?’ she whispered. Was this really what he was saying? Really really? ‘You don’t mean we have a break while you follow this path?’ Even the thought of a break left a wrecking ball-shaped dent in her lungs, but she was scrabbling around in damage-limitation mode. Everything was coming apart at the seams. ‘No, sweetheart. Never go backwards. You know that. I walk slowly but I never walk backwards, Tiff. Abe Lincoln.’ He took the moment to refill his wine glass. Tiff had hardly touched hers, but was suddenly overcome by the need to neck the entire glass in one. It still left her mouth feeling dry. ‘And,’ he added gently, ‘technically the flat is mine, so…’ It was enough to make her choke. ‘You want me to leave?’ she heard herself squeak. Her head was swimming now. Tiffanie felt she was a reasonable woman. She’d generally been realistic about life since she’d moved out of her mum’s at seventeen. All things considered, she could easily have gone off the rails. But she hadn’t; she’d found herself maths-tutoring jobs to fund herself through college, she’d got her bookkeeping qualifications, and she’d managed to build up her tiny but loyal roster of clients. That said, she’d only ever lived at home and then with Gavin. GQ-handsome estate agent Gavin, who had been her knight-in-shining-armour and saved her. He, their flat and work were her life. With such a focused world, how exactly had she missed it going pear-shaped? ‘I knew you’d understand,’ he nodded, mopping his plate with a tear of bread. ‘But look, I’m on that residential thing next week, so you’ve got time to find somewhere new or Shelby’ll have you, I’m sure.’ ‘But Gavin,’ Tiff started, now utterly desperate, ‘I love you. Yes, I’m happy, because I’m where I want to be – with you.’ Gavin nodded gently along. ‘Sure.’ ‘Sure what?’ ‘Sure, that’s the place where you’re at. Contentment. That’s what I’ve been saying.’ ‘But then what’s to change, Gav? Isn’t that what people strive for? Happiness. Contentment. Being with the person they love?’ ‘Yes.’ And then it hit her like a frying pan in the face. ‘Oh. So what you’re saying is, you don’t love me. All this stuff about setting me free, is you saying you don’t love me and you want me gone.’ Her voice had gone up a couple of decibels and octaves, as the full horror set in. If he didn’t want her, then where did that leave her? It wasn’t just the rug he was pulling out from under her, but the entire planet. Everything she now was, was down to him. She was aware other diners were beginning to discuss them, their furtive looks not nearly as subtle as they thought. Lorenzo’s was one of those quiet intimate restaurants, all subdued lighting and discretion. Not the appropriate venue for a heart-wrenching meltdown. ‘Of course not, Tiffanie. Calm down. I’ve loved you for a long time – still do – and that’s why I can see we need to end. I haven’t fulfilled myself yet and I need to. I can’t take you on this journey.’ ‘You can’t mean that, Gav,’ she gulped down with a sniffle, the tears now threatening to get the better of her. ‘That can’t be right.’ ‘That’s the truth, Tiffanie, and being honest, I’m rather disappointed you aren’t wanting me to be happy and content like you.’ ‘I’ve always wanted the best for you, Gav,’ she said, as one fat tear broke over the rim of her eye, rolling morosely down her cheek and into her B?chamel sauce. He laid his hand on hers and gave it a brisk squeeze. ‘Then I know you’ll agree to do this calmly and rationally. We shouldn’t fight about this, we’re above that, aren’t we?’ It was true, they didn’t fight. Never had. She’d always followed his lead, confident he knew best. Which had her so conflicted now, on top of the abject misery and disappointment. In the end, what depleted any resistance she might have had was the recognition that when you stripped it all down, he didn’t want to be with her, and given his presence of mind, he’d known this for some time. Essentially, Gavin had been clearing his path for a while, and she’d missed all the signs. ‘Is there someone else?’ ‘No, there’s no one else, Tiff,’ he sighed wearily. ‘You simply don’t want me.’ Her shoulders wanted to let her head hang, but fear of being an embarrassment forced her to hold her chin up. ‘I simply know our journey has come to an end.’ Looking at him now across the table, she knew he was decided. After precisely ten years, everything she had depended on, gained security from, was over. And while he thought he was offering her closure, in fact she felt only loss, exposure and pain underlined by one key question; what would she do – what could she do – without Gavin? The flat felt odd as soon as she walked in. Nothing tangible was different and yet everything had changed. It was no longer their home. Everything would be divvied up as either his or hers. While she currently moved like a shell-shocked automaton, soon they’d be tiptoeing around each other, being cordial. Only it wouldn’t even be that, seeing as he wouldn’t be there. His course started in the morning. Smoothly sliding off his jacket, Gavin headed straight for the bedroom. Tiffanie stood in the lounge unsure what to do. She urgently needed to bury herself under her duvet, armadillo into a ball and sob her heart out. She figured she’d wait while he got his pillow from their bed. There was a chenille throw over the sofa-arm he could use; surely, as the injured party she got first dibs on the duvet? ‘Look, we’re both grown-ups, we’ll share the bed tonight, won’t we?’ Gavin called from the bedroom. ‘I’m up early tomorrow, so I’ll need the sleep and the sofa won’t cut it.’ He stuck his head back around the door. ‘Unless you want the sofa tonight? The bed’s all yours for the rest of the week.’ Tiffanie eyed the sofa. It was Gavin’s pride and joy; a long black leather monstrosity, all cubey and no comfort. He believed it made the space look like a loft, but it was the pits for curling up and watching telly. Even Newsnight wasn’t meant to be watched sitting bolt upright. ‘One night,’ Tiff told herself. ‘You can do this.’ One night next to the man she loved who apparently didn’t want her anymore. One night holding back the sobs racking around inside her body. She could manage that, she reckoned. Silently she walked into the bedroom, grabbed her PJs and changed in the bathroom. Normally they’d lie sprawled loosely around each other. She liked it best when he had an arm or a leg thrown over her. It made her feel safe; anchored in life. Until now he’d been her point of stability. Tonight Gavin lay on his back, arms draped easily across his chest, having fallen asleep with insulting ease. Tiff itched to have some contact with him, but felt she couldn’t when his mind was so made up. She could see the silhouette of his suitcase. He’d obviously packed it knowing when he left the following morning, he’d be walking away from their shared life. Mind churning in the dark, she suspected she hadn’t put up much of a fight. She’d instinctively recognised his persuasive It’s a done deal frame of mind. She’d seen it so many times; furniture, restaurants, brands, and essentially, if it was important to him, then it was important to her. After all he’d done for her, she valued his happiness above all else, so what did one swanky venue matter over another? One snazzy chair was probably as good as the next. (Except for the sofa. That bloody thing had always been a mistake.) The conclusion she came to, as she lay staring at the ceiling at 02.42, was she hadn’t sufficiently defended their relationship. Show him what he’ll be missing, she thought, knowing he wouldn’t be budged by any argument. Show him how good we are together. Slowly, veeery slowly, she began to wiggle her PJ bottoms off. Getting the long-sleeved T over her head wasn’t hard, given how stretched out of shape it was. She froze as Gavin emitted a low snore, but used the next one to cover her rustling as she shimmied down the bed to his feet. She kissed the ball of his ankle. Feeling emotionally frail already, his toes felt beyond her capabilities tonight. There were limits. Gavin didn’t flinch as she continued with fairy kisses around his ankle, then up his calf to his knee, where she noted his skin, if not his mind, was beginning to sense something was afoot. Emboldened by this, she continued in an enthusiastic upward projection. Sex had never been one of the areas in which Tiff felt particularly proficient. She’d met Gavin having only had one partner, which had primarily been teenage fumblings culminating in a highly-orchestrated and disproportionately-brief losing of virginities. At the time, she’d thought this one-off event was a sound base on which to build what could become an epic repertoire. Circumstances had altered that course. Gavin, in contrast, was experienced; he knew what to do and what he liked. Feeling she wasn’t in any position to critique, Tiff had embraced the positive opinion that by following his lead she’d side-step a lot of awkward experimenting and possible faux pas. Over the last decade, their moves had been firmly cemented. Surely that was a good thing, knowing what worked? ‘Dull routine,’ Shelby called it, but then her best friend had dated, bedded and graded most of Kingsley. Tonight though, Tiff was going to have to give Gavin something to think about while he was away. She was going to give him the proverbial ride of his life. God, she wished she’d had more to drink. She woke to the front door shutting. Nothing dramatic, but hardly closed with any worry of disturbance. A note lay on the other pillow. She smiled dozily. He wasn’t sliding out without a goodbye. Her efforts hadn’t been in vain. The smirk stretched across her face as she recalled snippets of the night; how she’d reached his groin to find that clearly the idea of sex with her was still a point of interest on his supposed path. When she’d felt his fingers threading through her hair encouraging her on, something in her had flipped, sending her into overdrive, as she employed every move she could remember him ever requesting. On other occasions she’d woken up feeling self-conscious, but not this morning. Emotional rollercoaster as the previous evening had been, with the sun now streaming in through the window onto the mussed bed, Tiffanie felt brave and vindicated, slightly slutty and bloody good about herself. ‘You were a vixen, Tiff, a sex minx,’ she told herself. She’d fought her corner, she’d shown her man what he’d seriously considered passing up. She’d excelled herself. She didn’t quite know where it’d come from, but more importantly, though the whole event had happened without a single word, Tiff knew they’d understood one another implicitly. Intrigued, she slid her hand up to snag the note with her fingertips. Obviously he wouldn’t be apologising, that wasn’t his style at all – shows weakness, Tiff, weakness gives others opportunity. He’d most likely gloss gracefully over the whole thing, tell her when he’d be home, and she could return to life before dinner last night. Flopping over onto her back, she unfolded it. Didn’t we go out with a bang?! That was the perfect closure. Thanks and all the best. Gavin. Chapter 2 (#ue4f00a25-5f47-57f2-8688-cb447ead8811) ‘He’s an arsehat, Tiff,’ Shelby stormed down the phone when Tiff, through snot-bubbling tears, explained why she wasn’t heading to work. They usually chatted on their respective ways in, insisting it was multi-tasking. But chatting had been dropped this morning, in lieu of Tiff’s keening account of what had occurred at Lorenzo’s, followed by Shelby’s barked orders to get up, get dressed and get moving. Tiff and Shelby were ardent advocates of tough-love. Judging people on reality TV had taught them that. Which was fine when each of them was comfortable in their own lives. Right now though, huddled under the duvet, phone clutched limply in hand, Tiff wasn’t feeling the benefits. ‘I … I can’t,’ Tiff sobbed, proper ugly-crying. She felt like an empty shell. An empty shell covered in lashings of humiliation. ‘You can and you will, babes,’ Shelby insisted, and hung up. Next thing Tiff knew, there was an insistent banging on the front door, which revealed a mission-set Shelby, work-ready in her beautician’s uniform. Brooking no argument, Shelby frog-marched her through the dressing process until Tiff was vaguely presentable and moving along the street. ‘No man, especially that one, is going to bring your life to a halt. It’s a principle thing.’ Shelby had always thought Gavin was a tosser. She had, in fact, been very concise and consistent about this since Tiff had first introduced them. Tiff put it down to an extreme personality clash. Shelby, with her magenta hair, had a fairly extreme personality. ‘I hate to say I told you so, babes…’ Shelby started, as she pulled Tiff along. ‘Then don’t. You’d be one of those mean, small-minded people.’ ‘Fair enough,’ Shelby agreed. ‘Some things don’t need actual saying.’ ‘That’s just as bad, Shelb,’ she sniffed. Perhaps telling Shelby had been a mistake. Not talking about it at all – bottling it up to fester inside her and make her bitter and twisted until years of expensive therapy finally released it – suddenly held more appeal. ‘Best mates do sympathy.’ ‘You don’t need sympathy, Tiff. You can’t see it yet, but this is the best thing that’s happened to you in ages. Since you met me, probably. You need support. That’s what I’m here for.’ ‘Gavin was my support,’ Tiff moaned, the tears starting again. ‘He’s been my rock.’ ‘Still an arsehat,’ Shelby stated. ‘I don’t know why you can’t see it, Tiff. It’s like you have a blind spot where he’s concerned.’ ‘No, Shelby. You just don’t like him. You never have and you refused to try. You see him through mean hole-picky glasses. He loved me. He sorted my life out, made it stable,’ Tiff insisted. ‘He saved me, Shelbs.’ ‘Pff, he fancied you and you were a trophy.’ Had she had any spirit left in her, and had they not already been swimming in salty tears, Tiff would have rolled her eyes at that. It was years since she’d felt like any kind of trophy. The local lads had been interested in her looks in Year Eleven, but she’d been devoted to her sixth-former boyfriend at that point, so they didn’t stand a chance. Then, that summer, everything had turned to crap and she’d gone from queen bee to hitting rock bottom. Miraculously, Gavin had swept her off her feet, helped her escape, shaped and nurtured her and the rest was history. Right until now when, as it turned out, it was Tiff who was history. She couldn’t cope with this. The tough-love was proving too much. ‘Shelby. Shelby, please. Be nice.’ It was a truly pathetic, but heartfelt plea, which nature chose to dramatise by turning on the rain. That was typical weather for the town though. Kingsley was one of those forgotten towns, wedged between hills, bypassed by newer roads and shielded from the buzz and prosperity of bigger neighbours. Although within visual range of the coast on a fair day, it lay beyond the thrill of the seaside; too far to smell the salty air, but close enough for seagulls to come a-crapping when the sea got choppy. Looking in either direction there was an air of ‘Look what you could have had’ for the residents. Shelby stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh babes. I’m sorry.’ She enveloped Tiff in a hug. ‘I really am. It kills me to see you like this.’ Tiff realised how in need of a hug she was. Could they spend the whole day like this? ‘You’re like some ghostly, wraithy shadow of your true self.’ That was exactly how she felt. Wraithy. Shelby stepped back but held onto Tiff’s arms to look at her. ‘And now, having totally repressed you, Gavin drops this bullshit on you, to top it off. It sucks. But I promise we’ll get you through it and bring back the real Tiff.’ ‘Enough Shelby!’ Tiff snapped, pulling away to start walking again. Why couldn’t Shelby see Gavin had been good for her? Ten years of good. ‘You can stay at mine, obvs,’ Shelb offered, catching her. Tiff pulled her hood over her head so Shelb couldn’t see her almost break down anew. Shelby’s studio flat was the size of a stamp and the thought of living away from Gavin threatened to bring her to her knees. ‘Thanks Shelbs,’ she said, trying to control her emotions and look less deranged to passers-by, ‘but I can’t share a bed with you. You talk dirty in your sleep.’ She wasn’t joking. Humour was way beyond her. ‘The futon?’ Shelby suggested, neither insulted, nor denying it. ‘Yes, if I can’t find somewhere before he’s back.’ Tiff knew that futon. It was a back breaker. Maybe with copious wine to numb her senses… ‘Why didn’t you come straight over last night? Arsehat. Him. Not you. Obvs.’ ‘It was late. I thought perhaps I could convince him.’ Tiff cringed at the memory. ‘So long as it was just talking,’ Shelby said. ‘Remember my cousin Simon? Ditches his girlfriend on a regular basis cos he reckons she ups her game in bed to claw him back. Works every time. She’s such a sap.’ Tiff knew cousin Simon, the guy was a douche. Turning out of Grange Road she saw her destination with relief. If she wasn’t allowed to nurse her devastation in bed, then at least she might be able to hide in her numbers. Numbers were stable. You knew where you stood with them. That’s why she loved her work, which was a good thing, as currently it was all she had. ‘Laters Shelbs.’ Feeling every inch the sap, Tiff kissed her goodbye before Shelby could say more about cousin Simon. She had put it all out there for Gavin and he’d put it firmly back in its box. Argh, thinking about it made her want to curl up and die. She was going to look up ‘humiliated’ and ‘mortified’, to see which best applied. What must he think now? Sweat bloomed at the thought; on her league table of fears, ridicule was securely in the medal spots. Blackie’s Gym was Tiffanie’s favourite client, by virtue of being her first client and because of Blackie himself. Knocking eighty now, he’d been a friend of her late grandparents. He’d given her a break when she needed one, and she’d always be grateful for that. Plus, they genuinely got on well for the three days a week where she did his books in the office above the gym. Blackie’s wasn’t your modern kind of gym, with treadmills and MTV on monitors. Blackie’s was a vintage-throwback boxing gymnasium, out on the Eastcote Road. Firmly in the rougher edge of town, the gym sat on a small commercial estate, most of which was rundown and scheduled for development. Not Blackie’s though. Local nostalgic sentiment, underpinned by Blackie’s obstinance, meant the place was as good as listed. The three-storey building, which could only be described as an ugly black block, had been getting scallies off the streets and into the sport for generations. Blackie’s view was if lads were going to fight they might as well do it with rules and dignity. There wasn’t a grandad or dad in town who hadn’t set foot in Blackie’s ring at least once in their youth. ‘Morning B,’ she sighed as she passed his desk, pausing only to drop him a kiss on his bald pate. Crying exhausted her. This marathon of tears had her depleted. ‘Morning love,’ he answered in his rasping voice, the result of shouting at errant youths since his thirties. ‘What’s making you sigh this morning? Weather?’ ‘Hardly,’ she mumbled. ‘Takes more than a little rain to get to me.’ She’d hoped she could deflect him, but he was having none of it. ‘That man of yours?’ Blackie wasn’t a fan of Gavin; another one who wasn’t, but then no-one else knew him like she did, knew what he’d done for her. Loyalty aside, she couldn’t help but let her shoulders sag. Her entire body wanted to follow suit. ‘He’s not my man anymore, Blackie. He ended it last night. Said we had different paths in life.’ Blackie fixed her across the small office with a long stare, assessing the situation. ‘What a prat,’ he finally pronounced. Tiff turned away, busying herself at her desk, thankful it faced the wall. Blackie wouldn’t see the wave of panic as she felt the need to weep again. ‘How long’s that been?’ ‘Ten years. Exactly.’ She plumped into her seat and with shaky fingertips touched all her things on the desk, checking them, owning them, showing herself some things at least, were constant. Soon this would be the only space she belonged to. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘That’s longer than my marriages.’ The first Mrs Black had been a decent woman, though a force to be reckoned with. She’d given Blackie the kick up the backside to establish the gym in the first place. Had a bus not felled her, she would have defied any illness life threw at her. His marriage to the second Mrs Black wasn’t a resounding success, but knowing the gym to be a lucrative business, she’d done her utmost to cling on. ‘Still, you’re young,’ he went on, ‘and you’ve no bairns, Tiff. You can move on, find someone who’ll appreciate you. Like I do,’ he added, with a chortle, which became a wheezing fit. On auto-pilot, Tiff fired up the computer. While it churned itself on, she stared at the screen trying to contain the impending wail in her throat. It was way too early for the ‘plenty more fish in the sea’ speeches. It was also too soon to hear how everyone always considered Gavin a prat, though she’d been unable to prevent that too. For once it made her stand up for herself. ‘Gavin is a brilliant guy, Blackie,’ she said, without turning around. She couldn’t do this face to face. ‘He’s driven, hardworking and focused. He looked after me, gave me a home, loved me, and sorted my life when I needed it. I could depend on him. He helped me grow as a person, he was always suggesting ways I could improve myself. And while he might not believe in flowers, cards or Valentine’s Day,’ Tiff paused only to gain her breath, but it was long enough to catch Blackie’s audible gasp behind her, ‘he’s always remembered my birthday, which was more than Mum’s done for the last decade. So please Blackie, just for this week, could you not say anything about moving on or about how I can do better?’ The room was filled with silence and Tiff knew he’d taken her words on board. She could feel the contriteness behind her. Blackie didn’t offer an apology, but then she loved him and she didn’t require one. She felt better for having said her piece. He might not judge her so harshly for being with Gavin. After all she had Shelby for that. They spent the next hours in silence, as Tiff stared at the subscription fees, trying to reconcile the figures and sort the tax, but failing in all of it. Nothing seemed to go in and the cogs had ground to a halt. Normally this was child’s play to her. Blackie was a stickler for his tax, insistent he’d pay his dues to the Queen, and never owe a penny. Tiff regularly wished others closer to her had shared the same principles. How different her life might have been… At eleven o’clock she gave up. She figured the silence between them had gone on for long enough, and it was time for a truce. ‘Cuppa tea, Blackie?’ she asked, turning in her chair. Blackie was staring at her, but there was no recognition in his eyes. She was across the room in seconds. Holding his already cold hand as she knelt by his chair, she tried not to think about how long he’d been sat there, lifeless, behind her. * ‘D’you think sunshine is technically possible at funerals?’ Tiff asked, distracting herself from Shelby’s outfit. It was more of a Friday night clubbing dress, but at least it was black. ‘Dunno. It’s always been this lame drizzle at the ones I’ve been to. How hard can it be to commit one way or the other?’ The dove-grey sky over the church perfectly complemented Tiff’s inner status: ‘bleak with a risk of downpour’. Kingsley being a small town, Tiff knew the majority of the congregation. Shelby knew at least half of them intimately and enthusiastically greeted them all, even snapping selfies with a few. Everyone, it seemed, had wanted to give Blackie a good send off. Considering he had no blood relatives, Tiff felt Blackie would’ve been chuffed to bits with the turnout, although he wouldn’t have been convinced by Shelby’s Instagram and Twitter coverage. Despite being barely inclined to pull a brush through her hair that week, Tiff had managed most of the arrangements herself. He’d left clear instructions with his solicitor and oldest mate Eric Leonards, who stood with them at the graveside. Blackie had pre-paid for everything, including the after-do at the Pig & Whistle down the street from the gym. ‘Well, he knew what he wanted and he got it, I think,’ said Leonards. They’d all sat together in the left-hand front pew. The second Mrs Black and her scowling son had taken residence in the front right. To all intents and purposes she’d acted as if there’d never been any divorce, let alone a screaming train-wreck such as theirs. ‘She looks like a mafia widow,’ Shelby had whispered for at least four rows to hear. ‘I doubt those tears are real,’ Tiff said more discretely out the side of her mouth. Personally, she wasn’t sure she herself had any left, such was the near-constant outpouring in the recent days. If she wasn’t weeping as she sorted Blackie’s arrangements, she was sobbing over Gavin. It was tear tag. Fake tears would’ve been handy. ‘Not a chance. Pure crocodile – to match her shoes.’ Tiff sneaked a glance. They looked expensive and spikey. Much like their owner. Tiff had met her before when she appeared in the office demanding advances on her spousal allowance. Tiff failed to see what Blackie had been thinking getting involved with her, but then as Shelby had noted, he probably wasn’t thinking, at least not with his head. She was, whilst being bereft of any virtuous qualities, in possession of a mind-boggling set of boobs. Well, thought Tiff benevolently, Blackie was only human. ‘You’ve done a sterling job, Miss Trent. He’d have been over the moon with all the people who’ve come,’ Leonards now said to Tiff, rubbing the remnants of grave soil off his hands. ‘Well, by his age he’d met enough,’ Shelby pointed out, ‘He’d had a decent innings.’ Tiff hated that phrase this week; Gavin’s words echoed constantly in her ears. ‘Right, who’s for the pub?’ Shelby said, clapping her hands together. ‘I am gagging for a drink.’ She headed towards the cars. ‘God, I hope there’s enough money behind the bar,’ she muttered. Leonards chuckled behind her. ‘It’s all taken care of. The landlord will pass on the bill if there’s a shortfall.’ He paused, then said gently, ‘You should relax now, Miss Trent. It’s been a difficult few days.’ Tiff nodded. It had indeed, on the grand scale of pants, been a steaming pile of a week. Aside from grieving for Blackie, lamenting Gavin, forcing herself to visit her two remaining clients and overseeing the funeral at super-fast speed under Blackie’s instruction of ‘get me sorted quick as billy-oh’, she’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to find somewhere to live. All the rental properties she’d had details for looked shocking. Maybe she wasn’t desperate enough yet. A week on Shelby’s futon would sort that no doubt, but for now she allowed herself to procrastinate; crawling into her own bed for the final few nights and blubbing uncontrollably. She’d think about the future tomorrow. Leonards squeezed her shoulder as they passed through the gate. ‘I need to see you, Miss Trent, regarding the will. Is Monday morning 9 a.m. convenient?’ ‘Me?’ Tiff asked, surprised, but then she supposed it made sense; there’d be the financial records to hand over to whoever inherited the gym. Would it be very bad form to offer her continued services to the new owners? What was the etiquette on touting for business at will readings? ‘Miss Trent?’ Leonards interrupted her thinking, making her feel guilty. What sort of a person thought about scoring work out of their dead friend? A bad one, she answered herself. An imminently skint and homeless one, she countered herself back. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll be there,’ she said and tried not to groan. Pulling the paperwork together would easily consume the hours she’d allowed for flat-hunting. But handing over a decent report was the least she could do on Blackie’s behalf, and who knew, they might ask her to stay. She chided herself again for the profligate thoughts. This wasn’t who she was. She hoped she could attribute it to the lack of sleep; she was so tired she could hardly walk straight. ‘Yes,’ Leonards continued, ‘Blackie recognised the support you’ve given him. It shouldn’t be a surprise he’s left some words for you. Just look,’ he gestured at the dispersing crowd, ‘you did that. For him.’ Tiff’s eyes followed his hand. She’d only done what anyone would have done for an old man who didn’t have any family to speak of. Well, maybe not the second Mrs Black, but anyone else. For all her posturing in the church, she’d briskly detached herself from any organising when Tiff had called her, asking only to be informed of where and when. It sent a chill down Tiff’s spine how someone could behave like that. Pulling her jacket closer, her eyes came to rest on a figure standing to the side of the church porch. Tall and broad-shouldered, the man stood with his hands clasped reverently in front of him. Next to him, on the most gravity-defying heels Tiff had ever seen, stood a younger blonde woman with her hair hanging loose, almost down to the hem of her skirt, which ended just under the curve of her bottom. It was safe to say Blackie was no longer the focus of the crowd’s attention. But Tiff’s eyes were on the guy. The way his head was cocked slightly to one side, looking at her, appeared deliberate. At first, she hoped he’d remove his sunglasses to give her a better look at his face, work out why he was gazing so intently at her, but as she focused on his features; his shaved dark hair, his tawny brown skin, she realised he wasn’t in fact wearing any. He was simply sporting two shockingly-fresh black eyes. A couple of the other boxers wore a bruise or two from recent bouts, but nothing as severe as this. The way he stood, totally still, made an already exhausted Tiff anxious. It’d been a tough day already and now this. Realising she was staring, Tiff dropped her gaze and started making her way beside Leonards. ‘Tiff! I’m dying here,’ Shelby shouted from the car, oblivious to the disapproval from other mourners. ‘My mouth’s as dry as a corpse.’ Much as she would’ve preferred to look away and disown Shelby at that precise moment, the alternative was to look back at the man. Something about him was bothering her, but the punched eyes convinced her she didn’t want to know what that was. Local economy being what it was, Kingsley wasn’t without a criminal element and Blackie’s Gym hadn’t always turned out the most upstanding characters. Some had, Blackie was sad to say, been beyond reformation and gone onto careers in less salubrious or legitimate fields. What with everything else, Tiff felt she had enough on her plate and scuttled on. Chapter 3 (#ue4f00a25-5f47-57f2-8688-cb447ead8811) ‘Drink, Tiff?’ The shout from the bar was a welcome one, as the Pig & Whistle was rammed. There was no way she’d get through, at least not without kicking some shins. Now was exactly the time she needed Shelby’s foghorn mouth and industrious elbows by her side, but she’d been shanghaied on the way from the funeral. The evil Lorraine, Shelby’s generally absent boss, had unexpectedly appeared at the beautician’s salon and had subsequently phoned to shout about Shelby’s scrawled Closed due to bereavement sign on the door. ‘Tiff! Drink?!’ Ron, Blackie’s assistant coach, had noticed her chronic lack of bar-presence and come to her aid. Tiff was briefly stunned by Ron’s offer – he was generally an abrasive man who kept himself to himself, but then funerals often made people behave out of character. ‘Gin and Tonic with a packet of scampi fries, please.’ There were times in life when only scampi fries would do. They had seen Tiff through the woes of her teen life and she needed a pack now. ‘I’ll be over there,’ she shouted across the din, pointing to the far corner where there appeared to be a pocket of air available. Safely tucked into the corner, Tiff surveyed the room. The packed pub was bouncing: the sadness of the day was being sloughed off, as anecdotes about Blackie were bandied back and forth; about his coaching methods, his encyclopaedic knowledge of the sport and from the older set, tales of his own boxing achievements back in the day. By all accounts Blackie could have been something, if not for a leg injury. Instead he’d dedicated himself to furthering the careers of others. There was something pleasing about watching people reminisce. The sad eyes of earlier were now lit up as they drew on memories of Blackie, shared their experiences and celebrated him. ‘Where’s your mate?’ Ron asked gruffly, setting their drinks on the table. ‘Shelby? Currently spitting bricks having been unceremoniously summonsed back to work. I pity anyone being waxed this afternoon.’ Ron looked uncomfortable. Tiff suspected it was more at the mention of women’s grooming than in sympathy. ‘He’d have enjoyed this.’ For a second Tiff saw a hint of a smile on Ron’s face. It was a rare occurrence. He normally nurtured a persona of miserable old git. ‘He’d be totally narked to be missing it,’ she said, letting her own smile unfold for the first time in days. Ron sat down on the nearest stool, legs spread wide in that way blokes had, as if their tackle was simply too huge to be accommodated between closed knees. Tiff took a long slug of her drink, closed her eyes and leaning back into the banquet seat, took her first moment to relax. ‘Know what’s happening to the gym?’ Ron asked. Ah, that explained the friendliness. ‘Nope. You?’ ‘He never said. Just that it’d be left in good hands. He was a vague bugger when it suited him.’ ‘Ha!’ she said with a short mirthless laugh, remembering numerous occasions when Blackie’s hearing got selective and his answers non-committal. ‘But on the other hand, he could be as forthright as they came.’ ‘He didn’t suffer fools,’ Ron said with a nod, clearly concurring with Blackie’s policy. Oh, how she missed him, and it’d only been five days. Ron apparently felt the same, Tiff thought, as they sat in silence. The lack of conversation suited her; she was still slightly freaked by having spoken more words to Ron in the last five minutes than in the last eight years. Ron had joined as assistant coach the year before she started. Tiff sensed the change of atmosphere in the bar almost immediately. A whisper flew through the room followed by a hubbub of greetings by the doors. The mass of boxers, visibly gravitated to someone on the far side. Neither Ron nor Tiff could see who it was, until the crowd parted in a Moses fashion and two people gained instant access to the bar. ‘There’s bar presence for you,’ Ron noted, but Tiff was busy staring. The guy at the bar was the guy at the church, still flanked by the woman in heels. From Tiff’s current position, it was apparent his face was not only bruised, but also very swollen. And under the swelling, his nose bore a strong resemblance to a banana. Whoever he was, he’d recently taken a fair old beating. Ron let out a slow long whistle. ‘Well well well, Blackie would have been flattered, not that you’d recognise him easily.’ Tiff looked from the guy to Ron and back. ‘You know him?’ Tiff knew many of the boxers’ names, but not faces. ‘You must know him. From the telly?’ ‘I don’t watch much telly.’ ‘But you watch the boxing, don’t you?’ ‘Nope. Never,’ she stated, tight-lipped. In spite of working a large part of her week around boxing, she’d always made a point to have nothing to do with the sport after hours. She didn’t watch it, she didn’t read about it. In fact, outside of what was happening inside Blackie’s walls, she refused to listen to news from the boxing world. She had a terrible feeling she might, right now, be looking at the reason for that. ‘He’s a world champion,’ Ron explained, incredulous at her ignorance. ‘Career like a firework; more wins, more titles than anyone else in the shortest time. Fights like he’s angry at the world. Absolutely stellar. But fireworks burn out, don’t they? On the brink of retirement, and given those bruises, I’d say it’s due any minute.’ Ron shook his head. ‘How’s Blackie got on his radar?’ The deep feeling of dread had twisted a knot in Tiff’s belly, but she managed to ask weakly ‘What’s his name, Ron?’ ‘Mike Fellner. Mike “The Assassin” Fellner.’ ‘Right.’ Tiff’s heart sank another rung down the misery ladder. ‘Gotcha.’ No wonder he’d been looking at her. Seriously? As if this week hadn’t been dire enough. Life had pummelled her twice already and here was a brisk jab to the guts. ‘See, I said you’d know him. Household name, even for philistines like you.’ Ron gave her an unimpressed snort, but her focus was on the bar, where ‘The Assassin’ was still greeting fans. Then he was looking for a space to sit or maybe for someone. There were only two empty chairs in the room. Tiff retracted to blend in with the flocked wallpaper. An encounter was not something she could deal with. Not today, not this week. ‘I suppose he must have met Blackie,’ Ron said with a grunt. ‘Blackie was his first trainer,’ she supplied, tersely. She braced herself as she saw him approach the table, feeling in all senses backed into a corner. His date moved away towards the toilets and Tiff briefly considered joining her, then fleeing via a window. ‘You sure?’ Ron asked, unconvinced. ‘He never told me that. Why wouldn’t he have told me that? That’s a great claim to fame.’ Ron’s curiosity had turned to disgruntlement at having been kept out of the loop. ‘How would you know, anyway? You don’t follow the sport.’ Tiff didn’t answer, she’d zoned out, trying to prepare for the imminent arrival. ‘Tiffanie Trent.’ He said it as a statement. His voice was deep and low, but carried as far as it needed to, in spite of the babble of the room. She felt foolish for not having recognised him immediately. But the bruising, the nose, the growing up – ten years did things to faces and bodies. Plus he was the last person she wanted to see. ‘Mikey Fellner.’ She didn’t know what to say, or what to do, so she settled for matching his opener, although she was moved to fidget and pull at her clothes, in an attempt to escape feeling appraised. Fail. Epic fail. Everything about that moment made her want to crawl under the bench. As if she didn’t feel rubbish enough already, seeing him in front of her dredged up every bad thought she’d ever had about herself. He sat without being invited, knees spread wide, trousers taut against monster-muscled thighs. Tiff sensed Ron instinctively retract his own legs fractionally in what she assumed was some weird macho knob deference. Respects paid, Ron introduced himself with uncharacteristic gusto. Tiff experienced a faint sensation of nausea, as Ron gushed on, not put off by the fact Mike’s attention was rock solidly on her. ‘So,’ Ron finally concluded, ‘how do you know each other?’ Mike arched one eyebrow, but he didn’t comment. Instead a silence ensued as they all waited for one of them to fill Ron in. Eventually Tiff caved out of sheer choking discomfort. ‘Mikey and I went to school together, Ron.’ She knew this wasn’t enough of the truth, judging by the way the other eyebrow now met its wingman, but she couldn’t bear to venture deeper into it. Opening it all up, peering at what it had been, examining what it had done to her, would twist the knife in an already debilitating wound. She waited to see if he’d offer more. He did. ‘Ron, mate,’ he started, genuinely as if he’d known Ron forever, ‘this was the first and last girl to break my heart.’ He didn’t say it with any sense of wistful nostalgia; in fact, it felt as if Mike bore a grudge. He had a bloody nerve! He had a bloody nerve even showing up here in his fancy suit with his fancy girlfriend and coming up to her like this. Something shifted in her, something akin to anger that overrode the hurt. ‘Um, want me to leave you to it? Catch up, like?’ Ron was torn; he was sat with a boxing legend, but it was all feeling a bit … squirmy. ‘Stay put, Ron. I’m leaving after this drink,’ she said pointedly, refusing to be intimidated by a man who had no right to try to make her feel bad about the past. He was the one doing the heart-breaking, not her. Tiff tilted her chin at him. ‘It’s been a long week and I’ve got a killer headache.’ This was a whopping lie. She had packing to do, but nobody needed to know that. ‘You look different, Tiff,’ Mike said, ignoring her headache. ‘It’s been ten years, Mikey,’ she snapped, conscious that after the last week, she did not look her best. Sod’s law they’d meet when she was looking rough. ‘You’re hardly the fresh-faced teen.’ ‘You should see the other guy, Angel,’ he countered. Angel. No-one had called her that in years. His tone was curt, and whereas ‘Angel’ had once made her feel special, it now sounded vaguely like a put-down. ‘And don’t let the bruises fool you. Every bruise I ever got brought experience, a lesson to protect myself better next time.’ Tiff knew he was making a point, but she wasn’t having any of it. He had let her down. She held his gaze, trying not to rise to the bait, but the simmering fury kept building. ‘I didn’t recognise you at the church. Maybe it was the blinding ego.’ He was different. He wasn’t that lanky lad anymore, whose body was growing in spurts his self-image couldn’t keep up with. He’d obviously got the muscles from the boxing, but they now balanced his limbs in a way they hadn’t when they were teens. They weren’t the arms she’d stroked and clearly not the chicken’s legs she’d once entwined with her own. She flushed at the thought, then looked away, hoping he wouldn’t notice the bloodrush. ‘Looking a smidge red there, Tiff. Maybe you aren’t used to seeing me with another woman,’ he said, ignoring her swipe. ‘I only had eyes for you back then.’ Well, she definitely wasn’t rising to that. She didn’t give a stuff who he was with. That said, she couldn’t help but think about what his eyes must see now. Last he saw her, she was sixteen, confident – cocky even – the daughter of the local bank manager. Physically she still looked similar. She’d gained some weight, but who didn’t do that when they settled down with someone? That was happiness, right? And her hair could probably do with sorting, but Tiff had learned a long time ago to avoid hairdressers and the insatiable gossiping. But this was a funeral, so she was entitled to look weary and wan, if not slightly dishevelled. He could put it down to grief, rather than her life being a total shitstorm. Not that she cared what he thought either. Why would she care about his opinion? They’d known each other a long time ago, she reminded herself, for an intense but short time, and in the end, they’d crashed and burned. So why should it bother her, when she was deeply in the throes of losing Gavin, what Mikey bloody Fellner saw when he looked at her? After today she doubted they’d meet again, so, pulling herself up in her seat, Tiff decided she’d look him straight in the eye and not be cowed. ‘I’m not used to seeing you at all, Mike. It’s been ten years since you went. Ten years. And you’re long forgotten.’ He made a show of looking around the room, where right on cue all the boxers who’d greeted him earlier looked over. Bastards. ‘Clearly not that forgotten.’ ‘Oh, get a grip, Mike.’ She was finding it hard resisting the urge to punch him in the face. ‘They don’t remember you; they didn’t know you. They’re just celebrity gogglers. World champion or performing seal, same/same to them.’ That garnered her another arched eyebrow. She’d once spent an hour trying to do the eyebrow thing, to no avail. She’d looked like she was experiencing some form of facial seizure. But his reaction now brought her back to the task in hand. She knocked back the remainder of her drink and pulled on her coat. ‘Been keeping an eye on my career, have you?’ he asked, with a particularly smug smile. He was patently enjoying winding her up. Infuriating tosser. ‘Hardly,’ she sneered. ‘Ron just insisted on updating me.’ Ron looked at her, appalled. He hadn’t seen this side of her before, and he definitely didn’t want to be complicit in disrespecting a legend. ‘Really?’ Mike drawled. Not just a git but an arrogant git. ‘Really,’ she shot back. ‘Not remotely interested; not in sport, not in you.’ She stood up, almost shaking from keeping the rage in. ‘And the nickname? Seriously? My best friend’s got a vibrator called “The Assassin”.’ She grabbed her bag and the packet of scampi fries before he could respond. ‘Thanks for dropping by. Blackie would have been touched you bothered.’ See? She could be composed and calm-ish – in spite of the way he’d behaved back then. She also managed ‘brave’ and ‘stoic’ as she stifled an agonised yelp having hit her shin leaving the table. Dammit. She left, trying not to hobble, aware of his eyes drilling into her back and that he hadn’t said goodbye. Well, she should be used to that. Chapter 4 (#ue4f00a25-5f47-57f2-8688-cb447ead8811) Packing was a bitter affair. Tiff’s playlist of Adele’s most heart-wrenching songs was enhanced by a litany of swearwords and pieces of mind she’d like to have sent Mike Fellner’s smug way. His appearing had been a gobsmacking blow, the cherry on this crappy cake of a week. If it hadn’t been happening to her she would’ve applauded the universe on its ingenuity. Pulling the zip across the last bag gave Tiff a feeling of finality that punched her in the solar plexus and slapped her around the chops for good measure. This was really it. The End. The realisation came close to demolishing her. Sitting on the edge of her bed with her face in her hands was the only thing she could do. She’d invested everything in this relationship, this flat, this life with Gavin and it was evaporating in front of her. All she saw before her now was a huge gaping void, which she hadn’t the first clue how to navigate. The trill of her phone didn’t raise her spirits; she didn’t believe this week was capable of good news. Morosely surveying the flat, she picked up. She hadn’t taken the piss in selecting what was hers, though she’d stifled numerous sobs as her fingers brushed over his things. ‘Babes.’ ‘Shelbs.’ ‘Small change of plan,’ Shelby began, and Tiffanie’s heart flattened a bit, having long since hit rock bottom. Conversations regularly started like that. Shelby was a demon for springing surprises; some crucial detail she’d forgotten to mention, or some impromptu something she’d committed them to. ‘I’ve got a date tonight. I know it’s your first night out of your flat, but we’d probably end up watching something shite on the box and that’s boring. You’d only spend the night wallowing, so I figured we should all go out.’ ‘What, like tag along on your date?’ Only Shelby could imagine this was a good idea. Being in close proximity to couples was unbearable. Everything reminded her of Gavin. ‘Precisely. It’s that undertaker. From Blackie’s? The short one. Black hair, shiny teeth. So you already know him.’ ‘I don’t think so, Shelb. You go. Have your date. It’s fine.’ Was this her future now; home alone or gooseberry? ‘Oh. Okay.’ As expected, she didn’t take much persuading, because Shelby was rarely one to turn down a shag. The shiny-toothed undertaker was already on a promise. ‘You get the flat in peace then, and I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll introduce him properly then. This one’s a total H-O-Teeee.’ All of Shelby’s men were ‘total hotties’, though some days Shelby had stronger filters than others. Suddenly the thought of sleeping at Shelby’s or not sleeping rather, (because Shelby was wall-defyingly LOUD) was more than Tiff could handle. ‘Actually, Shelb, I was about to call. About tonight.’ ‘’S’up?’ ‘Well, Gav won’t be home tonight after all.’ Tiff felt awful lying to her best friend, honestly she did, but there were times in life where you had to poo on your moral compass. ‘I thought he was on a course.’ ‘He is. It got extended.’ ‘So how does a course get extended?’ ‘Hmm, I guess they have a bonus day for the brilliant ones,’ Tiff supplied. ‘So, I’ll stay here tonight,’ she moved the conversation on, ‘you know, pack the last things.’ Tiff looked at her bags and boxes lined up by the door. A full week’s laundry sat damp from a last-second wash-cycle in an Ikea bag. Her instinct for clean knickers was the only functioning survival skill she still had faith in. ‘You can spend the evening sowing cress in cock shapes on the carpet and selling his stuff on eBay for 99p,’ Shelby suggested. Tiff looked at the sofa and was tempted. ‘He hasn’t cheated on me, Shelbs. I don’t need revenge for anything. It just petered out. We wanted different things…’ ‘Give me strength,’ Shelby muttered at the other end. ‘Don’t make out like this was some well-considered mutual decision. He decided to ditch you after ten years, on your anniversary, Tiff. His Facebook status was Single by the next day. He doesn’t need anyone else lined up, he’s still the supernova of all arseholes. What’s worse is he doesn’t even think he’s behaved badly, or else he’d never have dared leave you alone in the flat.’ ‘See, Shelb, that’s where you’ve failed to appreciate the relationship we had,’ Tiff said tightly, needing to claw a modicum of dignity, deliberately expunging the Facebook thing from her brain, lest it break her completely. She wasn’t a Facebooker; social media had never been her friend. ‘Gav and I can come out of this as two adults, peacefully, respectfully and without my cutting the crotches out of his suits.’ Shelby had once peed on a guy’s doorstep every Friday night for a full three months, for not calling her. She was sensitive like that. Conversely, it was important to Tiff to vacate the flat in a dignified manner, despite wanting to fling herself wailing across the floor and chain herself to some furniture. Gavin had to think highly of her if she wanted any chance of getting him back. Gavin valued decorum. ‘Look, I’ll call you tomorrow for the lowdown on the hottie,’ Tiff diverted. ‘Night Shelbs.’ ‘Night babes.’ Hanging up, Tiff experienced simultaneous relief and panic. Not staying at Shelby’s had felt vital, but it left her in a quandary of where to go. Gavin was due home at ten and she had to be gone by then. He’d made his position clear, she didn’t want to appear needy nor, for that matter, squatting. As her middle-of-the-night sex offensive – oh god, the shame – had failed so miserably, the only way she’d win Gavin back would be to show him what he was missing in different ways. Who knew, maybe simply not having her around might do it? That could happen, right? He hadn’t called her during the week, and no texts had appeared; obviously he was busy, so coming back to an empty flat, tired without her to fetch him a cold beer and a sandwich might bring home how entwined their paths actually were. Her keys lay on the table by the door. It wasn’t a big bunch; there was the key to the flat, which she’d have to leave; Shelby’s key and the keys to the gym and her car. She could sleep in the car she supposed, although once her bags, boxes and double duvet were in it, she’d be driving with her knees up around her ears. There was only so much you could get into a Tiffany-blue Mini, four doors or not. That’s what happened when your buying criteria was ‘adorable’. Out of sleeping options and time, Tiff decided she’d try the Premier Lodge around the corner from the gym for a couple of nights. In the meantime, she’d reconsider the rental availabilities. Tiff saw her status had shifted from chooser to beggar. She started loading the car with all her earthly belongings. There was no way she’d be able to truck all of this into a hotel room. Shelby’s place was too small for anything more than a spare pair of knickers and her toiletries bag. Jangling the keyring in her hand the answer came to her; storing it all at the gym was the only solution. Thankfully Leonards hadn’t seen fit to take her key back. So surely, until the new owners decided what to do with the place, and repossessed the keys, it was – technically speaking – business as usual. It was purely a matter of temporary storage; it wasn’t like she was moving in or anything. It’d all be out of the way in the back storeroom and gone by Monday night. No harm done. The plan was set. Tiff functioned best when she had a plan. With only ten minutes to spare, a sweating Tiff had successfully vacated the flat, although the final locking of the door had broken her dam of sobs and a wet-patch on the paintwork was testament to her face being propped against it for a while. She was officially homeless. But Gavin was a stickler for time keeping –‘Time is everything, Tiff. Five minutes make the difference between victory and defeat, Horatio Nelson’ – so she’d forced herself off. The last bags were heaved, rammed, then frenziedly kicked into the car, before she was off down the road, keenly aware of her new fall from grace as the streets became increasingly more shabby as she went. The gym was closed out of respect. Walking in with the first bags, being met by a wall of darkness and silence, Tiff freaked on a minor scale. She was used to the squeaking sounds of trainers on the varnished floor, the oof of men being punched in the belt and the grunts as they tried to plant a revenge throw to the face. And, generally, Blackie had been in the building. It would never be the same; no more ‘Morning love,’ no more ‘Ta love’ for the tea. The building wasn’t particularly cold, but it gave her a shiver. With it came a wave of exhaustion so depleting she was tempted to drop and curl up on the spot. Her plan to neatly stash all her things upstairs was back-burnered as she slung them haphazardly inside the door. The gym opened the next morning at 8 a.m. for the Earlybirds, or ‘Clinically Insane’ as Tiff referred to them. She just had to make sure she was up before then to cover her tracks. Tiff should have known this wasn’t a week where plans had meaning or jurisdiction. Firstly the rain upped its game from drizzle to hoying-down. The sprint to the car wasn’t a dry one. Tiff held onto the dream of a steaming bath at the hotel. She’d grab a brandy from the bar on the way up too. Surely it would count as medicinal, all things considered? Only she hadn’t accounted for the Friday wedding in the Bothroyd suite which had guests staying in all the rooms. Every last one. Which was how Tiff found herself back at the gym, curled up on the ancient office sofa, knickers and greying bras drying on the radiator. Heating and toilet access had won the Car versus Gym debate. She’d kept Blackie’s desk light on, moved his chair away from her line of sight then wept over every rubbish thing that had happened in the last five days. Chapter 5 (#ue4f00a25-5f47-57f2-8688-cb447ead8811) Lying there, wrapped so tightly in the duvet it was tantamount to a defensive shield, Tiff remembered the first night she’d stayed at Gavin’s flat. It hadn’t been a whirlwind couldn’t-keep-their-hands-off-each-other night, but one where she’d cried and he’d held her, as she grieved for the family she’d lost. He’d been the perfect gentleman. Whenever Shelby dissed him, those were the memories Tiff replayed. That night had been very different from this. Then, she’d slipped from one home to the next, now, she lay in limbo. She was sensitive to every creak from the old building, she twitched at cars racing past and doors slamming out on the street. But sleep must have come eventually as she was woken with a start, by a crashing sound from downstairs. There was no alarm. Blackie had never bothered, said it wasn’t worth the cost. Not that he was a stingy man, frugal as necessitated by the divorce perhaps, but on this he insisted he couldn’t see the point. There wasn’t really much to steal, unless someone was in the market for an ancient ring and old-school PE equipment. Blackie had stubbornly not succumbed to Tiff’s teasing suggestion of filling the building with state of the art kit, and heaven forbid make it something which at least gave a nod towards a modern facility. God (and Tiff) knew the space was there, the place just needed an enormous overhaul and the business would have a new lease of life. I’m far too old to handle all those shenanigans, was his persistent final word on that conversation. The alarm came under the same heading. And besides, he’d pointed out, who’d be daft enough to break into a club frequented by half a town’s worth of fighters? Even kids looking for larks would steer clear. And yet, tonight, it appeared someone was exactly that daft. ‘Crap,’ she whimpered. The sounds hadn’t stopped at the initial crash; there was further stumbling and some pretty ripe swearing. ‘Choices?’ she asked herself, scrabbling for a plan. She could stay there, cocooned in the bedding, hoping not to be spotted, but the lamp was on, drying knickers were on display and the duvet cover was scarlet. Hiding behind the sofa was out too, it being backed against the wall and heavier than a heavy thing. She was contemplating crawling under it, when there was an almighty thump from downstairs followed by eerie silence. What if the intruder had been hurt? Didn’t she have a moral obligation to help someone in need? No, she reasoned, not if they were breaking in and about to harm her, though she’d read about homeowners being sued by injured burglars. But what if it was a kid? Scally or not, if they were hurt, she couldn’t lie there doing nothing. Yes, your Honour, I appreciate the teenager slowly bled out one floor below me, but weighing up the options, I thought it best practice to go back to sleep… Peeling herself from her duvetpod, Tiff assumed her night-wee ninja guise as she slid across the floor in her bed-socked feet, pausing only to grab her electric toothbrush. True, she’d have preferred a crowbar, but the Oral-B without the toothbrush head on its spike would have to do. Holding it like a dagger boosted her courage. Something was stirring with a groan as she stepped carefully down each of the stairs, trying not to think how this scene –her murder – would be reconstructed on Crimewatch. Hopefully they’d dress the actress in better pyjamas. Reaching the bottom she could make out a human shape heaped on the floor. Should she launch herself at them while they were down, or should she hang back and watch their next move? Which would the wise Crimewatch viewers judge as the most foolhardy – beyond having ventured down the stairs in the first place? Given the clear size difference, Tiff decided against the launching. On the spur of the moment, she flipped the light-switch. ‘You!’ she accused, with an angry hiss. Pulling himself up to his knees, surrounded by the disarray of her bags was a dazed Mike Fellner. By the looks of it, he’d been felled by a Quavers box of Mills & Boon. ‘You!’ he accused right back. ‘How did you get in here?’ She looked around for any damage, but found none. ‘I used the key,’ he hissed, indignantly. ‘What key?’ Only she and Ron had keys. Leonards had Blackie’s. ‘The hidden key.’ ‘What hidden key?’ she said in an insistent whisper. ‘Why are we whispering and hissing?’ ‘What hidden key!?’ she screeched. The adrenaline was mixing with relief now. Recognising him made her feel better, but owning countless true crime books she was well aware seventy per cent of murder victims knew their assailant. That was printed fact. Ink on paper. Mike sat back and looked at her. ‘The key Blackie obviously had hidden in the same place for the last fifteen years, but chose never to tell you about.’ To illustrate his point, he held up a key. ‘Where?’ A grin spread across his face. Now, for the first time, she recognised him properly. That grin had bewitched her once. It gave her exactly the same thought then as it did now. Cocky beggar. Only this time she wasn’t charmed. ‘Not telling,’ he said, blithely. ‘I can’t betray Blackie’s trust.’ His tone was rich with mock piety, as he shook his head regretfully. ‘Blackie is dead,’ Tiff hissed. ‘He is,’ Mike nodded solemnly, ‘and he took his secret from you to the grave, so who am I to cross him? By the way, you’re hissing again.’ Tiff remembered the teasing. He’d loved teasing her, and apparently he hadn’t grown up at all. Once she’d have laughed, but right now, in the middle of the night, after a crappy day in a crappy week, having been scared witless, her appetite for being teased was scant. And then she remembered how angry she was with him, how deeply furious she was that he’d brought his face into her eye line again. ‘Fine. Keep your secret,’ she snapped. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he countered, and stared at her PJs. They involved flannel and baby unicorns. Tiff sat in a predicament; she could admit she was trespassing too, or she could bluff this. Standing as proudly as baby unicorns would allow, she told him primly the first thing that came to mind. ‘I’m holding a vigil.’ ‘A vigil,’ he repeated, pulling himself up to his feet. He wasn’t sounding convinced. ‘A vigil,’ Tiff confirmed as slickly as possible. ‘Following the wake, I’ve decided to stay the night to make sure he’s moved on.’ Mike did that thing again with the eyebrow. Nope, definitely not convinced. ‘He died here, you know,’ she persisted. ‘Upstairs in the office. I was there. I want to know his soul has passed over.’ Mike ducked his head at this, digging his hands in his pockets in a gesture of reverence to the dearly departed. He walked to lean against the wall before looking up at her calmly. ‘So, in spite of your killer headache you’ve decided to put yourself, alone, in what might be a haunted office for the night, for Blackie.’ Tiff nodded vigorously. ‘For Blackie,’ she reiterated firmly. The sides of his lips began to rise, but he reined it in. ‘And what, out of interest, will you do if Blackie’s spirit is knocking about?’ ‘Well, obviously I’ll have a chat and encourage him to pass over.’ She was out on a limb here and decided to curb the subject. ‘But I’m not the one breaking in. What do you want?’ ‘I’m not breaking in if I have a key, am I?’ ‘What if there’d been an alarm?’ Tiff asked indignantly. Mike rolled his eyes with a pff. Tiff cocked her head, set her jaw and gave him her best ‘I’m waiting’ stare. He scratched the back of his neck considering his answer, as if he hadn’t actually been sure of it until now. ‘I just wanted to come back and have a look.’ A simple little reason, but one which hurt her more than she’d expected. After ten years, of silence, having walked out on her, he just fancied a nosy? At a building? Really? That couldn’t be right. ‘In the middle of the night?’ She watched police shows. The facts didn’t stack up. Maybe she could push him into a confession of why he’d left her. She wasn’t going to ask him outright – how desperate would that be? She couldn’t afford to lose any more dignity this week. She wasn’t sure she had any left. ‘Without other people being here,’ he corrected. ‘I thought I’d have a little nostalgia tour without being bothered by anyone. Remember how things were. How they began. Who I was then.’ Something in that riled her further, that he could have forgotten. And still no mention of her. He seemed wistful, then he remembered himself, snapping back into teasing mode. ‘Obviously I hadn’t counted on Ghostbusters being here. Nor all the baggage it apparently requires.’ Tiff looked around at her baggage a.k.a her life, but Mike did not. He was gazing at her. Perhaps she hadn’t fooled him at all. ‘You were never a very good liar, Tiff,’ he said, quietly. ‘And you never knew when to shut your gob,’ it exploded out of her. Who the hell was he to throw her lie in her face? That was it. The bleeding limit. She had reached the precipice of her self-control after days of utter awfulness and this, from him, was the final straw that flicked her deftly over the edge. The anger she felt in the pub had merely been a warm up compared to the rage now surging through her. She gripped the banister both for support and to tether her down. ‘How nice for you to be able to swan in here and ponder how life used to be, to cast your eye over us poor underlings who never escaped, who never got their chance at international stardom. How very nice that must be. Did you give your heat magazine dolly-bird a tour of the stepping stones to your global success?’ As the words seared off her tongue, Tiff didn’t want to think about all the hours they’d lain on her bed, daydreaming a future, together and far away from Kingsley. The travelling, the mansion, the yacht. They hadn’t got down to the small details – like how they were going to fund it all – but they’d been firmly agreed on the plans. God, she really hoped he didn’t have a yacht. ‘How gracious of you to think of it, to bestow a visit on the old place, to peruse your humble beginnings. How blessed we surely are. And what do you see Mike, anything good? No. It’s still a shithole. You could have Googled it, saved yourself the effort.’ Mike was looking at her like she was totally off on one. She wished her left leg would stop shaking with the raging; it undermined her poise. ‘Calm down a minute—’ ‘No! No, you calm down,’ she cut him off, faintly aware he was perfectly calm, which wound her up even more. She was beyond stopping. Without the pub crowd to witness her making a fool of herself, she had nothing left to lose. And much as she would’ve chosen root canal treatment over seeing Mike again, he was the perfect target upon which to unleash the ten years of bile roiling around in her gut. Boy, it felt good. ‘What the hell are you really back for, Mike? I can only think it’s to take the piss out of me. You got the hell out of this place without a backward glance, you’re living the dream – our dream – and now you feel the need to return and rub it in my face. Well, I tell you what, you can shove it. You’re the one who’s a poor liar. You can bite me with your nostalgia; I know gloating when I see it, and that makes you the bad person. I do not need your pity, I don’t want you to give me one single thought. Ever.’ ‘I wasn’t—’ His forehead was furrowed and for the first time Tiff saw him look anything other than confident. ‘I don’t want to hear it. Not one word. Nothing to come out of your mouth is worth the breath you spent on it. Do whatever lording it was you came here for, but don’t expect me to watch. Then you can let yourself the hell out, and if it’s not too much to ask of your lordship, I’d appreciate it if I never saw your smug battered mug ever again.’ Tiff and the baby unicorns stomped back up the stairs, pretty sure he understood the dismissal. That’d be the last she saw of him. Job done. Chapter 6 (#ue4f00a25-5f47-57f2-8688-cb447ead8811) E.J. Leonards Solicitors was a proper old-school firm spanning five generations. Now on the brink of retirement himself, Leonards had conducted many will readings, yet still approached each with trepidation. On one hand, not unlike when watching Antiques Roadshow, there were joyful moments when he’d surprise the unsuspecting, announcing a windfall they’d never dreamed of. Those were his Fairy Godfather moments – he hoped the deceased wouldn’t mind. There were the cases which baffled him, where fortunes were left to cats, while the relatives gained an ornament bordering on the grotesque. He always suggested Antiques Roadshow in those cases. And then there were the wills he immediately sensed would be contentious. With Blackie’s he had a niggling feeling it might be a mix of all three, and Leonards always trusted his niggling feelings. Whilst few people had been invited to the reading, the room felt quite full. The second Mrs Black sat with her son Aaron, Leonards felt he’d be reluctant to meet him in a dark alley. He’d seen enough of human nature in this job to not judge a book by its cover, but in this case the package, dirty tracksuit and all, appeared to match the attitude. They sat whispering about the will contents. Leonards’ hearing aid was always turned fully up on these occasions. Leonards looked steadily at the young man. Mid-twenties with a prison record. He’d been jailed for beating up a girlfriend. Clear-cut case of vicious domestic abuse. Blackie had wanted to clout the boy black and blue, but Leonards had talked him down, convincing him to let the court mete out the justice. That lad had got everything he deserved. Nasty piece of work, that one. Leonards wanted the chair wiped clean once this reading was over. Then there was Tiffanie Trent of course. She fidgeted at the side, attempting to smooth out the multiple creases in her skirt. A pile of accounts folders sat at her feet. ‘They’re all here and up to date, Leonards,’ she’d assured him on arrival. ‘Oh, I don’t need those, my dear,’ Leonards said cheerily, but seeing her face fall, added ‘however it’s lovely to have them.’ He liked Tiffanie, she was an unassuming girl of whom Blackie had been very fond. Leonards enjoyed the fact she felt her presence was simply to account for the book-keeping. For all her family’s problems, she wasn’t one of life’s spongers, unlike some he could think of. Shrewd as he was, he noted Tiffanie was deliberately ignoring the side of the room where Mike Fellner sat. Her appalled scowl when the boxer had appeared was unmissable and a fair clue of some history there. Old people were often dismissed as unperceptive. Not so Leonards, who recognised that the last week had been difficult for Tiffanie, not just regarding Blackie. While unaware of the details, the solicitor knew a troubled soul when he saw one. Mr Fellner was accompanied by a much younger woman, introduced as his girlfriend, Verity. Leonards’ hearing aid had disclosed that while she was curious to hear why he’d been invited, she was keen for it not to last long; she was having her eyelashes extended at lunchtime. ‘We’re all here, so we should start. I’m sure you’re all busy people with jobs to do.’ At huge personal effort he managed not to fix Aaron with his beady eye. He had it on Blackie’s authority the lad suffered from chronic laziness, complicated by an acute case of entitlement. ‘Blackie was not without means, in spite of his past divorce, where his funds were significantly diminished.’ Leonards did not look up, although having watched Blackie being fleeced, he would’ve relished the opportunity to have his say on that. His professionalism won out. ‘He was, as we all know, a hard worker and fought to regain his wealth, living frugally, whilst showing a generosity to the youth of this town that I believe is well recognised and appreciated.’ Both Tiff and Mike were nodding their heads. Mrs Black sneaked a sly look at her watch, while Verity drummed her perfectly-manicured fingers on Mike’s thigh. ‘As it turned out, Blackie has a sizeable estate to leave – primarily the boxing club with its buildings, contents and profits – and so you have been asked here today, as beneficiaries.’ He was tickled to see Tiff look confused and Mike surprised, which was more than he could say for Mrs Black and her son, who were sporting a keen shade of smug. Leonards then began the preamble that Frank Black, being of sound mind, did leave the following: ‘Firstly, to my stepson Aaron,’ Leonards read, pausing to appreciate Aaron’s triumphant smirk at being first on Blackie’s mind, ‘who I’ve not seen since the day his mother asked me to move out, but who has trusted me enough to telephone whenever he wanted financial aid, I leave all the inspirational posters from the walls of the club. You need guidance lad, and as I’m no longer around to offer it, I leave you the pictures which have inspired and guided many of the young men who’ve passed through the gym.’ Aaron’s face was no longer beaming. In fact, it looked as if it had been smacked with a flat implement. Something cricket bat-like, Leonards mused. ‘Moving on,’ he said briskly, knowing from experience it was best to pass swiftly through the lesser-well-received bequests, ‘To my ex-wife Bernice, I leave my heartfelt thanks. I thank you for our first two years, which were frenetic and flattering for a man my age, and for the following years which taught me age does not equal wisdom and that a man my age can still be a fool. I paid heavily for that knowledge, for which I also thank you, Bernice. In hindsight it was money well spent, and I’m sure you’ve spent my money well. Your almost bankrupting me served to remind me that under the paunch I was still a fighter at heart, and without that I wouldn’t have pulled myself up and worked as hard for my remaining years. I bequeath you my gratitude and the knowledge your avaricious ways did me a favour.’ His hearing aid hurt at the screech and the entire room managed a unified shuffle of awkwardness. ‘To Michael Fellner, I leave a couple of things. I pushed you on early my boy and didn’t you do well? You’ve done yourself proud. You’ve done me proud, as I always knew you would.’ Mike shifted in his seat, discomfited. Leonards ploughed on. ‘Your moving from my club was always a point of sadness, but I knew you needed more. At the time this was hard for you to understand; you felt I was rejecting you and cutting you off. But it was for your own good. I believed that then, and believe it still, although it pains me that our friendship was lost in the process. Michael, I said some harsh things back then and I apologise for that. I said what I said not because I meant it, but because I believed without doing so, you would never have left. If you hadn’t gone, if you hadn’t been able to focus on your talent, you would never have achieved your potential.’ Mike hung his head. Here Leonards wasn’t altogether sure of the story, but Blackie’s words clearly had poignancy for Mr Fellner. Neither were they lost on Tiffanie, who was suddenly watching the bruised boxer intently, though rather confused. ‘You’re a wealthy man now, Michael,’ the will continued, ‘and so I leave you something I wish you’d had at your disposal all these years; the ring. You may sell it of course, but should you have the space, and I suspect you might, then perhaps you’d find it in your heart to use it, and forgive an old man who said some things he regrets in the pursuit of a goal he does not.’ Leonards was used to the deceased being cryptic in their wills. They liked the drama. The relevant people usually understood. ‘Excuse me.’ The solicitor was surprised to hear Verity’s voice. As was Mike. ‘Yes, my dear?’ ‘What sort of ring exactly?’ Leonards noticed the young woman’s fingers twitch, as well as a pointed glance she shot Blackie’s ex-wife who appeared on the verge of a conniption. ‘Are we talking about a woman’s ring or a man’s? Just to be clear. And any carats?’ Mike closed his eyes, dismayed. ‘There’s no jewellery listed in the effects I’m afraid, my dear. Blackie wasn’t a man for such items. In fact, I believe he even sold his watch when he needed some capital after the divorce.’ Mrs Black studied something through the window at this. ‘The ring in question is the boxing ring at the gym, an antique if I’m not mistaken, and quite a rarity too.’ Leonards spoke as if educating her, but her expression told him it was information she neither wanted nor appreciated. ‘Miss Trent,’ Leonards turned away from Verity, shuffling the paperwork. Tiffanie sat up straight. ‘Tiffanie, you’ve been through some tough times and yet you’ve persevered. I’ve always respected that. We both know, given kinder circumstances, your future could have been very different, and yet you’ve made a life and business for yourself. You’ve been a priceless support to me these last years, managing the office, the books and my tea intake, for which I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Sharing an office with you has been a pleasure, even though I lectured you about your boyfriend never appreciating you.’ Mike’s eyebrow arched and Tiff’s face flushed, no doubt wishing Blackie could have afforded her some discretion. Leonards thought them both foolish if they were surprised at Blackie’s directness even at this late date. He continued ‘…but, in turn, you regaled me about the future of the club. So I leave it to you Tiffanie: the building, the land, and the remaining contents, so you can put your money – in fact my money, as you get that too – where your mouth is and make your dreams come true.’ Leonards discreetly turned his hearing aid down so Mrs Black’s response didn’t do him an injury. Chapter 7 (#ulink_3decea8c-a29c-5e78-b5ab-9e888dd1bc36) Tiff wasn’t certain how she got from Leonards’ to Viv’s Cafe but somehow, when the daze cleared, she found herself sat with a latte and a blueberry muffin at the well-worn Formica table. She must have simply pointed dumbly at any cake, as she didn’t particularly like muffins. Not since Gavin had once pointed out her own muffin top. Blackie had left her the club. Bloody hell. No matter how many times she asked Leonards to verify it, to show her where it said so on the page, she still couldn’t understand it. The death stares Bernice Black sent her however, supported his insistence this was really happening. ‘You had no idea?’ Leonards had asked when they were alone. ‘Not a clue. He never said.’ Tiff knew she sounded spaced, but really. A business. A boxing club. Not in her wildest dreams. Perhaps – and this was awful – perhaps not in her dreams at all… ‘Well, he liked surprises, did Blackie,’ Leonards had nodded, filing the will. ‘But he liked his gym more, and he wouldn’t hand it over to anyone he didn’t trust or think capable.’ Then he’d handed her the keys and pointed to her files. ‘I believe the accounts are all up to date and in perfect order.’ That had tickled him immensely. The caffeine started doing its job. Yes, she’d teased Blackie about dragging the club into this century, but as he’d pointed out, his was one of the few remaining boxing gyms turning a good profit and it was what he knew how to do. ‘What’s the point?’ he’d asked. ‘It’d be like starting again. I’m a boxing coach; I teach people to duck, dive and punch. I don’t know my arse from my elbow when it comes to rowing machines and I don’t hold with those conveyor belt things. If you want a good walk, get out in the fresh air.’ Blackie had still been able to ride a bike, leading a swarm of running boxers around the town twice a week. ‘Why sit on a machine in a room when you can use the outdoors for free? Bloody stupid if you ask me.’ ‘You’ll be sorry when some swanky fitness centre sets up nearby and all your clients scarper when their girlfriends suggest a partner membership.’ She’d really only said it to wind him up. She could see his point; the club had a decent financial turnover, the clients were loyal and brought their kids along to join, so why at his age would he change it? But she’d always assumed he’d sell it, at which point it’d either be modernised or demolished by developers. She’d never in a million years thought he’d leave it to her. He might have mentioned it, she thought, it would have come as less of a shock. Her first instinct was to call Gavin. To ask him what she should do. However, Monday mornings were the weekly planning meeting and she knew better than to interrupt it. Besides, she didn’t know if he’d welcome a call from her at all. She tried thinking What Would Gavin Do?, but came up blank. Her mind didn’t work in the same way his did, she supposed despondently. She’d need to fathom this out by herself. Every day brought a new way to miss him. Tiff laid a steadying hand on the pile of accounts files next to her. Her numbers. Her accounts now. Pulling them together hadn’t taken Tiff as long as she’d dreaded. However, catching up this last week’s-worth of subs had kept her at the desk during the weekend instead of flat hunting. She’d ended up staying on the ancient sofa for the last two nights too, having yielded to the nag of spring-cleaning the office before the handover. She hoped the Premier Lodge would have space for her that night, or else she’d have to bite the bullet and face Shelby’s futon. ‘I blooming thought it was you!’ The boom snapped her out of her ruminating. ‘Sitting here like some lady of leisure. Haven’t you got work to do? Adding or something?’ Tiff didn’t need to look up. ‘Sit down Shelby and help me sort something out.’ Shelby sat with a wince and a groan. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ ‘RSI,’ Shelby grumbled, getting comfortable. ‘Repetitive Strain Injury? From waxing and plucking?’ ‘Repetitive Sex Injury. From dating and f—’ ‘Stop. I do not need to know,’ Tiff cut in. There were things Shelby had told her over the years that made her want to bleach her ears. ‘Back to the helping me, please.’ ‘Seriously Tiff, what’s to sort out? He ditched you, he’s a tool, you’re better off without him but you can’t see it yet. Yada yada yada. Can’t we skip to the bit two months from now when you acknowledge I’m right and you’ve wasted weeks pining over someone who wasn’t worth it? Do a sky-dive, a bungee jump, get so wasted you wake up in the gutter with your knickers flapping off a lamppost. Whatever. Embrace your new life however you want, but can we just fast-track to it?’ ‘Have you considered counselling as a career, Shelbs? Your compassion and empathy is truly a gift,’ Tiff said, pushing the muffin over to Shelby, who was eyeing it with intent. Unleashed, she made short shrift of it and Tiff made the most of her mouth being occupied. ‘Actually, that’s not what I need help with. Blackie left me the club.’ The next few moments were spent sorting Shelby out as she first pebble-dashed Tiff with muffin crumbs in the initial exclamation of ‘No. Fucking. Way’ and then gasped the remainder back into her throat and started choking when Tiff neatly added ‘and all his money.’ Tiff waited patiently while Shelby composed herself, brushing the last crumbs off her uniform. It was quite a novelty seeing Shelby stunned for once. Lord knew that didn’t happen often. ‘Bloody hell,’ she finally managed. ‘I know, right?’ ‘OMG, that’s like, amaaazing. You are so bloody doing this, Tiff. You’re going to rock that place.’ Shelby’s enthusiasm was instant. Her confidence in her friend was absolute and it made Tiff feel touched but also self-conscious. ‘I think Blackie just didn’t want his bloodsucking ex to get it.’ ‘Stop it. He knew you could sort it out. He knew you have good ideas for it. And maybe, he thought it’d be the kick you needed.’ Tiff’s mouth pulled up to the side. Given Blackie trusted her with the figures and the admin, would it be so unreasonable to believe he trusted her to adopt his life’s work and develop it? ‘But I was just spouting off about the things he should change. I wasn’t saying I was the one to do it. I’ve got zero experience in that sort of thing.’ ‘Stop over-thinking this, Tiff. You set up your own business before and you didn’t have experience of that either. You know all this, you just don’t dare flatter yourself. You’re convinced life’ll bite you in the bum if you big yourself up.’ Was that what she did? She knew how it felt to take things for granted, to think she was the bee’s knees, only to have it slapped back in her face. It wasn’t something she particularly wanted to experience again. Pride comes before a fall, Tiff – The Bible. ‘You can do this Tiff.’ Shelby put her hand on Tiff’s arm. ‘You’ll kick butt. Blackie thought so too.’ ‘But he gave it to me like it was my dream. And it really isn’t.’ Tiff had to whisper as she felt so ungrateful. Shelby sat back, considering this. ‘It’s a business, Tiff. Might be a different flavour than you’re used to, but it’s still a business. You get the chance to make something bigger and hopefully better. You can further yourself as a business woman.’ ‘But I don’t have ambitions like that,’ she said exasperated. She liked her life as it was – well, not right now, but before. She didn’t have the confidence for all this. ‘I—’ ‘Stop. Stop right there. I know what you’re about to do. You’re about to allow Gav the Tool’s words to cockblock your big break. And the answer is no, sorry, no dice. You’re going to do this, if nothing else to prove how wrong he was, how after ten years he still couldn’t read you properly. And, so help me Tiff, if, when you are riding high as a proper Lord Sugar, you so much as think of going back to him when he comes sniffing – and I guarantee you he will – I shall break your legs.’ Shelby drained the last of the latte before adding, ‘His too. But that’ll be just for kicks.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Crap. Gotta go.’ She was out of the seat before Tiff could even think. ‘You can do this. Love you babes,’ she said, planting a kiss on Tiff’s head, and was promptly gone. If Tiff hadn’t already been in a daze, then Hurricane Shelby would have done the job. Shelby’s words rang in her ears as she walked back towards Blackie’s. For all her best mate’s encouragement – which was heartening even if she still had Gavin all wrong –Tiff didn’t know if she had what it would take, because it would take a lot, and right now she hardly had the energy to shower. When she got to the club car park she stopped and took a long hard look at the place. She owned all this. A building and a business. If she wanted it. It could be a future too. If she wanted it. But looking up at the sign above the front door, she didn’t know whether she could fulfil Blackie’s faith in her. Hadn’t Gavin said she wasn’t a striver? And didn’t he know her better than anyone? But. But but but. The words kept bouncing on her lips. Like Leonards said, Blackie wouldn’t have given his club away to just anyone. She knew that. He believed she could do something with this place. ‘Capable’ Leonards had said. She liked being seen as capable. Shelby thought so too. She’d like to remind Gavin that she was capable – not only in his interior design needs. Heading for the doors she wondered whether this was the universe sending her a way to show Gavin he was wrong. About all of it. She felt a splat on the shoulder of her coat. Bird poo. That settled it. She had it on very good authority being crapped on by a bird was lucky. Given how the last week had gone, she’d take any good omen she could get. Smiling, Tiff ran her hand lightly across the door pane. ‘Mine,’ she mouthed. ‘Y’know, this place will turn to shit.’ The low snarl made her jump. She hadn’t heard his approach. Spinning around she found herself almost nose to nose with Aaron. He had little perception of personal space, no more than he had for his personal hygiene. Tiff instinctively took a step backwards, but was met by the door. Aaron didn’t budge. Ah, it wasn’t that he didn’t care about personal space; he wanted to intimidate her. ‘Blokes won’t join a boxing club run by a woman. A woman who doesn’t box.’ He was repulsive, from his sneer to the gopping nails of his nicotine-stained fingers. Tiff reminded herself she had Blackie’s backing. It didn’t quite cloak the fact he was bigger and wider. ‘You think they’d be more attracted by a bloke who doesn’t box? At least they’ve seen me in the building. They know Blackie liked me.’ Aaron’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yeah, obviously liked you a whole lot to leave you everything. That how he pegged out, was it? You riding him for the inheritance?’ ‘Don’t be disgusting!’ Tiff exclaimed. ‘Your stepdad was a lovely man. He knew my grandad.’ Aaron merely shrugged. ‘Age doesn’t bother gold-diggers, does it?’ Tiff resisted suggesting he asked his mother. He moved a step closer, so his mouth was right up against her ear. ‘The older the better, right? Then you don’t have to keep it up so long.’ He sniggered snidely. ‘Bet Blackie couldn’t even do that.’ Appalled, Tiff turned and scooted through the door, keen to get it closed between them. Was that what people would think? She tried to quell the nausea. ‘That business should be mine. I was his son,’ Aaron shouted right against the door pane. Spittle splattered on the glass. ‘Stepson and a rubbish one at that,’ Tiff muttered. She didn’t have a plan if he chose to storm the building, but instead he walked slowly backwards, staring at her. ‘You should have been kinder to him while he was around then,’ she said louder, so he’d hear. ‘Like you did?’ he sneered, giving her a filthy leer before turning and swaggering away. Tiff watched him cross the car park like he owned the place. He didn’t look back. He’d come to rattle her, and he’d done the job. Chapter 8 (#ulink_67036a5e-d0eb-50b7-bd5f-05d5b14587fe) ‘Afternoon.’ Ron stood in the doorway to the office. Tiff froze with her mug of tea halfway to her mouth and looked at the clock. It was still morning. He was having a dig. ‘I was at the will reading.’ Ron’s brow furrowed. ‘That was today?’ ‘Nine o’clock.’ The scowl on his face told her exactly how he felt about not being invited. ‘What’s the score then?’ He needed to know whether he had a job or not. Whilst he was a grumpy bugger, Tiff knew he worked hard. He’d have a job if he wanted it. She tried not to think about how much she was depending on him if she was going to do this. He was her continuity. ‘You’d best sit down,’ she said. Ron slumped in the corner armchair, an apprehensive look on his face. ‘Is it closing?’ ‘No,’ she said, adamantly. Whatever happened, she’d do everything to keep it open. Blackie’s legacy demanded it. ‘Being sold?’ ‘Not if I can help it.’ Ron’s face perked up. ‘See, Blackie left the place to me.’ ‘You?’ he asked, incredulous. ‘Me.’ There didn’t seem much to add. She could desperately start justifying it, but she didn’t want to come across as panicking. And she was panicking. ‘Didn’t see that coming.’ Tiff didn’t take it as a compliment, nor had Ron meant it as such. To be fair she hadn’t seen it coming either. ‘You and me both.’ ‘You don’t box.’ ‘No.’ ‘You don’t even follow boxing.’ ‘No.’ ‘And you’re a w—’ ‘Yes.’ Tiff considered having a feminist debate with him but didn’t have the strength. What would be the point? ‘What the hell was he thinking?’ Ron exploded, expecting her to share his outrage. She tried to placate him. ‘Um, perhaps he was thinking I didn’t need to box or follow the sport,’ or have a penis she added, but only in her head, ‘to be a business manager. Perhaps he thought, having worked with him, I knew enough about the place to keep it going, to progress it, and more importantly give proper consideration to the people who work here.’ Tiff gambled Ron’s primary concern was his own job. ‘Too right. About the staff, I mean.’ Neither mentioned that beyond themselves, the sum of the staff came to precisely one, in the form of Vonda the intermittent cleaner. ‘He should have told us what he was planning.’ ‘Well, he liked his surprises,’ was all she could think to say. ‘This is going to have a major impact on the business. The lads aren’t going to like it.’ She hadn’t really considered that bit, but his prejudgement seemed a tad unfair. ‘Apart from Blackie’s absence, the clients shouldn’t feel any difference, Ron. Blackie’s will stipulated that your job should be safeguarded, if you still want it.’ She’d hoped to see relief in his face, but he’d moved on from that. ‘I’m hoping you do want it, Ron,’ she added to be clear. ‘Well, I’m sure you do. A club without a trainer isn’t much of a club, is it?’ ‘No, of course not.’ He was talking to her like she was an idiot. She wanted to show him she wasn’t. Vision. Vision and ambition, that was what impressed people. ‘Going forward,’ she said, feigning confidence, ‘I’ll be looking to modernise the club, but it will always be a boxing club at heart, and you’re integral to that.’ ‘Blackie didn’t want to modernise it. It works perfectly as it is – provided I’m here to make it work – so what’s the point?’ Ron was sporting a fine display of outrage. ‘Don’t mess with things that aren’t broken, Tiffanie. Why do women always do that?’ Tiff bit her tongue. ‘He left you everything?’ Ron double-checked, with an air of disbelief and a hint of resentment. ‘The building, the land, some capital,’ she detailed, feeling uncomfortable. She tried to divert the conversation. ‘The ring goes to Mike Fellner as some penance for the past – don’t ask, I don’t know – so I’ll need a new one ASAP. All the sappy pictures with the moody shots and emo texts go to Aaron. For guidance apparently.’ That raised a wry smile from Ron. ‘Nice one, Blackie. He always liked a subtle jab to the nuts.’ ‘So Ron,’ said Tiff, making her first managerial move, ‘if you’re on board then the title of Head Coach is yours and obviously there’ll be a salary increment attached.’ She tried to sound as professional as possible, until she saw his eyes ker-ching at the money, which caused her to falter a little, ‘The exact details of which to be confirmed once I’ve checked the figures.’ Ron stood up, nodding. His staying was a massive weight off her mind. ‘Glad you can see sense, Tiff. You leave running the club to me while you crunch the numbers and things will be fine.’ He left the room shaking his head. Watching him disappear down the stairs and finally having a large gulp of her tepid tea, Tiff couldn’t help but feel her first step into her future had lacked any clout or elation. Tiff’s lunch hour mainly involved staring at the office in fear and disbelief. It was all hers, from the walls to the bins. Yet little plan-bubbles were beginning to form. She’d be thinning out the glut of furniture for a start; navigating the office was an obstacle course in itself. The posters on the walls were going, which would expose the fade of the paintwork, adding another thing to the To-do list. Still, with their phrasings of Dream Big and to go Above and Beyond, she’d happily lose them. They annoyed her. They were Gavin’s clearly destructive life-coaching DVDs in paper form. Getting into it, she wandered down the corridor and stairs, surveying her domain until she found herself standing outside the sparring hall door. It was years since she’d set foot in there. She’d spent hours in there as a teen, watching one Mikey Fellner, but that had stopped when he’d left. Coming to work for Blackie she’d still managed to dodge it; there was nothing urgent enough in the bookkeeping to force her in there. ‘’Scuse me, love.’ A client moved around her and entered the hall. The open doorway blasted Tiff with the squeaks of footwear on the polished floor and also a potent waft of testosterone and sweat. She couldn’t think of a space smelling more of bloke. And yet it was a nostalgic odour to her. She’d never minded it back then. It took her a moment to realise the guy was holding the door for her. ‘Oh, thanks,’ she said, scurrying through. This was hers now. She needed to know it again. Brick walls and wooden floor, it wasn’t a million miles away from a school gym, with the exception of the massive ring at the far end, with its white ropes keeping the boxers in, and the royal blue pelmet to hide the supports. Ron hung over the ropes barking at the two fighters for being a couple of wimps and not being worth his time if they weren’t going to ‘put some bloody effort in, ya pair of pansies.’ In the rest of the space, boxers trained with skipping ropes, weights and punch-bags until it was their turn to vie for Ron’s approval. Tiff suspected they’d more chance of winning Miss Universe than winning his praise. Walking around the perimeter of the room, the sound of her heels drew attention. She didn’t feel unwelcome as such, the guys just got on with what they were doing, more out of place and surplus to requirements. She had no role in there. She got half-way around the room, before Ron abruptly acknowledged her. ‘Need something?’ Ron’s glare forced her to fabricate something. He made her feel she was trespassing. ‘Um, yes,’ she said, clip-clopping up to the ring. She didn’t want to shout, she wanted to sound in control. ‘The new ring. I wanted to check the required dimensions.’ ‘Twenty by twenty. Feet. No point having anything smaller than competition size if this lot are to have any sense of space. RingPro is the best make.’ He turned back to his boxers. Tiff wondered whether they needed the best. Best usually meant most expensive. But she didn’t have the spuds to question Ron. His glare was pretty ferocious and it would be remiss to doubt him in front of the clientele. Instead she fingered the fabric of the pelmet. ‘RingPro. Is that what this is?’ Ron tutted loudly as she distracted him again. ‘Are we compromising on quality now?’ She cowered at his hostility. Clearly he’d been mulling the news and his mood had turned sour. Sourer. ‘You don’t need to worry about quality, Ron. We’re on the same side here,’ she said. She pulled herself up to full height, but it didn’t help when he was already three feet off the ground. She took a couple of steps back to create a clear line of sight between them, without the ropes getting in the way. ‘I’m not here to cause havoc, Ron.’ Her next step back caused her to trip over a discarded kettlebell. Tiff felt her balance going, instinctively twisting, bringing her face to vinyl with a swinging punch bag. ‘Hello? Can you hear me?’ She opened her eyes to see a relieved face. ‘Are you okay?’ Tiff nodded, trying to convince her eyeballs to align. ‘It’s Jess.’ She was looking Tiff over intently. ‘You passed out.’ ‘Umm..?’ Tiff knew her, but she couldn’t place the face. It was a sweet elfin face, severely framed by cropped red hair. She understood and helped Tiff out. ‘Jessica Dent. Akehurst Street.’ Tiff’s eyes widened. ‘Whoa, didn’t you grow up,’ she said, now recognising the features of a girl she’d tutored when she was eighteen. Last she’d seen Jessica, she’d sported a dodgy perm. ‘I box here. With Amina.’ On cue, they were joined by another woman, gorgeous with tight cornrows on her head, who rested her hand gently on her girlfriend’s shoulder. ‘She okay?’ Tiff nodded vigorously before Jess could answer, embarrassment setting in. She pushed herself up from the floor, keen not to look a complete lemming. ‘Sorry. I should’ve cleared my weights and I didn’t see you behind the bag,’ Jess said. Tiff shook her head insisting she hadn’t looked where she was going. Taking a look back towards the ring, she saw Ron hadn’t budged. He sent her a withering glance and turned back to his fighters. ‘Nice seeing you again, Jess,’ she said, checking her skirt, hoping she hadn’t flashed everyone in keeling over. ‘What are you up to now?’ Small talk. Yes that worked; inane small talk could cover all sorts of humiliation. Plus she was getting to know the clients. Ron couldn’t begrudge her that. Jess stood up straight with a proud smile. ‘I’m a builder now. Took over my dad’s business.’ ‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Jess,’ she gushed, enthusiastically. ‘He must be delighted to hand it on to family.’ ‘He died.’ ‘Oh god,’ she choked, plunging straight back into a state of mortification. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She reached out and gave Jess a sympathetic squeeze on the arm. It was rock-solid. The equipment definitely did the business. ‘I’ll see you around, all right? Stuff to do upstairs.’ Flailing, she pointed upwards, then to the door, then felt like a prat. Wobbling back across the gym, wishing again she wasn’t in heels, Tiff suspected she’d be hard pressed to make it more obvious she was way out of her depth. Her intention was to hide for the rest of the day. She worked through the admin, but progress was slower than normal, her mind getting distracted constantly. Finally she gave up, deciding to sort out her boxes and bags currently stashed in the storage cupboard next to the office. Shifting them had taken several trips up and down the stairs the morning after Mike’s nocturnal visit. She bristled at the thought of him. Seeing him stride in at Leonards’ made her want to gnash her teeth. And he’d shot her a cocky look which tempted her to hurl a ledger at him. So much for telling him to stay out of her life. If she was going to try the hotel tonight, she thought, dragging her cross thoughts away from him, she’d need some clothes and various nick-nacks for her overnight stay. The idea of living out of a bag depressed her. It didn’t feel like money well-spent either. Switching the light on in the storage room she took a proper squizz around. It was large – the club had never lacked space – and Blackie had been tidy. One corner homed a stack of exercise mats and the opposite wall was racked-out with shelves, half-filled with yet more files of outdated paperwork. Ditching the files would free up more shelf room for… well she wasn’t sure yet, but Storage space is gold-dust, Tiff. Hearing Gavin’s words in her head made her eyes sting. Blinking it away she looked at the mats in the corner. The way they were stacked reminded her of The Princess and the Pea. An idea started to germinate. So it was a bit grim, but there was shelving, space to move about and the door locked. That wasn’t much different from a hotel room. In Tiff’s mind it was a battle between a window at the Premier Lodge versus no cost here. Not having to pack up again was the clincher, she was sick of that already. The building was hers, and the store cupboard with it. If she was going to buy a flat when she finally found time to start looking for one – screw you, rental market – then she shouldn’t be spaffing the cash on a crappy hotel room. Seen like that, she could easily cope with temporarily living in a cupboard. A nice lamp and her duvet would make this quite cosy, she convinced herself, conveniently ignoring the strip lighting and the chipped floor tiles. A rug and fairy lights maybe… ‘You got a minute?’ Ron’s gruff voice ripped her away from her planning. He didn’t wait for her to respond and she followed him obediently into her office. ‘I should take it on,’ he said, rounding on her. ‘Take what on?’ ‘The club. Watching you down in the gym I reckon it’d be best for all concerned, yourself included, if I took over the club.’ Tiff’s jaw flapped but no words came. Ron went on. ‘I can’t see how Blackie didn’t see it; I’m far better qualified to run it.’ ‘You’re head coach,’ she pointed out, finding her tongue. ‘As far as the clients can see, you are running it.’ Additionally, she doubted he had the money to buy her out. If it was the glory he needed, he already had it. There was no need to tie up his finances. ‘Yes, but let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time before you start making unnecessary changes. You setting foot in the gym was one and look how well that went.’ ‘I tripped over strewn kit. It was an accident.’ ‘My point exactly. The gym’s always like that. We’re all used to it. You’re clueless.’ This was grossly unfair, Tiff thought, taking a breath to say so, but Ron shook his head to stop her. ‘I’d been thinking about this before all of that anyway. I’ll rent the place off you. Blackie wanted this place to stay as it is, or he would have changed it himself. It’s what the lads would want too. I’ll run it as normal and pay you rent out of the profits.’ Tiff hadn’t expected that. Not for a second. She didn’t know what to say. Instinctively she wanted to shout But it’s mine!, but his words had her stumbling. He thought she was clueless. ‘Think about it, Tiffanie,’ she noted she wasn’t Tiff anymore, ‘you could expand your bookkeeping business, you could keep the days here obviously – that’s two bites of the cherry given I’d have to pay you for that too – and then you could spend Blackie’s money and the rent on other things; shoes or whatever you women spend money on nowadays.’ Tiff bit her cheek at the reference to Blackie’s money. She supposed every penny she ever spent hereon, anywhere, would be seen as Blackie’s money. ‘And no offence,’ he continued, though from experience Tiff knew any sentence beginning with ‘no offence’ was about to cause exactly that, ‘but you can hardly call yourself a poster girl for fitness.’ Tiff instantly looked down at herself. So fitness wasn’t her thing, but she wasn’t massively out of shape. Okay, maybe she was puffed scaling the stairs, but she could still recognise her sixteen-year-old self in the mirror. They might just not have shared clothes for a while. ‘Nobody joins gyms run by chubbies. Just saying.’ He said it with a shrug, and his face wasn’t twisted in the malicious sneer such a sentence should be accompanied by. It was his honest opinion. Embarrassed, she wanted to exit the room immediately. ‘You really don’t want me to do this, do you?’ she stammered. ‘It’s not a matter of want. I don’t think you can. I don’t want Blackie’s hard work and sacrifice wasted, when I can do the job.’ His words plunged her right in the chest, but not like a sharp implement, rather something wide, blunt and far more devastating. ‘You think about it,’ he said, ‘but for the sake of getting on I’ll expect an answer by Friday.’ Tiff could only stare at him speechless. Ron took this as assent. ‘And Tiff,’ he said, more kindly now, like she was a sad child, ‘in the interests of health, safety and corporate image, best stay out of the gym, eh?’ Chapter 9 (#ulink_91aac2b6-e3ff-5227-99b5-9060e121a097) She desperately needed some fresh air. Some non-Ron air. Speeding down the stairs she hoped he wouldn’t spot her – or her chubby form – slinking out of the building in search of somewhere to hide. Indoors or out, she’d always seek out a sunspot. Gavin once said she was catlike when she did that. It’d made her feel desirably feline. The sun was shining on the side of the building, where Blackie had banished the smokers, refusing to allow their anonymously donated bench to sit at the front of the building. What kind of health message would that send? he’d demanded, before having an ‘In memory of those who smoked here’ plaque screwed to it. Dropping onto the seat, Tiff rested her head on the wall behind to stare at the sky. Really this should be simple. Blackie had given her a shot at something. Things were already established in one respect; there was a client base to build on and money coming in. But every time she thought about the plans she’d nagged Blackie with, the task seemed huge. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to touch them with a shitty stick. And maybe Gavin was right about her not being ambitious. She had ideas, but maybe she didn’t have the drive to see them through. Was that what Ron was seeing? She’d wanted him onside. Whilst she hadn’t expected to inherit any of this, she hadn’t considered him having his eyes on it. Although maybe he didn’t harbour those ambitions at all – he seemed to think taking it on was his moral duty. He really had no faith in her. That hurt. A lot. Tiff had always given a hundred per cent to her work. She’d assumed Ron had a decent impression of her, when instead it turned out he thought her clumsy, incompetent and fat. She’d never considered the nature of hurt and how it could lie in layers. She was so hurt by Gavin’s decision it took her breath away. She had similar pain from ten years before when Mike walked away. It rested in her now like an old wound; prone to playing up in dank weather. Together the two sat heavily in her heart, making it difficult to engage with her normal self. This latest hurt of Ron’s rather changed that. It cast itself on the established layers, churning them up. It made her feel impotent while desperate to escape, rather like those dreams where she ran in terror through immobilising mud. And like those dreams, it was so very lonely. She closed her eyes to quell their prickling and inflated her cheeks to deflect the tears. Ron’s words were unfair. She hadn’t done a single thing but he’d already decided she couldn’t do it. And aside from the stinging hurt, what had her wanting to curl up in a ball was simply: what if he was right? Since she was a teen, Tiff had worked hard at the things she knew; the numbers and pleasing Gavin. Having precious little self-confidence otherwise, focusing on those things allowed her to curb her self-doubts. Not now though – they all came hurtling back. What had Blackie been thinking giving her the club? Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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