Carry You. Beth Thomas

layer of sand. I glance back at the man with the wheelbarrow. A single drop of sweat is trickling down the side of his head and over his cheek-bone.

      ‘Just wondered, would you mind giving me a hand with this?’ he says now, grinning and chewing gum. ‘It’s bloody heavy.’

      My eyes widen and my chin jerks forward. ‘You want me to help you? Carry that? In these clothes? And trainers?’ I glance down overtly at his feet and note that they are clad in huge, heavy-duty, probably steel-toe-capped, Magnum builders’ boots in a gorgeous tan nubuck. ‘Hm. This could result in a lawsuit for you, you know. I take it you are being paid to do this? I mean, this is your job, right? You will be getting actual money from someone for moving these bricks around? So tell me just exactly why you think this is something I should help you with, for no money, and risking painful injury?’

      He shrugs – the wheelbarrow full of bricks goes up a little, then down again. I try not to be impressed that he was able to do that. I certainly don’t sneak a peek at the massive muscles in his arms and shoulders. ‘Hey, you might want to lighten up a bit, lady. It was only a little joke.’ He winks at me, and makes a clicking sound with his mouth as he does so.

      ‘A joke? Really? No, it can’t have been. Surely not. I know about jokes. They’re funny. They’re to make people laugh.’

      He grins even more broadly and inclines his head a little. ‘Duly noted. Thanks for the feedback. I am off right now to go and write some more material.’ He moves as if to put the wheelbarrow down, then picks it up again and jerks his head. ‘Ah, damn it, I can’t do it now, I’ve got to finish this first. Tell you what, you move out of the way and I’ll promise to work on some funnier material as soon as I get home tonight. Deal?’

      I stare at him, and realise at that moment that I am standing on the pavement, midway along the entrance to the driveway, essentially blocking it to all cars, vans and anyone with a large, heavy wheelbarrow. I feel that solid thing dropping in my belly again. When he said ‘Excuse me’ the first time, he literally meant, excuse me, you’re in my way, please move. It wasn’t the sort of ‘Excuse me’ that you say to someone to get their attention before you ask them something. I glance down at the unfinished driveway, wishing it was still a big hole so that I could jump into it. Then I look back up at the man. A sheen of sweat is covering the huge muscles now. I look away quickly and give a decisive nod.

      ‘OK, that sounds fair.’ I turn round and start to walk away, then half turn and speak over my shoulder. ‘Twenty-four hours it is. I’ll be back tomorrow with a clapometer.’

      ‘A clap …?’ I hear him snort. I hope it’s laughter. I suspect not. ‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘I’ll look forward to that.’

      Thankfully he can’t see my red face as I march as fast as I can up the street and into uncharted territory.

       FIVE

       Daisy Mack

      is so used to getting lost, you’d think I’d be better at it by now.

      Daisy Mack Actually, getting lost I can do. It’s what I’m good at. If you ever need to get lost, come and see me. Oh, if you can find me, that is.

      Jenny Martin What the hell is going on with you, Dozy-Doo?

      Georgia Ling Lol! xx

      Suzanne Allen Where are you now? What can you see?

      Abby Marcus Pay no attention Suze, she’s on the sofa, watching Rotting Hell.

      I don’t know why Abby’s put that. She likes Notting Hill as much as I do.

      No she doesn’t. What am I thinking of? Of course she doesn’t. No one does. Richard Curtis doesn’t like Notting Hill as much as I do.

      Anyway, I think I deserve this relaxing little interlude. It’s been a very strenuous few days since I marched rapidly away from Wheelbarrow Man on Tuesday and got myself instantly and completely lost. I’ve been out walking every day since then, and that was five days ago. I must have covered at least ten miles every day, which is fifty miles all together. Bloody hell, I could actually have walked to Bluewater shopping centre. Could have had a Subway of the Day. Tried on shoes. Bought tights.

      Julia Roberts is arguing for the last brownie. I pause the film at this point because Abby has just come and sat down near my feet and is staring at me pointedly. She looks like she wants to have a serious talk with me about something. I wonder what on earth it could be. Any ideas anyone? Answers on a postcard …

      ‘Daze, we need to have a serious talk about your training plan.’

      Ding ding ding – correct answer, you’re a winner!

      I smile and nod. ‘Yeah, I know.’

      ‘Do you? Because I’m still not convinced you’re completely aware of how much work there is left to do.’

      She’s entirely wrong there. Why on earth else does she think I’ve been walking so much? I’ve been like a walking demon this week, out every day, marching down to the park, marching around the park, marching backwards and forwards across the park, marching around the park again, becoming so familiar with the park and all its entrances and exits and all the housing estates that border it that I’ll never ever get lost again. It’s quite surprising really that, in all that marching down to, and through, and round and round the park and its environs, I never bumped into that man again. Or actually, I suppose I could have seen him again, I really wouldn’t know. I can barely remember what he looked like, except that he was holding something, I think. What was that again? Some kind of statue, was it? Or a bicycle? I can’t remember, it’s all gone.

      I’ve also never seen that woman with the ponytail again, the one who walked like her and moved like her and looked like her. It doesn’t matter. It’s not as if I was looking for her.

      Anyway, the point is that I have done some pretty substantial walking this week, whatever Abs might think, and I’m proud of myself. I’d like to see her cover ten miles a day. On foot, obviously – she does far more than ten miles every day in her car of course. I know that for a fact. She gave me a lift into town once when my car was off the road, and the only problem was I had to sit in the back while she gave a lesson first. It was only an hour, and it probably would have taken me that long to get the bus anyway, so I went with it. I had never seen her with a client before, and I was really surprised at how flirty she was with him, a lad of about nineteen or twenty. There was a lot of, ‘Oh hi there, Justin, OK, first gear to pull away, you look good today, braking carefully towards the junction, don’t you smell nice, what is that, Calvin Klein? Red light, Justin, red light.’ I sat in the back and rolled my eyes, and they kept on rolling for the entire sixty minutes. I felt a bit sick by the end of it.

      ‘What the hell was all that about?’ I asked her, once Justin had parallel parked (badly) to gushing praise from Abs (‘Oh well done, Justin, I’ve never seen such a beginner do it as well as that, you’re a natural’ – forget the fact he needed to get the bus to the kerb) and got out.

      ‘All what?’ she said easily, flipping down the sun visor and checking her appearance in the little mirror. She didn’t do anything to her face, like touch up her lipgloss or rub away mascara smudges like the rest of us have to, she just looked, scrutinised, turned slightly left, slightly right, once more in the centre, and was satisfied.

      ‘Yeah, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You know exactly what I’m talking about.’ I affected a high breathy voice. ‘“Ooh, Justin, look at your bulging muscles; ooh, Justin, you smell so delicious I could just eat you all up.” You were blatantly flirting with him, Abs! It’s outrageous! He must be all of eighteen!’

      ‘He’s twenty, Daze – in a couple of months – and stop looking so scandalised. This is me you’re talking to. I know you’re not that innocent, remember?’