This chapter is 160% of my standard length, but I just couldn't stop writing :)
I hope you enjoy!
Cheers! xx
***
After the turf war - all puns intended - the meeting she had with the Headmistress and four teachers presently working on their classrooms, was a piece of cake. Still, leaving the school, she could murder a non-figurative slice - or two. It would have to wait, though. She needed to change and to go to the cottage. She was dragging her clothes off when her phone burst into its ululations. It was, of course, in her handbag; and she hopped, stumbled, ungracefully fell on one side, grabbing the corner of her bed, and letting go of the waist of her trousers, and consequently tangling in them even more.
"Yes!" she yelped into the phone. "Yes, I'm here. Speaking, I mean. Yes?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
"Good afternoon, Jackie."
"Um..." Jackie gulped lungfuls of air with her open mouth. "Hi, Stephen. Um– Could you hold for a jiffy, please?"
She didn't wait for his answer and put the phone down on the cover. She was not going to talk to her ex while lying on her side, like a seal, her legs hobbled, her shirt unbuttoned!
It took her five seconds to strip and to wrap in a bathrobe. Talking to him in her bra and knickers felt even more wrong.
"Hi!" she squeaked into the phone. "Sorry, I was– in the middle of something."
"Oh I see." He sounded unsure. "Is it a bad time? I could ring you back when–"
"No, no, I'm done now," she answered quickly. "So yeah– Hi."
"Hi." He was silent for a second, and then cleared his throat. "I didn't expect you to recognise me right away," he said with a forced chuckle.
"Well, your voice hasn't changed much." Jackie twisted the belt of the robe in her fingers. "Actually, none of you changed much. I mean, in terms of appearance, and size, and–" She squeezed her eyes, mortified. "Sorry. What I'm trying to say–"
"Jackie, did you see where I'm calling from?"
She moved the mobile away from her ear - and stared at the words 'Osuji Moving.' She mouthed, 'Bloody sodding hell!' and thumped herself to the forehead with her left fist a couple of times.
"You work in Mr. Osuji's moving company," Jackie croaked. "You've got my delivery, haven't you?"
"Yes, we've got two consolidated shipments for you," Stephen confirmed. "Would you be able to accept the deliveries in an hour?"
"Yes, yes, I will head to the cottage right away!"
"Cheers," Stephen said, muttered a goodbye, and hung up before she could answer.
She didn't blame him. Jackie fell face down onto the bed and growled, the sound muffled by her pillow. Nothing - and she meant nothing - in her relationship with Stephen had ever been anything, but a source of embarrassment and shame for her. Why would she expect anything else now?
***
Thankfully, he wasn't present at her delivery. Three lads - two Serbians, and one jolly compatriot of Mr. Osuji - deftly carried her items inside, and even offered to take them to her preferred rooms. She followed them around, mumbling thank you's, and trying to remember how much cash she had on her.
"Ms. Burns," the one named Radovan called her from the sitting room, and she sprinted towards him from the kitchen. "Damage," he said, pointing at one of the boxes. He scrolled on his phone and showed her a picture of the same box. "It happened before. From London. See?"
She looked at the photo. The hardly noticeable dent that the Serbian was talking about was there.
"Usually we call to tell customers when a box came in. But this is small. Open it, so we can claim if it will be bad." He shook his head. "Movers in big cities don't care about customers."
Jackie immediately started reassuring him. "It's OK, I'm sure!" She knelt in front of the box, and he handed her a box knife. "It's minimal," she continued. "Nothing should–"
Her words stuck in her throat. She lowered her hand into the box and pulled out her Grandmother's Colclough coffee pot by its handle. She gasped at the view of its missing spout.
"Damn it," Radovan said. He craned his neck. "But you put no paper! No packaging, see? You can't just put dishes in the box. They crack!"
"I–" Jackie's voice broke, and she dropped her backside on the floor. "I wasn't–"
Tears rolled onto her eyes.
"Take other kettles out," Radovan said. "You need to know what is broke. But you can't prove your claim. No, I don't think that they will pay." He shook his head again. "You didn't put paper, and they all move and–" He made a crashing noise.
Jackie wanted to defend herself, but she'd start bawling if she opened her mouth; so she just sank her teeth into her bottom lip.
"Don't cry," the man said with sympathy. "You go to Mr. Oats, you know, the man in the hardware shop? He can fix everything. Or Volchok, that Ukrainian man on Alder street. He knows how to fix old things. Antiquities."
"Is everything alright?" The mover named Remi popped his head into the room.
"Her kettle broke," Radovan said. "But she put no paper!"
Jackie swallowed a sob bubbling in her throat, put the pot aside, and started inspecting the rest of the set. Two of the cups were chipped, and one saucer broke in half. The milk jug, her most favourite dish, was intact, though; and Jackie pressed it to her chest.
"Should we bring the rest of the stuff then?" Remi asked, throwing Jackie uneasy glances.
She nodded, still not trusting her voice.
"This shipment was furniture," Radovan grumbled. "I thought there are handles and wheels in the small box, maybe blankets. Not the glass."
He huffed a judgmental 'pfft' sound and left the room.
The rest of the unloading went smoothly. There were two more boxes of smaller items that had been sent with the wardrobe, the bed, the writing bureau, the leaf table, five chairs, and so on; but this box didn't contain anything breakable.
From all the suppressed crying and the stress, Jackie could feel a migraine episode approaching. She held off just enough to thank and to tip the movers - and to refrain from snapping at Radovan who continued to give her unsolicited advice through the whole process. When the door closed behind them, Jackie had just enough time to rush to the toilet when the first wave of vomiting started. She'd clearly missed her chance to eat, which would've lessened her current suffering.
She needed to sleep, she told herself. That was the only way she could get through this: to lie down, in darkness, breathing purposefully, hoping she wouldn't be sick again, because that would aggravate her pain tenfold. She had her water bottle next to the bed, so she'd take small sips, trying to hydrate without prompting her stomach to expel the liquid.
Thankfully, there were curtains on the bedroom window, and she spread the vintage quilt that she found in one of the boxes on the bed and collapsed on it.
The smell of an unfamiliar perfume hit her nose, and her eyes flew open.
There was a long blonde hair in the box of her Grandmother's china - the china that Gabriel, or someone who now lived with him in the house Jackie had bought when they'd gotten married, had simply thrown in a box, 'without paper,' as the grumpy Serbian mover kept reminding her. And now that Gabriel had gotten a job in Manchester, he was 'fixin' to' sell said house! And he'd just shipped her the few things she'd had left from her beloved Nana - and Jackie had paid for it. She might be a spineless doormat, but she hadn't failed to notice how masterfully he'd led the conversation, so that she'd offered to pay the bill. She always did.
And now it turned out that all these things that Jackie held so dear - the bedspread her Nana had stitched herself; the dishes that had been given to her parents for their wedding; and probably the pair of the lambswool blankets that her Nana had brought with her when she'd left Moffat at the age of eighteen - hadn't been kept in the attic of the house, where she'd meticulously packed and stored them. They had been used - and abused - without any consideration.
By some blonde tart.
She paid for the angry thought right away: a metaphorical red hot poker slammed into her temple; she moaned and then heaved. Pressing her hand over her mouth, she slid off the bed and pretty much crawled to the ensuite.
She spent the next couple of hours on the tiles near the loo, shaking so much that her teeth chattered. Her Mother used to say, whenever little Jackie would be ill, Get yourself a husband. What are you going to do if you throw your back? Someone will need to wash your elbows.
Jackie had taken a shower that morning, and she was pretty sure that her elbows didn't need any scrubbing - but for someone to simply cover her with a duvet right now would be worth going through another divorce afterwards.
There were friends of course, but Jackie hadn't been jammy in this area either, had she? After all, she had her closest friends to thank for the big break-ups in her life - all three of them.
She heard her phone ring downstairs, in the kitchen, where she'd left it. Minutes - or maybe hours - ticked by; and then another call came; and then another three followed, with only minutes in between.
And then she heard the doorbell, and immediately after, a demanding knock to the door. Jackie pressed her hands into the tiles and tried to lift her upper half off the floor. Ache bloomed behind her eyelids, in some sort of 70s psychedelic swirls; and she started spasmodically swallowing her rising sick.
Whoever was by the door was quiet; and then the banging resumed.
"Jackie!"
She realised she could hear them through the open window in the bathroom next to the toilet. For a second, she thought of Stephen; but she understood her mistake a second later.
"Jackie!"
Her arms gave in; and she sank, grasping to the toilet bowl. Her fingers slid off the porcelain.
There was some noise on the ground floor; and she realised he'd unlocked the door and came in.
"Alex–" Her voice came out in a cough. "Alexander..."
"I have a key," he shouted downstairs. "I'm sorry to barge in, but no one could reach you. Jackie? Are you here?"
He seemed to be near the stairs. She just needed to raise her voice a bit - and he'd hear her. She just couldn't decide whether she wanted to subject him to the view of her disgusting shape on the bog floor - or she wasn't feeling awful enough to ask for help from him.
If he found this picture too minging to tolerate, he'd at least give her something to wrap into. She braced herself and tried again.
"Alexander..."
He ran up the stairs, his steps echoing heavily. At the last moment she felt the usual cocktail of guilt and self-hatred wash over her, and she even considered closing the door to hide - when he knelt near her.
"I've got–" she rasped out. "A migraine."
His hot palm cupped her face, gently, tenderly; and he lifted it a tad to meet her eyes.
"What do you need?" he asked, studying her. "Do you want to stay or move to the bed?"
The memory of the cloying perfume on the quilt made her mewl and weakly shake her head.
"I've got no clean sheets," she whispered.
"Alright, love, hold on," he said - and scooped her in his arms.
She dropped her forehead onto his shoulder. His body felt scorching, even through the soft cashmere of his black jumper. There was almost no smell coming from him, except for a faint scent of either his soap or a fabric softener.
He walked to the bedroom and carefully lowered her in her wingback armchair. She peeked, her eyes half-lidded, and saw him neatly fold the quilt and remove it from the bed.
"I'll be right back," he said softly.
He handed her the water bottle and left. She wasn't sure how long he was gone, she might have nodded off or passed out. She jolted out of her stupor when he touched her shoulder.
"What–" she exhaled, staring at her fully made bed.
She'd never seen this linen - with its white pattern of wild animals and botanicals in the Nordic style, on a pale grey background. There was a fluffy duvet; four pillows, two white and two matching the duvet cover; and a mauve quilted bedspread.
"C'mon, let me help you in," he said and squatted in front of her. "Everything is clean and unscented. Shouldn't bother your sensitivities."
"Where did–"
She didn't finish her question because he'd just unzipped her tracksuit top and divested her of it. He then picked her up under her arms and put her upright.
"Alexander!" she gasped and wobbled.
"Grab my shoulder," he said and hooked his fingers on the waist of her jeans.
"What are you doing?!"
He popped the button open; the zipper slid down; and he pulled the trousers down. She jerked, hissed from the pain in her temples - and his arm went around her hips.
"I told you to hold on," he murmured.
Somehow, a second later, she found herself sitting on the bed, in her knickers and her tee. His scorching hand wrapped around her ankle; she gaped at him as he took her socks off. He was right, nothing should be restricting one's blood circulation during an episode.
He lifted the side of the duvet. "Get in."
The sheets were cool, of the highest quality, probably organic, cotton; and they were indeed clean and scentless. Jackie pressed her face into a pillow and groaned.
"You need to take off your bra," Alexander deadpanned.
Jackie grunted, signalling that she'd rather die from bra suffocation than move at the moment.
The bed dipped under his weight.
"Would you like me to help you?" he whispered into her ear; and she sat up, as much as her throbbing head and nausea allowed. Alexander chuckled. "I thought so. C'mon, do the trick where you take it off under the shirt. Straps off the shoulders, unhook the back, and out."
Jackie shifted, without opening her eyes, and did what she was told. The weapon of torture flew onto the floor, and she dove back into the Elisium of the fresh linen.
"Do you want me to leave?" he asked. "I have acupressure training," he added in a pointed tone.
Jackie haltingly rolled onto her other side, facing away from him; and told herself that asking for anything else, even the smallest of favours, would put her into eternal debt to him; and it would be a blatant abuse of his feelings towards her, whatever they were.
"Please, stay."
His fingers, first, brushed at her temple; then, ran through her hair - and Jackie couldn't hold back a throaty moan. And then he started slowly drawing circles, his thumb finding the little pools of pain, chasing it away with the heat and just the right amount of force - in the most perfect of ways.