Page 1 of Love Punch

Chapter 1

Arthur - 3 Years Ago

Early in my education, I’d had grand plans for my degree in business. All those university job fairs and mad plans to start micro-businesses and work on fun start-ups had led to this: a chronic lack of employment and thousands of pounds I would never get back.

As it turned out, no one wanted to employ someone who’d finished university and then run a start-up right into the ground. What business would want someone who was so comprehensively shit at it?

So, I’d thrown myself into agency work as a secretary, and I was good at it. I was massively overqualified to deliver coffees and book hotel rooms for sleazy CEOs, but I needed the money—and I was young and pretty enough to do it. Still, it wasn’t what I wanted.

That’s why when my phone rang one quiet Friday, I couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm. It was my recruitment agency telling me I was moving on to my next job.

“Great. Where do you want me…Bristol?“ I didn’t know why I was so indignant. I’d stubbornly moved to London from Wales as it was the very centre of the business world. Despite the fact London had proved fruitless so far, moving closer to home again still felt like a step backward.

The woman on the end of the phone simply sighed. I’d never seen her face in person and likely never would, but I knew her voice all too well. “This is permanent work, full room and board. All you’ve got to do is hold the guy’s sweaty towels.”

”Iwhat?”The one-two punch of information had me unsure how to react. A job holding some person’s gross towels sounded like a much seedier job than I’d signed up for, but the prospect of getting out of here… I took the phone down from my ear and looked around the room. I’d been renting a crappy bedsit in London’s Zone 3, barely making ends meet along with my two flatmates who didn’t seem to know how to wash. “I’ll take it. When do you need me?”

“Your employer will send you a train ticket this evening, and you’ll be expected at work in the morning.”

“And who exactly is my employer?” I asked. “This all seems very mysterious.”

“Well, you’re meant to sign an NDA first…” she muttered. I could practically hear her pursing her lips. “It’s Bradley Tyler.”

“Who?” The name niggled something in the back of my mind, but it wasn’t someone I could pinpoint directly.

“The boxer! You know, the one with all the famous family?”

“Never heard of him,” I admitted.

“Well, get down to Bristol as fast as you can. I’m sure you’ll find he’s an adequate employer.”

“What’s the p—“ I started, but the dial tone signalled the end to the conversation. “Great.”

As I packed up my stuff, I felt a little pathetic in realising that all I had to my name was a single suitcase of clothes and my art supplies. But it made saying goodbye a lot easier.

I texted my landlord to let him know that my next rent instalment would be my last, then crawled into bed for an uneasy sleep.

My phone buzzed early with a text telling me to get to Paddington station, and I caught the early train with a funny feeling in my stomach. I knew I should be happy about the stability of a full-time job, a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in at night. But I was still leaving London: the centre of business. It was an admission of failure. At least, it felt that way.

The train ride from Paddington to Bristol took an age, and the journey was too bumpy for me to sketch properly. So I j passed the time by watching out the window as the big city turned into countryside.

Minutes before the train was due to pull into Bristol Temple Meads, my phone rang. I looked down at the screen, grimacing at my father’s name. “Hello?”

“Arty, how are you?”

“I’m fine. What do you need, Dad?” I hated being called Artie. But that was hardly his most egregious crime.

“I didn’t say I needed anything!” he defended. “I’m just calling to see how you are.”

I didn’t believe a word of it. “Great. I’m good. How are you?”

“I’m good. There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s just your mother…” He trailed off, and I grit my teeth. I was glad he couldn’t see my face—he couldn’t see how my naivety and love for him had leeched away over the years.

“What’s wrong with her this time?”

“It’s her…she’s too ill to work at the moment, and we can’t pay our bills.”

“And you can’t work?” I asked.

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