Page 8 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
I stand there waiting, carefully not looking at him either. His face is slightly in shadow and he’s leaning against the stone door jamb. He’s definitely filled out in the last few years. He always had that lean footballer strength thing, but now his shoulders and chest have got bigger, he looks more like a threat.
And then, after a while, he walks over to the sofa and flops down on it, occupying the space. He scratches his already messy hair, then yawns widely, not bothering to cover his mouth, and I notice his faded sweater’s got a hole in the elbow.
Christ, he’s rude. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ I ask.
‘Nope.’
‘Really? Don’t you want to have a go at me for leading Monty on?’
‘Not at all,’ he says mildly, looking at the fire. ‘Monty was clearly the one hitting on you. It’s not your fault he can’t keep away. Besides – he’s the one who’s married.’
For a moment, I’m quiet.Is Matthew Lloyd being nice?
Then he says, ‘Although I would question what you were ever doing dating someone like Monty in the first place. He’s a total idiot.’
‘What?’
Matthew lazily gets off the sofa and wanders over to the fire, picking up the brass poker hanging in the mammoth stone hearth and stoking the fire. He keeps his back to me.
‘I’ve always wondered… ’ says Matthew, and then tails off.
‘What… ?’ I say impatiently.
Matthew turns to face me. ‘Does Monty breathe through his mouth like that when he’s shagging? Or does the nose whistle turn you on? I wonder what first attracted you to him? The title? The castle? His love of cheese maybe? Yes, probably it was the cheese… ’
He smiles at me.
‘Fuck OFF, Matthew!’ I say, going to kick him hard on the shin, but he moves to the side right at the last moment so I endup kicking the stupid log basket instead: a shooting pain sears up my foot as the basket tips, scattering logs over the hearth. ‘Ow!’ My eyes water. ‘I think my toe’s broken.’
Matthew just laughs, which makes me even crosser.
‘Are you going to leave me in agony? At least Monty’s a gentleman,’ I say. ‘Unlike you.’
‘Every inch,’ agrees Matthew. ‘Minty’s got herself a real catch.’
He grins, then turns away from me, bends down, rights the basket and retrieves the rolling logs. The pain is subsiding slightly, but he doesn’t know that, which makes me hate him even more. Why’s he messing around with the logs when I potentially have a fracture?
‘Just leave the logs,’ I snap. ‘They have people to do that sort of thing here!’
He pauses, but doesn’t turn round. ‘People who will hold your drink for you, pick up for you, that sort of thing?’ he says. ‘Clear upyourmess? I guess that’s what staff are for.’
I feel my face getting hotter. Wanker. I don’t get what his problem is. He knows I worked here just like he did: we were both bar staff that summer. Although I suppose he had to do more hours. And every holiday. But that was hardly my fault. ‘Well, we’re all suited to certain roles in life,’ I say.
‘Absolutely,’ agrees Matthew, standing up. ‘And you certainly seem to be sticking to the same old thing, don’t you?’
What does that mean? I’m pretty sure he just insulted me. But now he’s just staring at that painting above the fire, silhouetted against the flickering topaz light, like I’m not even there. I mean, I know it’s art, and I’d never admitit in public, but I’m kind of with Monty here: it’s not that interesting. But Matthew is seemingly fascinated. He moves closer to the painting, and then adjusts it.
Who the fuck adjusts a painting in a hotel?
‘Careful,’ I say. ‘That’s a Banksy print, and I happen to know it’s exceedingly expensive.’
‘It’s not a print. It’s an original.’
‘Whatever.’ I aim below the belt, but I don’t care. He deserves it. ‘If I were you, Matthew Lloyd, I’d keep my hands off things I couldn’t afford.’
But he just chuckles.
‘God, you’re an arsehole,’ I finally snap. At that precise moment, I feel the faint coldness of air from the door swishing shut, and hear the noise of the wedding, as someone politely clears their throat behind us. I swing round. It’s one of the hotel managers who intimidated me earlier on reception; frankly she looks like she should be modelling, not working in a hotel. It’s a clear power move from whichever cool fucker has taken over the Lamb.
