Page 8 of Hard Tail
“No.” I grimaced at the memory. “Luckily there were some anglers there, and one of them jumped in to save me. I was only five.”
“Bet Jay got into trouble with your mum, then.”
I cast my mind back and hit a blank, apart from a vague memory of Mum telling me I shouldn’t have been pestering my brother, anyway. “Doubt it. But the angler gave me a dead crab to take home.” I brightened. “Mum must have been horrified, but she just had to smile and say thanks, seeing as he’d just saved my life. And Jay was really jealous.” I’d kept the crab in my bedroom for a couple of weeks, until it mysteriously disappeared—by which time the smell had been so rank even I didn’t miss it.
Matt sighed. “Must be great, having a brother. Apart from, you know, him trying to kill you and all.”
“Er, yes. I think.” My turn to sigh. “I suppose I’d better go back and make the place look open.” I took a step back toward the door. Matt nodded and bent low over the bike once more, his baggy jeans slipping halfway down his arse to reveal stripey underwear that reminded me of one of the throws in Jay’s living room.
I caught myself staring, and shook my head. What the hell was I thinking? Time to get back to work.
***
I sat behind that till and counted down the hours to one o’clock. How on earth could Jay make a living doing this? We had only two customers in who actually bought anything—one, a cycle lock for seven pounds ninety-nine, and the other, a pump adaptor for 87p. At this rate, we’d be bankrupt by the end of the week.
As I turned the shop sign to “Closed” I became aware of a sort of shuffling sound behind me. When I turned, Matt was there. “Um. I was just wondering—do you fancy going to the caff for lunch? I mean, it’s nothing special, just a greasy spoon sort of place, so maybe you’d rather not…”
“I’d love to!” I said a little too loudly. All those hours with no one to talk to had got to me a bit.
“Great!” Matt enthused—and promptly tripped over the most expensive bike in the shop, which started to topple over towards the next in line. I lunged to catch it, having visions of writing off all Jay’s stock in one fell swoop as the domino effect took over. “Shit. Sorry about that,” Matt muttered, hanging his dark, shaggy head.
I straightened, breathing hard. “No harm done.” Maybe this was how Jay kept afloat. Matt trashed the stock, and Jay claimed the insurance. I wondered how much longer it’d be before they started refusing to pay out for acts of clod.
We made it to the café without further incident, thankfully. Then again, it was only two doors down, past a hairdresser’s that wafted out humid fumes smelling of mingled fruit and chemicals. The café was pretty much as Matt had said—linoleum floor, orange Formica tables and a misspelt chalkboard menu that seemed to consist mainly of grease, grease and more grease. Generously seasoned with a sprinkling of misplaced apostrophes. The place was almost full, though, which argued well for the quality of the food, if not for its healthiness. The clientele was mostly male, in a mix of business and casual wear, but there was a group of four women dressed for the office in the far corner. They looked up when we went in, one of them giving me a frankly appraising look that was a little alarming. I broke eye contact and headed over to the free table farthest from their corner, trying to surreptitiously check if I’d spilt anything down my front or left my flies open.
“Does Jay ever come in here—watch out!” I managed to save the vinegar bottle Matt’s wayward elbow had knocked off a table on the way.
“Sorry,” Matt said, looking mortified. “And, um, no. Not really his sort of place. He usually has something healthy and cold in the shop.”
“Would that be Olivia?” I asked archly as we sat at the table. Then I wondered if I’d gone a bit too far with a bloke I hardly knew.
Matt just grinned. “You’ve met her, then? No, she doesn’t come round the shop much. She’s not really into bikes.”
“Might ruin those perfect nails,” I suggested, my cattiness fuelled by relief he hadn’t taken umbrage on her behalf.
“Or get oil on those white tunics of hers,” Matt added, his unblemished eye twinkling. “We shouldn’t diss her, though—she’s all right, really. And Jay seems to like her.”
As if that was a recommendation. Jay likedeveryone. A middle-aged waitress in a brown pinny came and asked what she could do us for, so I ordered egg and chips with a mug of coffee (please, God, let it not be decaf), and Matt asked for the same. As we settled down to wait, he started fiddling with the little packets of salt and pepper that were in a cup on the table, and I started making bets with myself on how long it’d be before the table was covered in condiments.
“How long have you worked for Jay?” I asked, curious. Matt talked like he’d known Jay for ages, but then most people tend to do that five minutes after they’ve met him. Jay’s just that sort of bloke.
“Er…” Matt looked like he wasthisclose to counting on his fingers. “About eight months now. I knew him before that, though. We go biking together, Thursday nights.”
“Just the two of you?” I asked more sharply than I meant to.
“Nah. There’s about half a dozen of us. Well, not everyone comes each week—actually, it’s been a while since we’ve seen Adam, I’d better give him a ring and see what’s up—but on an average night, there’s about half a dozen. You should come along,” he added with a lopsided smile.
“I don’t cycle,” I said a bit shortly. “Haven’t had a bike since I was in school,” I explained, trying to sound friendlier. “It was a bit hilly where I went to university.” Although, if I was honest, a lot of the students had managed with bikes.
Matt laughed, showing that broken tooth again. “You can’t run a bike shop and not even own a bike!”
If it had been anyone else, I’d probably have become defensive. But Matt was so good-natured, it just wasn’t possible to take offence. “I suppose it is a bit funny,” I admitted.
“Why don’t you have a look at the stock? Jay always gives a discount to mates; he’d definitely do the same for you.”
I had to smile at his innocent assumption that the only thing that had been stopping me from owning a bike up to now was that I hadn’t been able to get one on the cheap. “I’ll think about it,” I hedged and was relieved to see the food turn up—two huge platefuls of eggs with golden yolks and proper chip-shop chips, not the little matchsticks you get in fast-food places.
The next few minutes were spent passing the salt and vinegar—I’d always thought I was a bit heavy-handed with the latter, but Matt absolutely drenched his chips with the stuff—and hunting for the brown sauce in the little cupful of sachets. I noticed with approval that Matt, like me, kept his egg yolk unadulterated and only squeezed sauce on the boring bit.
