Page 3 of The Alpha Escort Agency
"I know, the life plan," Maria mutters.
Alice ignores her and holds up her fingers. "Step one: Get marketing degree ” tick. Step two: Secure position in one of the top three marketing agencies — tick. Step three: purchase own property — tick. Step four: land promotion and become an account director — yet to be accomplished. All this by the time I'm thirty and then I might think about dating." She wants her own life, her own security. She doesn't want to build her whole existence around another person, not like her mum had, because when that person is gone she’d have nothing left.
Maria rolls her eyes again. "Where's the fun in it, though? The spontaneity?"
"We aren't all lucky enough to have a flourishing career and find Mr Perfect, you know. So some of us have to take matters into our own hands and find other arrangements."
"Hmmm." Maria shifts on the wall and looks out towards the fountain.
"What?" Alice examines her. "What's up?"
"I don't know. Maybe Ed isn't Mr Perfect after all."
"What?" A slosh of coffee lands by Alice's feet as she flings her arms into the air. "He is."
"I don't know; things have felt a bit off lately."
Alice waits, but Maria says nothing more, and she knows not to push her friend. She'll tell her when she's good and ready. Trying to force things out of Maria only results in her clamming up.
Alice sips her coffee. "So anyway. They've already matched me to a suitable escort?"
This tugs Maria out of her reverie. "They have?"
"Yes. They've offered an introductory meetinga couple of weeks before my actual heat to check I'm happy. Do you think I should meet him or just wait for my heat?"
"No, meet him. Definitely meet him. You don't want another twot."
Chapter 2
The dawn spills over the lake's horizon, golden strings of light racing towards him through the haze that hovers above the water. On an Autumn morning like this, it's freezing. The cold ground penetrates his body as he lies flat out in the grass, his breath forming white clouds around his head and fogging up the viewer of his camera. Carefully, he lifts his head, trying his best not to rustle the long blades of grass that hide him, and swipes his thumb across the screen. Then he lowers back down, gripping the camera steady and, scrunching his left eye shut, peers with his right through the lens and out across the expanse of the lake.
Of course, there's no need to use the viewer these days, not now there's the digital screen, but it's how his grandad taught him and somehow he thinks the pictures come out better this way.
He waits.
Behind him somewhere in the distant trees he can hear the dawn chorus and the slight rustle of dead leaves in the breeze. The scent of wet grass and mud fills his nostrils and he can taste it in his mouth.
There's nobody here. Sometimes there are anglers with their flasks of hot tea and their neatly cut sandwiches sitting like statues around the lake's edge, but not today. And there are no other twitchers here either. He likes it best this way, not interested in the small talk that most bird watchers like to indulge in, a comparison of notes and spots. For him, it's never been about ticking off breeds on a list, it's always been about moments like this, absorbed in nature, his senses alive like a hunter ready to strike, only he has no gun or spear. His win will be the capture of this moment, this feeling, this time and place in his camera.
The bird he hopes to find today is yet to make an appearance but suddenly a crack in the brush startles the occupants of the bank and a flock of geese spread their wings and lift into the air, dark shadows against the lightening sky, their reflections mirrored beneath them in the smooth surface of the lake.
Rory hits the shutter button, his camera silently clicking shot after shot as he twizzles the focus and the aperture, finding the perfect balance. When the geese are mere dots, he throws back the camouflage cape that covers his head and sits back on his haunches. He huffs onto his stiff fingers, releasing the tension in his spine with a roll of his shoulders, and reaches round to secure the shoulder-length strands that have escaped a messy bun at the base of his skull. Then he lifts his camera and flicks through the photos, deleting half immediately but satisfied with one or two. It won't be clear if they're any good until he's plugged the camera into his laptop and magnified each image, scanning each one with a critical gaze for any speck of imperfection.
On the drive back from the reservoir to the edge of the city, he pulls his truck into a petrol station and fills up the tank, grabbing milk, bread, a bunch of carnations and fruit cake from the small shop. He doesn't like to arrive empty-handed or too early, even though he knows they are both early risers, so by the time he reaches his grandparent's maisonette it's nearly ten o'clock. Piling the shopping into his arms, and grabbing his camera case from the front seat, he jumps out of the pickup and jogs to the front door, rapping it in the tuneful way they will recognise as his.
The length of time it takes his granddad to answer the door is getting longer each time, he notes, but the face that greets him through the crack is just as cheerful as it's always been.
"Hello there, lad," says the old man, closing the door and releasing the security chain before he swings it back wide to let Rory in.
"Alrigh' Granddad?" he says, patting him on the shoulder.
"You know, can't complain."
Rory waits as the old man turns and hobbles along the corridor.
"Where's Nan? She made it out of bed today?"
"Oh yes, she's in the living room."
