The Vintage Cinema Club. Jane Linfoot
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Wednesday Evening, 4th June
XANDER & IZZY
His building site in Bakewell
A vandal would have been so much less trouble
‘At least lads would have legged it by now.’ Xander was muttering under his breath, not that it was helping any.
As he rubbed his hands absently on his biceps, he stared at the wobbling girl he’d just dropped onto the ground. Somehow he couldn’t shift the warmth of her off his skin. Broken glass might well have been preferable to a stroppy woman, who was so small and weedy she couldn’t even climb out of a skip. Given the appalling state of the house, a few more smashed windows would hardly have mattered anyway.
He’d bought what he thought was a house needing slight refurbishment, in an up market area on the outskirts of Bakewell, and thanks to the combined efforts of builders and vandals, he was now the proud owner of what passed at best for a shit heap. Even if Bakewell was on the Telegraph’s Top Ten Places To Live In The UK list, he was failing to see the attraction himself. Served him right for buying a place for the wrong motives, and shutting up your sister was no kind of good reason. Christina might be kicking his ass big time, but one land registry transaction was never going to transform his life from dysfunctional to socially acceptable. Although he hated to disappoint her, some leaps were too big to make.
He’d given up on relationships, stable friends, and places to live so long ago he’d forgotten what normal was. Glossy women throwing themselves at you came with the territory, when you were in film production and finance, but he had his avoidance tactics honed. One glance at the wasteland of a building site was enough to show anyone that even as a seasoned developer he was currently lacking the necessary motivation to push this large family house renovation to completion on his own behalf, let alone move into it. Now it was actually happening, it was going to be just another place to turn over, the same as all the rest.
‘Thanks for that.’ The words interrupted his thoughts. Her voice was smaller now, momentarily less objectionable.
Presumably she was referring to him putting her feet back on the ground. She was flapping her hands over her skirt, and the buttons on the front of her dress looked set to bust with every gasp. Worse still, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Today just got better and better. Not.
‘Okay, the show’s over.’ She said, attempting to straighten herself out. She then jutted her chin at him. ‘I’ll just get my shoes and I’ll be off.’
So that was good news. Right now his priority was to get her as far away from here as he could, and fast.
Shoes.
If he grabbed her shoes she could go. To his untrained eye, the pointy yellow heeled shoes he picked up looked completely inappropriate for scrabbling around on a building site, but what did he know.
‘There you go.’ He picked them up and tossed them in her direction, then turned away quickly.
‘Thanks.’
From the corner of his eye he saw her make a lunge to retrieve them. ‘Ouch.’
Xander heard her sharp cry, and pivoted in time to see her jack-knife to the ground.
‘Okay, what now?’ This time he made no attempt to hide his exasperation.
She crouched, then slipped back to sitting and grasped one bare foot, and a mile of thigh slid into view as her skirt bunched-up.
Christ. Not what he needed.
‘Damn.’ Her fingers were dark as she pulled them away from her foot.
He leaned in for a better look. ‘Is that blood?’
Ignoring both him, and the scarlet smears all over the lemon leather, she rammed her shoes on, got up, and began to hobble past him.
‘Wait.’ Somehow he’d already stepped into her path, and was barring her way. ‘Let me take a look?’
As she screwed up her face and hesitated for a minute he suspected she was about to argue. Then she thought better of it, and stuck out her foot.
He’d take that as an okay then. Crouching, he grasped her ankle, and her weight wavered against his arm. ‘You might want to grab my shoulder if you don’t want to fall over.’ Given her scowl, he’d let her decide for herself.
‘Right. Now bend your knee so I can see the bottom of your foot.’ Brushing away the blood with his thumb, he closed his eyes to the view straight up her skirt and focused on the wound. ‘It looks quite deep.’
‘I’m fine, it’s nothing.’ She was rifling through her skirt pocket now, sending a shower of sweet wrappers past his cheek. ‘You don’t have a hanky do you?’
‘Sorry.’ He gave a helpless shrug.
‘I thought men in suits always carried them.’ She let out a snort of disgust, and yanked her ankle away. ‘In that case I’ll go.’
He was on his knees, her dress so far in his face he was breathing in the scent of fabric conditioner, and more. No matter how much he wanted her gone, no matter how fast his heart was pumping, he couldn’t let her go when she was hurt.
‘No.’ He was already on his feet. ‘There’s a first aid kit in the car, I’ll get you a plaster.’
She hesitated, then began to shake her head.
‘How about I’m not taking no for an answer.’ Part of his brain was telling him he should never have touched her, and another part was telling him he had to touch. ‘I’ll carry you so you don’t get more dirt in the wound.’
‘I don’t think…’
There were times when you had to overrule an argument, even if it made you look like a caveman. He sprang forward, and this time he grasped her under her arms and knees.
‘Hold on tight.’ A curiously strong, sweet scent drifted up from her hair. No way was he going to enjoy the feel of her body, hot and heavy, bumping against him with each stride. Judging by her squirms and squawks of protest, she’d decided the same.
He supported her easily with one arm, as he undid the tailgate, and slid her onto the carpeted floor of the Range Rover. ‘Can I smell bubble gum?’
‘Oh, it’s probably my tutti-frutti kiddy de-tangler, I use it when I’ve got paint in my hair, and I don’t have time to wash it.’
‘Right.’ That information dump left him none the wiser. ‘Lean up against the back seat if you like, pretend you’re in Holby City…’
He grabbed the green plastic first aid box and flipped it open. He rested her dusty calf on his hand and set about examining the base of her foot before tearing open an antiseptic wipe.
‘Sorry, this may sting.’ He felt her flinch with the first touch, then he began to clean away the blood, determined not to look above her ankle.
‘You don’t have to do this.’
Xander carried on wiping. ‘I’m responsible. You trod on my broken glass after all.’
‘But you’re a Range Rover driver, and by definition, Range Rover drivers don’t know the meaning of responsibility.’
He gave her ankle a tug. ‘And you’re more stupid than I thought, making comments like that when I’ve got your foot in my hand.’
She gave a snort and sank back down.
‘I don’t think you need A & E. There was a lot of blood, but I think an Elastoplast will do the job. Maybe a dinosaur plaster to go with the tutti-frutti?’ If he talked seamlessly there would be no space for her belligerent comments.
When she didn’t reply, he dared to look directly at her,