Page 9

Being blonde

Tights.

I held the box in my hand. It was nearly autumn; I had to get them on. This dress needed tights, and jeans were impossible right now.

The black material floated out of the packaging, three pairs unravelling onto the bed. I slid my good leg through one with only minor pain, rocking around on the mattress, trying to balance. When it came to the cast leg though, it went as badly as expected; my fingers slid straight through.

Fantastic.

I held up pair number two, but as I tipped forward, my rib immediately throbbed from the bending. I squeezed all of the air from my lungs so I could fold in half sideways and ease the material over the cast. I wiggled it halfway up, but some of the fibres snagged and an ugly ladder snaked up the material.

“Fuck!”

I shouted through clenched teeth, flopping back onto the bed after yanking off the second pair of ruined tights.

I was exhausted with fighting my body on everything – standing to brush my teeth, shaving one leg without dipping the other one in the water, even carrying a bloody cup of tea.

“You okay in there?”

Ben called cautiously from the other side of the door.

“Yep,”

I replied, staring at the ceiling, waiting for a burst of energy that would likely never come.

“Do you need some help with something?”

“Nothing you can help me with, but thank you.”

I sighed again, his voice calming me slightly.

Until he nudged the door open.

I sat bolt upright. The t-shirt dress on loan from Lucy wasn’t long, and my hopeless sprawling wasn’t dignified. I certainly didn’t want to be the butt of any more of his jokes. He looked down at the tights on the floor in the silently judgemental way he always did. Disapproval is his default expression, I swear.

“Why don’t you just wear your trackies? Lucy won’t mind.”

My reply was harsher than intended. “But I’m a slob all the time. I want to feel like a human woman again, not a sick, beaten invalid everyone immediately pities.”

He winced. “I mean, that’s a lot of emotion over two pairs of tights. Want me to throw them out the window? Burn them? Sue the company who made them?”

He was evidently trying to make me laugh, but I glared at him instead.

“Ha ha.”

“I can help.”

“With my tights?”

“You’re doing better, but you’re still fresh out of hospital, no one expects you to suddenly look perfect.”

He walked over as he spoke. My eyes followed him as he picked up the remaining pair, looking at me over the top of his glasses. It infuriated me; even in his gym gear he looked like he was about to prance up a sand dune in some fancy aftershave advert.

“It’s the last pair,”

I explained, wondering if he realised what putting on tights involved. “I’ll figure it out.”

He stretched the material in his fingers, investigating. “High stakes… big risk on your own.”

I looked out of the window at the cold, grey weather. “Well, maybe if I put them half on, you can help with the cast,”

I conceded, provoked by a fresh stab of pain in my chest. “I thought I could cut one leg short, but the elastic just rolled up.”

I reached over and took the tights from him, attempting, in vain, to style it out as I thrust in my good leg again. Ben went to speak but stopped himself, pressing a finger into his lips.

“What?”

He pointed, moving the finger. “If you start with the cast, it’ll be easier. Your good leg is easier to manoeuvre.”

I paused. He was right.

“Of course you’re running statistics.”

He gave me a look. “Naturally.”

Smoothly, he took the tights from my hand. “Bambi.”

“Do not start calling me that. Seriously.”

He smirked. “Why not, it’s a classic? Now, lean back.”

My body obliged, resting back onto my elbows, like I was temporarily hypnotised, following his command. My own breathing suddenly felt loud as he knelt carefully between my legs, his nose level with the rim of my dress.

I clambered for words to break the silence. “So, what, if I’m a baby deer who’s all helpless because his mum got shot, who does that make you? Thumper, the cheerful bunny?”

“Fair,”

he replied, though he sounded distracted.

I swallowed, my eyes taking in the image of him between my thighs as his gaze trailed up my leg. Without speaking, he took the bundled material and threaded it over my toes. His fingers pulled it easily up over the cast in one steady movement, looking at me, then back down.

Men’s hands had always felt rough before – thick and clumsy – but Ben’s felt like the perfect balance of sturdy and gentle; he was so precise with everything he did. I decided I liked his hands. Hands that had pulled me back on the verge, caught me when I fell, and dragged me from the river. Hands that were now creeping up my thigh. He knelt up, bending one leg, leaning slightly closer to me, gathering the other leg of the tights. His warm breath settled against my bare skin. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was doing it on purpose, seeing how I would react. I had no idea how to, so I just lay there, trying to resist the urge to press my legs into him. That would be wholly inappropriate. This was wholly inappropriate.

“Thank you,”

I said quietly, chewing the inside of my lip.

My fingers curled into the soft duvet. Ben watched my grip crease the material before daring to look straight into my eyes. I tried to read what he was thinking, thankful he couldn’t read my mind.

He grinned as he slid his fingers around my other ankle. “I’ve had worse problems to solve.”

I could’ve stopped him there; I could sort that leg myself. A subtle quiver tickled through me, my neck tilting back in response. He stretched the elastic material over my ankle, over my calf. Slowly. Too slowly. His knuckles glided over my skin, causing something inside me to flicker. I could feel the gentle grooves of his fingers caressing my freshly shaven, moisturised leg. He was just about to reach my knee when he raised those dark eyes again, looking up at me from between my legs, a hint of something carnal in them. Both of his firm hands were wrapped around my thigh.

We paused.

We breathed.

Oh god.

“Thank you,”

I rasped out. “I can do the rest.”

I was terrified that my body was about to surrender. Ridiculous. Crazy. Deluded. It would have been the most foolish thing I had done up until this point, and that was saying something.

“If you rip them again, I’ll be pissed,”

Ben replied, with the hint of a growl in his tone. “Be careful.”

Ben’s steady hands paused for a second; longer, as our gazes held. Then, with one easy movement, he stood up, and we both snapped back to our senses.

As he walked out of the room, my soul almost pulled towards him, yearning for him to stay. I pushed the feeling down.

He was just helping me. Nothing more.

Taking a long, slow breath, I finished getting myself ready for a day shopping with Lucy and Sophie. I hadn’t managed to save much money over the past few years, but it would be enough for some much-needed essentials.

It felt amazing having a girly day with the two of them. I found thicker tights that I could get on more easily, alone; some denim shorts – jeans would remain out for a while; short floaty dresses cinched at the waist, and leggings. I was drawn to soft jumpers, pretty colours, and floral fabrics. I’d never spent time thinking about style before. I had never wanted to look feminine, desperate to avoid attention on the site. That day, though, I allowed myself the small pleasure of liking things.

Looking at myself in the long, imposing shop mirrors, I realised I was starting to look like a person – a pink, girly one. One with a life, with choices, perhaps with a future all to herself. Riding on the dizzying feeling and new independence, anything felt possible, and, for what felt like the first time in my life, I decided to go with my heart.

I took a deep breath and looked at Lucy. “Don’t suppose we have time to go to the hairdressers?”

She lit up. “What do you reckon, Soph? Shall we go get our nails done too?”

Walking into the salon, we caught people’s attention and I doubted myself all over again. But when the hairdresser offered us a private room and Sophie went giddy over all the shades of pink nail polish, I found the words I’d toyed with for years.

“Make me blonde.”

After that, it was pretty much magic. I let Sophie choose a design for my nails as the hairdresser battled with stripping the cheap hair colour as best he could. We drank hot chocolate, we giggled, and as the foils came off and the glitter went on, I found something in myself entirely new.

“Ben is going to lose his mind,”

Lucy whispered as we rode the lift back to his apartment.

I turned to look at her.

She grinned.

“We’re becoming friends,”

I defended. “I hope, anyway. This last week has been a blur.”

“Well, I feel like I’m taking back a different person, Elle. I mean it – you look bloody amazing!”

I blushed. What would Ben think? Nothing, I was sure. However, as Lucy wheeled me towards the door, I felt nervous, expectant. It was silly, but I wanted him to like how I looked, to see me; see me as a girl, a woman, not bloody Bambi.

The door opened and excitable voices rang out from the lounge; Ben and Isac were still on the PlayStation. Ben turned around to greet us as Sophie tumbled inside and Lucy wheeled me over the threshold with a metallic clatter.

“Hiya,”

he called, distracted, but as he went to look back at the screen, he did a double take.

I watched his eyes fall to my new clothes and track slowly up, pausing on my pink lips, then my hair, before he turned back to the game.

“You two look like you’re having a nice time,”

Lucy called out. “Look what we’ve been up to!” She waved her hands over me dramatically like some sort of magician.

Ben turned again, smiled awkwardly at me. “I can see.”

“Isn’t she gorgeous?”

Lucy said, resting her hands on my shoulders.

I shot her a look, standing up unsteadily as Ben hummed, turning back to the TV again.

My heart sank. It was irrational to have expected a reaction; I’d gotten carried away with the excitement of the day. Having been surrounded by Lucy’s warmth, I’d forgotten how different the siblings were. Why would Ben care if I had different hair?

I squeezed Lucy again as we said our goodbyes, thanking her. Sophie hugged me tightly and told me she’d had the best day ever, which nearly bought a tear to my eye.

“Me too,”

I whispered back.

I was leaning on the breakfast bar when the door closed behind them and I finally realised how tired I was. My neck crackled and my stomach muscles ached.

“You look… different,”

Ben commented, taking me in again, blatantly unsure.

“Um, thanks?”

I pursed my lips, feeling my body shrink. I knew I shouldn’t care, but he could have at least been polite about it.

He looked at me cautiously, standing in the kitchen, the worktop between us. “Do you like it?”

“What? Do I like it?”

Irritation sparked inside of me. I stood up, balancing on my leg, adding extra distance. “Why would you ask me that?”

“That’s not what I— look, I’ve been trying to give you space, Elle, but it’s like Lucy has gone and swapped you out for a completely different person.”

His words knocked me straight out of my good mood. I knew he was simply repaying a favour, after what I did for Sophie. Yet we seemed to have this… draw to each other. We’d started sitting together, choosing to chat, especially after we started playing chess. Was it all a lie? Something he did out of pity?

“Elle?”

he probed, seeming to sense my freak out. “You look nice, really, you do. It’s not that.”

“Thanks,”

I interrupted, before he could continue.

Nice.

That was the word you said when you were saving someone’s feelings.

God, they’d been right. I’d made a total fool of myself. I couldn’t be pink and blonde and feminine, of course I couldn’t. I was scarred and flawed and plain. Ruby, Frank, Marcus, they’d all said it. I sucked on my lip, suddenly struggling to keep it together.

I turned and hobbled towards the bathroom. Ben didn’t say anything else, confirming this was another error of judgement to add my list. I scrubbed my teeth until my gums hurt before staring at myself in the mirror. Looking at the feathered edges of my long blonde hair, the pink eyeshadow and lashings of mascara, I rubbed my hands together, covering them in soap, and started washing off the make-up, needing to find my real self again. I splashed water over my face and looked back up. The peppered bruising was back, as were the dark circles under my reddening eyes, but with the new golden blonde frame, they looked different. Ben was right. My forehead fell into my hands as I broke; as I sobbed and cried and shook. What was I thinking? How had I become so lost?

I filled the bowl with fresh cold water, my cheeks tightening as I pressed it into my skin, steadying my gasping breaths as I tried to calm down.

When I heard Ben in his ensuite, I made a break for the guest bedroom, reaching for my pyjamas, needing to just get into bed and close my eyes. My ribs throbbed from all the effort as I pulled my jumper over my head.

Ben knocked on the door, making me jump.

“I’m going to bed,”

I called out, pulling my jumper down.

“I want to talk,”

came the muffled reply.

I hesitated, stuck between worrying about my blotchy face and unsure what to say, long enough for him to stride inside.

“I told Lucy not to call or follow you that day. I told her not to,”

he declared bluntly, standing agitated at the foot of the bed.

My eyebrows twitched as I tried to make sense of what was happening, still holding my jumper down as if it would leap over my head by itself.

“It’s my fault you’re hurt.”

“What? No,”

I replied defensively. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. I just, I guess, my relationships have been weird, at best. Unconventional. Living here, it’s been too easy; I thought maybe we were becoming friends. I’ve enjoyed your company, and earlier, I just read too much into it. I expected something different, but you’ve been so honest with me, you keep saying you have the space and I—”

“Stop.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “God, Elle, no. You don’t get it. It’s my fault you ended up in hospital.” His voice cracked. “I told Lucy not to go after you. I left you at the side of the road. I kicked you out of Rose Cottage. At every step, I’ve put you at risk.”

“You were protecting your family, Ben. Besides, what’s that got to do with anything?”

I let go of the hem of my jumper, wringing my hands.

He started pacing, roughly raking his hand through his hair. I could have sworn his face had paled.

“Everything! I’m waiting for you to hate me. I’m waiting for you to figure it all out, put it all together. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Lucy told me, Ben, that you told her not to go after me, but I get it,”

I explained as my eyes tracked his erratic movements. “I told you they were dangerous. I knew they’d come after me. I didn’t expect you or Lucy to do anything about that. You couldn’t have.”

He pulled his hand down, stopping before me as I perched on the edge of the bed. “You should, though. You should expect that.”

He paused. “You just jumped straight into that river without a thought, didn’t you?”

I saw pain in his scrunched-up expression and stood, taking a second to get my balance. “Yes, because I saw Sophie fall, that’s all. You offering me this room, Lucy being Lucy, it’s all saved my life. In ways I can’t even tell you.”

He turned away and headed for the door. “I need a minute.”

“Ben, wait.”

He ignored me, disappearing.

“Don’t walk away.”

I heard clattering as he locked up; everything was clumsy and loud, so unlike him. I finished getting into my pyjamas, running through his words and growing angry. Nothing made sense. Why was he mad at me?

Ten minutes later, he tapped more gently on the door and crept into the lamplight.

I sat up in bed with the television flickering. “For a grown man, your communication is erratic, at best. I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done to wind you up.”

He dropped down heavily at the end of the bed, gathering himself. “Your hair suits you.”

The compliment didn’t make me feel any better. “Right, great. Thanks.”

“I don’t understand you,”

he admitted.

I laughed with disbelief. “The feeling is mutual.”

“How can you not be mad at me? When we talk, you get this look in your eyes like you like me, like you want to get to know me, and I can’t work out if it’s the concussion or…”

He stopped, struggling to find the words.

I bought my finger and thumb to my bottom lip, pinching it, waiting for him to continue. “Or?”

“Or if your life was so hard before that you actually enjoy spending time with someone like me.”

I frowned. “You’re the one who stayed in to teach me chess; you suggested we watch that film; you told me I could keep you company while you worked?”

“Because you’re strangely addictive.”

“God, Ben! Are you just winding me up? Really? You know what, we joke, but maybe you really are an arsehole.”

He looked taken aback, shaking his head quickly. “I’m being deadly serious.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Hey,”

he growled. “I thought you looked beautiful, okay? When we first met, you played on my fucking mind all evening at the conference, and now, well, you get the gist.”

I grunted loudly and did the only sensible thing I could think of – pulled the duvet up over my head and groaned into the material. What was he talking about? When we met, I was sat in a pile of mud. I knew I wasn’t beautiful; Sam had said I was pretty a handful of times, but that was only when I didn’t have riding gear on.

The duvet was tugged out of my hands, lurching my body forwards.

“What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

I shouted, letting go of the fabric to thrash my arms around.

“How exactly have I offended you with the word ‘beautiful’ now?”

My lip quivered, my heart pounding as he said it again. He watched me, letting go of the duvet, assessing what I had accidentally laid out for him to see. I bit down on my tongue.

“I’m not vain, Ben. I know what I am and what I’m not. Just go away.”

He didn’t. He sat there, looking directly at me as I wished the bed would swallow me up.

“I’m lost. You don’t care that I didn’t chase after you, protect you, but I compliment you and that upsets you? What I’ve been trying, poorly, apparently, to explain, is that I like you. In fact, when I make you blush and your cheeks go that red, rosy colour, I think it may just be my favourite feeling in the world, but that’s my problem. I feel like I can’t tell you these things, like I have no right to tell you how breathtaking you look, because I’m the arsehole who let you get the train; who left you.”

I blushed, pulling the duvet up desperately in an attempt to hide as I felt the blood rush through my veins. Ben gripped his end, pulling so I had nowhere to hide; so he could watch me squirm. I hunched my shoulders up and buried my face behind my arms. He grinned at me, like he had at Rose Cottage, tilting his glasses. I pulled my hands up in a last-ditch attempt to cower, but he took them, shuffling closer and placing them back down, threading his fingers through mine.

“Don’t,”

he said simply.

Ben was sat in bed with me, holding my hands. I looked at our palms, slowly allowing my fingers to grip around his. I should have recoiled; this should feel wrong. After all the touches I’d never wanted, I thought I would be content to never be close to a human again. I didn’t know if it was Ben’s confidence, the surety with which he moved, but he felt… safe. He felt made me feel safe, even when he was being infuriating.

“I don’t blame you, for any of it,”

I said softly.

“How are you so good? After everything?”

He stroked his thumb over mine, the feeling washing through my entire body as our anger evaporated.

“I’m not good, Ben. But hate… it drowns people, and I don’t think I can stomach another drop.”

“So, you know you should hate me?”

“I shouldn’t and I don’t, however much you press my buttons.”

We stayed together for a minute, just breathing.

“I should let you rest,”

he said quietly, but didn’t move, still stroking my thumb.

“Probably,” I nodded.

The TV programme changed and he turned to see what was playing; Countdown had come on, the late-night comedy version.

Ben shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t want to say anything nice and make you angry again.”

“Unlikely,”

I replied, fighting my smile, “knowing you.”

“I’m that bad?”

“I seem to remember you calling me stupid within two minutes of meeting me.”

“You were sat in the road.”

I took my hands from his and batted his knee.

He didn’t move back, content to torment me further. “Then you broke into my house, slept in my bed, and shouted at me for eating a biscuit.”

I grinned, shaking my head. “Yep, you should definitely go.”

He pushed his hands down and went to stand. “Good night, then.”

I pulled the covers back up, not hiding this time. “I doubt your big ego would like it if I beat you at all the number rounds,”

I mumbled, cocking my head towards the television.

He paused, smiling again. “Big talk, Bambi.”

“Seriously?”

I gritted my teeth and lobbed a pillow at him. “If you call me that one more time, I swear I’m going to—”

“Hide under the duvet?”

I threw myself back with a growl as he picked up the pillow and walked around to the empty side of the bed, climbing in. He unfolded my arms, firmly taking my hand and holding it between us as we got comfortable.

This was becoming even more dangerous than before.