By Rachel Webb
I’m very good at pretending I believe in love. No one can tell that I don’t. I can act as if a ‘special someone’ makes my heart flutter; I convincingly swoon at other people’s romantic joy. I even rustle up a tear or two when a relationship ends. But my heart is a patchwork of honour badges. Each stitched over another scar. So now being a love sceptic keeps me safe and pain free. And then I fell down those stone steps near Brighton Pier.
A stumble, a trip and several sharp bounces down, and there I was near the bottom. Agonised and humiliated. Too ashamed to move.
BW was there too. I hadn’t noticed him, didn’t know he was watching my pride struggle. All round struggle really. Dress up higher than my knickers, shoes, maybe the cause of the stumble, one off one on. One passed its best a few steps higher than me. I shuffled onto my bottom, dress now under it, assessing the damage.
I hurt. My ego lots, one ankle even more. I was still finger combing my hair and shoving stuff in place and thinking I so hope no one saw me. when a shadow fell across one foot with shoe and one bare foot with a toe poking through holey tights.
It loomed closer, larger and said ‘let me get your shoe’ as it passed upwards a step or two. Fire burned in my cheeks, that voice wasn’t unknown to me. Pretending to comb out my hair I willed the beetroot flush away and looked upwards through my mousey brown hair to see BW staring down at me, my broken shoe in hand, a little bewildered and possibly as flustered as me. How much had he seen? The whole tumble? Knickers in the air?
Saying ‘Here ́s your shoe’ he thrust it in my direction. /Are you hurt? Can I help you up?’ he asked.
I almost felt sorry for his embarrassment then replaced mine for the offhandedness I do so well.
́Thanks for the shoe, I ́m fine, just fi… ́ I couldn ́t believe I was going to cry ́No. No help needed ́ I said. But between gulps my lower lip lost control and I blubbered like a baby. I took off my good shoe and hurled it away. Everything hurt. My pride, my head, legs, one ankle and my bottom which had bounced down those hard, cold, stone steps which I was sitting on, blotchy, red and whimpering.
BW took off his jacket put it around my shoulders surprisingly gently, which only made me worse. He helped me to my feet, well not helped, just lifted me to my feet. ‘I can’t’ I wailed. My ankle hurt too much, I couldn’t stand on it. I just collapsed in a rather pathetic heap onto the step again.
‘Just take your jacket and go, I will be fine’ I spluttered at him. Then ‘sorry’ and ́thank you ́ and ‘leave me alone’ all rushed out too. I pulled my bag onto my lap, hunched my shoulders and sobbed some more. So not me.
‘Ok, so you can’t walk and you can’t stay here!’ Was there a grin in his voice? ‘I am going to get my car and come back for you.’ He was looking at me, wondering if I was going to object. I was wondering what sort of mess I looked.
‘Will you be ok for five or ten minutes? Can I trust you not to run away?’ He was grinning now. I stuck out my tongue and semi-sobbing, almost giggling managed a ‘Suppose so.’
I called him BW back then. His real name doesn ́t even start with a B. It was a girls night out Pam when I first saw him, the no name man became BW for his stupid, snazzed-up car, which I later learnt, and was relieved, that it wasn’t his.
Tim is his real name, I learnt months ago. At the same meeting that I also acknowledged, only to me of course, that I more than liked him.
If I’d known he was around that day I may even have accidentally on purpose fallen down those steps?
Or would I?
Story submitted by Rachel Webb
