Page 11 of Something So Strong

“Might have to with how bad this place pays.”

“Make sure you forward me the address.” An unfamiliar voice enters the conversation, and Romeo and I freeze in place. Knee-high to a grasshopper, she appeared through blazers as if they were fur coats at the back of a magical wardrobe.

“Haha, that sure shut you up,” the old woman chuckles, reaching behind herself and feeling for a long stick leaning in the corner. “Which of you is the ski instructor? And those baggy sweaters. Lose ‘em. How am I meant to know what size you’ll be?”

“You could ask,” Saxon grumbles. Unable to help himself from responding to a question she wasn’t seeking an answer to.

Almost timidly, Romeo raises his hand before unzipping his hoodie.

Nodding as though she’d known all along, the tiny woman creeps forward. Balancing the pole between her feet, she grips Romeo’s biceps, squeezing and moving up and down his arms. Next, she grabs his hips.

Stifling a laugh, I watch his back straighten and his eyes widen as she unashamedly gropes him with her lips pushed aside as though in deep thought.

Still not uttering a word, she grabs her stick. Using the hook on the end of it, she fetches down a pair of black ski pants and throws them at Romi. “Put these on,” she commands before returning her attention to the racks. “Don’t be shy. I’ve seen it all. And I’m sure your friends will enjoy the show.”

Okay, this one is a keeper. We had a teacher like her at Lancaster. Witty, with a vigor that didn’t match the age of his body.

Romeo gets to undressing as my new favorite lady expertly hooks two coat hangers from a top rack.

Holding the ski pants out in front of him, Romi looks at me and I know what he’s thinking. These aren’t gonna do up. And if I was to bet on it, I’d have to agree. But all credit to the old broad’s grabby hands because the further he slides them up his legs, the more apparent it becomes that they fit him like a glove. A custom glove. One for the man with the perfect body.

Romeo’s ensemble is completed with a black thermal singlet and a charcoal, long-sleeved, skin-tight thermal henley. No joke, it looks painted on, but goddamn, he looks like a statue some mogul would want surrounded by rose bushes in their front garden.

“Okay, you’re next, golden boy. I assume you’re the one in reception because there’s no way all his brooding could be the guests’ first point of call.” Wielding her stick like some martial arts pro, she taps Saxon in the back.

Compelled to laugh, I spot the twitching of his top lip and speak up. “Ah-yeah. That’s me. I’m Jesse—”

“No need for names, dear. It ruins the mystery. Now step closer. I promise I won’t bite.”

Gingerly, I move towards the feisty old piece, and before I can even input the data, she’s poking and prodding me in places I haven’t reached in years.

“Hmm, not as wide through the back as your friend here, but you’ll fit the shirt out just fine. You look like a thirty—no, thirty-one-inch waist, right?”

“Uh, yeah. You’ve definitely got a knack for…” My words trail off as I spin back around to see she hadn’t even waited for my response. Pulling a well what did you ask for face, my eyes meet Saxon’s and he scoffs. “You’re next, dickhead. I hope you get the full treatment.”

“What was that, love?”

“Oh, noth—”

“Pants off, son. I need to see if these fit.”

It would seem it’s rhetorical questions all around, and I sigh heavily for being cut off for a second time.

Not wishing this ordeal to take any longer than needed, I slip out of my jeans and step into the khakis she flung over my shoulder. “I don’t think these are gonna fit,” I tell her, standing up straight with the pants just above my knees.

“Nonsense, I’m never wrong. You’re just not used to the fit.”

The fit? Surely she’s having a laugh because these are not pants. They more closely resemble what girls wear to the gym, or to go get coffee in, cause apparently it’s fashion now. Not that I’m complaining. Yoga pants are like the second coming of Christ for—

“Dear God,” I yelp as her uncharacteristically powerful hands hitch up the khakis, fasten the button, and zip the fly. “These don’t leave much to the imagination.”

“Dayum, Jess. Don’t wanna bend over too far in those. You’ll bust a seam and we’ll see what you had for breakfast,” Romeo teases.

“Are you sure I don’t need a bigger size?”

“They do up, don’t they? So they’re the right size. I don’t design these things, I just fit them. And that’s how they’re meant to fit.”

Honestly, I feel naked, like my entire package is on display. And the top half of the uniform isn’t much better. The buttons of the fitted white shirt—that is somehow meant to be tucked into the pants that I can’t breathe in—feel to me like they only just meet. And a tie, a fucking tie. I didn’t wear one during my entire internship or during any court appearances. I didn’t have to. I literally chose to be a barrister over a solicitor so I didn’t have to think about what I wore to court. Black gown and weird wig, done.

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