Page 18 of Something Borrowed

Stan sets his rucksack on the chair and opens it.

My mouth twitches when he pulls out a bag that’s a familiar shape. “What is that you’ve got there, Stanley?”

“Shut up.”

I start to laugh, relieved to feel tension ease from my shoulders. Relaxing is something I’ve struggled with lately. “Tell me you haven’t brought more records home. I thought the purpose of a record shop was to engage in commerce—by selling the records.”

“It’s The Prodigy’sThe Fat of the Land,” he says, his earnest voice making me want to hug him. “It’s a difficult album to get hold of, and you know I can’t resist a good find.”

“You’re like Augustus Gloop trying to step over a chocolate puddle.” I stare at the album’s boldly coloured sleeve. “Is it from the estate sale we went to in Enfield last weekend?”

He nods. “I had to listen to it first before I sold it.”

He turns and walks into the lounge, his gait sure and confident in our home. I follow him, trying hard not to look atthe swell of his arse in those Levi’s. The denim is soft with age and clings to his bum tighter than a lover.

I say, “I think you mean you want to give it a listen before it vanishes into the record shelves of this flat. I’m going to have to reinforce the floors soon.”

The lounge has high ceilings and tall windows that let in lots of light. I painted the walls white when we moved in and have filled them full of artwork I’ve picked up over the years. A huge green corduroy sectional stuffed with bright cushions is the biggest piece in the warm, vibrant room, but the records are definitely the room’s highlight.

Shelves crammed full of vinyl stretch from floor to ceiling on three walls. The shelves themselves are a testament to my adoration of Stan. Buying them, assembling them, and installing them was a three-stage nightmare. First there was a trip to IKEA where, after a ten-minute argument about how to get the boxes home, I almost left Stan in the car park. I’d been consoled by the fact that at least four other couples nearby were having the same hissed argument. Later, I’d lost valuable hours of my life trying to decipher the shelves’ assembly instructions. After my first failed attempt—which had left me with a handful of screws and no idea where they were supposed to go—we’d called out the big guns and got Joe’s husband to help. His profession is forensic accountant, but he makes an excellent carpenter.

But today as I look at the beautifully filled shelves, a horrible thought occurs to me. If this thing with Bennett is serious, then surely Stan will move in with him at some point.

I look around the room and imagine it empty of Stan’s records and, of course, empty of Stan himself. My chest hollows, my stomach clenches, and I suddenly feel like one of the dust motes that’s drifting through the sunlit room. As if it’s Stan that gives my body life and form.

But I’ve had these feelings before. Stan is too gorgeous and lovely to remain single forever. It’s a state I’m happy to embrace, but Stan likes constancy and craves long-term relationships of all kinds.

“You’ve gone quiet.” His voice interrupts my thoughts. He’s putting the record on the deck, his long, artistic fingers trailing over the vinyl, almost caressing. I know how they feel on my skin. Stan sees with his hands, and he’s exceptionally thorough.

“It’s good,” he says into the silence.

“What?” My face flushes. I need to get myself under control.

He cocks his head, and his focus on me is laser precise. “The record feels great. No scratches, and the vinyl is clean. You did a good job, babe.”

“Oh.” I force a laugh. “I had a good teacher.”

Stan likes to go to the estate fairs, which is where he gets a lot of his stock, and his sociable nature soaks them up like a sponge. My job is to examine the records the way he’s shown me and assess the wear and tear while he talks shop to the vinyl sales community. There’s usually a mix of the same people at those things, and I can always find Stan at the centre of a group of laughing people. He’s an unusual and endearing mixture of razor-sharp and sugar-sweet, and it draws people like little moths to his flame.

The needle comes down on the vinyl, and the familiar crackle sounds before Keith Flint’s voice screeches through the flat. I wince because The Prodigy is not my idea of a good listening experience, but Stan loves them and dragged me to two of their concerts. I’d stood there wishing for a pair of earplugs, while he’d jumped around screaming like a hyperactive banshee.

Stan listens to the first song intently, his head cocked to one side. And I take a moment to observe him.

He's taller than me, with broad shoulders and long legs. His hair is a mess of dark curls, and his eyes are a warm toffeebrown. But it’s his face that always gets me. It’s high-boned and elegant with a long nose and thick, dark eyebrows that are usually lowered in an expression of concentration. However, he rarely seems sombre, because the puckish twist of his mouth and a dimple give him a cheeky air. It’s my favourite face in the world, and I could look at him forever and never grow tired.

“Ready?”

I jump as Stan’s voice breaks my thoughts. “S-sorry,” I stumble. “What did you say?”

He frowns. “Fuck, you’re more out of it than usual.”

“I beg yourpardon. What do you mean more than usual?”

His lip quirks. “Maybe you should stay home for a while and give your liver a chance at life. And maybe give your cock a break too,” he adds in a tone that’s not entirely joking.

Before I can respond, he moves towards the kitchen.

“Oh, are you cooking?” I ask hopefully.

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