Page 13 of The Twins
We headed out into the warm day. Oxford was busy, with a throng of pedestrians on the main road, cars honking, and buses belching out fumes. But the overflowing hanging baskets were glorious, the sunshine bright, and there was a sense of summer lightness amongst the people milling about.
After taking a left, we headed down Burton Alley that led to Fight Fit, the mixed martial art school and gym we owned and ran. It was our baby, our passion, and being there didn’t feel like work.
“We should get the decorators in,” Finn said, pointing at the peeling white paintwork around the black sign.
“I’ll get on it.” I paused. “She’s a brunette, you said.”
“Yeah, long hair, soft as fuck.”
I nodded.
“And dark eyes, sharp, you know, don’t miss a thing.” Finn chuckled. “I could get lost in them.”
I kept quiet and imagined Rebecca Saunders. I could Google her, but I wanted it to be a surprise when we met. I wouldn’t be a surprise for her. I looked the same as Finn apart from the green shamrock tattooed on the back of my right hand. But we weren’t exactly the same. He was more entrepreneurial, ideas took off and he ran with them, always willing to take risks. Fight Fit was a prime example. He was also never short of conversation and could blabber for hours. This suited me, it meant I could sit back, listen, observe. Not that I was quiet, I just wasn’t always gobby like him.
Finn unlocked the door, and we went in.
“You’re late.”
I turned. Phil stood behind me, sports bag in hand and a Fight Fit peaked cap pulled low.
“Fuck off.” I checked my watch. “Two minutes, that’s all.”
Phil huffed and wandered in with us. “I got a schedule.”
“And you also use this place for free.” I clipped back the door to let what little breeze there was into the large square space.
Phil said nothing and sauntered his bulk over to the weight section.
Within ten minutes, another eight guys had turned up, and the clang of the weights rang through the air. I headed into the office and sifted through some paperwork.
Finn put music on, and Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born to Run’ rang out from giant black speakers.
After I’d paid the bill on the new corner cushions for the cage, I dived into my own workout. An hour of weights and cardio and then an hour of sparring with Finn and then I’d be set to instruct in a bunch of private lessons.
* * * *
Friday evening finally came. I opted for a white, high-collared shirt and smart linen jacket and splashed on my favorite woody scent.
“You ready?” Finn stood in the doorframe to my room in the eaves of Rose Cottage.
“Yeah.” I added the gold necklace my ma had bought me then checked my hair. “Good to go.”
Finn was more casual than me in a black t-shirt and black jeans. He had his leather thrown over his arm. He checked his gold watch. “Come on then, it will take twenty minutes to get there.”
“And we don’t want to keep a lady waiting.”
We said goodbye to Phil who had taken over from Jamie—he was shoveling in pasta, his usual meal after a day in the gym—and we headed toward the city center.
The Ivy was a beautiful, tall old building with a stone-framed entrance, a small turret next to windows set in the eaves, and a racing-green front door. As I stepped in, the rich aroma of herbs, spice, and sizzling meat made my stomach rumble.
I scanned the busy restaurant, the bursts of colors leaping out at me. There was nothing understated about The Ivy, it was a feast for the senses; tropical, decadent, plush, and gilded.
“Is she here yet?” I asked Finn.
“Can’t see her.” He smiled at the maître d’. “Table for three under the name Sullivan.”
“Certainly, sir.” He checked his large leather-bound book. “This way, please.”
