Page 22 of One Day Like This (Excess All Areas 1)

Luke sighed. “Yeah. We’re good, mate. I meant everything I said on the drive. But thanks for looking out for her and taking her. Let me know if she needs some cash for it, because Lord knows she never asks.”

Matt nodded and slapped his shoulder. “Any time.”

* * *

Friday came around fast, faster than Izabel’s heart was currently capable of processing. She glanced at the clock for the hundredth time that afternoon. Matt was late.

He’d texted.

Got caught up. Be there soon.

That had been half an hour ago.

“You need more tea, Jon?” Izabel asked, doing a round with the huge industrial teapot that took at least twelve teabags to make a decent cuppa. It was almost too heavy for her to carry when it was full. A lady from a Methodist church had appeared one day with the teapot and a bunch of equipment they’d used to make lunches on a Tuesday for parishioners, but no longer needed.

The saucers never got used, but the smaller cups were good for rationing the brew.

“I’m totally parched, Izabel.” He offered his cup in her direction.

Jon had been homeless for twelve years after a bankruptcy. Unable to find his feet, he’d lost his home, his car, and over the years, his belongings had whittled down to what he could fit into a couple of boxes he’d somehow jimmied onto four skateboard wheels. At sixty-eight, he’d been written off by the job market and was too set in his ways to change.

He also was a sweetheart of a man who had once flown Sea Harriers in the Falklands conflict, saved half of a digestive biscuit every day to feed the squirrels, and always sang John Denver’s “Isabel” when he saw her, likening her to a princess from the mountains.

If she could do anything to help one person in the shelter it was Jon. He didn’t deserve a future that would never be any brighter than this moment right now.

“There you go,” she said, slipping an extra packet of two bourbon biscuits into his pocket with a wink.

“Ah, bless you, chick.”

“When’s the barber coming?” asked Jack, a forty-seven-year-old who refused care and treatment for an undiagnosed mental health problem.

“Just missed him. He was here on Monday. They come the last Monday of the month. It’ll be another four weeks. Sorry.”

“Didn’t want a fucking hair cut anyway,” he said, shoving his chair out behind him as he stood. They’d long since learned he was all bark and no bite.

There wasn’t even a lot of bark ... more like an occasional snarl. He’d argue over the colour of his shoes given half a chance.

“I’m pretty shit with a pair of scissors, Jack. But I would happily give it a go if you just want a trim on Monday afternoon,” she said.

Jack curled his lip. “You’re not sticking a pair of scissors near my head. You might stab me.”

Izabel raised her hands in playful surrender. “Your call, Jack. Just giving you options.”

“Well, you can keep your fucking options. They suck.”

“In fairness, they do. I have a great many skills, but I doubt barbershop work is one of them.”

“You’re a good girl, Izabel,” Jon added, taking a bite of his biscuit. “Take no notice of Jack.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see her give you an extra biscuit either,” Jack complained.

Izabel pulled another packet out of her pocket. “Here. Don’t say I never give you anything.”

“I think your friend is outside,” Ibrahim, the manager of the shelter said, gesturing to the door. Ibrahim took the teapot from her. “Have fun. See you Monday.”

“Thanks. Bye everyone,” she called out, hurrying to the office where she kept her bags. She’d dropped her suitcase and bridesmaid dress at Matt’s before work, and it had been the first time she’d seen him in two weeks. Their paths had never crossed beyond the odd logistical text message. He’d looked ... good. Who was she kidding? He’d looked swoony. Mussed hair, no shirt, ripped and paint-stained jeans, barefoot, and abs for days. It had taken every ounce of self-control to not jump on him and lick him all over.

The look he’d given her was far more reserved.

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