Stand Up Guy, page 1
Stand Up Guy
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Nina Kaye
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
To Angela and Geraldine
Chapter 1
‘Are you about finished for the day, Lea?’ My colleague, Tanya, appears next to me. ‘I know how committed you are to this work, and it’s greatly appreciated, but it’s nearly six p.m. on a Friday. Surely, you have somewhere else you’d rather be?’
‘Oh, uh, is that the time?’ I glance at my watch. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late. I’d better get out of here.’
My foot catches on the strap of my bag as I jump out of my seat, causing me to stumble.
‘Careful.’ Tanya reaches out to steady me. ‘You don’t want to ruin your weekend plans by breaking your ankle.’
‘Obviously not.’ I flash her a grateful smile while pulling on my jacket.
‘Well, whatever you’re doing, make the most of it. Before you know it, you’ll be married with three sulky teenagers – one of them being the man you married – and the highlight of your weekend will be cleaning the bathroom with the music on full blast.’
I chuckle, taking in her almost haughty expression. Tanya is the research fellow on the project I’m working on and she’s the human embodiment of an oxymoron. On the outside she’s well-polished and articulate, with a slightly plummy-sounding voice. You might expect her to be a bit prim and dull, and hyper-politically correct, but she’s actually the complete opposite.
‘That doesn’t sound so bad,’ I say.
‘You’re just being kind.’ She light-heartedly narrows her eyes at me over the top of her rimless spectacles. ‘I’d sell my family to be your age again.’
‘I’m sure they’d be delighted to hear that.’ I raise an eyebrow and chuckle.
‘I’m serious, I would. Now, off you pop and have a wonderful time with those gal pals of yours. I want to hear all about your adventures on Monday.’
Saying goodbye, I hurry out of the lab and through the clinical-looking hallways of the university campus building where I work. Then, once I’m outside and well out of range of Tanya, I slow to an aimless wander. Instead of delightedly breathing in the humid early-August air, and enjoying the feeling of freedom the weekend brings, I give a loaded sigh at the gloominess that’s already settling over me like the many-a-summer-day-ruining Edinburgh haar. Though I know there will be nothing of interest on my phone, I pull it out of my bag anyway, always hopeful that I’ll be proved wrong.
I’m not.
Scrolling absently through my social media feeds, I take as long as is humanly possible to traipse to the bus stop. At least out here, with the commuters rushing by, I’m not alone – not in a physical sense anyway. It’s going to be another long evening of just me and my streaming services, but at least I have a date to look forward to tomorrow – with a guy I actually see some potential with.
* * *
I spend Saturday morning thoroughly cleaning my two-bedroom Marchmont-based tenement flat, which my great-aunt Lizbeth left me in her will. Not because it’s particularly dirty, but because it’s something to do to pass the time, and because I’m also hopeful that tomorrow I won’t be waking up alone. Once there’s nothing left to dust, wipe, hoover or polish, I have some lunch and take a walk to the corner shop on Marchmont Road.
My thinking is that if Paul does stay over, I can tempt him to stick around by serving something tasty for breakfast. Not that he’s needed much tempting so far. We’re nine dates in (yes, I am counting) and he’s stayed at mine four times. So, I’m hoping for another sleepover at the very least, and perhaps even spending Sunday afternoon together, if things go really well.
Paul is super dreamy. He’s like a cross between Shawn Mendes and Robert Pattinson, is scarily intelligent, plays rugby, is always dressed impeccably, and he has this sexy Borders accent that makes me want to maul him (in a good way) every time he opens his mouth. In a word, he’s H-O-T.
After getting breakfast supplies in, I find myself at a loose end, neither able to concentrate on the witty romance novel I’m halfway through, nor on the Netflix series I’m binge watching. Instead, I resort once again to looking at my social media feeds, trying hard not to feel like the only person in the world who doesn’t have an amazing social life. I’m paying little attention, scrolling in that dead-behind-the-eyes zombie-esque way that means you’ve lost control of your thumb, when I see a familiar face float across my phone.
‘Ooh, Paul, what are you up to?’ I peer at the photo of my current love interest, who’s grinning like he’s won the lottery while holding up a document from the Australian Government titled: ‘Visa Grant Notice’.
It takes a moment and a read of the caption below the photo to realise what’s going on, and when I do, I jolt with horror and disbelief.
‘You’re moving to Australia?’ I shriek at my phone. ‘Are you bloody kidding me?!’
Surely not. Something as significant as this would have to have come up in conversation before now. Wouldn’t it? Plus, he’s blurred out the key information on the document, so there’s no saying that’s even his visa confirmation. He must be playing a prank on someone. He’s mentioned his mates are the boisterous type, so perhaps it’s to wind one of them up.
I quickly tap out a WhatsApp message.
Hi Paul, your post about moving to Australia just came up on my Insta feed. Am I right in thinking this is a joke you’re playing on someone? xx
I see that he reads my message straight away, then the status bar at the top of the screen says he’s typing. My heart is in my throat, hoping for a confirmation that will surely come imminently. While I’m staring at the screen, willing him to hurry up, he stops typing and appears to go offline.
‘No, don’t do that,’ I plead with him. ‘Just tell me we’re all good so I can get on with… well, not doing very much.’
Puffing out my cheeks, I look around my pristine flat, seeking something to distract me while I wait for him to respond. But this isn’t necessary, because by the time my attention has returned to my phone, he’s replied. Drinking in his words like a parched gun dog, every ounce of me instantly deflates.
Oops. Had to brag about it. Maybe should have waited till I’d told you tonight. X
‘Damn right, you should have.’ Tears of hurt and injustice prick at the corners of my eyes, but I force them back.
Then, on cue, my naturally analytical brain goes into overdrive. Why did he not tell me about this? How, even? Nine dates, we’ve been on. He’s had nine opportunities to bring it up – yet, he hasn’t. How is that even possible if he’s this excited about it? The chances of him just blurting something out during conversation or making an unintended remark must have been high. Unless…
Now pacing back and forth across my living-room floor, I rack my smarting brain for some other explanation, but come up empty-handed, meaning I have no choice but to face the grim reality of this situation. All the little signals he’s been sending me, leading me to think we were going somewhere, were fake. He’s been using me. I was his last Scottish hurrah: someone to get his end away with until he packed his bags and flew off down under.
‘You total knob end,’ I spit at his WhatsApp profile picture on my phone, having lost any sense of myself or the fact that having it out with a phone app won’t really achieve anything. ‘You’re so not just getting an “Oh, OK, then. Wish things could have been different for us and hope you have a wonderful life”. Nope. You need to know what a complete cock you are.’
I furiously type out a response to his non-apology.
You think?! Or how about you should have told me you were planning to skip the country on maybe… our first date?? Or our second or third at the very least. That’s what any decent human being would have done. Let me decide if I wanted to spend any more time with you, which by the way, I wouldn’t have done, because I’m looking for a real relationship. You knew that and you intentionally led me on. I feel sorry for the Australian women who will have the displeasure of making your acquaintance. I also hope you catch something nasty and your dick falls off.
Having at least the presence of mind to read back what I’ve written, I delete the last sentence to retain the moral high ground, before jabbing angrily at the send button. I then can’t help but watch to see when he reads the message, imagining his conscience – if he has one – kicki
His message pops up on my screen, and it takes all of half a second to realise I should never have been so naïve as to mistake Paul for a human being.
All right, calm yourself. We never made anything official and I didn’t lie to you. It just didn’t come up. Never had you pegged as a bunny boiler but guess they come in all shapes and forms. Was about to say good thing I loosened you up a bit, but it’s clear you’re frigid as they come. Probably why you’re such a crap lay. Laters.
His message is cruelly punctuated with a waving-hand emoji, making me want to immediately reply with one giving him the finger. His reply gives me an insight into who Paul really is: a nasty, misogynistic, egotistical arsehole. I should be lauding my lucky escape, but even with his true colours proudly on display on my phone screen, I can’t help feeling like I’m the one who is deficient and who has lost out. While unconscionable Paul is heading down under to chase the ‘better life’ that’s heralded on British daytime TV shows, I’m left staring at the nicely painted but suffocating walls of my flat, dreading the emptiness of not just this evening and tomorrow, but every evening and weekend for the foreseeable future.
I really don’t want to cry over this bastard – crying means he wins – so I text the two people I know I can talk to about this stuff and who will be on my side: my friend from university, Katie, who lives on the outskirts of Edinburgh with her husband and two adorable but demanding toddlers, and my oldest friend, Jill, who swapped her life in Scotland for the Netherlands first chance she got after a long and very boozy weekend in Amsterdam.
Pinging them each a message, asking if they’re around for a chat (I’m doubling up because I don’t like my chances), I anxiously await their replies. The first comes from Jill, who is permanently glued to her phone.
Sorry sweetz, I’m out with the Amsterdam crew. It’s been an all-day affair (beer gardens are the best!) and we’ve just scored VIP tickets for the hottest club. I’ll try and call tomorrow… if I’m in any fit state. Luv ya! xxxx
Then, moments later, Katie, replies.
Soz, Lea. Up to my stinking unwashed pits in a double nappy explosion. Another stomach virus doing the rounds at the nursery. Call you next weekend?
Katie’s message is followed by an entire row of vomiting emojis, which theoretically should make me feel better about my own situation, but it really doesn’t.
Flopping onto my large navy-blue sofa, I discard my phone and my resolve to keep a stiff upper lip, and dissolve into tears. Tears that are not just about Paul having used and discarded me like a wet dishcloth. They come from the sense of inadequacy I try so hard to keep buried, because I’m in the prime of my life (as Tanya incessantly reminds me) and at the age where I should be living it up, making amazing memories to look back on fondly. I do love my job as a research assistant and the career I’m building for myself, and there’s nowhere I’d rather live than this amazing city, but the fact is: I have no one to hang out with and I’m desperately lonely.
Chapter 2
After a good long cry, I spend a further forty-five minutes lying on my sofa, staring at my ornately corniced ceiling, listening to the skeleton wall clock in the hallway ticking away as if counting down to the end of my existence. It takes a while longer for me to come around from the blow Paul’s cruel words have inflicted on me, and when I do, I decide I can’t bear to be here like this any longer. Right now, my flat feels more like a prison than a home, especially as it’s August and, seemingly, the whole world has descended on the city to be part of the iconic Edinburgh festival (which is actually a handful of different festivals that run largely in parallel to each other).
‘OK, Lea.’ I haul myself to a sitting position, my fingers drumming anxiously against my thigh. ‘Suck it up and go do something. Anything.’
Changing out of my ‘comfies’ into a casual summer dress and my favourite sandals, I quickly apply some mascara and smooth out my long, straight, chestnut brown hair, before perching my sunnies on the top of my head.
‘There you go. That’s a bit better,’ I say soothingly to my red, puffy-eyed reflection in the hallway mirror, trying to ignore the sadness that’s so evident in my grey-blue eyes. ‘You don’t need a man in your life. And you can still have fun on your own.’
Cringing at my mirror image, I ponder for the gazillionth time whether talking to myself makes me weird. I’ve been caught doing it at work on the odd occasion, with the jovial ‘first sign of madness’ comment having inevitably followed. My view is that, whoever made up that saying must have been lucky enough to have a lot of people in their life. I’d also add that they were a bit lacking in sensitivity. When you spend a disproportionate amount of time on your own, you crave human interaction in a way that some might never understand – and sometimes your own reflection is as good as it gets.
‘If it makes me mad then so be it.’ I shrug at myself, then with one last check of my appearance, I lock up my flat and make my way down the echoing stone staircase to the beautiful, breezy afternoon outside.
I roam the Old Town and surrounding areas for a good hour, battling my way through the hordes of groups that have descended on the city for some festival fun, but this only makes me feel more alone. Having reached the conclusion that returning to my flat might actually be a less painful experience, I’m making my way along Crichton Street in the direction of The Meadows, when I’m accosted by a cheery young bloke brandishing a pile of flyers.
‘Fancy a free show?’ He practically shoves one of them into my hand before I can even respond. ‘This one’s a dinger. Do you like cats?’
‘Why? Do I look like a “cat lady”?’ Though affronted, I’m starting to wonder if that’s the life I’m doomed to.
‘No.’ He bellows with laughter, obviously unaware of what’s at the root of my irrational response. ‘It’s a comedy show about cats. All the ups and downs of humanity’s relationship with what the comedian calls the “world’s most devious critter”. The guy who does it is really funny. You’ll love it.’
I’m tempted to hand the flyer back, particularly because I’m in no frame of mind to stomach any ‘cat lady’ jokes if they do come up, but then I realise this is exactly how I can spend the evening out by myself, without feeling like a loser. I can go to some free shows and be invisible in the audience.
‘Ah, hell, why not.’ I smile at the guy, who looks mighty pleased to have recruited an audience member. ‘When does it start and where is it?’
‘In an hour. Just over on West Nicolson Street in a bar called The Smiling Bull.’ He vaguely points in what I know to be the right direction. ‘Fringe venue 259. Make sure you’re there ten minutes before so you get a seat. It’s a small room.’
Leaving the leaflet guy to scope out further victims, I scan my surroundings, wondering how to pass the time until the show, and my eyes land on the outdoor bar in Bristo Square that skirts the McEwan Hall. I could definitely enjoy a glass of prosecco before the show – might even help me get through it if it’s crap.
I start towards the bar, then hesitate. I’ve never gone drinking on my own. Not that this is ‘going drinking’ as such. Will I look like a saddo? Because I really couldn’t cope with ‘judgy’ eyes on me today of all days.
I’m about to back off from the idea and go find a bench, when my mind suggests I reconsider. Will anyone really care? I could be waiting for someone who’s late. Why wouldn’t I grab a drink for myself in that situation? And surely there must be plenty of people who visit the Fringe alone. I can’t be the only one.
Before my befuddled brain can talk itself out of what it’s just talked itself into, I stride across to the busy outdoor bar area, which has several pop-up stalls. A couple of them are serving food, and a couple more are offering beer and the usual range of drinks – I’m pleased to see there’s also an Edinburgh Gin stall and one serving prosecco out of what looks like a glammed-up horsebox.
After a moment of indecision – I’m almost now wishing there was time for a drink from each – I opt for an elderflower gin cocktail and decant to a standing table, taking a long sip of my drink, which is divine. It’s fruity and light and bubbly, with just the right amount of alcoholic heat.
