Livvie Cooper, the repair shop’s new events manager and general administrator, was just arriving too, her little girl, Shell, in tow behind her.
‘You all right?’ Livvie asked in the brusque, prickly way Murray had chosen to put down to the tough times she’d gone through recently before she found her way to the repair shed. He’d determined not to take any of it personally, even if she seemed permanently irritated with him. What mattered was that she was a great worker, and it meant he didn’t have to do as much of the paperwork side of things, especially now the build was underway.
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ he assured her, not that Livvie was waiting around for an answer. She was pointing Shell towards the beanbag chairs in the kids’ corner and telling her to settle down to her homework while she made a start on her admin.
Murray was just making sure the little girl (who, painfully shy as usual, hadn’t even tried to protest about the homework) had her favourite pink milkshake from the café counter, with extra cream and sprinkles, when he caught sight of shapes moving in silhouette behind the big plastic screen. He couldn’t help watching the shadows shifting as Senga shoved a straw in the glass and handed it over in exchange for the two-pound coin from Murray’s pocket.
As he delivered Shell’s drink, and received a barely audible thank you, Murray caught the rich bravado of Kurt’s lovely accent mixing with the Scottish voices of his workmates. Even this reminder of the Dutch man’s proximity made Murray thrill and quail in equal measure.
Kurt was nothing like cool, suave Andreas Favre. Yet somehow the builder could prod painfully at the burning embers of what had happened in Switzerland last summer, threatening to reignite a self-sabotaging impulse that Murray had fought long and hard to dampen.
Even so, his brain whispered intrusive little things. It told him that at least Kurt made it clear he liked him. In fact, Kurt seemed incapable of hiding anything. Getting to know him better could prove to be fun? It had, after all, been six months since things with his boss had imploded and he’d fled home to the Cairngorms having drunk a great big draught of Andreas-flavoured antidote to his lifelong assertion that ‘keen blokes give me the ick’.
He’d confessed it a million times to his twin sister, Ally. He would run for the hills if a guy ever asked for a second date, cringe at the gift of chocolates, block the overly invested texter after a one-night thing.
Ally would tell him it was a defence mechanism to stop himself getting hurt but he couldn’t help scolding himself now. Look where it had got him: sneaking down the fire escape stairs of Andreas’s apartment building, ‘just in case you’re spotted in the elevator’.
Murray rearranged the screwdrivers on the bench before him. His workstation was the only one in the entire shed that was immaculately organised.
Another movement caught his eye, a ripple of suddenly shifting opacity. The plastic sheet parted and Kurt’s gappy smile and ice-blue eyes searched him out. He was biting into one of the iced biscuits. Murray smiled weakly back.
If he had indeed learned his lesson about giving up on unavailable men, why was it still the case that the joyful, flirty, multilingual, good-with-his-hands, hot-in-a-harness, totally uncomplicated Kurt sent a shy, cowardly impulse through him? He couldn’t account for it.
Kurt would be leaving when spring came and his contractor job was up. Would it besorisky if they, for instance, shared an innocent drink under the strobe lights at the Ptarmigan – the only club within a fifty-mile radius? Or spent some time getting to know each other better at the hotel where Kurt was lodging for the winter? Someone enthusiastic and fun, someone who sought Murray out just to smile at him? He should be jumping at the chance.
The first repair clients of the day were clustering around Sachin’s triage desk with their bags and boxes of broken bits and bobs. For once, Murray found himself wishing Sachin would direct them across the room towards his bench. Anything to distract him from Kurt’s gaze and these duelling feelings of retreat and temptation.
His desire for distraction died within him when he noticed Reverend Meikle coming over. The Minister was clutching a mobile phone in his hands and a pair of old-school white wire headphones and he wanted to know why he couldn’t ‘plug them in’.
‘Into your phone?’ Murray asked.
‘That’s right. For the podcasts, you see?’ replied Meikle, in his white dog collar and grey shirt even while running his Saturday errands.
‘Uh, well…’ Murray took the phone from him. ‘Is this your new phone, Minister?’
‘That it is, latest model. The chap in the phone shop said it was the best there is.’
‘Right.’
‘But there’s no holes.’ Meikle’s bushy white brows were crumpled in consternation.
‘Well, there wouldn’t be. New phones tend not to have headphone sockets. You need to connect your headphones with Bluetooth.’
‘Go on then.’ The Reverend nodded encouragement.
‘Oh, uh? No. You need Bluetooth earbuds. These wired ones are…’ He gulped, fearing what was coming. He’d been the bearer of bad news too often this year as the town elders brought in their new Christmas gadgets. ‘…These are obsolete.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘Sorry to say it, but… it’s true.’
‘Why would the phone people do that to us?’ the Reverend asked in innocence.
‘So that you spend even more money buying new headphones, I guess?’ Murray knew not to shrug. Being flippant about these things made people mad.
‘No holes, eh?’ the Minister was saying, shaking his head, turning to leave. ‘So I have to spend more money.’
‘Fact of consumer life, I’m afraid,’ Murray said. ‘Inbuilt obsolescence. Companies know that the worst kind of customer is a happy one who only comes into their store once every ten years.’
