“No, you’re not. You’re thinking ‘Tick’, another person conquered by my charm, another ally. But I will always judge you by your actions, not just your words, and never by your pretty face.” Jasmine stops.Pretty facejust slipped out, even though she has no wish to be counted as one of his simpering fan club. She looks down at the road, puddles of rain glinting in the streetlights, and shrugs. It is too late, and she is merely telling it as it is. It is unlikely to be news to him.
Ben is wise enough to let the words pass but Jasmine has no doubt he logged them. He changes tack. “So, have you thought about jobs yet?”
“I’d love to be a SpAd but Labour would have to win the next General Election.”
“A Special Advisor? Not tempted to stand as a Member of Parliament?”
“I have the charisma of a jacket potato,” she says with a rueful smile, “and I really don’t like people enough to press all the flesh required. No, formulating policy and strategy is much more my thing.”
Ben laughs. “I’ve met a few MPs with less charisma than a jacket potato but I take your point about people. My mum is always out talking to constituents and local business owners. Some of them are downright obnoxious, but she still has to listen and represent their concerns.”
“That perceived duplicity is part of the reason people don’t trust politicians, though, isn’t it? They have to get along with everyone, even with people with radically opposing views to theirs, otherwise they can’t get the day-to-day business of government done. But the reward is they seem insincere at best, and self-serving or corrupt at worst.”
“It’s a problem. Trust in politicians is at its lowest level since the war.”
“Precisely. Who would want to do that job? Vilified by everyone, long hours, living away from family, and the risk of losing your job at each election!”
“Me?” Ben grins at Jasmine and her core tightens in response. She quickens her pace slightly. Until she learns to regulate her reaction to him, the less time she spends in his company, the better. She is relieved when they turn into her street and she stops outside a Victorian semi-detached house, long since divided into flats. She and Sean share a two-bed apartment which has been carved out of the second floor.
Although she is dying to get inside and put on her flannel pyjamas, she makes the offer of coffee out of courtesy – Ben has just walked her home after all – but is glad when he declines. She is tired and trying to be the best version of herself around Ben tires her further. She dare not analyse why she wishes to impress him, why she wants him to think her clever and insightful. She thanks him for accompanying her – some part of her mother’s insistence on manners sank in – and then the two of them part with the briefest of nods. As she climbs the steps to her home, Jasmine can’t help but feel a little flat, as if Ben took all the warmth with him when he left.
The next Monday, when she and Sean take their usual seats in Globalisation vs Democracy, she happens to glance down to where Ben and his friends are gathered, and Ben looks up and nods. Just a nod, but Jasmine feels that glow in her belly and, with a smile threatening to break out over her face, she quickly looks away. Then she thinks how it may be interpreted, places her bag on the floor, and lifts her eyes to stare brazenly at him, daring him to think her affected. But Ben is no longer watching her, his attention now on the antics of one of his group.
Jasmine is conflicted. There is no doubting her attraction to him – her body’s reaction each time she sees him proves that – but she had never thought of herself as one of those who values looks over substance and she knows very little of Ben beyond his ambition. Yet the response one glance from him provokes is disturbing. There is obviously some part of her psyche unaltered since the Ice Age that unfortunately has the upper hand where Ben is concerned and all her attempts at reasoning fail. She needs to ignore him, to stay as far away from him as possible before she becomes some horny halfwit panting after an alpha male. Yet halfway through the lecture, when her phone buzzes with an invitation to connect with Ben Khan, she hastily accepts before he realises his error. When she looks across at him, he appears to be concentrating on the lecture, oblivious of her.
At Wednesday’s Labour Society meeting, she is careful to sit at the end of the table, the furthest away from him and say very little throughout – a novelty for her. Still, somehow, he ends up walking her home, and this time they talk about political leaders and whether any of them can effect real change. The following week it is Brexit and the divisions in the country following the referendum. The week after it is the rise of populism and the dangers to democracy. Bit by bit, they feel out each other’s characters and values. Jasmine is surprised by how strongly they align. Until the week they talk about Universal Basic Income.
She has almost come to expect his agreement, to have him contribute additional insights to her considered position. She is not expecting or prepared for dissent. She is not afraid of argument and has stood on many a doorstep trying to persuade a reluctant resident to her cause. To her it is simple – everyone should support a measure which reduces poverty and improves mental health, and to find Ben thinks it expensive and therefore unpopular and, moreover, unimportant, takes her breath away. It is as if he is disagreeing with her character, not just the policy. She is trembling. If it weren’t for the torrential rain and the fact it is Ben’s umbrella they are sharing, Jasmine would stride out into the night and leave him in the lurch.
“Jasmine,” Ben begins, and Jasmine thinks if his next words areclam down, she will dump the water from the umbrella down his neck. “I get it,” he says, “but it is wet and cold and you look like you could do with a hug. So may I hug you?”
She stops, floored by his request. She nods and Ben circles his arms around her. She fits perfectly against him. All those feelings she has been vainly trying to suppress flare to life at the contact. Overwhelmed by the onslaught, she lies her head against his shoulder. Frustration of one type is rapidly replaced by frustration of another. She can hear the strong, steady beat of his heart but hopes he is deaf to hers, thudding wildly. She feels the firmness in his body, his broad hands stroking over her back, and in that moment, she knows she has fallen. She has not only joined the Ben Khan Fan Club, she has become its chairperson and glorious leader.
When they resume walking, Ben keeps one arm around her. The weight of his hand pressing on her shoulder is almost all she can think about. When they stop in front of her entrance door and she proffers the traditional invitation to coffee, she is desperately hopeful he will accept. But he doesn’t. He shakes his head. He steps in front of her and for one tiny moment, Jasmine thinks he may kiss her, but his arm drops. He steps back and the cold world re-appears.
“May I call you?” he asks.
Please, she wants to plead but she doesn’t trust her voice, so once again she nods.
He turns and walks away. She waits until he is lost in the rain and darkness before she opens the door, marvelling at the turn her life has just taken. The lack of a kiss is balanced by the implied promise to contact her outside of their normal routine. The arm draped over her shoulder, an unmistakable expression of affection.
An hour later, she gets the first message.Warmed up yet?
The exchange goes on half the night. Jasmine finds she can be markedly wittier when she can take her time to craft a response. The messaging would have gone on longer if Jasmine’s flesh had not been so weak as to fall asleep while waiting for a long reply. It is on her phone in the morning, proving the night before was real and not some lovelorn dream. As she eats her toast and marmalade, she formulates her answer and is gratified to get an instant response.
Morning, sleepyhead. Are you free tonight?
She almost chokes on her mouthful. A date. He must be asking her for a date. And then reason returns. There could be a host of reasons – help with an essay, delivering leaflets, an idea for a social media campaign. Even so, as Jasmine gets ready for her non-date, she dresses in her newest jeans, undoes an extra button on her shirt, and ties her unruly hair back with her prettiest clip.
Two short buzzes from her phone herald the message:Downstairs. She thunders down two flights with Sean’s hysterical laughter in her ears. He has been no help whatsoever. Another bloke should know ifAre you free tonight?is an invitation to a date, surely. But Sean had merely taken the opportunity to tease her as she got ready for her non-date (just in case it isn’t). She opens the door, slightly overheating from the speed of her descent while encased in a puffer jacket in anticipation of the cold. At least that was Jasmine’s explanation for the warmth suffusing her face and her elevated heart rate. She has hopes for a hug on greeting – Petey had been a great hugger on dates – so is disappointed to receive nothing more than a half-cocked grin and her name. They seem to have regressed from walking with his arm around her, too. For all that Jasmine has guided Sean into the world of dating, she is now reminded she really is no expert. One boyfriend might trump none, but it doesn’t make her an expert on romance. She feels awkward. For all her mother’s etiquette training, she does not know how to behave in this situation. If there was a session on distinguishing a date from a non-date, she missed it.
So Jasmine sticks her hands in her pockets and swings alongside Ben. “Where are we going?” she asks, hoping for some hint that would clarify the date status.
“Not far,” Ben says, then changes the subject to the essay they both have to write.
A mile later, they turn into a building with all the aesthetics of a church hall built for maximum space and minimum cost. Bright lights and warm smiles greet them as they enter, and a couple of people welcome Ben by name. There are crates and boxes and plastic bags everywhere, and plastic trestle tables placed in some unknown pattern.
“Welcome to the Food Bank.” The words are about all Ben gets to say before he is whisked away and Jasmine herself is allocated a table, a list, and a set of bags to fill. Time slides by, and then Ben materialises at her elbow.
