Free The Exit by Helen Fitzgerald

clothes in the machine. Huge pants. Smelly socks. Wet trousers. After hanging them out, she suggested I listen to Jim play his guitar.
    I didn’t know any of the songs Jim sang but it wasn’t agonising to listen to him, unlike two boys I dated who just happened to have their guitars at hand and ruined what might have been two perfectly good evenings. One sang obscure songs very quietly, maintaining intense eye contact, so I couldn’t sing along and felt I had to listen. The other wrote a song for me called ‘Feel It’ – not dissimilar to Emma’s rendition of ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond’ in that it repeated one line over and over, and was very bad. (I didn’t feel it again after that.)
    Not Jim – he was good, a performer. I laughed, and joined in when required. I liked him. He was the most normal of the bunch, as far as I could tell. He asked me questions about myself and was interested in my answers. ‘Costa Rica! Oh, wow! The grass there is to die for. Roll one for me, won’t you, and dig into a huge platter of seafood after.’ Plus, his life was fascinating. He’d toured with famous bands, although I’d never heard of any of them, and told stories about overdosing lead singers, about getting kicked out of hotels in Prague, about getting rich enough to retire one year, and blowing it all partying the next.
    ‘So did you have groupies, Jim?’
    ‘I had fun! Call me Jimmy. And listen, if you get any draw, will you bring me some?’
    I found myself being professional. ‘That’s illegal. And bad for you.’
    ‘Aw, c’mon, just enough for one joint. I’m on my way out anyway. I could do with a giggle.’
    I promised I would, and made him promise not to tell.
    He was funny, Jimmy – told me three jokes that all made sense and while I’d heard all three many years ago, it wasn’t too difficult to conjure a laugh. I decided to spend as much time with Jimmy as possible. He was old right enough, but not in a stinky, crawls-on-the-ceiling kind of way. He didn’t freak me out.
    *
    I had a lot of questions for Marcus and I didn’t hold back when we got to the Brunswick Bar.
    ‘Nurse Gabriella said you were writing?’
    ‘Oh – aye, but don’t tell anyone. Sounds kind of pathetic, a wannabe novelist. I tell you, I’m Googling some crazy stuff for the story I’m working on. And that, My Lord, is the case for the defence.’
    We were drinking bright green cocktails in fancy glasses. I don’t know what was in them, but they were strong and he was paying. ‘So, where are your parents?’
    ‘Retired to France two years ago. Left me the house and the business.’
    ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how does it make money, with so few patients?’
    ‘The house is paid off, so that helps. And it’s expensive, the fees. We get by.’
    He was doing better than getting by. He drove a Mercedes FFS.
    ‘But wouldn’t you rather do something else?’ Looking at him now, drinking cocktails in the bar like a normal young bloke, I could not imagine why he would choose to stay there. It wasn’t as if he gave off caring vibes.
    ‘That’s why I’m writing! Hey, enough about me. Tell me the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done.’
    Maybe if I hadn’t had two of those green drinks I wouldn’t have leant in as if to kiss him, then flicked his nostril: ‘That.’
    He flinched. ‘Ow, I’m your boss, Miss Catherine.’
    ‘And I’m your feisty wage slave, Mr Marcus.’
    *
    He dropped me off at six, saw me to my door, and kissed me like a gentleman, ‘Goodnight, Catherine.’
    Hmm. He was rich, he had a Merc, he was fun, he was my boss (which I found kinda naughty and naughty made me horny), but his kiss had inspired no tingles. That wasn’t unusual, mind. The tingles had only happened once, with Paul, last summer. We were drunk, and alone at my place after a comedy night at The Stand. We were giving each other marks out of ten for certain parts of our bodies and were both being flirtatiously