The guy upstairs.
The Guy Upstairs
"Oh God, he’s at it again!" I mutter brushing the shower of plaster chips from my latest masterpiece. Yes, 'Mister Fluffykins' may indeed be a snow-white Persian, but I'm pretty sure Mrs. Henderson wanted a straight forward oil portrait of her beloved cat - not the oil and plaster remnant relief I'm currently gazing at.
"How long has this been going on?" Truda, my best friend, calls from the kitchen as the grunts and squeaks from upstairs rise to such volume that my late grandmothers' prized Tiffany-style lampshade is now swaying like a Hawaiian dancers hips above me.
"About three weeks." I begin to pack up my equipment with a resigned sigh. "Every night, every morning, and let's not even talk about the weekends!" I complain " I mean don't get me wrong Truda, I don't object to other people having a robust sex life....but do I really have to listen to it?"
"Oh, for heavens sake! Why don't you just say something?" Truda passes me a coffee before brushing the ceiling dandruff off the couch and planting herself firmly. "The building Supervisor said he was a pretty decent sort of guy. I'm sure he'd be okay about it."
"And what sort of prude would that make me look? Besides, as it's only been three weeks, I'm figuring they're obviously still at that 'can't keep the hands off' stage"
"Talking of which,” Truda glances at the wildly swaying lampshade and chuckles "I wonder what 'they' are like?"
"Stronger than she looks apparently." I honestly don't mean for that statement to sound as acerbic as it does but it’s been fifty minutes or more by my count. The squeaking and grunting is now bordering on obscene and my lounge is starting to resemble the inside of a snow-globe.
"Ooh! So you've seen them then? C'mon 'fess up." Truda raises an eyebrow. I find the blob of flaked plaster floating in my coffee really fascinating.
“I’ve only seen her; She’s young, black, very attractive…but all of five foot nothing and about eight stone, soaking wet...As I haven't seen anyone else I can only assume...." I trail off as the grunting and squeaking stops almost as abruptly as it started. I can't help but check the clock.
"Oh dear, not on his usual form tonight - must need some Viagra!" I snipe under my breath as I hear his apartment door open. I hear bouncy foot steps on the stairs, and then the main door opens.
Truda too has followed the sounds and, her curiosity aroused, jumps up quickly to take a peek. As she moves the blind to one side to peer out I see her face light up.
"Wow! I wouldn't mind a piece of that action!" She beckons me and I can't help but be drawn to see exactly what my neighborly Don Juan looks like.
She's totally wrong of course. ‘WOW’ is nowhere near an adequate description. He's tall. - A little over Six feet, at my guess and his hair is dark. At the moment it's falling, damp and disheveled, across his face as he bends to tie his trainers. All I can glimpse of his profile is a chiseled jaw and an aquiline nose, but I don't even need my artist’s eye to appreciate that under the Grey T shirt and sweats are strong graceful limbs and a finely honed physique.
Truda and I breathe in silent union as we watch him, illuminated only by the street lights, limbering up for his run with a cat-like elegance. With a final deep breath, stretch and a bounce he's off and away; sprinting up to the corner and out of sight. Where does this guy get his energy from? I'm oblivious to my zoned out thinking until Truda elbows me in the ribs.
"You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?" She repeats with a wicked grin.
"Well no actually - I was rather preoccupied."
"I said you're jealous." She states brutally. "It's been months since you split with Greg. What we really need to do is get you back into the dating game.....that way you'll be far too busy having a life of your own to gripe about other peoples enjoyment."
"And I suppose this has nothing to do with it?" I jab an accusing finger at my damaged ceiling. Truda follows my pointer but just laughs. "Just keep telling yourself that."
*
2am and unable to sleep, despite repeatedly counting the spider's web of lines in the plaster above me, I ponder my - so called - friend's assessment that my irritation is based more on the fact that I'm not currently - how did she so insightfully put it? - 'getting any', than the fact my apartment seems to be falling down around my ears. When the squeaking and grunting above suddenly starts up again, I remind myself firmly, no, it's definitely the latter!
Huffing loudly, I fluff my pillows and close my eyes....only now I have a mental image of the upstairs sex machine to tantalize my woefully underused libido. Although I try to resist, my dreams are full of those gazelle like limbs and floppy dark hair. No wonder that, by morning, I positively hate the guy upstairs.
*
It's almost a week before I actually bump into the mattress Lothario in the flesh: bump being the operative word.
My mind is elsewhere as I pick up my post from the box in the hall and he must be equally engrossed in a conversation on his mobile phone because neither of us notices the other until it's too late. Needless to say, we collide. My post goes flying; he drops his phone. Then to cap it all, we both bend down at the same time and crash heads. When the stars finally clear, I find myself gazing into the most gorgeous pair of bright blue eyes I've ever seen... and I'm suddenly dumbstruck.
He's wearing a suit now - Well, I say suit: it’ more like a uniform, if I'm not mistaken - A military style great coat complete with epaulets, a pale blue linen shirt and red braces holding up dark twill trousers. All that, coupled with the tousled dark hair and the indisputable air of intrigue and confidence that’s radiating off him, it’s almost more than I can cope with. As my mind and stomach start doing back flips, I feel my legs start to wobble.
"Hey there." he says, grasping my hand to steady me “I'm really sorry about that. You okay?"
I must eventually manage to nod an affirmative because the concerned lip pursing he's adopted breaks into the most heart stopping mega-watt grin.
"Hi, you must be my new neighbor," He pumps my gripped hand enthusiastically.
"And you must be exhausted!"
Holy shit; did I really just say that?
"Sorry?" He cocks his head to one side quizzically.
"That's me." I mumble.
I want to say more, to introduce myself, but I can't. I'm still mortified that the irritated side of my persona has taken full advantage of the other side’s sudden infatuation and laid claim to my speech process.
"Well, allow me to welcome you to Constantine place.” He continues - Fortunately he’s either too polite or too bemused to have noticed. “I've been meaning to pop down and introduce myself, “He glances at his watch and tuts "But I always seem to be on the run these days. Oh and the name's Jack by the way."
“And I’m…” I finally managed respond but then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot the black girl watching us through the glass of the main doors... and she doesn't look impressed. After giving me a quick visual appraisal and Jack a knowing look, she taps her own watch and rolls her eyes heavenward.
Suddenly feeling guilty, I quickly extricate myself from his grasp and mumble “It’s okay, I heard you were a busy man."
Jack just shrugs lazily, gives her a sheepish grin then heads for the door. As he reaches for the catch he turns back and calls "Hey, maybe we could meet up one evening and get better acquainted?”
WHAT!
I find his brazenness astounding. Not only is the significant other just feet away - so he’s obviously a ‘player’ - but my previously addled brain now decides to recall why I’m pissed with him in the first place.
"Why?" I ask pointedly. "Can't she take the pace?"
I leave him looking decidedly puzzled and stomp back to my apartment.
*
All quiet on the upstairs front for the next few days, so I assume they're wearing out her bed springs for a change. Not that I'm going to complain. The respite gives me a chance to finish 'Mister Fluffykins' and I don't have to vacuum the floor more than once a day.
After three days of almost total silence I'm starting to wonder if, maybe, Truda wasn't right and the lack of action in my life has turned me into a whining party pooper. When I'm awoken at 3am by the renewed bouncing of the Tiffany shade, that idea goes out of the window.
*
7pm and I'm about to head over to Mrs. Henderson’s to collect my hard earned cash when there's a knock at the door.
"How do you fancy a pizza tonight?" Jack asks cheerfully when I open it.
"In my own flat with a bit of peace and quiet!" I snap, slamming the door behind me and marching past him toward the main doors.
*
Later that night, when the squeaks and grunts last even longer than usual - well into the wee, small hours- I start to convince myself that this is some kind of sadistic pay back for my earlier rejection.
I toss and turn in bed. Although logic dictates that I really should have a word with my tormentor, to be honest I don't trust myself. I'm currently torn between inflicting physical damage on the guy and just plain jumping his bones. When I finally do manage to get some sleep my dreams are filled with the idea of poisoning with some brush cleaner... or beating him to death with my easel. And in the meantime, the cracks in the ceiling grow ever wider.
*
When Jack next spots me I’m struggling, arms laden with groceries, fighting to get my key into my apartment door.
"Hey, how's it going?" He lopes over to help me, grabbing the two most precariously balanced bags while I find the lock.
"Fine." I mutter “You?" I drop the bags I'm balancing inside the open door and make a grab for the ones he's holding.
"I'm okay...." he hesitates as he hands the brown bags over.”But I can't help feeling that I've done something to piss you off?"
A sudden wave of confidence brews up in me and I steel myself to explain...then it hits me again: What can I say without sounding like a total prude? Or worse still, some kind of sexual eavesdropper! I can feel the roots of my hair getting hot as I blush. Mumbling some sort of excuse about a migraine, I beat a hasty retreat.
*
5.30 am the following day and, when I'm rudely awoken by the sound of bedsprings being exercised to Olympic proportions and clumps of plaster raining on my lounge floor, my patience finally snaps.
With each step up to no 26 I can feel my temper rising. By the time I'm pounding on Jacks door I'm bordering on homicidal. When he gets to said door, he is red-faced, sweating and wearing nothing but a ratty pair of cut off sweats.
"What are you - insatiable or something?” I snarl trying hard to keep my eyes above his waist.
Jack looks completely perplexed by my out burst. "Excuse me?" he utters bewildered.
"My damn ceiling is caving in about my ears and you're standing there like butter wouldn't melt." I hiss venomously turning on my heel. I stomp down the stairs, fuming with self righteous indignation.
He bounds after me. "Have you any idea what caused it?"
I rein in my temper just long enough to grab his near naked form and drag him into my lounge, gesticulating wildly at the ceiling.
"You did!”
“I did?”
At least he has the decency to look shocked - although whether it’s from my pro-active manhandling of him or the damage that I point out - is open to interpretation.
“Me!” He finally exclaims as I stand back, arms folded. "How could I have done that?"
How does he think!
OK. I finally gather enough of my wits about me, I take a deep breath and start to explain.
"Jack, this is an old building and...Um... you're... well, you’re awfully energetic for a lot of the time...." Once again the words fail me.
"Oh Jeez, I had no idea you could hear me." He scrubs his hands through his hair, thinking for a minute. “Hey look, this isn't a problem: I’ll just quit, okay? As of this minute I'll never do it again."
I feel my jaw sag in surprise. "Don't you think that's a bit extreme...I mean, I’d settle for a bit less enthusiasm."
"Won't work I'm afraid." He sighs, dragging his teeth over that seductively full lower lip as he thinks. "The problem is my friend - you know? The black girl? She's kind of insistent!"
Oh Now! This is really more information than I actually needed!
"When she came up with the idea it sounded like the kind of challenge I couldn't resist...but to tell you the truth, after four weeks I'm nearly done for. No, your ceiling is the perfect excuse I need to put a stop to it."
The perfect excuse to put a stop to it?
Well, as brush-offs go, that one's got to take the cake for originality! Almost makes me wish I could see her face when he delivers it.
"For fifty quid it's just not worth the hassle." He grins and shrugs.
"She pays you!!" This is an unexpected twist. Now my jaw IS on the floor.
"Well she won't now. You see we had this bet. We've got some kind of company physical at the end of the month and she bet me £50 that I wouldn't pass....that's why I've spent so much time on that damn rowing machine."
“That damn rowing machine?”
What does he mean?
Oh dear lord!
Suddenly I realize I’m about as way off the mark as it’s possible to be and turn a stunning shade of scarlet.
"Yes. Why? What did you think I was doing?” Jack starts, and then tails off as he catches sight of my beetroot overtone. The other shoe finally drops and his eyes widen with a mixture of shock, amusement and more than the merest hint of feeling flattered.
"Oh God! It’s just I thought...um...I mean, I’d seen you two together so I assumed...um ...." I babble.
"So, let me get this straight. You thought that she and I were...for all this time” he starts to laugh loudly and shake his head. "I can't even begin to tell you what she’d think was wrong with that idea! But, “he adds, rubbing his chin thoughtfully “it would certainly explain the looks and cryptic comments...and the refusal of my peace offering.”
"Peace offering?" I echo. There’s a sinking feeling in my belly that indicates that, yet again, I’m about to hit a new and interesting level of embarrassment.
"The pizza the other night?” He reminds me with more patience that I really think I deserve right now. “It arrived just as I was leaving. I couldn’t take it with me and it seemed a shame to waste it.”
“Aw hell, no!” I moan, shoving my head into my hands and wishing the floor would just open up and swallow me. So, not only have I succeeded in making a total tit of myself, but I’ve now realize I’ve probably blown any chance of getting to know better the most perfect guy I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“Aw hell, yes!” He chuckles mischievously.
“Then I…um... okay, look, then I don’t suppose…I mean, is it too late to…” I mumble through my fingers, still far too ashamed of myself to come out from hiding.
“Too late to make an apology?” He pre-empts my babbling as he reaches out and peels my fingers from my face, forcing me to meet his gaze - I’m almost amazed to find he doesn’t actually look even remotely pissed with me.
“Exactly!” I reply cautiously. “Of course I’d much rather all this hadn’t happened.” I motion again to my ceiling with a sigh. “But as we can’t turn the clock back and all that.”
“Well,” Jack laughs even louder then, his eyes dancing with something that’s obviously just occurred to him. “Well yeah, I know what you mean…but no, I can’t. I mean I really shouldn’t…” now he’s fumbling for the right words. Finally they seem to hit him. “Y’know what? Apology accepted! …and don’t worry about the damage I’m sure I can get it all sorted out.”
Ok. So that’s a relief, but now I’m really puzzled!
*
"So how long has this been going on?" Truda, my best friend, calls from the kitchen as I proudly finish off Mrs. Henderson’s commission of ‘Mister Fluffykins’ and set it aside to dry.
"About three weeks." I begin to pack up my equipment with a smug grin. “Every night, every morning and don’t even get me started about the weekend!” I sigh, though it’s more a sated sigh than a complaint.
“Really?” Truda passes me a freshly made coffee before planting herself firmly on the sofa. “Well, you ARE the dark horse, aren’t you David!” she exclaims “So c’mon, ‘fess up, when did all this happen?”
“Well, now there’s a funny thing “I begin……
Epilogue:
“Y’know I still can’t believe that you actually did that!” Martha Jones exclaims from the kitchen as she washes her mug under the tap. “I mean, manipulating time just so you can get laid!”
“What can I say? I’m a guy with an appetite that just has to be sated!” I tell her with wicked grin. “Besides, since I had that year-that-never-was away from Torchwood, from everything, it kinda made me re-evaluated some things.”
Yeah, I know. I get that. But don’t think I haven’t noticed just how like our favorite Doctor he looks!” She‘s leaning against the door frame now, eying me with an incredulous look.
“Well you know what a ‘shrink’ would make of it, don’t you?” I reply with a knowing look.
“What?”
“If you can’t be with the one you love, then love the one you’re with!”.
"Oh God, he’s at it again!" I mutter brushing the shower of plaster chips from my latest masterpiece. Yes, 'Mister Fluffykins' may indeed be a snow-white Persian, but I'm pretty sure Mrs. Henderson wanted a straight forward oil portrait of her beloved cat - not the oil and plaster remnant relief I'm currently gazing at.
"How long has this been going on?" Truda, my best friend, calls from the kitchen as the grunts and squeaks from upstairs rise to such volume that my late grandmothers' prized Tiffany-style lampshade is now swaying like a Hawaiian dancers hips above me.
"About three weeks." I begin to pack up my equipment with a resigned sigh. "Every night, every morning, and let's not even talk about the weekends!" I complain " I mean don't get me wrong Truda, I don't object to other people having a robust sex life....but do I really have to listen to it?"
"Oh, for heavens sake! Why don't you just say something?" Truda passes me a coffee before brushing the ceiling dandruff off the couch and planting herself firmly. "The building Supervisor said he was a pretty decent sort of guy. I'm sure he'd be okay about it."
"And what sort of prude would that make me look? Besides, as it's only been three weeks, I'm figuring they're obviously still at that 'can't keep the hands off' stage"
"Talking of which,” Truda glances at the wildly swaying lampshade and chuckles "I wonder what 'they' are like?"
"Stronger than she looks apparently." I honestly don't mean for that statement to sound as acerbic as it does but it’s been fifty minutes or more by my count. The squeaking and grunting is now bordering on obscene and my lounge is starting to resemble the inside of a snow-globe.
"Ooh! So you've seen them then? C'mon 'fess up." Truda raises an eyebrow. I find the blob of flaked plaster floating in my coffee really fascinating.
“I’ve only seen her; She’s young, black, very attractive…but all of five foot nothing and about eight stone, soaking wet...As I haven't seen anyone else I can only assume...." I trail off as the grunting and squeaking stops almost as abruptly as it started. I can't help but check the clock.
"Oh dear, not on his usual form tonight - must need some Viagra!" I snipe under my breath as I hear his apartment door open. I hear bouncy foot steps on the stairs, and then the main door opens.
Truda too has followed the sounds and, her curiosity aroused, jumps up quickly to take a peek. As she moves the blind to one side to peer out I see her face light up.
"Wow! I wouldn't mind a piece of that action!" She beckons me and I can't help but be drawn to see exactly what my neighborly Don Juan looks like.
She's totally wrong of course. ‘WOW’ is nowhere near an adequate description. He's tall. - A little over Six feet, at my guess and his hair is dark. At the moment it's falling, damp and disheveled, across his face as he bends to tie his trainers. All I can glimpse of his profile is a chiseled jaw and an aquiline nose, but I don't even need my artist’s eye to appreciate that under the Grey T shirt and sweats are strong graceful limbs and a finely honed physique.
Truda and I breathe in silent union as we watch him, illuminated only by the street lights, limbering up for his run with a cat-like elegance. With a final deep breath, stretch and a bounce he's off and away; sprinting up to the corner and out of sight. Where does this guy get his energy from? I'm oblivious to my zoned out thinking until Truda elbows me in the ribs.
"You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?" She repeats with a wicked grin.
"Well no actually - I was rather preoccupied."
"I said you're jealous." She states brutally. "It's been months since you split with Greg. What we really need to do is get you back into the dating game.....that way you'll be far too busy having a life of your own to gripe about other peoples enjoyment."
"And I suppose this has nothing to do with it?" I jab an accusing finger at my damaged ceiling. Truda follows my pointer but just laughs. "Just keep telling yourself that."
*
2am and unable to sleep, despite repeatedly counting the spider's web of lines in the plaster above me, I ponder my - so called - friend's assessment that my irritation is based more on the fact that I'm not currently - how did she so insightfully put it? - 'getting any', than the fact my apartment seems to be falling down around my ears. When the squeaking and grunting above suddenly starts up again, I remind myself firmly, no, it's definitely the latter!
Huffing loudly, I fluff my pillows and close my eyes....only now I have a mental image of the upstairs sex machine to tantalize my woefully underused libido. Although I try to resist, my dreams are full of those gazelle like limbs and floppy dark hair. No wonder that, by morning, I positively hate the guy upstairs.
*
It's almost a week before I actually bump into the mattress Lothario in the flesh: bump being the operative word.
My mind is elsewhere as I pick up my post from the box in the hall and he must be equally engrossed in a conversation on his mobile phone because neither of us notices the other until it's too late. Needless to say, we collide. My post goes flying; he drops his phone. Then to cap it all, we both bend down at the same time and crash heads. When the stars finally clear, I find myself gazing into the most gorgeous pair of bright blue eyes I've ever seen... and I'm suddenly dumbstruck.
He's wearing a suit now - Well, I say suit: it’ more like a uniform, if I'm not mistaken - A military style great coat complete with epaulets, a pale blue linen shirt and red braces holding up dark twill trousers. All that, coupled with the tousled dark hair and the indisputable air of intrigue and confidence that’s radiating off him, it’s almost more than I can cope with. As my mind and stomach start doing back flips, I feel my legs start to wobble.
"Hey there." he says, grasping my hand to steady me “I'm really sorry about that. You okay?"
I must eventually manage to nod an affirmative because the concerned lip pursing he's adopted breaks into the most heart stopping mega-watt grin.
"Hi, you must be my new neighbor," He pumps my gripped hand enthusiastically.
"And you must be exhausted!"
Holy shit; did I really just say that?
"Sorry?" He cocks his head to one side quizzically.
"That's me." I mumble.
I want to say more, to introduce myself, but I can't. I'm still mortified that the irritated side of my persona has taken full advantage of the other side’s sudden infatuation and laid claim to my speech process.
"Well, allow me to welcome you to Constantine place.” He continues - Fortunately he’s either too polite or too bemused to have noticed. “I've been meaning to pop down and introduce myself, “He glances at his watch and tuts "But I always seem to be on the run these days. Oh and the name's Jack by the way."
“And I’m…” I finally managed respond but then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot the black girl watching us through the glass of the main doors... and she doesn't look impressed. After giving me a quick visual appraisal and Jack a knowing look, she taps her own watch and rolls her eyes heavenward.
Suddenly feeling guilty, I quickly extricate myself from his grasp and mumble “It’s okay, I heard you were a busy man."
Jack just shrugs lazily, gives her a sheepish grin then heads for the door. As he reaches for the catch he turns back and calls "Hey, maybe we could meet up one evening and get better acquainted?”
WHAT!
I find his brazenness astounding. Not only is the significant other just feet away - so he’s obviously a ‘player’ - but my previously addled brain now decides to recall why I’m pissed with him in the first place.
"Why?" I ask pointedly. "Can't she take the pace?"
I leave him looking decidedly puzzled and stomp back to my apartment.
*
All quiet on the upstairs front for the next few days, so I assume they're wearing out her bed springs for a change. Not that I'm going to complain. The respite gives me a chance to finish 'Mister Fluffykins' and I don't have to vacuum the floor more than once a day.
After three days of almost total silence I'm starting to wonder if, maybe, Truda wasn't right and the lack of action in my life has turned me into a whining party pooper. When I'm awoken at 3am by the renewed bouncing of the Tiffany shade, that idea goes out of the window.
*
7pm and I'm about to head over to Mrs. Henderson’s to collect my hard earned cash when there's a knock at the door.
"How do you fancy a pizza tonight?" Jack asks cheerfully when I open it.
"In my own flat with a bit of peace and quiet!" I snap, slamming the door behind me and marching past him toward the main doors.
*
Later that night, when the squeaks and grunts last even longer than usual - well into the wee, small hours- I start to convince myself that this is some kind of sadistic pay back for my earlier rejection.
I toss and turn in bed. Although logic dictates that I really should have a word with my tormentor, to be honest I don't trust myself. I'm currently torn between inflicting physical damage on the guy and just plain jumping his bones. When I finally do manage to get some sleep my dreams are filled with the idea of poisoning with some brush cleaner... or beating him to death with my easel. And in the meantime, the cracks in the ceiling grow ever wider.
*
When Jack next spots me I’m struggling, arms laden with groceries, fighting to get my key into my apartment door.
"Hey, how's it going?" He lopes over to help me, grabbing the two most precariously balanced bags while I find the lock.
"Fine." I mutter “You?" I drop the bags I'm balancing inside the open door and make a grab for the ones he's holding.
"I'm okay...." he hesitates as he hands the brown bags over.”But I can't help feeling that I've done something to piss you off?"
A sudden wave of confidence brews up in me and I steel myself to explain...then it hits me again: What can I say without sounding like a total prude? Or worse still, some kind of sexual eavesdropper! I can feel the roots of my hair getting hot as I blush. Mumbling some sort of excuse about a migraine, I beat a hasty retreat.
*
5.30 am the following day and, when I'm rudely awoken by the sound of bedsprings being exercised to Olympic proportions and clumps of plaster raining on my lounge floor, my patience finally snaps.
With each step up to no 26 I can feel my temper rising. By the time I'm pounding on Jacks door I'm bordering on homicidal. When he gets to said door, he is red-faced, sweating and wearing nothing but a ratty pair of cut off sweats.
"What are you - insatiable or something?” I snarl trying hard to keep my eyes above his waist.
Jack looks completely perplexed by my out burst. "Excuse me?" he utters bewildered.
"My damn ceiling is caving in about my ears and you're standing there like butter wouldn't melt." I hiss venomously turning on my heel. I stomp down the stairs, fuming with self righteous indignation.
He bounds after me. "Have you any idea what caused it?"
I rein in my temper just long enough to grab his near naked form and drag him into my lounge, gesticulating wildly at the ceiling.
"You did!”
“I did?”
At least he has the decency to look shocked - although whether it’s from my pro-active manhandling of him or the damage that I point out - is open to interpretation.
“Me!” He finally exclaims as I stand back, arms folded. "How could I have done that?"
How does he think!
OK. I finally gather enough of my wits about me, I take a deep breath and start to explain.
"Jack, this is an old building and...Um... you're... well, you’re awfully energetic for a lot of the time...." Once again the words fail me.
"Oh Jeez, I had no idea you could hear me." He scrubs his hands through his hair, thinking for a minute. “Hey look, this isn't a problem: I’ll just quit, okay? As of this minute I'll never do it again."
I feel my jaw sag in surprise. "Don't you think that's a bit extreme...I mean, I’d settle for a bit less enthusiasm."
"Won't work I'm afraid." He sighs, dragging his teeth over that seductively full lower lip as he thinks. "The problem is my friend - you know? The black girl? She's kind of insistent!"
Oh Now! This is really more information than I actually needed!
"When she came up with the idea it sounded like the kind of challenge I couldn't resist...but to tell you the truth, after four weeks I'm nearly done for. No, your ceiling is the perfect excuse I need to put a stop to it."
The perfect excuse to put a stop to it?
Well, as brush-offs go, that one's got to take the cake for originality! Almost makes me wish I could see her face when he delivers it.
"For fifty quid it's just not worth the hassle." He grins and shrugs.
"She pays you!!" This is an unexpected twist. Now my jaw IS on the floor.
"Well she won't now. You see we had this bet. We've got some kind of company physical at the end of the month and she bet me £50 that I wouldn't pass....that's why I've spent so much time on that damn rowing machine."
“That damn rowing machine?”
What does he mean?
Oh dear lord!
Suddenly I realize I’m about as way off the mark as it’s possible to be and turn a stunning shade of scarlet.
"Yes. Why? What did you think I was doing?” Jack starts, and then tails off as he catches sight of my beetroot overtone. The other shoe finally drops and his eyes widen with a mixture of shock, amusement and more than the merest hint of feeling flattered.
"Oh God! It’s just I thought...um...I mean, I’d seen you two together so I assumed...um ...." I babble.
"So, let me get this straight. You thought that she and I were...for all this time” he starts to laugh loudly and shake his head. "I can't even begin to tell you what she’d think was wrong with that idea! But, “he adds, rubbing his chin thoughtfully “it would certainly explain the looks and cryptic comments...and the refusal of my peace offering.”
"Peace offering?" I echo. There’s a sinking feeling in my belly that indicates that, yet again, I’m about to hit a new and interesting level of embarrassment.
"The pizza the other night?” He reminds me with more patience that I really think I deserve right now. “It arrived just as I was leaving. I couldn’t take it with me and it seemed a shame to waste it.”
“Aw hell, no!” I moan, shoving my head into my hands and wishing the floor would just open up and swallow me. So, not only have I succeeded in making a total tit of myself, but I’ve now realize I’ve probably blown any chance of getting to know better the most perfect guy I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“Aw hell, yes!” He chuckles mischievously.
“Then I…um... okay, look, then I don’t suppose…I mean, is it too late to…” I mumble through my fingers, still far too ashamed of myself to come out from hiding.
“Too late to make an apology?” He pre-empts my babbling as he reaches out and peels my fingers from my face, forcing me to meet his gaze - I’m almost amazed to find he doesn’t actually look even remotely pissed with me.
“Exactly!” I reply cautiously. “Of course I’d much rather all this hadn’t happened.” I motion again to my ceiling with a sigh. “But as we can’t turn the clock back and all that.”
“Well,” Jack laughs even louder then, his eyes dancing with something that’s obviously just occurred to him. “Well yeah, I know what you mean…but no, I can’t. I mean I really shouldn’t…” now he’s fumbling for the right words. Finally they seem to hit him. “Y’know what? Apology accepted! …and don’t worry about the damage I’m sure I can get it all sorted out.”
Ok. So that’s a relief, but now I’m really puzzled!
*
"So how long has this been going on?" Truda, my best friend, calls from the kitchen as I proudly finish off Mrs. Henderson’s commission of ‘Mister Fluffykins’ and set it aside to dry.
"About three weeks." I begin to pack up my equipment with a smug grin. “Every night, every morning and don’t even get me started about the weekend!” I sigh, though it’s more a sated sigh than a complaint.
“Really?” Truda passes me a freshly made coffee before planting herself firmly on the sofa. “Well, you ARE the dark horse, aren’t you David!” she exclaims “So c’mon, ‘fess up, when did all this happen?”
“Well, now there’s a funny thing “I begin……
Epilogue:
“Y’know I still can’t believe that you actually did that!” Martha Jones exclaims from the kitchen as she washes her mug under the tap. “I mean, manipulating time just so you can get laid!”
“What can I say? I’m a guy with an appetite that just has to be sated!” I tell her with wicked grin. “Besides, since I had that year-that-never-was away from Torchwood, from everything, it kinda made me re-evaluated some things.”
Yeah, I know. I get that. But don’t think I haven’t noticed just how like our favorite Doctor he looks!” She‘s leaning against the door frame now, eying me with an incredulous look.
“Well you know what a ‘shrink’ would make of it, don’t you?” I reply with a knowing look.
“What?”
“If you can’t be with the one you love, then love the one you’re with!”.