Chapter Eight

H E A T W A V E

June 6th

I'm woken by the smell of burnt bacon and the extractor fan kicking in. Abbie's shouting at Dave again for setting off the smoke alarm, and I can hear her smack a tea towel against it in a fit of fury.

This isn't at all surprising, or an unlikely wake up call because Dave always manages to turn their saturday morning fry ups into a kitchen nightmare. Sometimes I wish he'd stick to beans on toast, and let Abbie take the reins just so I'd be able to leave the house without reeking like charred bacon butties.

The panic I'd subsided with deep sleep starts up again as Abbie finally stops the ringing. But it's too late because I'm already worrying that turning up to meet Dylan smelling like a lived-in greasy spoon cafe isn't the type of impression I want to make. Maybe she hears me stumble about my room, to find my dressing gown under piles of old clothes because when I emerge Abbie's already assembling together a small bread plate of leftovers, and crisp fried eggs for me.

"Morning treacle," she smiles putting on her best cockney voice. "Thought you might be hungry."

I accept her offer of lukewarm beans, and watch her spoon them onto the plate. "Thanks my love," I mimic back.

Dave's left the kitchen in a disarray to claim his spot in the the lounge. Which is all of the sofa so he can commence his routine of chilling in sweat pants to watch his favourite morning football review show. Just part and parcel of Saturday mornings at casa overstayed-my-welcome. It's a sight I'm all too familiar, and worryingly comfortable with.

"Shift over would you," Abbie sighs, balancing her breakfast plate in one hand, the other locked onto Dave's ankles to remove them from the sofa. I make do in my usual spot on the bean bag, and tuck into crisp shard like pieces of bacon whilst watching them both with amusement.

"We're off to mini golf today Jem, can you believe Abbie's never played before?" Dave snorts in disbelief, baked beans spilling down onto the make shift tray cushion on his lap.

I play along. "Really? Shit, Abbie you haven't even lived!"

She rolls her eyes, sinks back into the sofa. "So I've been told by this one all morning," Her fork prodding into Dave's bare arm makes him gasp. "You're more than welcome to join us Jem."

"Ah I'd love to but I've got plans." It's a coy reply and I know Abbie is already poised to find out more.

"Oh really? With whom?"

"Just coffee with Louisa," I lie, shovelling in a slice of toast. I think she buys it because she shrugs and turns her attention back to Dave as he drops more food. Still maybe she's just really good at sensing my little white lies, and knows better than to call me out on them.

Finishing up my lack lustre breakfast I make a swift exit to the kitchen, and call out first dibs on the shower much to both their polite groans about not using up all the hot water.

Which unbeknownst to them I hardly use because I'm all hot and bothered just from the anticipation of seeing Dylan. It's the first cold shower I've had all year, and yet it still does nothing to stop the burning apprehension. The uneasy mix of wonder and fear vying for dominance.

I haven't had a feeling quite like this since I got a small tick in the yes box when I asked my middle school crush Chris if he fancied me or not in a note I made my friend deliver.

Or maybe not since I clocked eyes with Jack at the work Christmas party, outside on the small hotel terrace. When he'd flashed me a smile and asked for my name.

Still, just dressing myself after the shower leaves me giddy but also worried that I've picked the wrong outfit. My mind full of regret for choosing a light floral shift dress instead of jeans, and sandals that make my soles squelch with every step.

But there's no time left, as I check Dylan's message again for confirmation that today is definitely the day I get to stare awkwardly into his eyes, and make small talk whilst I hope he see's something in me that requires another coffee date.

I wave goodbye to Dave ironing a t-shirt in the lounge, football still on and wish Abbie luck with mini-golf as I dash out and down the stairs. Outside the air is thick. Hot, and humid. Stuffy and close causing the inside of my thighs to stick together as I take charge down the road, the tube station close in sight. The cold breeze that hits me as I hot-foot it down the escalators is a rouse because it's even stuffier underground.

And I'm sweating before the tube doors even close to trap me for fifteen minutes of near suffocation and unwashed armpits. It's a sure sign that I'm a clammy mess when a smart gentleman in a navy blazer and polished brogues offers me some water, as I cling onto the tube pole. Counting down the stations we pass with trepidation, breath caught in the back of my throat just itching to be released.

If I didn't have to use them so much, if I had other options besides crowded buses I'd let the phobia of whizzing under the city in a metal tube with smelly strangers devour me.

The elation of tapping my oyster card, and seeing daylight again is enough to make me forget about the nervous energy brewing or the fact that I'm sweating from every pore. Hair stuck against my neck and forehead. My feet slip sliding about as I navigate the quickest route to the coffee shop I've suggested we meet at.

Turns out Dylan's staying in a rented flat close to Colombia Road, where they have the flower markets every Sunday. Home to fanciful and quirky brightly coloured shops. A mecca for mismatched coffee shops, delis and art galleries, a real feast for the eyes and just the place to meet a handsome, somewhat stranger unacclimatised to the charms of East London.

In hindsight it might have been a bit too optimistic a proposal, because as I criss cross my way from the station onto Hackney Road a quick glance of my reflection in a barber shop window tells me that I should have picked somewhere closer to home. A little less ambitious and forgiving to the muggy heatwave and the intense sweat I've got on in an attempt to be on time.

I'm sure my Ruby-esque eyeliners smudged to hell, and I don't quite look as fresh faced as I did leaving the flat. It doesn't help that I can barely breath. The air heavy, and my chest full of jitters.

Luckily I see him sat outside under the bamboo shaded veranda before he's had a chance to notice and as I wait to cross the traffic lights I take in as much of him as I possibly can before I've got to be polite, and reserved in my opportunistic perving.

The loose white t-shirt he's got on does him a ton of favours, as do the dark chinos. Same goes for his hair loosely tied back. Somehow he appears even more tanned than the last time even though there hasn't been much sun since Thursday night.

Dylan's busy scanning the menu in front of him as I take in stolen glances, catching a glimpse of what appears to be a bicep tattoo half hidden under his t-shirt sleeve. I loose myself in thoughts of using it as a conversation starter so he'll have to roll it up, and give me a proper show. Which isn't good because as I instinctually walk to the front of the coffee shop he catches my attention with a big warm smile and a hearty wave of his hand.

I mouth hey back at him, and expertly dodge the busy tables with unruly kids hyped up on caffeine from their mini frappuccinos, and disinterested parents. I'm pretty impressed to find that Dylan's snagged us a spot to the back by the white washed walls with the hanging metal pots, and leafy plants. He's sat on the rustic wooden backed bench, surrounded by colour. Shades on, looking every inch the sex god I've kept busy running through my head since Thursday.

"Hey Jemima," he smiles, and stands up to kiss me on the cheek. His hand lightly rests for a beat on the small of my back. It's a good start. At least he remembers my name.

"Hi," I reply, still out of breath. "Really sorry I'm late."

"No worries. I haven't ordered any coffee yet but I was kinda forced to get a jug of water just so I didn't loose our table," he laughs. "A bunch of mums and their kids gave me the stink eye for a while but I persevered."

His playful joke makes me giggle, which is probably an all time fastest record. So far he's even more wonderful than imagined. "Well thank you for defending our right to sit in the shade," I joke . "I don't think I'd survive for long sitting back there."

He pretends to shield his eyes from the sun that's come out to shine down on the exposed section of the outdoor area, and I take the moment to quickly wipe away the sweat pooling on my top lip. I'm hoping that if I make it known that it's hot as balls even outside in the shade he'll come to realise that I don't deal with heat all that well, and fingers crossed turn a blind eye to it. It's an epic feat of wishful thinking but one that might just work.

"I thought summer was supposed to be over..." Dylan teases, pushing back a stray curl that falls to the bridge of his nose.

"Hah hah. I know, sometimes I get it wrong. We might just be getting a summer after all."

"That would be awesome."

I notice that he hasn't even broke a sweat. "Although I'm sure it's nothing compared to California."

"Not quite but it's nice all the same," he grins as a young girl comes to take our order. She's already making eyes at him, and she brings her long blonde hair forwards in an attractive swoop. Guess I'm not the only one to notice Dylan's rare good looks.

He orders a regular coffee, and I do the same. None of this fancy mocha latte grande decaf, it's heartening to see he doesn't care much for it either.

"So did you stay late to see the last band?" he asks me between sips of water. I like the way he's attentively leaning forwards enough to convey some interest but without overstepping any boundaries.

"Not really. Left after their first song, got a little too much for me. What with all the young-uns running about the place."

Dylan nods, laughs. "Same. Got the shots I needed too, then hightailed it out of there."

I don't confess to the fact that I'd left feeling a little tipsy, and that the whiskey and tequila had manifested into a full blown hangover come morning. He doesn't need to know that I can handle my drink about as well as the chocolate stained kid who runs between our table, caffeine coursing through his veins.

Once our coffee's arrived I try and take gentle sips because it heats me up a few degrees and I'm aware that at some point I'll have to stand again, prise my legs apart like suction cups to stop them sticking from the humidity. The idea of getting coffee on a hot day one I'll shun in future.

Still I keep drinking it between big gulps of cool, ice cold water. Sneakily pushing my inner wrist up again the tumbler glass to bring my temperature down a notch. Which is an impossible task with Dylan sat before me, talking up a storm and being all kinds of charming.

"How long did you live in Austin for?" I ask as we chat about our respective homes, the places we've both lived over the years. Mine's not quite as interesting as his but he's attentive. I enjoy listening to him and how his face lights up at the smallest details.

"A year, give or take a couple of months," he replies. "It's a great city. Lots of live music, all the food you could ever want, all in one place. Super friendly too."

"Sounds wonderful."

"You ever been to America?"

I shake my head. Dylan pretends to gawp, then he chuckles and leans back. "I'd say that you'd love it but you seem pretty at home here."

I'm not sure how he's got that impression but I entertain it nonetheless. "Suppose so but I've always wanted to travel. My friend at work, she's kind of in a relationship with a guy from New York. She says it's a really cool city. I'd like to visit one day."

"New York is pretty cool. Very different vibe from where I grew up but it definitely has a special charm."

Between the last dregs of coffee Dylan tells me more about what he does for a living, and more specifically how he started. It's nice to hear it from him, and not from the pages of Google. I feel bad but I can never tell him that I'd spent most of last night frantically looking up every image of him in existence, like an insane person might do.

In my search I'd found pictures from an exhibition of his from a few years back and a couple of interviews with different photography dedicated websites. The handful of press shots, and a sparse wiki page entry I'd unearthed provided the necessary details to sate my curiosity about his actual age, which happily confirmed he wasn't the youngest guy I'd lusted after, yet definitely not the oldest.

Turns out twenty four year old Dylan Samuel Evans is something of a street photography wunderkind, born and raised in Venice Beach, California to working class parents. An older brother to two younger sisters, and a natural behind the lens of a camera since the age of sixteen. Dylan of course tells me snippets of these details, and I genuinely listen even though I'm privy to a lot of them. His voice, smooth and comforting makes most of it sound new and exciting to learn, as if for the first time like how it probably should be.

"So are you enjoying London life?" I ask, leaning back on my chair. Careful not to brush my sticky knees against his. "I imagine it's a bit of a culture shock."

He grins, lifts his glass up to take a long, lingering sip. Then he pulls his shades up so they sit perfectly on top of his mane of messy hair.

"It was but you get used to it. I felt a little claustrophobic at the start, you know? Everything in the US is so spread out, and bigger too. Here it's all so compact even though it's a huge city. But I'm enjoying it so far, it's been pretty rad."

There's something about the way his eyes catch mine as he says those last words, paired with his knee wobble inducing grin that gives the impression that this isn't one of those let's just friends coffee dates. Because it feels like he really wants to be here too, and that he's interested.

The coffee churns in my stomach, makes me even more jittery. As he continues to discuss life back home, and his new London adventure his eyes convey a life lived twice over. Wise beyond his years, and I find that he's in possession of the winning, uncommon trifecta - good looks, intelligence and wit.

I'm really not sure what I've done to deserve such good fortune, how someone like Dylan's landed into my somewhat ordinary, dull world. I'm not religious, I won't thank anything imaginary but I do feel like I owe a lot to Ruby. And her letdown dad for giving me the opportunity to get a little tipsy, and for Abbie, her concerned missed calls, my lack of phone signal. All of it syncing up to lead me into that moment - a dark, damp beer garden and most importantly, Dylan.

When he decides to order another coffee, I can't help but feel like I'm doing alright. That I must be hiding my nerves better than usual, and that I've managed to get a grip on all the thoughts of just how damn hot he is, how it's kind of distracting. Because now I'm able to assemble words into sentences without stumbling over them, or forgetting how to speak properly.

It helps that Dylan keeps my attention with expert finesse. He has me in stitches with a story about his messy, inevitable break up with skateboarding. How he was no good at it growing up. Shows me the scars to prove it along the inside of his forearm, and on the side of his ribs. A trail of dark hair rising up from the waistband of his black boxer shorts visible as he traces a finger of the two inch wide scar tissue.

I'm entranced. And just a bit hot under the dress for him, tantalised by quick glimpses of toned flesh. I'm probably grinning like an idiot. This must be what it feels like for lottery winners when they find out they've hit the jackpot.

Still it's early days yet. I know I can't get too ahead of myself, and all my untoward desires. As Dylan continues to discuss some of his work at the magazine since his arrival in the big smoke, I make a resolution not to google stalk him further. I want to find out from him going forwards because he makes it all so much more interesting.

The questions that he asks me after keep the conversation flowing, treading the line between casual talk. Nothing too personal yet still enough to find out more. We discuss our favourite films, after I mention that there's a wonderful cinema near Covent Garden that shows old movies, complete with big red sofas instead of the usual uncomfortable seats. It turns out that we both share a fondness for eighties time travel epics.

"I really wanted to be an American kid in the 80's after watching that," I confess as Dylan raises an eyebrow, listening to my trivia and facts about Back To The Future. "And to marry Michael J Fox of course."

"Of course, he was such a stud back in the day," he laughs. "Although I was more about getting a hover board like his, than marrying him."

Plot intricacies are explored as he continues to grin and speak animatedly. I sit and lap it up, sure that I like this guy a hell of a lot more than those before him.

As I continue to watch, and listen I realise that it helps that he's so chilled out. Relaxed and comfortable to have as company.

Translation: I fancy him like mad.

"You're funny," Dylan says after I ramble on about childhood high jinks, cardboard boxes, cellotape and my quest to construct my own tin foil Delorean with an old cousin I never see anymore.

"Then you should come see my stand up," I tease, unsure if he's being complimentary or not.

Thankfully he plays along. "Oh really? Well I am a sucker for British humour, and I really love your accent..."

"Phew," I pretend to whip my forehead. My cheeks ache. I'm still grinning.

Finishing his second cup of coffee, Dylan runs a hand along his stubble which only accentuates his wonderful jaw. "You know I actually wasn't sure if I'd see or hear from you again."

I'm taken back by his frank admission, how humble he is to believe I'd give him the brush off. He must live in a different world to mine, one without mirrors.

"Well I always keep to my word," I smile. "Besides I'm your newly appointed London tour guide remember?"

"I sure do."

Really I'm the one whose completely forgotten all about my whiskey fuelled ill thought out promise to compile a a special Top Ten list for him. I don't really have the time but perhaps it's my induction to becoming a possible constant in his world, and I won't pass it up for anything. Not even a lie in on Sunday morning when I'll likely have to frantically pull from past features, and spend the day glued to my laptop.

"Can you give me any hints about what you've got in store for me?" Dylan asks, a smirk on his lips.

Coyly I reply. "I think it'll be more interesting to keep them as a surprise." A knowing tap against the side of my nose makes him laugh, and give up.

"Ok," he says putting his hands up. "I'll remain patient."

"I can send it to you later in the week, that's if you haven't changed your email."

"Still the same."

"Great."

As the waitress clears away our cups, and wipes down the table. Dylan rests an elbow down and he looks up at me. Green eyes illuminated by the sunlight. "So when are you next free?"

My hearts pounds. "Uh... to have coffee again?"

"Well that and I thought seeing as you're kinda an expert on all things London that you'd want to join me. To explore your list, if you're up for it?"

I haven't anticipated this. That he'd want it to be something we'd do together. My role was to be a newly acquired acquaintance, giving him some tips and pointers about what to see, do in the city. The tour guide part was only a joke. I never thought he'd want me to join him, for it to become our thing.

I take too long to formulate a reply. Dylan takes in a deep breath, leans back. "I mean there's no pressure. If you're too busy or if you don't want to I understand."

No pressure is an understatement. "Oh no, of course I'd love too." It's not a lie. The more I chew over his proposition the more it makes perfect sense. Still I'm surprised that he clearly wants to see me again. And again, at least ten times if I make my list to it's usual size. Maybe he'll forget I ever said Top Ten. Maybe I can fool him into believing it's double that.

"You sure?" he asks. "Honestly if it's too much just say. I bet you get all kinds of city newbies and people asking you to show them round."

Oh how wrong he is. My features lists are among the worst ranking on the site. Not that the troll-led comment section would lead you to think otherwise. "I don't actually. Not really, at least not by those who I'd be happy to show round."

"So I've made the cut? You're up for it?" His wide smile, pensive gaze make my chest flutter, just like they did back in the beer garden.

"Yes. Definitely"

"I'm free next Saturday if that works for you."

I nod. "It does. I can let you know nearer the time about where to meet."

"I'll await my instructions then," he jokes. "It'll be fun."

As a sea of mums will bulky strollers and hyper toddlers descend to take over most of the veranda we make a swift exit. I make sure to pay for my fare share of the bill even though he offers.

Whilst we wait at the red traffic lights, to cross over, he points to a quirky art print shop with bold neon signage and lights.

"I love this stuff. Reminds me of the Neon Boneyard in Vegas. It's this huge space just off the strip, where all the old neon signs go to die. There's so much history," Dylan muses somewhat breathlessly, totally enamoured by the large window display.

It gives me my best idea yet.

"That sounds awesome," I reply, unconsciously borrowing one of his Californian phrases. Dylan nods, and we continue towards the busy main road, to say our goodbyes.

I'm sad that it's over yet I'm also slightly glad because I'm not sure my legs or nerve would be able to carry me any further in his company. I need a breather. To take stock of everything that's happened, and for what's still to come. The excitement of it all carrying me on a hot wave of anticipation.

"It was really great to see you again Jemima," he says with genuine warmth.

"You too Dylan," I reply. This time he doesn't give another peck on the cheek. He doesn't really have a chance because I'm offering out my clammy hand before my brain can catch up and warn that it's a silly idea. It's all the excess energy, nerves pulling the strings.

"Have a great weekend." He bites down on his bottom lip, leaves it too linger before slowly stepping backwards into the stream of pedestrians crossing over. It sends my heart and mind racing.

I wave goodbye, and join the crowds. I've got the urge to look back like they do in the movies but it's too busy and my hairs stuck to the side of my cheek rather unattractively from the gust of wind and change in the weather.

Entering the station, to catch the tube home I follow the steady line of people down. The elevators feel like they're made of clouds. I'm clearly still in a giddy daze. And I haven't felt so high since Louisa talked me into going to Notting Hill Carnival and made me take a hit of what was supposed to only be a cigarette.

As I get closer to home I find that I've got a message from Ruby, the free wifi on the last leg of my tube journey pushing it to my attention. She asks how my coffee dates gone, and I hurriedly type out a reply.

Because I feel like I need to tell someone, let out all my excess pent up energy, and excitement. I know I can't tell Abbie because she'll then realise I lied, and I'm meeting Louisa for drinks in the evening so there's no point repeating it all to her.

It's a little weird to be telling Ruby but then again, without her I'd probably still be tucked up in bed, watching re-runs of real housewives throw wine at each other. She's done me a massive favour whether she realises or not.

When I'm two streets away from the flat, she calls. "So how did it go?"

"It... went great. Really, really great."

She laughs. "You sound like you're out of breath."

"I feel like I am."

Again Ruby giggles. "Oh Jemima."

I laugh too. My head still spinning because Dylan Evans has brightened up what would have been a normal, boring uneventful Saturday morning. And it's left me breathless.

And hopeful, to find out just where all these feelings might lead.

. . .