After the One, Cass Lester [top romance novels .txt] 📗

vomit that had erupted from a group of very young women who appeared to have drunk their own weight in Chardonnay. They’d certainly thrown up gallons of the stuff.

As soon as she got back home, Charley stripped off completely, flinging all her clothes into the washing machine, followed by her puke-splattered trainers. She showered in a vain attempt to shampoo the delightful scent of inner-city pub out of her hair.

‘Definitely not another day in paradise,’ she informed Josh as she clambered into bed and sank gratefully onto the pillows. ‘Oh well, think of the money,’ she told herself. Unfortunately, thinking of the money only served to remind her that the hourly rate was dire, barely above minimum wage, and well below what she’d earned at the letting agency. If she wanted to match that level of salary she’d have to put in more hours. She winced. No way. There were limits. But she didn’t need a degree in Economics to realise that she either had to make more money, or spend less, so she lay awake wondering what the hell she could cut back on.

Obviously not the mortgage, or the council tax, but maybe she could cut down the gas and electricity? Barely, but it wouldn’t be enough to make a real difference. Food then? Hardly, she was maxing out on pasta and budget brands as it was. Petrol? Yes! She could cut back on petrol by not driving to work. She didn’t fancy walking back late at night, but she could get a bike, a cheap second-hand one… obviously there’d be the initial outlay, but surely it would pay for itself in a month or two? Buoyed by the thought that there was at least something she could do to improve her situation, Charley fell asleep.

The following morning, she caught the bus into a city centre that suddenly seemed full of cyclists: men in skin-tight Lycra, frankly revealing more than anyone would want to see, powering along furiously as if they were in the Tour de France; kids in brightly coloured helmets on their way to school, their little legs pounding away at the pedals, with a parent cycling protectively behind them. And students, hundreds of them, wheeling round the city as if they owned it and apparently without a care in the world. She told herself off for feeling jealous of them.

The second-hand bike shop she was heading for was down by the docks, in the Cargo area of the city, where the buildings were made out of open-sided lorry containers stacked two high with metal walkways linking them all together. Packed with trendy street-food places and quirky little shops, all run by equally trendy and quirky people, it positively ached with urban chic, pure Hipster Central, and Charley loved the buzz of the place. The bike shop was no exception, styling it out in 1960s retro chic. Complementing the look and making a style statement all of its own, a raffish grey lurcher with a blue bandana instead of a collar lay on its side, sunning itself in the doorway. Stepping over the dog, Charley walked into the shop, where the owner was busy with a young dad who was trying to persuade his son to choose a bike he didn’t want.

The little boy’s lower lip jutted out as he pointed at to a toddler-sized bike on the other side of the stop. ‘I want that one!’

‘Yes, but that one’s too small for you,’ explained his dad wearily, and having run out of both options and patience, he turned in mute, despairing appeal to the shop owner.

Charley watched as the bike man squatted down on his heels in front of the little boy to speak to him directly. It idly crossed her mind that, in his beige chinos, boat shoes and white linen shirt, he didn’t dress like someone who worked in a second-hand bike shop. Then she told herself she was being ridiculous. What was a bike-shop man supposed to dress like anyhow, for crying out loud, oil-smeared jeans and a tatty T-shirt sporting a naff cycling slogan like ‘Watch Out! Cyclopath About!’?

‘Why do you like that one best?’ the man was asking the little lad, and Charley was struck by the fact that he addressed the child in exactly the same way as he would an adult, without a hint of patronising the boy, but rather treating him as a valuable customer in his own right.

‘’Cos it’s red,’ said the boy. Obviously, his tone said.

‘Ah, well here’s the problem. I don’t have a red bike that’s big enough for you, but I have got some red stickers you could put on the other one.’ The man got up and went to fetch a sheet of shiny red-and-yellow flame-shaped decals from behind the counter. He held them up against the frame of the larger bike. ‘What do you think?’

The little boy’s face lit up immediately and he nodded excitedly to his dad. ‘Cool!’

‘How much would they be?’ the dad asked warily.

‘Nothing.’ The bike man smiled, sealing the deal.

While Charley waited for them to sort out the payment, the lurcher got up, stretched leisurely, then sauntered over to her and pushed his rough grey muzzle into her hand. She scratched his ears and he stood contentedly swiping his long tail and gazing up at her.

‘Sorry to keep you,’ said the bike man, finally coming over as the boy and his dad left with their new bike.

‘No worries,’ said Charley. Then she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Oh, it’s you!’

He frowned at her quizzically.

‘You helped me up out of the gutter,’ she said, then belatedly realising that she’d made it sound as if she’d passed out in the street after a late-night drunken binge, added hurriedly, ‘I’d tripped over, on my way to work…?’

His face cleared in sudden recognition and he smiled at her warmly. ‘Yes, yes, I remember.’

He showed her a handful of bikes he thought might be good for her, mostly old-fashioned sit-up-and-beg models with comfy padded seats which