Punch-Drunk Love. Pernille Hughes

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СКАЧАТЬ The lack of conversation suited her; she was still slightly freaked by having spoken more words to Ron in the last five minutes than in the last eight years. Ron had joined as assistant coach the year before she started.

      Tiff sensed the change of atmosphere in the bar almost immediately. A whisper flew through the room followed by a hubbub of greetings by the doors. The mass of boxers, visibly gravitated to someone on the far side. Neither Ron nor Tiff could see who it was, until the crowd parted in a Moses fashion and two people gained instant access to the bar.

      ‘There’s bar presence for you,’ Ron noted, but Tiff was busy staring. The guy at the bar was the guy at the church, still flanked by the woman in heels. From Tiff’s current position, it was apparent his face was not only bruised, but also very swollen. And under the swelling, his nose bore a strong resemblance to a banana. Whoever he was, he’d recently taken a fair old beating.

      Ron let out a slow long whistle. ‘Well well well, Blackie would have been flattered, not that you’d recognise him easily.’

      Tiff looked from the guy to Ron and back.

      ‘You know him?’ Tiff knew many of the boxers’ names, but not faces.

      ‘You must know him. From the telly?’

      ‘I don’t watch much telly.’

      ‘But you watch the boxing, don’t you?’

      ‘Nope. Never,’ she stated, tight-lipped. In spite of working a large part of her week around boxing, she’d always made a point to have nothing to do with the sport after hours. She didn’t watch it, she didn’t read about it. In fact, outside of what was happening inside Blackie’s walls, she refused to listen to news from the boxing world. She had a terrible feeling she might, right now, be looking at the reason for that.

      ‘He’s a world champion,’ Ron explained, incredulous at her ignorance. ‘Career like a firework; more wins, more titles than anyone else in the shortest time. Fights like he’s angry at the world. Absolutely stellar. But fireworks burn out, don’t they? On the brink of retirement, and given those bruises, I’d say it’s due any minute.’ Ron shook his head. ‘How’s Blackie got on his radar?’

      The deep feeling of dread had twisted a knot in Tiff’s belly, but she managed to ask weakly ‘What’s his name, Ron?’

      ‘Mike Fellner. Mike “The Assassin” Fellner.’

      ‘Right.’ Tiff’s heart sank another rung down the misery ladder. ‘Gotcha.’ No wonder he’d been looking at her. Seriously? As if this week hadn’t been dire enough. Life had pummelled her twice already and here was a brisk jab to the guts.

      ‘See, I said you’d know him. Household name, even for philistines like you.’ Ron gave her an unimpressed snort, but her focus was on the bar, where ‘The Assassin’ was still greeting fans. Then he was looking for a space to sit or maybe for someone. There were only two empty chairs in the room. Tiff retracted to blend in with the flocked wallpaper. An encounter was not something she could deal with. Not today, not this week.

      ‘I suppose he must have met Blackie,’ Ron said with a grunt.

      ‘Blackie was his first trainer,’ she supplied, tersely. She braced herself as she saw him approach the table, feeling in all senses backed into a corner. His date moved away towards the toilets and Tiff briefly considered joining her, then fleeing via a window.

      ‘You sure?’ Ron asked, unconvinced. ‘He never told me that. Why wouldn’t he have told me that? That’s a great claim to fame.’ Ron’s curiosity had turned to disgruntlement at having been kept out of the loop. ‘How would you know, anyway? You don’t follow the sport.’

      Tiff didn’t answer, she’d zoned out, trying to prepare for the imminent arrival.

      ‘Tiffanie Trent.’ He said it as a statement. His voice was deep and low, but carried as far as it needed to, in spite of the babble of the room. She felt foolish for not having recognised him immediately. But the bruising, the nose, the growing up – ten years did things to faces and bodies. Plus he was the last person she wanted to see.

      ‘Mikey Fellner.’ She didn’t know what to say, or what to do, so she settled for matching his opener, although she was moved to fidget and pull at her clothes, in an attempt to escape feeling appraised. Fail. Epic fail. Everything about that moment made her want to crawl under the bench. As if she didn’t feel rubbish enough already, seeing him in front of her dredged up every bad thought she’d ever had about herself.

      He sat without being invited, knees spread wide, trousers taut against monster-muscled thighs. Tiff sensed Ron instinctively retract his own legs fractionally in what she assumed was some weird macho knob deference. Respects paid, Ron introduced himself with uncharacteristic gusto. Tiff experienced a faint sensation of nausea, as Ron gushed on, not put off by the fact Mike’s attention was rock solidly on her.

      ‘So,’ Ron finally concluded, ‘how do you know each other?’

      Mike arched one eyebrow, but he didn’t comment. Instead a silence ensued as they all waited for one of them to fill Ron in. Eventually Tiff caved out of sheer choking discomfort.

      ‘Mikey and I went to school together, Ron.’ She knew this wasn’t enough of the truth, judging by the way the other eyebrow now met its wingman, but she couldn’t bear to venture deeper into it. Opening it all up, peering at what it had been, examining what it had done to her, would twist the knife in an already debilitating wound.

      She waited to see if he’d offer more.

      He did.

      ‘Ron, mate,’ he started, genuinely as if he’d known Ron forever, ‘this was the first and last girl to break my heart.’ He didn’t say it with any sense of wistful nostalgia; in fact, it felt as if Mike bore a grudge.

      He had a bloody nerve! He had a bloody nerve even showing up here in his fancy suit with his fancy girlfriend and coming up to her like this. Something shifted in her, something akin to anger that overrode the hurt.

      ‘Um, want me to leave you to it? Catch up, like?’ Ron was torn; he was sat with a boxing legend, but it was all feeling a bit … squirmy.

      ‘Stay put, Ron. I’m leaving after this drink,’ she said pointedly, refusing to be intimidated by a man who had no right to try to make her feel bad about the past. He was the one doing the heart-breaking, not her. Tiff tilted her chin at him. ‘It’s been a long week and I’ve got a killer headache.’ This was a whopping lie. She had packing to do, but nobody needed to know that.

      ‘You look different, Tiff,’ Mike said, ignoring her headache.

      ‘It’s been ten years, Mikey,’ she snapped, conscious that after the last week, she did not look her best. Sod’s law they’d meet when she was looking rough. ‘You’re hardly the fresh-faced teen.’

      ‘You should see the other guy, Angel,’ he countered. Angel. No-one had called her that in years. His tone was curt, and whereas ‘Angel’ had once made her feel special, it now sounded vaguely like a put-down. ‘And don’t let the bruises fool you. Every bruise I ever got brought experience, a lesson to protect myself better next time.’ Tiff knew he was making a point, but she wasn’t having any of it. He had let her down. She held his gaze, trying not to rise to the bait, but the simmering fury kept building.

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