Nanny for the Neighbors: Chapter 48

Beth and I end up walking through central London, following the curving line of the Thames. We’ve picked up cans of beer, a chicken and mushroom pie, and a massive portion of hot cheesy chips. The pie is long gone by the time we pass Shakespeare’s Globe, and we’re steadily working through the chips. The garden pub outside the theatre is filled with raucous laughter, as hipsters and Shakespeare-nuts swig mojitos and watch the city lights reflecting off the river.

“So.” I elbow Beth as we walk. “You and Seb, huh?” She blushes prettily, and I laugh. “It was bound to happen eventually. He’s been into you ever since you first walked into our flat.”

“And you don’t mind?” She checks, anxiety tensing her face.

“Mind? Baby, everything is about to get so much better.” I tug at her hair. “Especially for you.”

Her flush deepens. She nabs the cheesiest chip out of my fingers and smiles sweetly when I glare at her.

A cry goes up in the distance, and we both turn and watch as fireworks start flashing through the sky further down the river. Big bursts of red and gold and green, showering sparks down over the water. I know from experience that they’re coming from Trafalgar Square. I take another deep drag of beer, watching the bright lights pop and scatter.

“What do you think the fireworks are for?” Beth asks through a mouthful of melted cheddar.

“Eid. Ramadan just ended.”

She looks up at me, licking grease off her fingers. “How do you know that?”

“My grandparents are Muslim.”

“Did you used to celebrate Eid?”

I nod. “My whole family did. Everyone will probably be in Trafalgar right now, watching the show.”

It’s weird to know that they’re so close. I could potentially go and join them. It’s just a twenty-minute ride on the Tube. In twenty minutes, I could be huddled up with them, staring up at the fireworks like when I was a little kid.

She glances up at me. “But not you?”

“Nope. Wasn’t invited.”

“Because of your job?”

“Among other things.” I scuff my feet against the pavement. “I believe being a ‘lazy sponger’ was also cited as a reason.” My voice is bitter.

“Lazy?” She tilts her head. “Is that why you got so upset with me a couple weeks ago? When I thought you didn’t work?”

I give her a grim smile, nabbing a chip. “Sorry. Sore spot.”

She laughs. “I’ll say. For the record, it’s pretty shitty to get annoyed at me for thinking that you’re unemployed when you’re literally hiding your job from me.”

I groan. “I know. I was a knob. Just hit too close to home, I guess.”

She links her arm through mine. “Why do they think you’re lazy?”

“Don’t you?”

“Um, no.” Her cheeks colour. “I think your job has you working up a pretty solid sweat.”

God, she’s so cute. “But it’s easy,” I protest. “Stripping is easier than office jobs. It’s easier than working a nine-to-five, then going home and spending all night working overtime. Like Seb and Jack.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Not for me. I’d find working an office job a million times easier. Especially at the level you do it.” She pops another chip in her mouth. “How did you get started with dancing, anyway? Jack said you met at uni. You didn’t want a job in Com Sci?”

“That was originally the plan.” We start walking again, trailing slowly down the street. “My mum’s a GP, my dad is an orthopaedic surgeon. They assumed I’d take my degree and work for NASA, or the CIA, or some shit.”

She pulls a face.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She stabs a chip and pokes it at my mouth. “I just can’t imagine you sitting behind a desk, is all.”

My lip twists. “Well, neither could I. I tried, though.” Fuck, did I try. I look out at the water, watching the coloured lights flash over the surface.

She puts her head on my arm. “Cy?”

“I never graduated,” I admit. “Dropped out in my fourth year, a few months before my final exams.”

She frowns. “You didn’t like it?”

“It wasn’t just that I didn’t like it. I couldn’t do it. I—” My mouth is suddenly dry. I take another sip of beer, my palms sweating around the can. “I have dyslexia.”

I don’t know why it’s so hard to say. I know Beth won’t care. She’s probably looked after tons of kids with learning disabilities.

Which I guess is the issue. I’m not a bloody kid.

She nods, her face sympathetic. “The university didn’t give you any support?”

“I didn’t tell them. I was embarrassed. I know, it was stupid.” I rub the back of my neck, my cheeks heating. I hate talking about this. “It’s just—I was so used to it being this shameful thing. My parents hated that their child had ‘special needs’. We were part of this big ex-pat Bengali community, and all of their friends’ kids were getting top grades, becoming lawyers and doctors and pharmacists. And their kid couldn’t even spell the word through.” I can feel her eyes on me, warm and kind, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. “I was diagnosed when I was ten, but they wouldn’t believe it. They dragged me around all of these different specialists and doctors, trying to work out why I was so bad in school. They gave me eye tests. Hearing tests. Blood tests. I had MRI scans. They’d rather I had a goddamn brain tumour than a learning disability. And obviously, everything came up clear.” I lower my voice. “Sorry, Mr and Mrs Rhaman. I’m sad to say that your son is perfectly healthy, he’s just stupid.”

“Oh, Cy.” She scratches her nails lightly over my forearm. It feels surprisingly comforting.

I take a deep breath. “I hated school, but there was no question of me not going to uni. Everyone in my family did. I picked Com Sci, because I figured it would be mostly numbers. No one would need to know how shitty I was at writing.” I snort. “I could only ever scrape a pass. It was just—fucking impossible. There were like, ten textbooks for each class, and they were all five inches thick, and the text was really tiny and dry. They didn’t have audiobooks or ebooks, so I couldn’t listen to them. I’d look around, and Jack and Seb were just reading the chapters like normal people, and I’d spend an hour trying to work out one page. It was like being told, hey, you’re an idiot every day for four straight years.” I look out at the river, but I don’t see anything. “The first couple years weren’t too bad, but by the third year, I just got depressed. Like, so fucking depressed. I’d never felt like that before. It was the worst time of my life. By the time we were studying for our final exams, I knew I wasn’t going to pass. I knew there was no point even trying. And I couldn’t find the energy to get out of bed and study, anyway. So I dropped out.”

She takes my hand. “Cy. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.” I say. “I might be kinda drunk.”

Her lip curls up. “Please. You’re not drunk,” she says smugly. “You’re telling me because you fancy me.”

“That is true,” I admit, and she beams, hooking her arm through mine and tugging me down the street. “So, you left uni. What then?”

“I moved out with Jack and Seb. While they finished up their masters’, I spent a year bartending, looking for jobs. My dad got more and more pissed off at me. Kept insisting that I go back to university. When I told him I didn’t want to work in Com Sci anymore, he said I should just grit my teeth and deal with it. Said that everyone works jobs that they hate.” I frown. “And, yeah, lots of people do, but I don’t really think it’s something I should be aspiring to, right? It’s still shitty. I hated Com Sci. Even now, just thinking about it stresses me out.”

She nods, her eyes wide. “Especially if it was messing with your mental health. That’s way more important than a higher paycheck.”

“Right.” I kick a stone across the curb. “One night I picked up a bar shift for a friend at the Magic Nights Show. I saw one show, and it was like,” I click my fingers. “That’s the job made for me. Entertainment. Sex. Dancing. Nightclubs. Women. That’s my element. I auditioned and got hired on the spot. Once I started, I became one of the most popular dancers. It was so odd, to be the best at something.” She smiles, fiddling with one of the bracelets on my wrist. I sigh. “I’d worked there a year, and then the show decided to advertise their new cast. My mum called me and asked me why there was a picture of her son in his boxers on a billboard in her local tube station.”

She stops walking. “Shit.”

I nod. “There was a very long shouting match. I tried to tell them that this is what made me happy. And they told me to never contact them again. Haven’t spoken to them since.”

She looks heartbroken. “Cy, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.” She hugs my arm like a teddy bear.

“It’s not a big deal. I’m an adult. I moved out a long time ago. It’s not like I need them anymore.” I nod up at the sky. “It’s just days like these that get to me. When I know my whole family is getting together and celebrating, but I’ve been… Erased from the picture.”

“Getting rejected by your family hurts, Cy. It’s one of the deepest rejections there is. You’re allowed to be upset about it.” She gives me a little smile. “Trust me. I’m an expert.”

My chest aches. I thread my fingers through her red hair, watching it catch the colours of the lights over the water.

She turns her cheek into my hand. “Is all of your family unsupportive? ”

“No. My sisters think it’s hilarious. Lucy keeps trying to get me to take her backstage to meet the guys. She’s in love with Harrison.”

“Good.” She comes to stand in front of me. “That’s the way it should be. Your family should be happy that you’re happy. I am.”

I look down at her, emotion running through me.

She tilts up her face and kisses me. It’s an unbelievably gentle kiss; slow and soft and tender. It’s nothing more than a chaste peck, but when she pulls back, my head is swimming and my balls are thumping with blood.

I think for a moment, then take the empty chip paper and ball it up, tossing it into a nearby bin. “Come with me.” I reach for her hand. “I want to show you something.”

Bemused, she lets me lead her through the streets, away from the bright lights and the Thames. We come to an Underground station, and I lead her around it until we reach the billboard advertisements.

Her mouth falls open. “Oh. My. God.” She takes a step back to take in the full picture.

I suppose it’s a lot to process. Plastered on the billboard, fifteen feet high, is a photograph of me in my boxers, hands on my hips, smirking at the camera. Four of the other guys are behind me: Harry, Aaron, Samuel and Lei, all posing in cop costumes. Purple spotlights stream down over us. Magic Nights: Book Tickets Now! is printed over our abs in gold lettering.

“Oh my God,” Beth repeats. “You’re famous!”

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen it. There are loads up near the West End.”

“Oh my God, please take a picture of me with it,” she squeaks, shoving her phone in my hands. “Please, please, please.”

I laugh as she scurries over to the poster and poses by it. Even in the cooling night air, my whole body feels warm.

I won’t apologise for my job. I truly believe there’s nothing wrong with it, and I love doing it. But I’m so used to people judging me for what I do. Making assumptions about who I am.

And she doesn’t.

Your family should be happy that you’re happy. I am.

Fireworks flash and bang in the distance, echoing over London, but as I lift the phone and snap a shot of Beth pretending to kiss my abs, all I can hear is my heartbeat pounding in my ears.