Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Waverly rubs her hands together, in the hope of generating a little warmth. Then brings them close to her mouth and blows, which does nothing but create a misty cloud in front of her face. The wood burner died on Monday, which means she can't open for business. Business being the selling of second-hand books, from the belly of a Dutch barge, moored on London's prettiest canal.

She’s called the repair guy, five times to be exact. After each call she curses at the excuse given for not coming. That he’s on an emergency job, that November happens to be his busiest month, that he will get to her as soon as possible, as soon as he’s fitted a widget into a thingamajig, sooner if she stops calling. Something about his attitude tells her she’s not high on his list of priorities.

Frozen fingers fumble a text to Wynonna: cold…CoLd…COLD

Her sister replies with an eye-roll emoji. Follows it with the same suggestion she made on Monday: u cud vlog it?

Wynonna is social media savvy. Correction, her big sister lives as though everything is one big movie, each scene choreographed to within an inch of its life, recorded and released to an audience of tens of thousands. And she’s good at it. Knows what’s trending, what’s hot, what gets likes and hearts and up thumbs. It was Wynonna who convinced her (read bullied) into setting up an Instagram account for the barge, explaining it would be good for business. Right now, a wood burner that burns wood would be good for business.

Waverly considers herself semi-media savvy. Has kind of mastered how to upload videos from her iPhone, can scan a QR code like an adult, it’s just her heart is really not in it. Or her other senses. She needs something between her fingers for it to feel real. Okay, a phone between her fingers is real, but so is a leaflet, magazine, book, which get her more excited. Gets more than a few of her precious seconds of attention. And yet, here she is typing away on her phone to her sister: no one is remotely interested in a broken wood burner...

Her sister replies: tru but peeps gonna feel sadz 4 u

Plus one more text: make it GTA

She immediately flings a WTF back. Seriously, this is a real barge not some virtual car in a videogame she's rubbish at.

Another eye-roll emoji pops up, followed by: GRAB THE ATTENTION

There being little else to do with her time, Waverly begins recording. “Hi, hope you’re all having a lovely and warm day,” she says, as she turns slightly to point at what should be heating the barge, before smiling inanely at the phone like it's somehow her friend. “The Waverly is without heat, so we can’t open. As soon as we have heat, we’ll…” She hesitates as her brain searches for something to GTA. “Be right back y’all.”

Sounding like a Wild West cowgirl, she realises too late, is just plain wrong. Not that she truly knows how they sound, other than in her imagination, they can’t possibly sound as cliché. She’s not sure why she went in that direction for her GTA. Or, why she added a weird swing of the arm and a jaunty lift of the right leg. Yee haw!

She huffs out a cloud, deletes the offensive offering and stares through the nearest window. There’s got to be more to life than grabbing someone’s attention by talking into her phone. She’s tries again.

“Hi, so The Waverly doesn’t have any heat…” She demonstrates by pushing out another breath. “So we’re closed, which is so sh—” She stops herself from swearing at the screen, in case she gets censored, “not great. So, I’m hoping to have the wood burner fixed by the end of the week. So drop by with a coffee if you’re passing, because I’m freezing.”

She plays back the clip and concludes it’s awful. How is it possible to use the word ‘so’ so many times? Plus, there’s a huge problem with clothing. Encased in a puffer coat, it makes her look like a ripe chilli, a chilli wearing pink earmuffs…why didn’t I remove the earmuffs...decides her effort is not serious but stupid. The chances of grabbing anyone’s attention zero.

A message pings from her sister: well...

Well what?

where is it

I'm doing IT

do IT faster

Why?

Another eye-roll emoji appears.

She makes a new video. It’s not as awful as the other attempts. The earmuffs are gone, and she’s made sure not to say ‘so’ so many times. She posts it. Then regrets posting it. Doesn’t know how to unpost it. She asks her big sister, who replies with two up thumb emojis and a question:

how do u want yr ☕

Her sister knows how she takes her coffee. Vegan obviously, which she failed to mention. Shit!

She Googles ‘how to delete an Instagram post’. Navigates to her Profile…selects the post she wants to remove…taps the three dots (Options) on the post…decides no one is going to view it, and no one is going to swing by the barge with a free coffee. Why would they? Her other posts got only a handful of views, mostly friends. She returns to looking out the window.

It’s early afternoon, the towpath which runs alongside the barge is empty. It’s been empty most of the day, the occasional fitness freak jogging past, the odd dog walker, zero tourists. The repair guy is right; her business isn’t a priority even if she thinks it is. Her sister is right too; no one will find her floating sanctuary from a busy world if she doesn’t promote it. But if she promotes it too many will come and…

She steps off the barge and onto the towpath. It takes a second or so for her balance to adjust to the lack of movement under her feet. Sways slightly as she surveys the outside. The panels of the barge need a repaint, the hull will need blacking too, otherwise water will eat away the bottom and her barge will sink. She measures the time since both paint jobs in ‘Curtis’ years. Her uncle has been dead two years, the barge and the business his before his heart gave out.

Aunt Gus wanted to sell, but Curtis put it in his Will the barge would go to her, the only one in the family who understood what he was doing with it. He named the barge after her for that reason. Two peas in a pod Gus would say with a shake of her head. She misses Curtis, more so on days like these, when things aren’t going swimmingly, when small problems have become bigger problems, threatening to become insurmountable problems.

If Curtis were here, he would tell her not to dwell on the bad stuff. Would say something like; worse storms happen at sea. Which is true. At least she can step off the barge and go find somewhere warm to sit until this particular storm blows over. She makes a mental note of the multitude of jobs to be done. The refilling of the bird feeders, cutting back of all the dead bits on potted plants, which should have been done weeks ago, but still.

In the corner of a café within Coal Drops Yard she swirls a small stick in her lavender matcha latte and questions why she said coffee in her video. Oh, that’s why, because lavender matcha latte gives the wrong impression. It’s too on the nose trendy, too fancy for a second-hand book seller, even though that’s precisely what she’s drinking. It’s a money thing too. Not that she has to worry or budget, Curtis seeing to it she wouldn’t be forced to sell the barge because of lack of funds, much to Gus’s consternation.

Another message arrives from Wynonna: where r u?

She sends an obtuse reply: I am here

Wynonna: u r not here????????

It’s her turn to flick an eye-roll emoji back at her sister.

Wynonna: cos I am here with the GOAT lifestyle vlogger...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

She flicks another eye-roll emoji in her sister’s direction.

Wynonna: come back now…!!!!!!!

Sorry can't. Getting warm

Her phone rings.

“Seriously, where are you?”

“In Mojo’s thawing out. Why?”

Wynonna’s voice is a mix of frustration and excitement. “Because I’m currently standing outside this wreck of a boat with none other than Nicole Haught. Who has bought you coffee.”

She hears the accompanying squeal. “Um, I don’t need it. The coffee. I have a—”

“Did you hear what I just said?” Wynonna replies, loud enough to have Waverly move the phone away from her ear.

“I heard you. Can’t you come to me?”

“For fucks sake. Okay fine, we’ll come to you. Where’s this Mojo’s?”

She directs her sister to the cosy café she’s retreated to for warmth. Fully expects getting real eye rolls from the staff at Mojo’s when her sister and this goat vlogger rock up with a delivery of coffee not made in said establishment. What she doesn’t expect is the roll of her own eyes, as the woman with her sister saunters in as though she owns the place. And well…

Nicole Haught is the epitome of someone Waverly hates. A swagger so obvious it goes without saying she loves herself, totally wants everyone to notice her too. The woman's height alone sets her apart as she struts behind Wynonna, then there’s the copper hair, cut in such a way that makes it urban chic. That’s how Waverly views it, not that she has a handle on such things, or knows the current buzz words for living an urban chic life. What she does know is her hair doesn’t look anything like the woman’s seated opposite, who is feigning interest in her life.

“A bookshop on a barge boat,” Nicole purrs as she stirs a cortado. “Cool.”

“A Dutch barge,” Waverly corrects.

“Cool,” Nicole repeats.

Waverly glances at her sister who has a smug grin plastered over her face. “Nicky wants to feature you on her channel,” Wynonna gushes. “Get you some promotion…to…” She turns to this new person in her world as though her life depends on Nicole's every word. “What did you say again?”

“I think my audience will get your concept,” Nicole offers. “Like, who does what you do? Answer, no one. It's so unique.”

“There are plenty of floating bookshops,” Waverly qualifies, which her audience of two ignores.

“So want to check out this book boat of yours,” Nicole continues.

“My book barge has a heating problem,” she throws back.

The glamour queen turns to Wynonna and shrugs. “We don’t have to do this if there's a problem.”

Wynonna shoots her sister The Look, one which Waverly knows too well. “No, listen…it’s really…it’s really lovely…like, really cool you wanting to feature my barge on your...channel. It’s just…” She huffs. “I can show you around the barge, if you want?”

Nicole smiles, a smile that has all the appearance of sincerity. It even has dimples attached to each side, and Waverly is forced to admit with a smile like that Nicole Haught probably gets everything she wants. She smiles back and reaches for her walking cane.

She senses the woman's eyes are on her as they leave Mojo’s and take the towpath to the barge. Senses the question behind those eyes, the question behind most people’s eyes. Why does someone her age need a cane to walk? She chooses not to explain, because explanations are nothing more than a polite conversation piece, something to ease the conscience of another. Because Nicole doesn’t need to know the circumstances behind the stick, most likely has already judged her as 'uncool' because of the limp. Suspects Wynonna left out that tiny detail when selling this vain vlogger the whole boat thing.

Chapter Text

Nicole dips her head as she enters The Waverly. It’s a learned reaction after one too many thuds received from the tops of doorways. She can already see the younger sister has no time for her; made perfectly clear by the way Waverly gives only a cursory glance in her direction when speaking. Along with a look suggesting she wouldn’t understand what it’s like to exist within this world of floating fiction.

“So, this channel of yours,” the younger sister says, “what does it do exactly?”

There’s a pretence of curiosity in the question. To which Nicole answers with sufficient detail about what it does, throws in what she considers are impressive engagement numbers for good measure, ends by saying this will be a worthwhile opportunity for them both. All the while she keeps her attention on the younger sister’s face, instead of allowing her eyes to drift down to the cane. Because canes are nothing new in her life, her mother has used one for years, told her on more than one occasion how tiresome it is retelling the story. Which means, she won’t ask Waverly why she needs one, nor will she draw attention to it while filming.

“Are you sure you want my barge featured on your channel?” Waverly presses.

There’s suspicion in the younger sister’s eyes. This is turning into a hard sell. Her channel doesn’t need to feature the boat, has enough content for months, enough willing participants not to have to force someone to take part. But there’s something about this whole floating existence, a need to know if this is an answer to the meh-ness of modern living. To the meh everyone seems to feel these days, what she’s been feeling.

“One hundred percent,” she replies, catching a glimpse of a smile from the boat dweller. “Take a look at some of my recent videos, you’ll see how great this would be.”

And it would be. There’s a thirst for this kind of voyeurism into another’s life, especially a life that is unlike most of their age. Because if Nicole had to guess, she would say this Waverly is in her mid-twenties, maybe a little younger. Dresses older. The unfashionable clothes are bohemian, if a little baggy on such a petite frame. It’s a look that could work with her young audience Nicole thinks.

The sisters are talking between themselves. Their breath is visible as they converse, a frostiness in the air beyond temperature. Wynonna makes a stab at convincing her sister this would be perfect. Waverly nods but bites her lip, and Nicole finds herself studying an unfamiliar face and in studying finds it attractive. Natural and unadorned, slight creases to the corners of each eye, a blush of colour to each cheek, silver book earrings which dangle just below a sharp-angled jaw. She’s drawn to the face, has a keen eye for visuals and already knows Waverly would be great in front of a camera, with proper lighting along with a professional mic, not whatever was used to make Waverly’s latest video. Wow, that was amateur time.

Filming on the boat will be a problem though. It’s compact and fucking freezing. Nicole digs her hands into pockets and wiggles toes inside her boots, wishing she’d worn ski socks. “How long have you worked here?” she asks, followed by an involuntary shiver.

“Sorry about the heating,” both sisters say together. They have the same laugh.

“It’s…” She wants to say it’s okay, the lack of heating. But it’s not okay. There are questions to be asked about this lifestyle, important questions, but her body needs more coffee, anything to take the edge off the cold, stop her blood solidifying. “When will it be fixed? The heating.”

Waverly shrugs. “Perhaps we can do this when it is.”

It sounds like a brush off, but her interest has been piqued. This lifestyle speaks to her in a way she hadn’t expected. Not the ass-freezing part, but the freedom part, maybe the floating part too. The ‘I don’t have to do what others are doing’ part. The ‘I don’t have to fit in with the trends and norms of a social construct not of my choosing’ part too. Which is how she will frame this. It will be a look into a life others might aspire to, few prepared to take on. She will curate it in such a way that her fans will crave to know about every detail of Waverly’s day, a raw and unfiltered dip into this way of living, while they sit in a warm room, surrounded by comfort and convenience, and meh.

The two sisters are now talking about some repair guy not showing up. Reluctantly she removes her hands from the warmth of her pockets and reaches for one of the books on the shelf. It’s the sort of book she expects to see on the free-floating boat: Going Buddhist.

She flips open the cover and reads the words printed inside. They are her words, or they could have been written by her. It’s a gut punch, a shock to the system, an awakening. She’s shied away from religion and spirituality, not her lane, not something her fanbase wants or particularly cares about going by their comments. She’s not a Jesus junkie, would rather smoke a cigarette outside a church, than light a candle inside one. Wouldn’t be caught on her knees unless it’s between a woman’s legs.

The Buddhist book is returned to its original position on the shelf; her hands are returned to their original positions in her pockets. The boat’s rocking has her stomach remembering the six peppermint shots with Wynonna at last night’s party, on top of vodka. She also remembers their long, embarrassingly deep conversation about life, about being a beacon of hope in an otherwise empty existence…fuck! she actually said that. She should have been honest, said she finds the landscape of her life veiled in grey most days, even with its excessive comfort and convenience.

“I’m hoping to have the heating fixed by the end of the week,” Waverly offers, cutting across her thoughts.

Another shiver takes over as she’s about to reply. Summer would be better to do this, but an empty boat makes for easier filming. And she’s equal measures bored and curious, so why not. “Cool, she replies. “Call me when it's done.”

Wynonna walks with her along the towpath back to King’s Cross station. There they part company, Wynonna to catch a train, she to return to her apartment overlooking Euston Road. With its red buses ferrying commuters across London, and its black taxis ferrying those too lazy and too elitist to get on a bus. With its white vans driven by men in dirty t-shirts even though it’s winter, tattooed arms on display. With police cars and ambulances parting the traffic like Moses, sirens blaring as they attend to yet another emergency. And people, lots and lots of people walking, or pulling cases after them, or on their phones. Everyone is always on their phones, even the ones pulling heavy cases after them. Who said, when you’re tired of London you’re tired of life? Someone famous. Madonna probably. She lived in London for a while.

The Victorian façade of her building is on the right, its gothic clocktower visible. Her father bought the apartment shortly after renovation of St Pancras was complete. ‘A steal at the time’ he’d said, having negotiated with the developers to knock a million off. Has stayed there precisely two times in the twenty years he’s had it, has it on the market for three times what he paid. Another steal if he gets the full nine million asking price.

She nods at the doorman as she enters the luxurious lobby. Scans the area before walking briskly to the elevator which will take her to the private apartments above the hotel. Her father’s apartment is the penthouse, all 6,000 square feet, located in the larger of two imposing towers, a legacy of an aesthetic which is too old for her tastes. 150 years too old. She prefers sleek steel and minimalist features but is stuck with gothic arches and vaulted ceilings that are an ass to keep clean. Not that she cleans anything, only it’s a bore when the maintenance crew take a whole day to dust every fucking wooden beam.

As a young child the building’s redbrick exterior resembled an orphanage. Somewhere Annie would have to live, with red hair just like hers. Remembers screaming and dragging her heels across cream carpet in the hotel lobby, fearing she would be left here, alone, parents putting her in the care of a cruel Miss Hannigan. Her father was furious at her behaviour, remembers him making the situation worse by threatening to leave her in the apartment while he and her mother went to see the sold-out show he’d managed to get tickets for. They never did see that show.

She doesn’t advertise she’s stinking rich. Oh sure, she doesn’t play pauper either, is not shy in using her father’s name to get her into the best clubs and parties, a table at a sold-out restaurant, an invitation to a wedding of the rich and famous.

Her frozen fingers find her temples as soon as the lift doors close. A bath first then she’ll order food from her fav restaurant. Or maybe she’ll check out the spa in the hotel below. Shivers involuntarily again at the prospect of someone sleeping on a boat without heating. Something tells her this whole alternative floating lifestyle is not as romantic as she was led to believe after six peppermint shots on top of vodka. Decides in that moment she won’t pressure Waverly into appearing on her channel.

She’s on her second G&T when a message flashes up from Wynonna. It’s full of gratitude for having gone to see the boat, and apologies for her sister’s lack of enthusiasm to the idea. She doesn’t reply.

Late afternoon she’s busy with final edits to her next vlog: a snapshot of what’s trending in London for Christmas. She’s interviewed her ex for this episode, who says blue and silver are in, low key rather than OTT displays. Nicole disagrees but hasn’t bothered correcting Shae in over a year since they stopped dating. Not worth the fallout.

Early evening she sends her apologies for not being able to attend yet another tedious party. Normally she would go, show her face, catch up on gossip, except she’s thinking about the boat without heat, and the fact she has two spare bedrooms, and why the hell did she drink six peppermint shots with Wynonna Earp?

The light is gone from the sky as she nods at the doorman and exits the building. She is dressed warmly this time, thicker socks, skiing mittens, a beanie pulled low as she retraces her steps from earlier. There are no lights visible from the boat as she approaches, alert for the footsteps of others, even though there is no one on the towpath. This was a stupid idea as she stands outside the floating bookshop. There is no good reason for being out here, other than it’s within walking distance of her apartment, a world away from her life. Six peppermint shots got her here the first time, truly doesn't know what got her here the second time. She has Waverly’s number saved in her phone, is nervous to call it, because she's unsure what's drawing her here.

There’s nothing here. Nothing. But she’s here, so there must be something. Something others will also find enticing.

Another text arrives from Wynonna: dude wot r u doing

She freezes.

What is she doing? Standing beside a boat, late evening, in search of someone she doesn’t know. Doesn’t care to know.

She answers: nm

Wynonna's reply is instaneous: 🥃w/ yr name on it

She receives a current location notification. Realises this Earp sister is trouble, but decides a second night of getting drunk with the older one is what she needs.

Chapter Text

Chrissy can’t see what the problem is in letting lifestyle influencer Nicole ‘Nikky’ Haught film a day in the life of a second-hand bookseller. Thinks it’s what the bookshop needs. Waverly considers Chrissy Nedley her closest friend, although right now that prized position is under review. They’ve been buddies ever since she started accompanying Curtis to the Star pub on York Way, where she would help Chrissy with history assignments. It was Curtis’s idea, an arrangement with his friend who runs the pub, who also happens to be Chrissy’s old man. It’s where they held Curtis’s wake after the funeral.

The Star of Kings is a short walk from the canal and the book barge. It’s nothing special, a typical London drinking haunt, more shabby than chic. It’s not a destination pub, or one of those overly modernised, hyper-expensive gastro offerings, where fish and chips are served on a wooden board instead of a plate. What it does have is an old karaoke machine in the basement, which Waverly can confirm has provided plenty of entertainment over the years.

Chrissy leans across the counter so she can be heard. There’s a wicked glint in her eyes suggesting she finds this all too amusing. “Tell me again why it’s a bad idea to be filmed.”

“I just don’t know if it’s…” she replies, twiddling a plastic stirrer in her diet coke as her words trail off. Stops twiddling and stares directly at her provocative friend. “I just think I don’t need that kind of attention. I want…” She hesitates again, because it’s a struggle these days to know what she really wants. Except, this isn’t about her it’s about her customers. “The people who come to the bookshop come for one reason. To buy books.” Chrissy's faux gasp has her pulling a face. “No, I know…duh. You know what I mean. They’re not trendy, or…” air quoting the final word, “cool.” She returns to swirling the liquid in her glass. “They’re ordinary and boring, and just want to read books.”

“You're wrong,” Jeremy interjects. “Book reading happens to be cool at the moment. Especially independents. Data shows a rising trend in sales by independent bookstores. Statistically, it’s cool to read.”

Jeremy is her second-closest friend. He’s brainy, as in he has a PhD in a subset of engineering which Waverly can’t get her head around. Equally, she can't understand why he chose a regular job at Gower Street Waterstones over a high-paying one in America, as well as helping her on Saturdays.

“I agree,” Chrissy says, having served someone a pint of snakebite. “Book reading is cool, so she should do this Nicole Haught.” She adds a suggestive wink at the end.

“I’m not going to…” Waverly returns to air quoting her words, “do this Nicole Haught.”

Chrissy’s lips quiver.

“She’s…she’s too trendy, too…too—”

“Hot!” Jeremy barely contains his surprise. He has found Nicole's latest video. The one in Hyde Park, the one with her in tight-fitting jodhpurs, the one Waverly has seen. Twice. Purely for reference purposes. “You so need to do her.”

Waverly tuts, loud enough for Jeremy to pull his eyes from the screen candy.

“Sorry, not do her, do her. D-do her.” He’s stuttering. “Do-do her video. She’s so good at this.”

She accepts Nicole Haught looks fantastic in front of a camera. She also looks fantastic on a horse. As for ‘doing’ Nicole Haught, that’s an emphatic NO. The horse video proves what she suspected from the start; Nicole Haught is full of it.

They finish their evening in the basement, blasting out Abba hits. She gives a pitch-perfect performance of Money, Money, Money, receiving rapturous applause from her audience of two. There’s no further mention of ‘doing’ Nicole Haught. Jeremy walks with her back to Matilda, the smaller narrowboat moored alongside the barge, which is her home and which thankfully has heating. He declines a cup of tea to warm him for the ten-minute journey to the flat he shares with his boyfriend Robin. Ice crystals sparkle on bushes beside the towpath, as he gives her a quick peck on the cheek and sets off towards Granary Square.

She is alone. Not lonely because she has her books, although she misses the deep conversations with Curtis long into the night. Conversations about philosophy and spirituality, about what it is to live a good life, and why the world seems content to throw so much away without a second thought. One of the reasons he began the bookshop was to counter this, to find a place to give books a second chance. He was a romantic at heart, even if he and Gus found that difficult at times to put into words.

Curled up and toasty, she sips a camomile tea and reads more chapters of a novel donated to the barge. Most, if not all the books she sells come from charity shops in the area. Jeremy sources books too, is in charge of procuring special editions through an arrangement with Waterstones. She doesn’t know what she’d do without Jeremy. And Robin, who helps out when they're busy.

It’s gone ten before she reluctantly closes the novel, places her reading glasses on top and hauls herself off the couch. Her used mug is left to be washed in the morning; she stretches and winces as pain jolts through her knee. It happens more often in winter, especially when stiff from sleep. Her phone pings and she knows without looking who it is.

Wynonna: dude wot is yr prublem?

Her sister’s spelling goes to shit when she’s been drinking. She ignores the message.

Wynonna: 5.57 gud

Wow, her sister is at the ‘WTF does that mean’ stage of drunk texting.

Her phone rings. Wynonna is slurring. “5 point 5 gurrrl.”

“What is?”

“Five pointy five seven. What’s mine?”

“What’s what?” she replies. This conversation could have been had when Wynonna is sober. Then again, maybe not because whatever this is it means nothing to her. What even is 5.57?

“Nicky, Nicky, tell her how good yours is.”

Oh shit!

“Hi,” a voice purrs the other end.

“Hi,” she replies, inexplicably nervous. “Guess Wyn twisted your arm.”

“Sure did.” Nicole’s laugh is cute. “Don’t listen to her about mine.” Her words are just as slurred, just as funny in how she tries to sound completely sober. “Herrrss are good too.”

“I’m sure they are,” she replies, still none the wiser to what they’re talking about.

There’s an awkward silence before Wynonna starts up again. “Nicolar roll a polar bear wants to know what you sleep in?”

“Excuse me?” There’s a rapid increase in heartrate at the question.

“Wants to see you in it.”

Hanging up would be a good idea at this point, but that would have Wynonna butt dialling her for the rest of the night. “Why does she need to see my PJs?”

Howls of laughter tell her she’s missed something obvious here.

“The baby boat doofus,” her sister says. “Matilda. She wants to see Matilda.”

Her cheeks burn. “Oh…Matilda.”

Nicole is speaking. “What kind of PJs?”

There’s more laughter, and she’s equal measures horrified and furious her comfy PJs will be the topic of conversation for the remainder of Wynonna’s evening. She hangs up and puts her phone on silent.

The morning brings with it fourteen unreadable texts from her sister. One message from Nicole: so so sorry about this

She replies, which is unusual for her: its cool

Jumps when Nicole immediately messages back: is the heating fixed?

It’s been one day. Less than one day, so no, the heating isn’t fixed. She hates typing texts, finds it particularly tiresome trying to think of the abbreviation for words used in a message. Some of her sister’s abbreviations are like nails on a blackboard. What’s wrong with using ‘would’ instead of ‘wud’? It’s not as though there’s a cost per letter used. Okay, it costs time to text, but anyway.

She makes a stab at explaining why her repair guy is crap. How he was supposed to have mended the wood burner by now. Finishes her long screed with what she considers to be an honest opinion of his non-service.

Nicole: wnt hlp?

It takes a long second to parse what passes for words. Does she want help? Of course she wants help. Only, how can a lifestyle influencer help unless they’re handy with a hammer. She politely declines.

Nicole ignores her ‘no’ and shares a contact, along with a message to call the number. She’s back to being annoyed as she is greeted by a woman who sounds too happy for this early.

“Gardners…Mercedes speaking…no building too big for us.”

“Hi, um Nicole…Nicole Haught gave me your number,” she manages to get out.

“Nicky! Well, if that bitch sent you to us that’s super doodles.”

For a second time that morning, before she’s even made a pot of tea, Waverly is explaining her heating situation to a stranger. She doesn’t know who this Mercedes Gardner is, doesn’t know what line of work she’s in, but is pretty sure Mercedes Gardner will not be able to install a new wood burner on the barge.

“I’ll have some of my guys come out to you,” Mercedes replies. “Ten o’clock okay?”

“Sorry, sorry, but we need to discuss cost first.”

There’s a long pause before Mercedes answers. “Babes it’s free.”

“Free?”

“Call it a favour. I owe Nicky for getting us the Fortnum refit.”

She’s back to stumbling over her words. “But…but…”

“Tell Nicole I said hi when you see her.”

Ten o’clock on the dot two men arrive to inspect the burner. By three o’clock she is sat in front of a shiny new hunk of black metal and can’t believe her luck. She calls her sister to relay the good news, admits her first impression of Nicole Haught may have been a little hasty. Wynonna reveals her PJs were the topic of conversation for the remainder of their evening. Also reveals it would really help Nicole reach a wider audience if the barge were featured.

“It would be the best thank you for the wood burner,” Wynonna adds. “Call it a favour returned.”

She doesn't need the extra guilt trip. Nicole is the next person she intends to call, to say thank you, and to agree to being on her channel. Only, something stops her from making that call, a gut sense that her world and Nicole’s world are not the same. Nicole lives a life of glamour and glitter, while she eeks out a living on a rusty old barge, moored on a canal, admittedly London’s prettiest canal, but still a canal, with rats and smelly water in the summer. For all Nicole thinks it’s a good idea to showcase the barge, Waverly isn’t convinced she’s fully thought this through.

Nicole’s lifestyle is aspirational. Her lifestyle is functional. There’s no riding a black horse in Hyde Park, no skiing from an exclusive chalet in Val d’Isère, no red-carpet photo shots in a gorgeous lilac gown, and definitely no fancy facials at Fortnum & Mason. No one has to tell her she’s envious of Nicole’s lifestyle, because she can do that all by herself. Can feel it in her body, deep in her gut, or rather deep in her dodgy knee. No one has to tap her on the shoulder and say I don’t think skiing, or riding a pretty horse is for you darling. She gets it. What she doesn’t get is why Nicole thinks her barge is such a big deal.

So, she sends Nicole Haught a polite ‘thank you’ text. Offers to pay for the new wood burner. Sends a photo of her standing in front of it for reference, except this feels really shitty.

She calls Jeremy, forgetting he’s at work. She calls Chrissy who says she 100% should call Nicole and thank her for doing this.

“It’s a big deal,” Chrissy adds. “She called in a favour for you, the least you can do is show her a good time…”

“I don’t want to feel obligated,” she replies.

“Obligated, bobligated,” Chrissy teases. “How long have you been waiting for heat?”

Waverly sighs. “Four days. Still no word from my guy.”

“Right. And Lady Haught rides up and rescues you. Get it?”

“Nope.”

“Jeez you’re slow,” Chrissy replies. “Okay, for those in the back row, Nicole Haught, as in hot, and now you have a hot boat—”

“Barge.”

Chrissy remains silent.

“Sorry,” she adds, as the light bulb illuminates in her head. “Oh!”

“Yes oh. It’s perfect for the episode. Nicole Haught lights your fire.”

“I guess she did,” Waverly replies.

Chapter Text

For the second time, in as many days, her mouth tastes like Christmas. Her tummy too. Not that she can taste her tummy, only it feels all Christmas Morning tingly, and she hasn’t felt this kind of tingly happy in a while. She puts it down to being very drunk, which means she’ll feel like death tomorrow. Which also means no getting on the back of a horse.

Crossing paths with Wynonna Earp should never have happened. A fluke, a last-minute change of plan to help out another influencer. Taking their place at a Meet and Greet in Mayfair, an event she would normally avoid. She fully expected to get nothing from the evening other than cheap champagne and a headache at having to answer the same question: how can I be as successful as you?

That’s all new influencers want to know. The question they’re really asking is: how can I make as much money as you? Which is how she met Wynonna Earp. A unique blend of over confidence, paired with an ability to down alcohol like a sailor in a seaport. The moment she met this Earp she liked her, someone who refuses to take herself seriously, which is a rare quality in the world of lifestyle vlogging.

This second evening in Wynonna’s company is turning out to be as much fun as the first. They’ve agreed no Instagram posts, no photos of their drunken state, which gives Nicole the night off, allows her to hang out and consume far too many peppermint shots.

“My baby sister can be an ass,” Wynonna reveals after however many shots they're on. Their seventh? “She’s the sweetest kid you’ll ever meet, when she hasn’t got that cane wedged up her butt.”

“She lives alone?” It’s a question which has been on her mind after revisiting the boat.

Wynonna stares at an emptied glass. “Curtis…our uncle lived there, but he…” lifts the glass as though about to inhale vapours, “...died, so it’s just Waverly now.”

“Wow.”

“We still have Gus.” Wynonna clicks her fingers at the bartender. “Kind of have Gus.”

“Gus?”

“Our aunt. Curtis and Gus didn’t see eye to eye on the boat…barge. God, she hates it being called a boat.”

“Gus?”

“Waves.”

“I like that. Waves.”

Wynonna side eyes her. “Kinda fits though, with the whole boat…shit…whole barge thing. Waves…water…boats.” She tuts. “Barges.”

“You’re not into barges?” she replies.

Wynonna shakes her head. “I’m with Gus on this. One hundred percent should have sold it after Curtis died.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because it’s Waverly’s,” Wynonna replies as though the matter isn’t up for discussion. “He left it to her.” She turns to look at Nicole, gaze fixed on her face. “It’s her purpose…after what happened.” Taps her own thigh. “It gave her something to fight for.”

There’s a lull in the conversation she chooses not to fill. Would prefer Waverly to tell the story of why she needs to fight for a barge selling second-hand books, and why she needs a stick to be able to walk. Not that she’ll stop Wynonna if she chooses to steal Waverly’s story and claim it for herself. It’s pretty clear Wynonna is protective of her younger sister, a bond between them she has never known being an only child. Guesses Wynonna is looking out for Waverly by telling her story. Softening the edges of it for her.

In telling Waverly’s story, Wynonna offers only the barest of bones of what happened to her left leg. A car accident, a hit and run, an idiot who didn’t see Waverly until it was too late. When Wynonna explains Waverly had to give up a promising career she leans in on her seat. When Wynonna explains Waverly secured the lead in a West End show, literally hours before the accident, she is forced to feel something for someone she only has the lightest dusting of knowledge about.

“Thing is…” Wynonna continues, “Curtis wanted Waverly to know she’d always have the barge to protect her.”

This tiny sliver of Waverly’s story stabs at Nicole’s heart, and has her brain in a battle to figure out why Wynonna isn’t promoting the hell out of the book barge. “You’re not involved?” she says, keeping her hand away from her own peppermint shot. “In the whole booking selling business.”

“Nah,” Wynonna replies. Then looks like she regrets saying that. “No, no, don’t get me wrong, the whole barge thing…” she swats her hand through the air, “is great. It’s great…really great.”

“You don’t have to sell me to it.” She doesn’t, because she’s already sold on the whole romance of Waverly’s tragic retreat to the barge, and the selling of used books to make ends meet. And so will her fans. What a steal to have stumbled across this fucking gem of a story, one Wynonna isn’t interested in, isn’t going to compete with her on.

Wynonna changes topic. Begins gushing about her success. It’s charming and she doesn’t try to shift their conversation back to the barge. When her drinking companion moves onto engagement rates, she wants to tell her it’s taken years to get it to 5.57%. However, Wynonna doesn’t need a lecture on the hard work and adjustment of content needed to get the rate that high. Or that she wants the rate to be higher, her mission in the New Year. She’s confident Waverly can help nudge engagement above six percent, licks her lower lip at the potential of it reaching 6.50% by next Christmas.

There’s another abrupt turn in their conversation back to the barge. Wynonna is again talking about the problem with the wood burner. Nicole asks where Waverly lives exactly, hoping she’s not freezing her tits off while they’re out downing shots in a warm bar. When Wynonna puts her phone on speaker she hears the younger sister’s voice. It’s adorable, especially when Waverly misunderstands the question of where she sleeps by mentioning her PJs. Equally cute when Waverly realises they're not talking about PJs.

The taxi ride home is a blur. Vaguely remembers nodding at a man in the hotel lobby, could have been the doorman, could have been someone staying at the hotel. She doesn’t remember getting into the elevator, or getting into the apartment, or the bedroom. Doesn’t recall falling asleep fully clothed on top of the bed, feels like death when her phone pings with a message from Waverly.

It takes a moment for her eyes to stop hurting, for her brain to figure out why Waverly’s sending a text saying: its cool. Checks back through her messages and sees she sent Waverly the ‘sorry’ text. Asks if the heating is fixed, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Sits up and wishes she hadn’t. Who the fuck turned on all the lights? Ah, she did. She must have turned up the heating as well because the bedroom is like a sauna, sinuses blocked, mouth tasting like Santa shat in it. Makes a mental note never to go near peppermint shots again.

Eyes, which need more sleep, struggle to focus on the encyclopaedic text Waverly has sent. Something about a repair guy, about four days without heat. Mercedes Gardner owes her a favour, can get her guys to fix this without Waverly having to wait on someone who clearly doesn’t want the job. It feels good to be able to help, really help someone out, as she shares the contact details, and tells Waverly to contact Mercedes. Even if she never gets to sit down with Waverly and do this interview, at least she’ll know she will have heat. Although, after learning Waverly’s sad backstory she will do whatever it takes to make this happen. Engagement rate of 7.00%, here we come baby!

It’s dark outside when she wakes and checks her phone. She’s missed a whole day, having instructed her assistant she was out of action, which she was because of those damn Santa shots. Had put her phone on silent, turned down the heat, turned off the lights and slept off the hangover. There’s a message from Waverly to thank her, a rambling voicemail to thank her again for the generous gift, which she says she can’t possibly accept, would like to pay for it, is more than happy to be filmed. Whenever suits. Any day in fact. Thanks her again and gives her name in case Nicole wouldn’t know who it is.

She’s wide-smiling by the end of Waverly’s message, can feel the dimples in her own cheeks. She’s got what she wanted, and it’s cost her nothing other than calling in the favour. She congratulates herself on the win by running a bath.

Long legs stretch out in warm water, while a face mask soothes away the damage done to her skin. Eyes resting, she plans out how to film The Waverly story. A piece to camera first, standing alone outside the barge as though she’s stumbled across this great find and is about to go in. That will give her audience a taste of what’s to come. Or maybe she’ll film the walk to the barge, along Euston Road, turning left onto York Way towards the canal. Too boring. Better to take Kings Boulevard past the Nike store, past Space NK, Jigsaw, Sweaty Betty, during which she will talk about their latest offerings, which will set the vibe she wants to create. It will be new spaces emerging from older ones, which fills her with smug satisfaction at having thought of it.

From here she will cross the bridge into Granary Square, where she will zoom in on the world-famous arts college of Central Saint Martins. Here, she will stop briefly and do a short piece to camera. She opens her eyes and grabs her phone from beside the bath to google the college. Reads the blurb about the renovated granary store, which used to hold wheat for London’s bakers, which now holds students. Designed in 1852 by Lewis Cubitt, the architect of King’s Cross station. Reads who graduated from CSM: fashion designers Stella McCartney and Alexander McQueen; singer Jarvis Cocker; painter Lucian Freud and sculptor Antony Gormley.

Googles Stella McCartney’s winter collection for an outfit to wear on filming day. The chunky hooded cardigan (£1,500), paired with a logo-embroidered crewneck (£520). Definitely the double-waisted chap jeans (£915), possibly the mesh trainers (£520), no the Skyla ankle boots (£640), under the navy-blue trench coat (£2,400). Opts for the large logo, aged-leather tote (£1,025) to complete the outfit in her imagination, confident it will fit in perfectly with the new/old theme she's got going. Outfit cost: £7,000. Makes a mental note to call Stella and ask for a sizeable discount.

She resumes her mental walkthrough of the route. At the far end of the square she will take the footpath down to the canal. Makes a rough calculation on timing for the intro, ten minutes max, plus a few minutes outside The Waverly to set the scene. Will then cut to inside the barge and straight into conversation with the owner. She’ll make sure they’re seated, her mind racing through questions to be asked. Questions which will need to be agreed upon in advance. Unless she covers the basic backstory outside the barge. How long Waverly has worked there, something about the uncle’s legacy. Tuts at herself. Waverly needs to explain that part to her audience, to give it more emotional weight.

Chapter Text

Jeremy swings by the barge after work and basks in the heat coming from the new wood burner. She leaves him toasting both hands while she pops to Matilda to make a fresh pot of tea. Returns with a steaming brew in one hand, her cane in the other, two mugs in cardigan pockets, and an unopened packet of hobnobs securely wedged under her chin. She has trained Jeremy not to rush to help, which would only be greeted with a dismissive wave of the hand anyway.

“And it’s completely free?” he repeats, plucking a chipped Radio 4 mug from her pocket.

Waverly removes the hobnobs from the crease in her neck and plonks them on the wooden crate beside Jeremy’s chair. “Nicole knows someone,” she explains, as she fills his mug with wild berries tea. “The guys who were here should have been working at Selfridges.” Having filled her own mug she places the pot down and eases herself into the comfy armchair. “According to them my old burner was a fire waiting to happen, and I should look into installing proper heating.”

Jeremy eyes the new burner. “This one is okay though?”

She nods. “They added thicker heat shields so it’s all good.”

“Costly,” Jeremy replies, as he delicately dips a hobnob into his drink.

“No, it's all free.” She gives him a quizzical look.

“I mean having proper heating installed.”

“Oh. Well yes, upwards of £7,000,” she replies. “Curtis was looking into it before he—”

“The new wood burner looks fantastic,” he interrupts, pointing at it with half a hobnob. “While I think of it…” He polishes off the biscuit and leans to the left to reach his satchel. “This came in.” He hands her a copy of Watership Down.

There’s reverence in the way she accepts the hardback and caresses it with her fingers, before bringing it to her nose and sniffing. “I can pay you next week,” she says as she flips open the cover and reads the message on a neon pink post-it note stuck inside. “That’s…thank you.”

“Robin says I should have waited, but I thought with everything going on you’d like it now.”

She swallows down emotion at the early Christmas gift. “It’s really thoughtful.”

He taps his fingers against the full mug as he stares at the orange glow warming the barge. It’s like he’s contemplating, or praying, or simply allowing his hobnob to go down. When he looks over, she sees something in his expression which has her heart thumping as she whispers a silent prayer: Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.

“Robin wants us to…” He trails off and she doesn’t want to hear the rest of what he has to say. “Robin has some time off over Christmas, so we’re thinking of going to Tenerife.”

She lets out a long breath before replying. “How long?”

“Two weeks.” He gives her that boyish look, the look he always gives her when he wants something but doesn’t want to ask. “It’ll mean we’re not—”

“No, no, it’s fine. If you’re worried about the bookshop, we’re not rushed off our feet. Perfect time to go really.”

There’s relief on his face. “I didn’t want to leave you in the lurch.”

p>She’s about to answer when her phone pings. A message from Nicole: nd to run thru Qs for ep

It takes far too much time to decipher the text. What even is ep? Oh, episode. Waverly knows perfectly well she could mimic Nicole’s text style, shorten each word to its skeletal form. But…

Waverly: What sort of questions do you need to run through for the episode?

Nicole: wl snd

Waverly: Looking forward to receiving your questions for the episode

Jeremy is eyeing her suspiciously when she looks up. “More good news?” he asks.

“It’s…” She places her phone down. “More tea?”

He points to a full mug.

“Whereabouts in Tenerife?”

He glances at her phone before answering, then gives her a lengthy geography lesson on where they’ll be staying.

“Sounds fantastic,” she replies, genuinely happy for him. “Send me a postcard?”

“Of course.” He looks around the barge as though in search of a specific book. “Or you could come with us.”

“Me!”

“You only need to buy the flights.” Points to the book he’s gifted. “You’ll have something to read on the plane.”

She’s shaking her head.

“We have a spare room in our Airbnb. It’ll be fun, the three of us.”

It’s a generous offer, she knows that. Wants to say she’ll think about it, except Jeremy knows her too well, knows that is code for: I’m going to give this a few days then decline the invitation. Is now questioning whether Jeremy gave the early gift to soften her up. There’s no reason not to go, other than being away from the barge. And Wynonna. Although, Wynonna has her own life with Doc. Jeremy's right, two weeks on a beach would be fun. It would be the first holiday since the accident, her first Christmas away from the barge since Curtis died.

“Are you sure?” she replies.

His smile says it all.

Her phone pings, which she ignores to check flight availability for her winter vacation. Only when she’s booked her flights and Jeremy has left does she read the list of questions sent by Nicole.

Back on Matilda, sat in front of an ancient computer, she sets about answering each one.

Question 1: when did you start selling books on the barge?

The question is straightforward, but Waverly is already fretting over providing a precise date. Does Nicole mean when she personally started helping out on the barge, or when Curtis opened the bookshop? If this interview is going to focus only on her it overlooks all the hard work Curtis put in.

It was his idea. Well, not strictly his idea, as Chrissy’s dad initially thought about selling books by the canal. Then there’s the eccentric Frenchman who drank with them at the Star of Kings. The barge belonged to the Frenchman, who was looking to sell, the barge not the books. Curtis and Nedley offered to buy it from him, told him it would make a great floating bookshop. Curtis said the Frenchman had laughed at their idea, called them ‘putain de fous’, which Curtis admitted to her was accurate. They really were madmen to think this was a good idea. Even so, the Frenchman agreed on one condition; sell a thousand books in one year and he would gift the barge to them. Curtis sold two thousand books.

Question 2: best sellers?

Children’s fiction always does well, and popular titles. She refuses to stock ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’, has lost count of the number of times she’s been asked if they have it. Not that she turns her nose up at fifty shades. Okay, she turns her nose up at the shady fifty book, because it’s shit. Give her Demon Copperhead. Where the Crawdads Sing. Cloud Atlas. The Book Thief. All The Light We Cannot See.

Question 3: what is your five-year plan for the barge?

She stares at the question. Five-year plan! How can she possibly know what she will be doing in five years? Will the barge be floating in five years? Not if she doesn’t pull her finger out and get its hull blacked. Oh no, she’s spent some of her blacking budget on those flights to Tenerife. Curtis instilled in her a basic philosophy: take every day as it comes. That philosophy worked until the wood burner died. Until the repair guy, whose number was in Curtis’s phonebook, took his time getting to her. She smiles as she types her five-year plan might have been waiting for the repair guy to show up. Thanks Nicole again for rescuing her beloved barge.

Question 4: do you host authors?

Oh, great question. To which she answers no, although the idea has been planted in her head. Big names wouldn’t want to sign their books on the barge, but smaller names might, if their work relates somehow to water. Or London. She sighs, accepting it’s a stretch to think this could work. She’s a second-hand bookseller on a barge, not Gower Street Waterstones where Jeremy regularly hosts famous writers.

Question 5: do you run a book club?

Another great question. Nicole Haught seems to have a better head than her for marketing, which she admires even if these ideas aren’t practical. Then stops, then rethinks the suggestion. There’s nothing stopping her from starting a book club other than a fear of no one attending. Worse, what if they want to discuss Fifty Shades of Grey?

By question 10 she’s pretty sure Nicole should be running the book barge. Thought has been put into the questions, genuine interest into understanding the business, which is why the eleventh question surprises: do you like sushi?

Sushi? She’s vegan, so she's never thought to try it. Can’t imagine why anyone would enjoy eating raw fish. Is confused why Nicole is asking, proceeds to type as much. It’s late before she’s sufficiently satisfied to finally send her answers. Is still thinking about sushi when she receives a text from Nicole thanking her for the quick response, who adds one more question: if nt sushi wot do u lk?

She likes freshly cooked chips, eaten while still wrapped in layers of white paper straight from the chip shop. Drowning in vinegar, which stains the paper brown and leaves it soggy to the touch. She’s also obsessed with cookies from a bakery in Coal Drops Yard, dark chocolate and spicy pepper, or lemongrass and mango. Isn’t a fan of pizza. Struggles with Italian.

Nervous fingers hover over her phone, unsure how to answer. She opts for simply repeating she’s vegan, because Nicole Haught wouldn't understand why eating freshly cooked chips straight from the paper, swimming in vinegar, is the best. Doesn't want to mention the cookies or pizza because according to recent videos Nicole is in training and on a strict diet, which would be like rubbing salt in a wound.

Nicole: happy face?

Waverly: What does that even mean?

Nicole: LOL

Nicole shares the location of a pizza restaurant on Handyside Street, not far from the Star of Kings. Oh! Waverly now feels deep embarrassment at not knowing this, tinged with confusion at the choice for someone on a diet. It finally dawns on her Nicole is either testing her knowledge of dining experiences around the Kings Cross area, or wants them to eat somewhere. She replies to that effect.

Her phone rings. “The latter,” Nicole says. “Thanks for going into so much detail on those questions.”

Waverly feels the heat in her face for having given such in-depth answers. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Makes my job easier if I have a good understanding of what I’m filming. So food, what do you fancy?”

Chips, that’s what she fancies. Hot, steamy chips, with vinegar vapour rising from the warm packet in her hands. “Um, I don’t mind,” she replies.

“Pizza?”

“Um…”

Nicole chuckles. “Not pizza. Italian?”

“Um…”

“You need to help me out here.”

“Um…do you like chips?” Nicole doesn’t reply which creates a vacuum she suddenly feels duty bound to fill. “There’s a really great fish and chip shop next to the Star.”

“Okay cool,” Nicole replies. “Is there seating?”

“Not really. We usually eat them in the Star if it’s cold. Or the tables outside in summer.”

There’s a longer silence before Nicole responds. “If that works for you. When are you free for this chippy dinner?”

Waverly’s impressed Nicole calls it a chippy dinner, because that’s what she calls it. “Whenever.”

There is Nicole’s laugh again. “How about Monday. You can take me to this great fish and chip place. I should be free from late afternoon. What time suits?”

She’s back to umming.

Nicole is back to laughing. “How about six? I’d like to see the new wood burner before we go get these chips. Is that okay?”

Waverly has a date. A chippy dinner date. Not a date date, only it kind of feels like a date.

Chapter Text

Nicole's eyes hurt after reading the essay-length answers she has been sent. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Waverly loves her job. And the barge. Which is perfect, because that enthusiasm will shine through during filming. What Nicole cannot grasp is the lack of any promotion. There’s no book club, no author hosting, nothing to encourage customers to visit the barge other than to buy books. Where’s the word-of-mouth advertising? Is there advertising? She suspects not. After all, she has lived close to the canal for several years and only heard about the barge selling books from Wynonna.

She’s also at a loss as to where Waverly wants to take her. Googles the Star and smiles. This will be a cheap date, she thinks, as Shae sends her a Facetime request.

“Hey sweetie,” Shae purrs over the din of where she’s currently dining. “How’s it going with my amazing Christmas suggestions?”

“Good.” She yawns.

“Aw, keeping you up?”

“Heavy night,” she replies. Shae doesn’t need to know about her peppermint shot showdown with Wynonna. “I’m nearly finished with the edits. Where are you?”

“The Ivy.” Shae doesn’t look pleased. “Liverpool Street.”

Nicole laughs. Doesn’t mean to laugh, but it’s too funny. Shae would not be seen dead in any other Ivy restaurant other than The Original one, within walking distance of West End theatres. The restaurant where celebrities go, where Shae goes to dine alongside these celebrities.

“Hugo suggested it,” Shae adds. “He’s off talking to boring bankers about who knows what.”

Hugo is Shae’s latest arm accessory. He’s rich, extremely rich, almost in Nicole’s league, not quite but near enough for Shae to have taken him on as her next provider. Which makes this restaurant mistake all the more amusing.

“Anyone famous there?” she teases.

Shae offers a one-finger salute in response.

“I’ll send you the final cut tomorrow. Does that work for you?”

“I’m flying to Geneva tomorrow morning,” Shae replies. “Hugo wants me to see his winter cabin. If it’s literally a cabin I’m on the next flight back.”

Shae needs to be constantly showered with attention and money. If you’re not paying Shae full attention twenty-four seven, she will not be shy in letting you know. Poor Hugo. Although Nicole is more than happy for poor Hugo to be the one who has to indulge Shae. Is equally happy to have her time and money to herself again.

As for lovers after Shae, she’s played it cool. Ice cold in fact. Doesn’t need someone in her life right now, prefers to concentrate on her channel so she can improve its offering. Is irritated by any comments under videos which ask who she’s currently dating, is fucking livid at suggestions of who she should date, who she would look good with. And no, it’s no longer about who she looks good with, would never openly admit but is tired of the Shaes who are only in love with ‘Nikky’ Haught. Isn’t naïve enough to believe Shae would have considered dating were it not for being stinking rich and socially connected, with a popular lifestyle channel.

Chips with Waverly is added to her busy schedule. Dinner with her father had been pencilled in for that evening, but he’s rescheduled his visit and is now arriving Sunday. She’s pretty sure he would not have wanted to join them to eat hot potato slices in a pub. He’s reserved them a table at The Dorchester, because like Shae he prefers a more refined dining experience, three-star Michelin refined, narrowing the choice to six restaurants in London. Her mother might have joined them for chips, would have found it fun, not as fussy about food as her father. Only, she’s rarely seen outside Monaco these days.

He's coming to London to view three apartments. There’s no need to sell the penthouse in Annie’s orphanage, other than it never lived up to its hype. He kept it in his real estate portfolio solely to accrue value, which it has, and is now looking to pick up more properties for the right price. Doesn’t need any of them as the Oxford estate is usually where he stays when in England. To him it’s all about the steal.

Friday arrives and she’s out riding the whole day. Her charity race isn’t until July, but there is a long way to go to be competition fit. There’s a reasonable chance of winning, but only if she puts in the work. A gallery opening that evening is declined, as is brunch with her agent Xavier on Saturday. She’s in the middle of a fitting at Stella McCartney’s store when her father calls to say he is on his way to London, having rescheduled the apartment viewings yet again. Not that she needs to see his choice, can tell by his tone this call is a direct order to get her ass over to Richmond pronto.

A suitable outfit purchased for filming on the barge, she leaves Stella’s store and takes a moment to admire the Christmas display in the window opposite. If she had more time, she would peruse the Asprey collection, perhaps treat herself to a pre-Christmas piece of jewellery. Is tempted to suggest this to her father, although what she needs is a faster horse which will have to be broken in before the big race. Naturally, she’ll also need a new wardrobe to go with the new horse, is considering Holland Cooper in brown.

Taxis are plentiful along Old Bond Street, on the lookout for those who wouldn’t dream of sitting on shabby London Transport seats. The West End this time of year is her favourite place to be, all dressed up and ready for the big day. Her father would rather be anywhere but here on a Saturday, which makes her curious as to why he’s rescheduled the apartment viewings for today. Assumes he now needs to be in another part of the world tomorrow, which gives her only a small window of opportunity to run through her shopping list before he jets off.

Her father is in the middle of viewing the first apartment when her taxi pulls up outside. Doesn’t have to see inside because she already hates it. The concierge directs her to the fourth floor of what evidently is an old building. There are magnificent views over Richmond Park where she can ride. There’s a sweeping view of the River Thames, and manicured communal gardens, and a well-equipped gym, and a large indoor swimming pool, and a luxury spa, and a private cinema room for residents, and private parking for two vehicles. If only the apartment was modern, if only the outside didn’t look like a retirement home for royalty.

She agrees with her father it’s a steal at a fraction under £3,000,000. Is not surprised when he shakes the hand of the agent showing them around to seal the deal. Great, she’s going to be stuck here, on the edge of London, with views she so couldn’t be bothered to die for.

Sat in the back of her father’s car she casually drops into the conversation her need of that new horse. “It’s a steal really,” she adds. Doesn’t mention the horse’s price is £47,000. Doesn’t have to. Her father wouldn’t care if the horse was forty-seven, or a hundred and forty-seven. “I’ve my eye on another filly, but I prefer this one.”

“Your mother and I have been talking,” he replies, as they journey to the next viewing. “About your future.”

Her parents are MINO. Married in name only, in that her mother lives in the family's Monaco mansion, while her father lives in the company of girlfriends secreted away in luxury apartments, dotted around the globe. They no longer pretend to be in love, haven’t spent Christmas under the same roof in over a decade, which Nicole is fine with because quite frankly that’s their business not hers.

“We think these chat videos of yours are a waste of a good education.”

Odd, because her ‘education’ has never been up for discussion before. She takes this to mean her career isn't making enough money, not in her father’s eyes. “I’m working on a new concept,” she explains. “It’s going to transform my channel.”

“In what way?” he replies.

“A deep dive into alternative and unique selling propositions.” His greying eyebrows have met in the middle, and Nicole is acutely aware he is not remotely interested in the career she’s carving out. Makes that clear after telling him about an upcoming interview with the owner of a book barge.

“A what?”

“A barge which sells books.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” she replies.

“Why would anyone want to sell books on a barge?”

“Well,” she begins, then rattles off everything she knows so far about the business.

“That’s the most insane concept I’ve ever heard,” her father says when she reaches the end of Waverly’s story.

She deflates like a balloon. Why is she trying to convince him, he’s never given her credit for doing what she loves.

“And this is your winning concept.” He continues to grumble as the car pulls up outside another mausoleum of a building. “A boat selling books.”

“Barge,” she corrects.

His glare is fierce. “What was the point Nicole, of sending you to Switzerland if all you’re going to do is play dressing up and talk to people who haven’t the first idea how a successful enterprise actually operates.” He waits for his driver to open the car door. Once they’re outside he continues to berate her for thinking this was a good idea.

She digs her heels in. “You don’t understand my audience, or the first thing about what I do.” This is a risky strategy, locking horns with her father, because she really, really needs that new horse. “Speak to Xavier if you think what I do is a waste of time. He’ll tell you.”

“Xavier will tell me what I already know,” her father fires back. “That what you do is a waste of time.”

The silence between them is super awkward as they view the next apartment. Her father appears interested in this one too. She couldn’t care less, frothing inside at the lack of faith in her efforts. How dare he compare what she does to simply putting on an outfit. It’s not dressing up; it’s clothes curation, it’s emphasising the mood of each episode.

Her father has one more apartment to view. It’s back in King’s Cross, closer to the canal, and it is to die for. A combination of sleek minimalism, with loft vibes and decent views across London. She loves this apartment, with its exposed steel and its bare-brick walls full of authentic industrial character. The agent tasked with selling it gushes over how the interior has been designed by a native New Yorker and has featured in numerous design publications, including The Tectum Loft Bible. She’s never heard of it, but 100% will purchase and display on a shiny new coffee table in this shiny new apartment. Wonders if Waverly stocks the style bible.

By the questions being asked, she can tell her father is also interested. “It’s a steal,” she says quietly as they return to the car, too excited to say any more. Has her fingers crossed and is no longer thinking about a new horse.

He nods but says nothing until they’re inside the apartment Nicole has called home for the past two years. Her father pours himself a whiskey and takes in the bustle of life below. “You like the last apartment.”

She comes to stand beside him, a gin and tonic in her hand, a father-daughter moment which happens so infrequently. “I do,” she tells him. “It’s everything I want.”

Her father doesn’t answer, which makes her think she might have competition for that apartment. Another girlfriend lurking somewhere, ready to take up residence.

Chapter Text

The weekend brings with it a slow but steady stream of customers to the barge. In the gaps between serving there’s discussion with Jeremy about Tenerife, and the apartment in which they’ll be staying for two weeks. It will be great to go, to feel the sun’s warmth all day every day. Naturally, she’ll have to buy a few new outfits, perhaps even splurge on a couple of new bikinis, as a treat, unless Wynonna has some going spare she can borrow. Is reassured by Jeremy, other tourists will not check out the crimson scar on her leg?

She hasn’t spoken to Wynonna since the PJs incident. Will have to mention the vacation at some point, if she is to borrow any of her sister’s gear. Then there’s the chippy dinner date on Monday which is not something Wynonna needs to be involved in. Would only tease her anyway about choosing somewhere that is so not in keeping with the glamorous lifestyle vibe Nicole’s got going on.

Sunday evening brings with it a full panic about the chips at the Star invitation. What was she even thinking? There are literally thousands of places to eat in London, and she has to settle on a shabby fish and chip shop, with no seating. She’ll have to introduce Chrissy, who will probably make a comment about doing Nicole. Jeremy will want to be there too. This is going to be a disaster.

Monday brings with it a hint of snow in the air. She is beyond grateful for the new wood burner as she adds another log. Its warmth is comforting as she continues to fret about her upcoming chippy dinner. Has warned Chrissy to be on best behaviour, not that she will, but at least she now knows how important this date is. Not a date she reminds herself throughout the day. Jeremy has promised to make a discreet entrance and exit, will have Robin call as an excuse, although she’s happy for him to stay longer as long as he doesn’t gush all over her guest. He’s given his word he won’t, but we’re talking Jeremy here.

Nicole sends a text shortly after five to say she’s on her way, throwing Waverly’s world into a spin. The last two customers are encouraged to leave the barge, despite looking as though they might make a purchase. A quick tidy up and she’s so not ready for Nicole’s second tour. When she makes an appearance, Waverly finds it difficult to string words together in a coherent fashion, nerves having got the better of her tongue. Because Nicole has come dressed to kill her.

She gestures with a shaky hand at the shelves. “This is it,” she says, because it is.

Nicole points at the wood burner. “Looks great.” Takes her time to peruse the shelves and extract one book. Cloud Atlas. “I spotted this the last time I was here. Okay if I purchase it?”

“Fr-free,” she stutters. “Completely. You can have whatever you want.”

Nicole turns the book over to absorb the blurb on the back, then looks up. “I’ve been meaning to read this for ages.”

“Hard going,” she replies. “No, um, I mean, it’s a great read, a really great read. Better than fifty shade…you’ll love it, you really will, one of my favourites.” It’s at moments like these she wishes her tongue had remained tied.

Nicole is studying her face. “Do you have a bag?”

She too is studying Nicole’s face. “A bag?”

Nicole wafts the book in the air. “To put this in.”

“Yes. Um…no. We don’t…” She’s frantically looking around as though a bag will materialise from nowhere.

“You need bags with the barge logo,” Nicole suggests.

She’s back to studying Nicole’s face. “Um…we don’t actually have a logo.”

Nicole’s eyes flash.

“I mean, we thought about a logo.” Her breathing is fast, her heart too. No logo, no bags, no book club, no hosting writers. “I drew it. The logo. On a piece of paper.” She’s back to searching the barge with her eyes for the scrap of paper with her idea for a logo.

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t need any of that for here.”

“We do,” she replies, “we really do. But I…”

“The barge is what it is,” Nicole replies. “It sells books that people want to read. It gives those books another chance when most would leave them sitting on their shelves unread. That’s more than enough.”

Waverly is back to studying Nicole’s face. Is this real? Has someone other than Jeremy finally got what she does here? Or is she desperate for someone like Nicole to get what she does here?

“I don’t want you to be stressed about this,” Nicole adds. “This is your barge, your gig, so don’t take my suggestions as gospel.”

“No, no, they’re great. The book club idea is great. It’s just…” Nicole waits for her to continue. Doesn’t jump in with platitudes, or faux reasons in place of her own. And this gap which has been created has her taking a tiny step to trusting the person who will be filming her. “It’s just…I’m scared if the barge becomes too popular, I won’t be able to cope.” She sees this honesty register in Nicole’s eyes and it gives her permission to take another small step. “After Curtis died, I wasn’t sure I wanted to take this on by myself. I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for Jez.”

“Jez?”

“Sorry, Jeremy. He’s…you’ll meet him later. And Chrissy.” Nicole smiles. It’s a genuine smile, and she is defenceless against it. “Just to warn you, Jez is a huge fan of yours.”

Nicole laughs.

“Chrissy is a minx though, so I’m warning you, if she says anything about—” She stops abruptly, not wanting to mention doing Nicole. It’s too late for her cheeks.

“Talk me through what made you carry on,” Nicole says, saving her from having to explain why she’s blushing so hard. “After Curtis.”

It’s gone six before they leave the barge. Waverly had had it all planned out, a very quick tour, followed by a brief introduction to Matilda, before walking to the Star of Kings. Jeremy has texted her twice to find out where she is. Chrissy has texted her once to ask if she’s showing Nicole a good time. She has not responded to either of them.

Talk continues about the barge as they walk the empty towpath to the stairs which will take them onto York Way. It’s dark, the air sharp against exposed skin, and there is still a lingering sense snow might be coming sometime soon. She is wrapped in the tomato puffer coat, if braver would have worn her pink earmuffs. Other than one girl serving it’s only them in The Codfather, which to be fair is typical for a Monday evening. She already has Chrissy and Jeremy’s order stored in her phone, turns to Nicole and is taken by the concentration on her face.

“What do you fancy?” she asks as Nicole studies the menu board intensely.

“I guess chips,” Nicole replies. “What do you recommend?”

Her cheeks are hot again.

Nicole throws her a confused look.

“Oh um, I usually only have chips with a...”

There’s a sparkle to Nicole’s eyes as she waits.

“With a willy.”

And now amusement is in those eyes as Nicole silently mouths the word ‘willy’.

Waverly finds herself having to explain the silly willy joke going on between her friends. That they call a large, green pickle by this name, because it kind of looks like a penis. Because calling it by its other name, a wally, isn’t already silly.

She insists on paying for Nicole’s food, leaves with five portions of chips wrapped in paper, swimming in vinegar. One battered vegetarian sausage for Jeremy, one small cod for Chrissy, and one large cod for Chrissy’s dad. Plus two willies for good measure. It’s a feast by her standards, vinegar vapours tempting her tastebuds as they walk to the pub.

They are greeted by a sea of faces, followed by loud applause. Someone wolf whistles from the back.

Chrissy waves to them from behind the bar, but Waverly’s good leg has seized up, her less-than-good leg already locked in place. The Star is never this busy on a Monday. Actually, the Star has never been this busy on any evening, narrowing her eyes on Chrissy, who pretends to wipe down the counter while sporting the dirtiest smirk. This is all her doing. Jeremy rushes to her assistance. This time she doesn’t wave his heroic gesture away but allows him to relieve her of two plastic bags containing their dinners.

“So this is the Star,” Nicole observes as Jeremy leads the way to the downstairs area. “Cool.”

It’s so not cool.

Chrissy appears moments later, to hand them plates on which to lay out their food and to take their drinks order. Randy Nedley joins them and thanks Waverly for the fish, accepts a wally on the side of his plate. Before he digs in, Nedley turns to Nicole and asks her about filming the barge. Nicole is generous with her response, which he appears to accept. “Curtis and I go back a long way,” he adds, while sprinkling a layer of salt over his supper. “Waverly is like a daughter to me, so no funny business you hear.”

Waverly would like the ground to open up and swallow her. Randy has been good to her over the years, is looking out for her, feels for Nicole at having been dropped into this crazy soup of souls.

“I will do everything to make this work for Waverly,” Nicole reassures. “It will be her story, and hers alone.”

Randy Nedley stabs a fork into the wally and lifts it towards his bristly mouth. Bites a large chunk off the end, chews then swallows, during which Waverly holds her breath for what he’ll say next. He merely nods and continues to devour the pickle.

Chrissy joins them and takes over the interrogation where her father left off. She’s funny and provocative, and Waverly wants to place both hands around her best friend’s neck and squeeze. Quietly keeps apologizing to Nicole between mouthfuls of chips, while throwing dagger eyes at Chrissy who is milking this moment for all it’s worth. Is convinced she should have gone to the Happy Clappy pizza place, so she and Nicole could talk talk, not whisper while others exploit them for entertainment.

“I’m so sorry about this,” she repeats during a moment when Nicole isn’t being bombarded by questions. “My friends like to take the proverbial.”

Nicole tilts her head slightly. “Proverbial?”

She tilts her head too. “As in take the piss?” She catches the flicker of confusion in Nicole’s eyes. “As in, make fun of us.”

“Are they always like this?” Nicole replies.

She shakes her head. “Showing off,” she whispers, discreetly pointing a finger at Chrissy who is deep in conversation with Jeremy. “That missy is the worst. We’ve been friends forever and I swear I'm going to kill her.”

Nicole eyes Chrissy suspiciously.

“Not kill kill. Not literally.”

“She’s being protective,” Nicole observes then points to her plate. “Great chips.”

“Guessing this isn’t what you’re used to,” she replies.

Nicole’s smile is disarming. “No, but it beats any three-star Michelin, where no one knows you, and is only being polite because you can afford their over-inflated prices.”

“I’ve never been to one of...” Nicole waits for her to finish what she wants to say. “...to one of those restaurants. I’ve never had sushi, never had geoduck.”

Nicole holds up a hand. “Guilty of trying gooey-duck.”

“And…”

“I was reliably informed it would taste like kissing a mermaid. I can confirm it does not in fact taste like you’re kissing a mermaid.”

“And how many mermaids have you kissed?” Waverly teases.

Nicole winks. “That would be telling.”

Chapter Text

There are a couple of heartbeats between the kissing mermaid's line and Waverly’s laugh. Those heartbeats are followed by a lip nibble having overplayed this moment. What they have going on here should be professional, not a competition over who can score sexy points.

Nicole peeks at her phone. It’s not late, only there has been precious little opportunity to talk privately since they entered the pub. A quieter venue would have been better, except she would have missed this, the ease in dining with these people. They don’t know her, a few may have seen her channel, but they don’t know her personally, will only know what she’s curated about her life on screen. Chrissy makes a point of asking if Waverly is going to be famous. She can’t say. Maybe. Audiences can be fickle, although she has a good feeling about this. And about Chrissy, who despite being a tormentor is looking out for Waverly. How can she tell? Simple. Because she’s rich, because when you’re born this rich it becomes second nature to know who is there for you, who is there for your money.

Chrissy thrusts the mic at her. “You’re up next golden girl.”

Both of Nicole’s hands remain by her side, wary there will be no option but to perform if she takes what’s being offered. Singing is not second nature, not a skill she has, can’t remember the last time she held a tune. “I’m not much of a singer.”

“None of us are,” Chrissy replies. She winks at Waverly. “It’s pub rules. One meal, one song.”

Nicole turns to Waverly. “It’s not a rule, is it?”

“Nope,” Waverly replies grabbing for the mic. “Chrissy, no one has to sing if they don’t want to.”

“Then you have to sing two,” Chrissy instructs, still in possession of the instrument of torture.

Waverly resorts to shaking her head.

“Rules are rules,” Chrissy insists.

There’s a silent standoff between the friends before Waverly groans and accepts her punishment. With no stage, with nowhere to go without obscuring the screen, Waverly is forced to sing while seated next to Nicole. Chrissy chooses the first song for her, which produces another groan. The opening lyrics appear, the music begins but Waverly can barely be heard, even with the mic close to her mouth. It takes a nudge from Chrissy to get her to sing louder. She’s a natural.

It's easy to be impressed by this amount of talent. Who would have known? Makes a point of complimenting Waverly when the music ends. “Wow! You’re really good. Seriously.”

Waverly doesn’t think so.

Jeremy’s phone rings. He stands without answering the call. “Sorry guys gotta go, Robin needs me.” He looks to Waverly who is about to break into song again. “I can stay?”

She smiles. “I’m fine, you go.”

Waverly is now singing to an audience of two, although the way she performs ‘Voulez Vous’ it could be to an audience of one. No expectations this evening are hangin' in the air, other than getting to a point in their relationship where Nicole can film with ease. Doesn’t want to leave but is not ready to embarrass herself by trying to follow Waverly on the mic. It's given her an idea though, a crazy idea which might work for the barge. Wants to stay, wants to hear more of Waverly’s singing, but there’s work to do if she’s to win the bet placed by her father.

Waverly offers to walk with her, which is accepted. More time to talk about filming, which she hopes to have finished before the end of the week. It’s a tight schedule, tighter than the one she set herself to take the channel in a different direction. Had intended to roll it out early in the New Year, build up gradually, test and adjust, test and adjust, but her father has narrowed that timeline.

Nedley senior insists on walking them to their respective homes. He’s not a man to be argued with, putting pay to another chance for the two of them to sit down one final time that evening. Had thought to tell Nedley she lives in Richmond, too far for him to walk. Decides it’s not worth the deceit.

There’s a dusting of ice on the pavement as the three stroll towards the stairs which descend to the towpath. Back at the barge, she thanks Waverly for a great night. There’s so much more to say, mostly about how the evening has restored her faith in people. And how fucking refreshing it is not to have to pay to be in another’s company.

Nedley isn’t much of a talker as they take the winding footpath. Then cut across Granary Square to the bridge and into King’s Boulevard, where store windows are full of winter wonderland cheer. The barge could use a few strings of festive lights outside; the odd decoration dotted around inside. Nothing too tacky. Subtle. Silver and blue.

They turn onto Euston Road. It’s always busy, always alive, no matter what time of day or night, no matter what time of year. Even on a frosty November night like this, with the threat of snow hanging over them, there are plenty of people moving, plenty of cars and vans and emergency vehicles moving.

At the entrance to the hotel she thanks him for escorting her here. “Your pub is amazing,” she says, catching the concerned expression on his face.

He gestures at the doorman and the hotel lobby. “You’re staying here?”

“For a while,” she says.

“Fancy,” he replies.

Now is the time for deceit. Doesn’t want to pop the lovely bubble created by the evening. Skirts around Nedley’s judgement of where she resides by saying she’s meeting someone inside for a drink, invites him to join her, is relieved when he declines.

Back in the apartment she pours herself a stiff gin and tonic and stands by the window. It’s quiet in her lofty hideaway, detached, separate from places like the pub, is now thinking the Star should feature in the episode, perhaps get Waverly to sing. Tuts at herself. That’s pushing this too far. Filming needs to be kept tight, only on Waverly.

Tomorrow she will interview a guy who runs a candy shop in Hoxton. Everything he sells: tinned fear, toasted bone chunks, zombie fresh mints, salt made from tears of home schooling, is themed around monsters. It’s quirky, it’s out there, was never going to be the first episode of her new channel concept. Perfect for Halloween though, but she’s missed that window. Has approached the owners of Cyberdog in Camden, which sells fluorescent, futuristic, and LED-covered clothes and accessories. Raving since 1994, it’s the place to go if you want to buy neon for a night out. Personally, it’s not her thing…wearing something that glows in the dark, but whatever floats your boat.

It's not that hard finding unique selling propositions in London. But the right one? Maybe it was the fear of this failing. She can’t fail now. Wants to thank Wynonna again, only it’s Waverly she should thank, says as much in a text having downed her G&T.

Waverly: Sorry about Chrissy

She calls. “Hey, Chrissy is cool. I didn’t know you could sing like that.” There’s a gap, way too long, way too awkward. She’s gone too far again. “You should hear me sing; I’m like a cat being strangled.”

“I’m not that good,” Waverly insists.

“I was thinking…” There’s another pause, on her side because she’s unsure whether the suggestion about to be made is relevant. Decides to go with it. “…about the barge. Well, the top of the barge. Winter isn’t the right time, I know, but summer could work.”

“I’m listening.”

“Have artists perform, outside, on top of…” She stops herself. “It’s a stupid idea.”

“Curtis used to do that.”

“Sing?”

Waverly laughs. “Curtis sounded like a dog being strangled. We used to have musicians play on the roof of the barge.”

She’s impressed. “Do you still do that?”

There’s a longer pause between them.

“I guess it’s too cold right now,” she offers.

“It’s not that,” Waverly replies. “When he died, I just didn’t want to hear music without him. You’re right, he would love it. Thank you.”

“What kind of music?” She’s back at the bar, refilling her glass with chilled tonic water.

“Jazz mostly. I would sing occasionally, not much, the songs he liked.” There’s a shrill whistling in the background. A kettle? “Is there anything more we need to discuss?”

“You have any free days this week for filming?”

Yet another pause.

“Too soon?” Nicole adds.

“No, it’s…”

Her heartrate increases. “Sometime this week would be really good. Is that good for you?”

“Are you absolutely certain this is what you want?”

She can’t believe she’s back to having to sell this to Waverly. Doesn’t want to mention the wood burner, which was a gift not a bribe. Not something to hold over Waverly’s head to make her participate. It would never work anyway, the reluctance would be there for everyone to see and hear. “One hundred percent,” she replies. “I promise this will be great for the boat…barge.” That’s bullshit and she knows it. “Can I be honest with you?” she adds.

Waverly is silent.

“When your sister told me about the barge I got excited. Really excited. I think others will be just as excited to know about you. Your journey to get to here, the struggles you’ve had to overcome. Your story is worth telling, I really think so.”

“Are you sure?” comes the reply.

“Yes.”

“Thursday at eleven,” is all Waverly offers.

Back at the window, there’s a lingering echo of her father’s words. Specifically the two bets he placed before fucking off to whichever filly he will be spending time with over Christmas. He agreed to the horse; its price tag peanuts to a man who can spend millions on three luxury apartments in one afternoon. Said he would place a sizeable bet on her to win the charity race, so no pressure there. The second wager on table is larger, much larger than the one he intends to put on the race. It’s also one she cannot afford to lose. The gorgeous industrial loft apartment on York Way.

Their dinner at The Dorchester is where both bets were conceived. Whether her father wins the first bet will be down to how the new horse performs, her winning the second bet rests on how the new concept performs. It’s a bet she can’t afford to lose, spending most of the meal educating her father on the relationship between channel engagement and its ability to make money. By dessert he appeared to have got the gist of what she intends to do with the channel, how monetization of the channel works, how shifting the channel’s direction will raise the engagement rate.

“How will we know if this new direction is succeeding?” he had asked, having quickly polished off a miniscule portion of peach variation, topped with sorrel and voatsiperifery pepper.

She had paused to consider which percentage to mention. “Okay, my current engagement rate is close to 5.6%.” She had studied his face for a reaction but got none. “If I get this to six, it will open the door to lucrative brand deals, which opens the door to—”

He had thrown back an entirely different number. “Seven.”

“That will take time.”

“How long?”

Her father obviously wanted the thrill of the steal, his counter challenge designed to seek out her limits. “A year. Eighteen months.”

“Two.”

“Two years would work. Changing direction will—”

“Months.”

No way can she hit 7.00% in two months.

“Two months to get this channel to seven, and the York Way apartment is yours.”

She’ll not mention this to Waverly. Why would she? This is a deal with the devil she has for a father. His money, his time, now his apartments have to be won.

Chapter Text

The kissing mermaids line has Waverly thinking. Make that rethinking Nicole, who came with her to the pub, who sat with her friends and ate a plate of chips which would never be served in a Michelin restaurant. That smile of Nicole’s, as she dug into a mess of a meal, sitting in a puddle of vinegar. She didn’t leave any soggy bits, didn’t pull any faces while eating them. Perhaps one face, but that was after, when asked to sing. That was so mean of Chrissy, but so typical.

Getting the filming out of the way, Waverly decides, will be good. Will give her a chance to get the barge ready for Christmas and the Tenerife holiday. It’s a bit soon though, the filming, and if she’d had more say in the timing would have suggested a date in the New Year, end of January. Or wait for better weather, when the bulbs she’s planted begin to bloom, when she can put more books out on the roof of the barge, to make it more appealing, more welcoming. But then, that would push the filming back to March.

Not that she’s having second thoughts about agreeing. Nor was it the reason for asking again if this is what Nicole wants. More haste, less speed, that’s what Curtis would say. Which…okay…means the same thing. To her it means go fast, but go carefully. Has accepted she has to go carefully with a cane, so as not to slip, not slide on wet surfaces.

Wynonna checks in late Tuesday morning. Apparently, it was bang out of order not inviting her to the chippy dinner, which is ironic considering her big sister never thinks to include her in plans, never thought to invite her on the night out with Nicole. And according to Wynonna, she should also have been invited to Tenerife, so there’s no point asking to borrow bikinis. Agrees with her Nicole is rushing this. Offers to be a book buyer on Thursday, which Waverly declines, because Wynonna would do everything in her power to make her laugh. Worse blush.

“So, how did the dinner date go?” Wynonna asks, looping back to the topic of Monday evening.

“Good,” she replies. “She’s actually not as posh in person.”

“Oh, she’s posh,” her sister corrects. “Doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“She kind of does,” she fires back. “Her channel remember, can’t shut up about her lifestyle.”

“Fair,” Wynonna replies, but doesn’t follow this up, leaving a gap to be filled.

“What should I wear?” she asks, “on Thursday.” It’s been on her mind since naming the day and the time. Expects Nicole to turn up in something amazing, and leave her looking like a complete frump.

“You can borrow my leather jacket,” Wynonna suggests. “Might look big on you though. Whatever you do, don’t wear that puffy red thing.”

The leather jacket isn’t her style, doesn’t know what her style is. Is comfortable a style? Any outfit she chooses needs to be functional without being frumpy. “Will you come shopping with me later?”

Wynonna hums before answering. “What time? I have another party to crash at seven.”

“I can close early here. Three-ish?”

“You seen Nicole’s latest vid?” comes the reply.

She hasn’t. Is confused what this has to do with buying an outfit, unless Nicole’s giving fashion tips which need to be followed.

“Her girlfriend is in it. Shae Pressman, talking about what’s trending at the moment. Might be worth a look.”

The mention of a girlfriend has a strange effect on her insides, like a heavy stone being dropped into her stomach. Naturally she’s wondered who Nicole might be dating, will admit to having felt a tiny flutter around the heart region when Nicole showed up at the barge Monday evening. Which is understandable, because Nicole is attractive, good at emphasising everything she’s got, the hair, the legs.

“Shae’s with Hugo Cavendish,” Wynonna adds. There’s that tiny flutter again. “The book guy.”

Her sister says this in such a way that she should know this Hugo Cavendish. She doesn’t. Unless… “Wait, as in the publishers?”

“Indeedy.”

“So, Shae’s not actually with Nicole?” she qualifies.

“Duh,” Wynonna replies. “Unless they’re a thrupple. Oooh, now that could be interesting.”

Nicole doesn’t come across as someone who is into threesomes with anyone called Hugo. Quickly pushes that thought from her head. As far as she’s concerned, Nicole is into women and no one else. That’s it, not up for discussion. Whether she has a girlfriend, or doesn’t have a girlfriend, is academic. All she needs focus on is the filming.

A lone customer enters the barge saving her from further discussion about Nicole’s sexual preferences. Unlike most visitors the woman doesn’t head to any of the shelves to browse, is wearing high-heeled boots and what Waverly prays is fake fur. When she opens her mouth there’s something familiar about the voice, although Waverly struggles to place where she knows her.

The woman smiles as she stretches out a hand. “Mercedes.”

It takes several seconds before the name registers in her brain. “Mercedes!” She shakes the outstretched hand vigorously. “The wood burner is amazing. Thank you.”

Mercedes glances down at the black box, then raises the tote bag she has in her left hand. “A gift from Selfridges.” She winks as she offers it over. “Not really a gift, more of a lend.”

Waverly peers inside. “Decorations?” Looks up to find the woman studying the nearest shelf.

Mercedes chooses a book and opens the cover. Doesn’t bother to turn around as she speaks. “Nicole asked me to drop these off. Said the boat could do with cheering up.”

“My barge…” she replies, momentarily forgetting the favour done, “does not need cheering up.”

“I agree,” Mercedes replies, turning to face her with the book still in her hand. “I like what you’ve done here by the way. Very boho, very now. Festive deco would kill the energy of what you have going on here.”

Waverly hands the bag back without further comment.

“Sooo,” Mercedes purrs, “you and Nicole are an item.”

Her mouth opens to respond, except she’s lost for what to say.

“She’s a kitten. Completely loyal, to a fault.” Mercedes returns the book in her possession. “You’ve got a good one there, just don’t break her heart.”

Her lips part a little wider, but she’s been broadsided by this woman, literally blasted out of the water. If she could speak, the words would be delivered at full volume to this Mercedes, stipulating she does not need to be sold on Nicole. She is already sold. Wait…no, no no! Wrong words. Wrong words.

Mercedes leans forward and plants air kisses either side of her cheeks. Steps back and eyes her up and down. “I can see why she likes you, great jawline.”

“We are not dating!” The force of her words has Mercedes edging away, heavily pencilled eyebrows lifting. “I have no intention of dating Nicole,” she adds. Then stops to follow the woman’s gaze, which has landed on the wood burner. “Wait, did you fix that because you thought…”

It’s a relief when Mercedes shakes her head. “My bad,” the woman says. “I assumed you were…you know a couple.”

“We’re not,” she insists, feeling shitty for having shouted at the person who unfroze her sorry ass. “Look, I’m…thank you for…” She gestures at the wood burner, “for saving me.”

Mercedes smiles. It’s a genuine smile, which illuminates her entire face, and Waverly realises whatever this is, whatever miscommunication has occurred, it’s not this woman’s fault. Also realises she needs to dismount the high horse she’s prancing about on. She reaches for the tote bag. “These will look lovely on the barge.”

There’s a brief tug of war between them until Mercedes releases the tote into Waverly’s custody. With her freed hand Mercedes waves it around and says she really doesn’t need to tart the boat up. Waverly doesn’t correct Mercedes in calling the barge a boat. It’s a battle she’s already lost by being too quick to deny any feelings for Nicole. More haste less speed.

Later, while shopping with her sister, she casually drops Mercedes’ misunderstanding into the conversation. It’s rattled her she admits, has thrown something into the mix she hasn’t wanted to face since the accident. The ‘D’ word. Not with Nicole. Is not naïve enough to believe a glamour puss like Nicole would ever consider dating someone like her. Someone without a bulging bank balance, who needs a cane to walk.

Wynonna agrees. Not the cane part, the part about Nicole only wanting to film her not fuck her. It’s a welcome observation, a sobering statement, putting to rest any thought of anything happening between them. Mercedes is wrong about that.

“She’ll be in Monaco for Christmas,” her sister informs, “visiting her mother.”

“Her father was over here the weekend,” she replies. “Had business to attend to.”

“Parents don’t live together,” Wynonna adds. “Bit like Gus and Curtis.”

“Do we have property in Monaco?” Waverly teases.

“Three,” Wynonna fires back. “No, Nicole’s dad moves around a lot.”

She throws her sister a look.

“Stays with his…” Wynonna glances from side to side then air quotes the last part. “Girlfriends. In different apartments.”

“Oh.”

“Nicole’s staying in one of…” Wynonna raises her fingers again to air quote, “his apartments.”

“One?”

“Don’t ask me how many because I don’t know.”

She thinks about her beloved Matilda. How moving to the narrowboat was a step up from the damp one-bed she rented when trying to make it as a dancer, when money was tighter than a rat’s ass. Remembers the pain of having to give up that dream, the pleasure of long chats chewing the fat with Curtis, the pain of having to remove his belongings from Matilda after he died. Gus helped, a little, took what she wanted to remember him by, told her to get rid of the rest. There’s a box under her bed of his journals, old photographs, souvenir programmes from classical concerts, his one and only tie. Can still smell his aftershave on it.

Their shopping spree a success, a functional outfit in the bag, she says goodbye to her sister at Oxford Circus and boards a train to Kings Cross. It’s packed with commuters who seem oblivious to her cane and her bags. No one bothers to offer her a seat, not that she wants special treatment, choosing to get off at Euston, one stop before hers. It’s dark, it’s started snowing, and she has a thirty-minute walk ahead. Wishes she was wearing her red puffer coat, earmuffs, gloves.

People pass, heads down, collars up against a brutal evening. Her bare hands sting with every wet snowflake to find them. Common sense would tell her she should have taken a taxi from Euston Station. Why didn’t she take a taxi?

At the sweeping entrance leading to the St Pancras hotel she is cut off by one. Finds herself wishing to be inside and warm. Looks ahead to where she must go, along Euston Road to Kings Cross Station, a left onto York Way to the bridge, down the steps to the towpath and back to her beloved Matilda. Will have to get the narrowboat’s wood burner going before she can feel her fingers again.

“Waves?”

The voice is immediately recognisable. She turns. “Hey!”

“What are you doing out?” Nicole asks.

Her nose is running, lifts a frozen finger to wipe it before answering. “Could say the same about you.”

“Seriously, it’s freezing. You shouldn’t be out in this.”

She doesn’t know how to respond. Nicole is right, it’s freezing. She’s tired, she’s cold, is low on supplies, which means it might be baked beans on toast for tea.

“Come in and warm up,” Nicole offers.

She shakes her head.

Nicole reaches for the bags in her hand. “Warm up, then I’ll ring for a taxi.”

There’s that smile again. The smile which gets Nicole everything she wants.

Chapter Text

The spooky thing is, Waverly had been on her mind seconds before their paths crossed. Brought on by snowflakes beating hard against the taxi window and whether the wood burner is doing its job. There hasn’t been an opportunity to see inside Matilda. Is the heating on that boat as bad? Since parting the day before, she's wanted to text Waverly. Ask the best month for sales? A legitimate question, one she can then use to ask about Matilda's heating situation.

She’s spent the day in the warmth interviewing Paul, owner of Hoxton Street Monster Supplies. Has returned with a branded tote containing an assortment of goodies for sale in his shop. Opted for the werewolf biscuits, a jar of guts and garlic chutney, and a bottle of bloody ketchup. Refused a tin of the heebie-jeebies because they are fizzy gummy spiders and she can’t stand spiders. Couldn’t bring herself to even touch the impacted earwax fudge bar, or the slimy seasonal bogey bonbons. Her head is buzzing with ideas for the barge, after viewing Paul’s marketing efforts. From the easy-to-use website to short stories commissioned from famous authors sold with some of the shop’s sweets. It’s clever, it’s fun, and they’re the sort of innovative ideas which could easily be adapted to the barge. Why is she constantly thinking about the barge?

Waverly’s hand is icy to the touch as she relieves it of shopping bags. It’s a shock, one that has her insisting Waverly must come inside and get warm. Spur of the moment, not something that’s been thought through, until they reach the hotel lobby and she nods at the doorman who nods back.

“Evening ma’am,” he says, lifting a gloved hand to his top hat. “I believe there’s post for you.”

“Thanks Cooper,” she replies as she ushers Waverly towards the elevator.

Waverly alternates her gaze between them, waits until the elevator doors are closed before speaking. “You’re staying here?”

“Not for much longer,” she replies as they move higher.

“Your dad owns a hotel room?” Waverly asks, clearly confused.

“Not exactly. There are private apartments above the hotel.” The elevator doors open onto a long, brightly lit corridor, complete with sumptuous mushroom-coloured carpet. “We can use the hotel’s facilities which is handy.”

“Must be,” Waverly replies, looking lost.

“This way.”

She leads them to a white door at the far end of the corridor, with No. 1 in black beneath a spyhole. Agrees someone who hasn’t been to the apartment before could easily mistake it for a hotel room. In fact the corridor looks much like any floor in any luxury hotel. Her thumb presses against the pad and there’s a satisfying click. She pushes open the door and stands back to allow Waverly to enter first. Her guest takes no more than two steps, stops and swears loudly.

“Yeah, it’s a bit much when you first see it,” she says, closing the door behind them. “My father’s into oriental pieces which are hideous.”

“This is your place?” Waverly hasn’t moved. “All of this.”

“There’s more upstairs,” she replies, which has Waverly giggling. “I think the phrase you’re looking for is OTT.”

Waverly moves two more steps and stops. “I think the phrase I’m looking for is what the fudge.”

On their right is a tall crimson cabinet, which is decorated with scenes of fishing boats and lotus trees picked out in ivory. According to her father, he got it for a steal at an auction in Singapore, years before she was born. It had been a prized possession of Emperor Qianlong and is everything that is wrong about this apartment. Far too large, far too ornate, far too old, for Nicole’s tastes. As is the solid, dark wood couch opposite.

Waverly’s attention falls on the open door at the end of the hallway. “Tell me that’s not a standalone bath.”

“It’s not a standalone bath,” she replies. “Want to see.”

She follows Waverly as she heads in the direction of the bathroom, walking cane clacking against the marble tiles. Stands behind her in the doorway and watches as Waverly runs a hand over the roll top of the claw foot bath. Nicole admits to it being too short for her legs, says she prefers the bath in her own ensuite, another reason why she finds this apartment not to her liking. Waverly remains quiet as she speaks, a seriousness to her expression which has Nicole overcompensating to justify why she’s not a spoilt little brat, who has everything, but appreciates nothing.

A tour of the bedrooms is skipped as Waverly heads for the stairs, stops and looks up. Nicole thinks it’s to take in the crystal chandelier which hangs in the space between three flights of stairs. Holds back information about how tedious it is to have such a monstrous light fitting cleaned once a year, also holds back the monstrous price which comes with that job. The same price as her new horse. Only when Waverly stares down at her boots does she realise forty steps for her is not the same as forty steps for Waverly. Her mother hates these stairs too.

“I’d better take them off,” Waverly says pointing at her footwear. She returns to the dark wood couch and sits, leans over and unzips each side without bending her left leg, a feat Nicole isn’t sure she could do. Boots removed, Waverly limps to the stairs and begins the climb, keeping her cane clear of the cream carpet. An elevator in the apartment would have made this so much easier for her mother, and for Waverly. Her father has the money, something about this being a listed property means it can’t be accommodated. He would have known this when he bought the apartment, known how awkward it would be for her mother. Perhaps that’s the reason why it hasn’t been lived in until she rocked up.

There’s another laugh from Waverly when she reaches the main living area. “This is insane,” she says, as she takes in the eclectic mix of furniture, and the sheer expanse of the space. Tilts her head back to stare up at solid timber beams supporting the cavernous ceiling. “Absolutely insane.”

Nicole places the bags she’s still carrying on the nearest table. “Would you like a drink?” she offers. “Scotch, gin, name your poison.”

“Tea?”

“Tea it is. Take your coat off and find a seat.”

Waverly’s back to laughing. “Not many to choose from,” she teases. Looks to her right and points. “A baby grand.” Moves towards it. “You play?”

“Nope.”

“May I?”

Waverly lifts the lid and it’s her turn to ask if she plays.

“Only chopsticks,” she replies as she removes her coat, rests her walking cane against the wall and blows on her fingers. “So cold.” Places them on keys and plays the chords to a tune she must know by memory. “Sorry, my fingers are frozen.”

Without thinking she takes Waverly’s hands and holds them between hers. “They’re like ice.” Pulls her close and shoves them into her pockets.

And there they stand, Nicole looking down as Waverly looks up. Both burst out laughing. Waverly steps back. “Well, that was not awkward in the slightest.”

“I think I have heat pockets somewhere,” Nicole offers, “unless you want to put those hands of yours back in these pockets of mine.” She throws Waverly a flirty wink.

“I’m good,” Waverly says, a new lightness to her voice, an ease which hadn’t been there before. Turns and sits to play the chords of a song Nicole thinks she recognises.

“Is that?”

“Abba.”

“The first one you sang. Take a chance on me.”

Waverly nods and resumes playing, her voice carrying above the tune. And Nicole forgets about the heat pockets and the teabags, lets her finish before clapping. It’s odd because the only person she remembers playing the piano is her mother, the weekend they were here to see the show, which they didn’t see, because she thought her parents were going to leave and not return.

“Tell me that isn’t a real moped,” Waverly says pointing to the pink Vespa in the corner.

“It’s not a real moped.”

“Liar,” Waverly replies, easing herself from the piano stool and limping over to the real moped. Rests a hand on the throttle and makes a ‘vroom, vroom’ sound.

Nicole has no idea why her father wanted it there. Why is this the first time in years she’s thought about him putting her on the moped? That same weekend, when he told her she could ride it when her legs were long enough to reach the ground. She must have been no more than five, short legs dangling, desperate to be taller, to take the moped out and explore.

Waverly shivers and Nicole remembers the tea. Is followed by her to the kitchen behind the bar where the hunt begins for teabags. Finds only empty cupboards and is forced to hunt in the main kitchen on the mezzanine level, where she finally locates a box of peppermint ones. Two years out of date. All the while she has Waverly as a companion, who watches without comment, who has no problem with stale teabags. Can’t imagine any of her friends being as accommodating. Imagines the scene if she offered Shae old teabags? Although she’s never seen Shae drink anything but Moet or Perrier.

There’s a standoff when she insists they order food. Waverly is adamant she doesn’t want to impose, almost has her coat back on in defiance when Nicole explains she hasn’t eaten all day and doesn’t want to eat alone. It's a lie, but wants to enjoy Waverly’s company a little longer. Can’t bear the thought of her returning to Matilda alone, especially with the weather so bad.

And so begins the great debate over what to have. Nicole eventually gets her way for them to order off the hotel’s menu. The cashew hummus and seeded crackers for starters, the heritage beetroot salad, the St Pancras club sandwich and Koffman’s fries, and the pear and orange mille-feuille with walnut ice cream for dessert. Waverly orders a steaming bowl of vegan tomato soup and crusty bread, no butter.

Then an argument over who pays until Nicole convinces Waverly it’s her turn. “There’s a snug downstairs,” she offers. “It’s warmer than up here.”

Waverly yawns. “Sorry, sorry, not you. I think I overdid it with Wynonna. Her idea of shopping is a sprint. I think she forgets sometimes…”

“About…” Nicole glances down.

“A car accident,” she replies.

“Your sister told me.”

A wary look enters Waverly’s eyes.

“Can I show you something.” She leads Waverly back downstairs to the snug where there are photos of her family. None of her parents together. The only photos of them together are in Monaco, when they were much younger. And in love.

Waverly stands in front of the one with her mother and smiles.

“She’s had a walking cane for years,” Nicole explains. “A riding accident and botched surgery. And yes, she’s not happy with me entering the charity race. I think that’s why…”

Waverly turns to her with a questioning look.

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

She throws back a smile.

Waverly studies her face. “Ah, I see it, that smile of yours. Only, you can’t fool me Nicole Haught, so you’d better tell me.”

It’s a side of Waverly she hasn’t seen before. If anyone else had said this, Nicole is sure she would have continued to smile, to dodge, to deflect. “He’s…my father supposedly has put a bet on the race,” she replies. “I’m guessing he’ll place another bet on one of the other riders. He hates to lose.”

Waverly returns a look full of understanding.

“It’s fine.” There’s a rush of unexpected emotion, in front of someone she’s not yet certain is a friend. “I’ll make sure I win. If he bets against me that’s his loss.”

“I’ll put a bet on you,” Waverly replies. “To win.”

Chapter Text

The tomato soup is to die for. So is the crusty bread, which has Waverly forget her manners and repeatedly dunk chunks into the thick red liquid. Leans back when she is done, closes her eyes and licks her lips. “Best soup ever,” she says dreamily, every muscle in her body the most relaxed it’s been in ages. “Sooo good.”

One eye opens to peek at Nicole, who is squinting at the label of a bottle.

“Got this today,” Nicole explains as she twists off the silver top, “from Paul.” Turns the bottle upside down and begins thumping its bottom. The action produces a torrent of dark red sauce which lands on her fries. “Oops!”

Waverly laughs.

The plate is offered to her. “Help yourself.”

“What is that?” She points to the mess Nicole’s made.

“Apparently, it’s monster ketchup.”

“Is it vegan?”

Nicole studies the label again. “Yep.”

She pulls a fry from the murderous mess, sits up and sucks red droplets. “God that’s good.”

Nicole does the same. “Hell that’s hot.”

There’s an easiness to this arrangement, sitting here in Nicole’s snug. She yawns again and apologises again, doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to stay and take up Nicole’s evening. Says as much as she thanks her for the delicious soup and shuffles to the edge of the most comfortable couch she’s ever sat on. There’s a question on her mind, one she is reluctant to mention having been rescued like the little match girl. Goes ahead anyway.

“Those decorations,” she says, standing. “Thank you by the way.” Glances down to where Nicole is using the edge of her plate to remove excess fiery ketchup from a fry. “Just wondering why you sent them.”

Nicole looks at her like she’s mad.

“The decorations…the ones Mercedes dropped off...”

Nicole continues to look at her like she’s speaking a different language.

“…to the barge. Earlier today. She said you thought it could do with cheering up.”

“Mercedes was at the barge?”

“You didn’t send her?”

Nicole rests the cleaned fry on the side of her plate. “Why would I send her?”

“The Selfridges decorations?” She feels she’s explained enough for Nicole to come clean and admit she did in fact send Mercedes to spruce up the barge in time for filming. “It’s very thoughtful. And yes, I’ll put them up before Thursday. They’ll be great.”

Nicole leans forward to rest the plate on the low table and stands to face her. “Mercedes has no right telling you what to do with your barge.” There’s genuine annoyance in those words. “It’s yours. If you want to decorate it you can, but not because Mercedes thinks it should be decorated.”

Something has been lost. The connection they had going on here has soured, to the point where she’s no longer sure if she can move onto what she really wants to mention, the part about Mercedes assuming they are dating. Which they’re not obviously, although looking at Nicole dressed in joggers and a baggy hoody it could almost be true what Mercedes thinks.

Almost, but sadly not, and never will be. Which is a shame, because if Nicole really is a kitten, and loyal to a fault, those are qualities to be desired, to be on the lookout for in someone who is dating material. But there’s the money part, the humongous apartment part, with the empty cupboards and having to order expensive food from a restaurant two, maybe three floors below when she has not one but two kitchens. That’s indulgent, that’s wasteful, demonstrates how different their lives are.

“I’d better go,” she says as she looks around for where she left her cane.

There is real panic in those soft eyes. “Waves, it’s still snowing outside. Matilda will be freezing and I have three beds.”

That last part sends another broadside across her bow. There’s words inside her head, lots of words, but for the life of her they’re not coming out. Instead there’s a babbling sound as her lips flap and her heart flutters. “B-bed?” she manages to get out after a struggle.

Nicole’s smile has appeared and it’s just as disarming. “I am offering you one of my beds for the night. Tomorrow we’ll go check on the barge, tonight you stay here.”

“I-I really…thank you, but—”

“Why not?”

There’s a multitude of reasons why not. Because Nicole’s too attractive, because she doesn’t want to be obligated, because this is going in a direction which scares the shit out of her. Take your pick.

“If you go then I’ll have to go with you. Which is crazy in this weather. Might not even get a taxi.”

“I’ll walk,” she replies. Because walking out in a blizzard is less complicated than staying the night in Nicole’s fabulous apartment.

Nicole is laughing.

She’s panicking.

“Okay, if you want to walk home go ahead...”

Waverly appreciates how easy it would be to say yes to Nicole’s generous offer. To save herself having to trudge back to Matilda, which will be dark and cold, and dismal after this palace. Appreciates how stubborn she’s being, but it’s a corner she has backed herself into, one she could get herself out of if she got down of that prancing high horse, and let someone take care of her for one goddamn time in her life. But no, oh no, that would be a little too far for this little lady.

“…but I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t!”

Nicole digs both hands into the front pocket of her hoodie.

“I don’t need a minder. I’m capable of getting myself home.”

“You are,” Nicole replies, “but I’m not capable of letting you go out in weather like this when I have plenty of room here.”

“No food though,” she throws back. Which is mean, as mean as something Chrissy might say.

“What is the problem?” Nicole persists.

“There’s no problem. I just don’t…” She’s ruining the evening, is spitting on Nicole’s hospitality, but her horse is backed into that corner, and she cannot bring herself to trot it away from the walls.

“Waves, it’s just one night. Look, I understand we hardly know each other, but I’ll be worried sick if you’re out there on your own and I’m here. So, for the sake of my health will you please stay. Please, please, please, ple—”

“Okay, okay, one night.” It’s said in such a way that gives her some control over the situation. Except, now she feels shitty, enough to have to explain why she’s reluctant, and why she appreciates the generosity being shown. Sits back down on the super-comfy couch and begins picking at her nails. “I’m not used to this.” Looks up at Nicole who towers over her. “To people caring.”

Eeks, that piece of information should have stayed inside her head. Wishes she’d stopped before dumping that emotional suitcase on Nicole's very expensive doorstep. Nicole returns to her spot the other end of the couch, but says nothing. Simply waits for her to continue. In itself, that’s her most generous quality. Listening, as though she means something to Nicole, like her words mean something.

Can she take another tiny step towards this woman? That’s a question, a vital question, which only she can answer. Only one way to find out. She can’t look at her, can’t bring herself to be distracted, chooses instead to focus on the crime scene on Nicole’s plate. “Trust is hard.”

“Same,” Nicole replies.

It has her looking up. It has her seeing the honesty in those eyes. “Really?”

“I have to be ruthless who I let into my life,” Nicole explains. “There are far too many who see me as a meal ticket instead of a person. I’ve had to be very selective who comes here and sees this place, because I’m never sure after that if they want to be with me, or they want to be me.”

“Oh Nicole, that’s…”

“I’ve had friends who change once they realise what’s on offer.”

“Aren’t they rich too?” she replies. Mercedes is right, Nicole is a kitten.

“The wealthier ones are the worst.” Nicole shifts on the couch to bring one leg up, leans an arm over the back. “They know what it’s like to be used, so they know how to exploit someone in the same boat.”

“Barge,” she teases.

Nicole grins. “Barge.”

“I had no idea. I genuinely had no idea.”

“Too many want to be me. They want all this without ever thinking what it’s like to live like this.” She huffs softly then continues. “Yes, yes, I know the irony of having a lifestyle channel dedicated to me.”

She remains silent, offering Nicole the same courtesy she’s been shown.

“It’s why I want to go in a new direction. I don’t want to be known for what I bring to the table.”

It’s Waverly’s turn to grin.

Nicole mouths the word ‘what’.

She points to the overly hot ketchup which has destroyed Nicole’s fries.

Nicole laughs. “You’re so like your sister.”

“We Earps take the piss as well as the biscuit.”

Nicole’s head tilts.

“That sounded way better in my head.” She shuffles around to almost mirror Nicole’s casual posture, but is unable to bring her left leg up underneath her body. “How will the channel’s new direction help?”

Nicole throws her an approving look. “I’m hoping it will give others the chance to reach a wider audience. After that it’s down to them.”

Sits up straight, with a better understanding of what Nicole intends for their episode. “I’ve let things slide. Without Curtis it just felt too much.” She’s back to staring at the murdered fries. “I think it’s why Jez didn’t take the job in America. I think he could see me struggling. Am I being selfish?”

“No, no, not selfish.” Nicole’s body straightens, a serious expression on her face. “What you have is amazing, it really is. It doesn’t need to be better, it just needs...” The hesitation has Waverly asking what it needs. Nicole’s features soften which has her smiling, for what reason she hasn’t a clue. “Okay, here’s the thing,” Nicole adds, “I see potential. I also see someone who also sees that potential.”

Waverly reaches for a limp fry still slathered in killer ketchup. Sucks it then consumes the thin slice of potato. “Go on.”

Nicole laughs. “Wow, you’re hard work.”

She salutes in agreement.

“You know the boat can…barge…you know the barge can do so much more.” Nicole pauses as she reaches for another fry. “When I read your answers to my questions, I kept thinking what’s holding you back?”

She doesn’t want to be analysed, doesn’t want Nicole to tell her what’s holding her back. Isn’t sure where this is going, although she’s curious to know what Nicole thinks of her. Nicole’s clearly spent a lot of time thinking about her that’s for sure.

“Something your sister said,” Nicole continues. “About Curtis giving you the barge for protection.”

Those words put a pinprick in the pain-free bubble she’s fighting to keep inflated.

“I didn’t understand, not until you told me about being scared of the barge being too successful.”

Here too she leaves a gap for Nicole to finish. Hears the words of a song inside her head…singing my life with his words. Killing me softly with his song…killing me softly…

Waverly knows it’s rare to meet someone who looks beyond the cane. Rare for someone, other than Wynonna, to want more for her than what she has accepted for herself. Jeremy perhaps, but he’s happy to let her drift along, with few customers in winter, with sufficient customers in summer to keep the business afloat. It’s survival mode, she knows this, has known this since the first day she took possession of the keys to The Waverly and to Matilda.

“Stop me if I’m going too far,” Nicole offers.

She shakes her head. “Not far enough.” And she means it.

Chapter Text

Unlike her two kitchens, the bedroom next to the snug is stocked with toiletries. Tells Waverly if she needs anything to simply ask, which leads to more teasing about empty cupboards. It’s not like she entertains all the time, and needs to have a fully loaded fridge. There’s room service 24/7 from the hotel, which saves from having to keep track of how long milk lasts. Rarely drinks tea, prefers someone else to make her morning coffee. Less mess. Less to clean up afterwards.

Waverly appears pleased with the bed. Bounces on one side and pats a pillow. “I’ll take it,” she informs followed by a cheeky wink. “Have my bags brought up.”

She plays along by making a small bow. “Certainly ma’am. I’ll iron a newspaper for you. The Times?”

Waverly crinkles her nose. “Not that horrid rag! The Guardian if you please, and not too many creases.”

It’s funny, it’s light-hearted, and Waverly’s giggle is disarming. This was the right thing to do; Nicole knows it in her heart. If she let Waverly walk back to the barge, alone, it would ruin their rapport during filming. Not that she would have let her walk home alone, would have been true to her word about going with her. Would have discreetly assessed Matilda’s heating, assessed whether that needs an upgrade as well. Which has her curious what the hell Mercedes was doing snooping around the barge. What’s with the decorations?

Back in the snug they settle on a movie, the first thing Waverly hasn’t fought her on. She is a free spirit this one, just like her sister, no pretence, with an appetite not for her wealth but to be in her company. Okay, she had to fight for Waverly to remain in her company, which is a good sign.

There’s work to do, editing the interview from earlier, getting it ready so it can be aired before Christmas. But this, chilling with Netflix, is preferrable to hours in front of a computer screen. The episode featuring Hoxton Monster Supplies is now scheduled for the week after Waverly’s, so there’s time. She’s satisfied with how it went, how much she learned from the owner, how easy it was to get him to open up about the why and the how of his unique selling proposition. Is more confident Waverly will open up in front of the camera on Thursday.

More of themselves is withheld while they watch the film, other than Waverly has a weird obsession with war films, and Brad Pitt apparently. Nicole chooses not to share her love of classical music, or show Waverly her collection of concert programmes. That’s for another day. As is Waverly’s story of the accident, and her dancing career before the accident. Senses Waverly isn't ready to tell someone she hardly knows what took her dream. Perhaps she’ll never get to hear that story.

The movie over, Waverly asks for a spare t-shirt to wear, limps behind her to the bedroom. “I should have known,” she says, pointing to the four-poster bed.

“Perks of the job ma’am,” she throws back, eliciting another gorgeous giggle.

The oversized bed comes in useful as she lays out a selection of shirts and asks Waverly to choose. Asks if she needs a glass of water, leads them back to the guest room where Waverly thanks her again, whatever number of times this is. It’s no big deal, because she’s glad of the company, has already made a mental note to order a grocery delivery for the morning.

Back in her big bedroom, sat at the desk facing out onto Euston Road, wave after wave of snowflakes hammer against the window to be let in. It’s miserable out, truly miserable, but they are safe and warm tonight, and she will have stocked cupboards tomorrow. This is a challenge she wants to win, not because of any bet apart from with herself, sets about trying to order online. Gives up as she can’t be bothered scrolling through hundreds of pages of products, and resorts to ringing the hotel’s concierge to call over a list of what she wants. It’s a long list, without a clue where these items will be purchased so late at night, or how the hotel will get them to her by 6.00am the following morning. An arbitrary time, but one she calculates will allow her to stock the shelves before Waverly wakes up.

Her phone buzzes at 5.55am to advise the delivery will be with her shortly. Opens the apartment door and is greeted by a blast of chilly air and a porter with her purchases. His offer to help put the items away is accepted, the pair making quick work of the seven bags of shopping. Gives the guy a tip and doesn’t ask the cost of the order, doesn’t need to because it will go on her father’s bill.

Sets about making herself a coffee. Or rather, tries and fails to make herself a coffee in the swanky machine which has sat idle for two years. Can’t find the instruction manual and opts for boiling water in the kettle. Can’t find the teabags. Curses at having forgotten to buy teabags. And milk, but then Waverly wouldn’t drink milk. Rings the restaurant and orders her usual cortado and asks if they can throw in a selection of individually wrapped teabags with it. Peppermint if available.

Another text arrives ten minutes later to say her order is on its way. This shelf stocking exercise is a fudge, the best she do under the circumstances. The morning’s riding session is cancelled because of the weather, and she’s pushed back her meeting with Xavier till early afternoon. The sides of Euston Road are white, dotted with footprints. Can’t imagine what it must be like to wake up on a boat on Regent’s Canal to a carpet of white. Magical, but cold, very cold.

Back at her desk she begins editing the monster shop episode, smiles at a memory of the mess she made with the ketchup the night before. A knock on the door has her up and greeting Waverly who looks a little too sexy in that shirt and ruffled hair.

“I didn’t get my morning paper,” she complains, which throws Nicole before she gets the joke.

“My apologies ma’am,” she replies bowing. “I have breakfast if that will suffice.”

“You mean the hotel downstairs has breakfast.”

She winks. “Actually you’re wrong. It’s in the kitchen.”

Waverly gives her a look to say she’ll believe that when she sees the evidence. Laughs when Nicole opens the first cupboard, which is magically full.

“We have vegan in here,” Nicole explains, “and non-vegan in here,” opening a second cupboard.

“I’m not going to ask how you did this,” Waverly replies. “But thank you.”

Taking care of friends is what she does. True friends, not friends out to ride on the back of her fortune. After last night, Waverly has joined her true friendship list, hopes to stay in contact with her after filming, but doesn’t want to push it. Is she attracted to her? In that shirt and with that bed hair. A small firecracker, with a great jawline, and a dirty laugh which is too funny for words, who can sing like an angel, and curse like a demon.

In borrowed ski gloves complete with a woolly hat, Waverly looks better dressed for winter than the evening before. The snow has stopped, but in its place are slippery streets, the pair taking their time to navigate around slushy puddles and icy patches on the pavement. Others have ventured out, just as cocooned against the foul conditions, some dragging suitcases behind them, tiny wheels spraying up dirty water as they trudge between Euston Station and Kings Cross. There are always people wheeling cases on Euston Road, travellers on their way to another part of the country, or to another country, with tickets for the train which goes under the sea.

Matilda is like an ice box when they enter. Nicole can feel it through her super-insulated jacket and on her thighs. Waverly can’t live like this can she?

“I’ll make us some tea,” Waverly offers, but finds the cold-water pipe is frozen.

“I can order us drinks,” Nicole teases.

Waverly looks crestfallen.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay.” She looks at the meagre wood burner in the corner by the door. “Show me how to get this started.”

Together they feed thin sticks of wood into its mouth, Nicole standing back as Waverly sets them alight and fans the flames. Soon the icy edge to the air is gone and they are enjoying the warmth. It takes an hour for the pipe to unfreeze, for Waverly to boil water, for them to sit and chat about Thursday’s filming.

“My assistant will be behind the camera,” she explains having consumed one too many hobnob biscuits. “Rosita will be here an hour beforehand to set everything up on the barge.”

“At eleven?” Waverly checks.

“No, um…I was hoping she could be here for ten.” Pauses then nods. “Eleven’s probably better.” Stares briefly at the still water through one of Matilda’s round windows. “Unless the weather is like this. Then we’ll reschedule.”

Waverly hugs her wild berries tea without comment.

“It shouldn’t take more than an hour from start to finish.”

“An hour,” Waverly repeats, as though setting a mental clock. “That’s not much, to get it all done.”

“I have most of your answers already,” she replies, “so it’ll just be those questions when we film.”

“What happens after that?” Waverly asks.

“I’ll edit and send you a copy, so you can give the go ahead if you’re happy.”

Waverly nods, follows it with a smile, although there’s a sadness behind that smile. “And after that?”

“After that?” It takes a moment for Waverly’s question to fully sink in. “After that...I guess that’s it. It’s down to you; well it’s down to how the audience engages with the episode. I've a good feeling about this, so I’m confident the audience will love it.” She offers her own smile, longing behind that one. “It should give a boost to your Christmas sales.”

Silence falls between them, enough to be able to hear a horn honking in the distance, a lone bird calling from the canal. Thursday won’t be the last time they see each other, because Waverly is now a true friend. Throws out the suggestion they meet a few days after the episode airs to assess its impact on book sales.

“I’d like that,” Waverly says.

“I’d like that too,” Nicole replies.

Chapter Text

No sooner has Nicole left when Waverly is on the phone to her sister. Shamelessly bragging about how she is the one who got to see inside the palatial apartment. “Oh my God, it’s huge, like huge huge.” It seems insufficient to call the place huge. Vast, immense, even gargantuan would better describe where Nicole lives.

“So, it’s big,” Wynonna throws back.

“Big enough to have a motorcycle in it.”

“Doesn’t come with allocated parking then?”

She laughs at her sister’s witty observation, then stops laughing. “Ooh, good point. Maybe that’s why they have to keep the bike in the living room. And a baby grand piano. And a—”

“Hold on,” Wynonna interrupts, “is this an apartment or a storage unit?”

“Definitely an apartment,” she replies. “Two kitchens, nothing in them though. Then they were full…in the morning. Well, two cupboards were, Nicole filled them, no idea how, guessing she must have popped out—”

“Morning?” Wynonna interrupts again. “I thought you said you went there after meeting me.”

“I did, I stayed.”

“Err…stayed?”

She pauses to slow her breathing and her thoughts. “No, not like that. She wouldn’t let me leave. I wanted to but she didn’t want me coming back here, which was just as well because the pipes were frozen. Really should get them insulated at some point.”

“You stayed?” Wynonna repeats. “Nicole forced you to stay, at gun point.”

“At soup point,” she replies. “The best ever, tomato obviously, has to be tomato. With basil, and crusty bread, freshly made, still warm. Nicole made a mess of her fries with hot sauce from Paul, too hot for her but I thought it was just right. Paul owns a shop in Hoxton which sells—”

“Back up there cowboy,” Wynonna says, cutting across her stream of consciousness. “You stayed all night in Nicole’s apartment. There’d better be photos.”

Her sister’s request hits a nerve. “Why would I take photos?”

“Because I would. Tell me you got one photo.”

Something about where this conversation is headed has Waverly withholding more information. Decides not to reveal how she had to borrow one of Nicole’s t-shirts which smelled of vanilla dipped donuts. Also decides not to reveal how Nicole went above and beyond to stock the cupboards specifically with vegan treats for her to enjoy in the morning. Or, how Nicole insisted she take a bag of those goodies when they returned to Matilda.

Wynonna continues to apply pressure about this ‘staying the night’ arrangement. Gives up and reveals a juicy piece of gossip of her own, that Nicole is in fact very much single, hasn’t dated anyone in over a year. It sets off a tingly sensation in Waverly’s tummy, a fizzy feeling which is immediately relabelled hunger. Possibly tiredness.

She makes an excuse that a customer is waiting, to deflect from further interrogation. A half lie, since she needs to get the barge ready for tomorrow’s filming, and what little trade she will do today. The towpath is deserted, the only footprints those of Nicole and her own, and a solo bird in search of sustenance. Returns to Matilda to retrieve the stale end of a loaf of bread which would have been last night’s tea, and breaks it into tiny pieces. Sprinkles the meagre offering across the white carpet covering the towpath and opens up the barge. Fudge, it's freezing.

It's the same bone-deep rawness she had to endure before Mercedes replaced the wood burner. Still in borrowed ski gloves, she makes quick work of feeding the new one and getting it going. There’s a lot to do if the barge is to be presentable for the big interview tomorrow. The shelves will need to be sorted in such a way as to showcase her best stock. Jeremy’s early Christmas gift will be placed on the table in the centre, she decides, as she locates the bag of decorations from Selfridges.

An hour later, decorations still in the bag, she’s toasty in front of the glowing logs. Knee deep in a whodunnit and desperate to know if the babysitter is the real culprit, or is being framed. She reaches a cliffhanger just as a woman enters, looks up, nods and returns to the page. It can’t be the babysitter, can it?

“Hi,” the woman says hanging by the entrance. “It’s Waverly isn’t it?”

She looks up again, torn between two worlds. Makes a mental note of the page number, because only a heathen would crease the corner, places the novel down and reaches for her cane. Catches the woman’s eyes following her movements.

“I’m Ros. Nicky’s assistant? We’re filming here tomorrow. I thought I’d drop by and introduce myself.”

“Ros!” she replies, faking delight as she stands. Nicole’s assistant is gorgeous, as Shae is gorgeous as everyone in Nicole’s life is gorgeous. “Yes, the filming, tomorrow.”

“I’m just scoping out the shoot,” Rosita explains, “walking through the route Nicky will take to get here.” The woman casts a lazy gaze over the barge and points to the high-backed armchair nearest the wood burner, the one Waverly’s just vacated. “It would work if you were seated in that when Nicky enters.” She makes a square window with fingers and thumbs to look through. “Nicky will enter, and you will look over at her and introduce this place. You know, like, hi…welcome to whatever it’s called. Yes, yes, that would definitely work. Nicky will introduce herself and then…”

Rosita moves towards the bookshelf on Waverly’s left and promptly starts rearranging the display. Pulls out book after book and discards them on the floor. Waverly is forced to watch the growing pile, eyes narrowed at the unfolding horror, sorely tempted to use her walking cane and hit Rosita square across the back to bring this abuse to an end. It won’t be the babysitter in this version of whodunnit, it will be the seriously pissed off bookseller who clubs a camera woman to death.

Rosita steps back and admires her handiwork. “Perfect.”

Waverly uses the end of her stick to stab at the mound of books. “What do I do with these?”

“Anywhere but here,” Rosita replies. “I’ll zoom in on these shelves at the beginning, then pan over to you. That way we introduce the concept going on here. You know, set the scene without boring the audience.”

Rosita might be gorgeous, but this is fighting talk. If there's a hill she has to die on these books are it. “I like the shelves as they were.”

“Trust me on this,” Ros insists, as cocky as a cocky person who has no appreciation for literature, or tidy book displays. “Can you sit in the armchair again so I can get a visual of you and the books?”

She stands her ground. “I like the shelves as they were.”

Rosita’s smile disappears. “You want those…” She points to the books by her feet. “You want me to put them all back?”

She nods.

The woman’s expression turns stoney as she scoops up the first handful, which she reinserts in haphazard fashion without saying a word. It’s painful to watch, more so with every word not spoken between them. Waverly’s right eyelid twitches, realising it would have been a million times less awkward if she had simply left the books on the floor. Except, it’s too late to tell this woman to stop doing what she’s doing.

The task completed, Rosita wastes no time in leaving where she evidently is not welcome. Wishes Waverly a great day and scoots her perfect ass off the barge. The new silence following her departure is even more jarring, Waverly’s heart thumping as she sits and waits for a call from Nicole to say filming is cancelled. Not that she’s catastrophising, but how can they do this after making it clear to Rosita her shelf shuffle is shit.

Twenty minutes turn into forty minutes, turn into an afternoon of wasted opportunity to prepare. The novel she’d been so engrossed in lays untouched as she stares despondently at the messed-up shelves. Would it have been so bad to have taken Rosita’s direction on their rearrangement? She guesses not. Rosita was doing her job, may actually have a better eye for this than she has when it comes to the camera. What really rankles is Rosita not asking if she could. If only Rosita had asked her first. Bullshit, asking or not asking isn’t the problem.

Procrastination is something which flutters around her head most days. Settles on her shoulders most evenings. Right now it's whispering in her ear Nicole will never speak to her again, not after what she did. Action would have her pick up the phone, call Nicole and apologise for being rude to her camera woman, regardless of what happens or doesn't happen tomorrow. It sits patiently on her lap; she having spent more time than necessary mentally planning what to say. That she’s sorry. That Rosita caught her at a bad moment (not strictly true). That if she could take back her demand to return all the books to where they were she would. Wishes she had had the presence of mind to just let Ros sort the shelves any way she wanted. It’s hopeless. The deed is done; her fate is sealed.

Nicole’s number appears on the screen as the phone dances to its ringtone. “Hey, how’s the pipes?” comes a cheery voice.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurts. “I really didn’t mean what happened earlier. It was rude of me.”

There’s silence.

“If Rosita wants the books that way it’s fine. Cool…great even. Better in fact.”

“What’s this about books?”

She hesitates. “Oh, um…well, nothing really. Only…”

“Ros said the meeting went really well. She has it all mapped out how she’ll film us. Was there a problem?”

“Nope! None. Absolutely none. Just a discussion that’s all, on books. Nothing serious.”

“Okay, so back to the pipes.”

“Sorry?”

“How are the pipes? Not frozen again.”

“Fine,” she replies with no idea if they are or not, then holds her breath.

“I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering…” Nicole continues. “Fancy getting chips again?”

“Why?” Oh sweet Jesus girl, just say yes! “I mean yes.”

Nicole laughs. “You don’t sound sure. It’s open right? The Codfather.”

“Six!”

“Sorry?”

“Six…opens at six.”

“That’s an hour away.”

Waverly’s heart is in her mouth as she replies. “That pizza place…”

Nicole doesn’t reply.

“Smiley People,” she adds, struggling to remember if it’s called that.

“Happy Faces. You want to go there?”

“Yes!” She doesn’t, but she’ll eat sushi and geoduck on a pizza base if it means not falling out with Nicole.

“There’s always here,” Nicole suggests. “Does The Codfather deliver?”

“My place is nearer.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Nicole replies. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be over.”

“Great, see you then.” Shit…shit…shit..! The decorations from Mercedes aren’t up yet; Matilda will need warming if they’re to eat there instead of here. It has to be here, but the decorations aren’t up yet.

The rollercoaster of emotions has her feeling nauseous. Nicole wants them to spend a third evening together. A third evening! Mega-wealthy, social media star, Nicole Haught wants to spend time with her. Alone. More importantly, she wants to spend a third evening with Nicole, which in itself is not a complicated proposition. Nicole comes over, they order chips and willies from Christos at The Codfather. Except, why is her head making this overly complicated? Why is her head trying to convince her Nicole is only coming over to tell her filming on the barge is being dropped from the schedule?

It’s the only plausible reason why Nicole would want to spend more time in her company. Butter her up with a soggy supper before breaking the news that she’s too stubborn to work with. Too prickly. Too lame. Rosita’s eyes were all over the cane, made a point of instructing her to be seated when Nicole enters the barge, for no other reason than to hide the fact that she needs a walking stick to get around. If only she hadn’t listened to her sister. If only she hadn’t made that vlog about the wood burner, none of this would have happened. She would be none the wiser about Nicole Haught, and her lifestyle channel, and her amazing apartment.

When Nicole arrives Waverly is braced for bad news. Instead is presented with a bottle and a tiny linen bag of spices. “I thought we could have mulled wine,” Nicole explains, pulling a bigger bag of sugar from her tote. “Perfect weather for it.”

The smell of cloves and nutmeg drifting from the stove is divine and a balm to her sorry soul. “I can go get us chips when they open,” she offers.

“We can go together,” Nicole replies, flashing that dimpled smile of hers.

Chapter Text

Monday’s meal of warm chips is still on Nicole’s mind as she dines out in Clerkenwell. This particular restaurant is Xavier’s favourite, where he chooses to meet her once a month, where he orders the most expensive whiskey at the end of every catch-up knowing her father will pick up the tab.

“How is the new channel concept coming along?” he asks as a waiter sets down his starter of sweetbreads, quail’s egg and tarragon.

“Actually, it’s going really well,” she replies, nodding at the waiter who delivers her plate of capocollo. “The Hoxton shop episode will air mid-December.”

“And that book boat idea you mentioned…” He slices a sweetbread in two and pops one half into his mouth.

“Barge idea,” she corrects, then smiles to herself. “The book barge is intriguing. Not only in what it offers, but in what it stands for. What it represents.”

Xavier gestures with his fork for her to continue.

“Waverly inherited the barge and business from her uncle. It has so much potential, so much which could be developed, but it’s stuck.”

Xavier looks up from a cleaned plate. “Stuck, as in how?”

She teases a small piece of cured meat onto her fork but does not lift it to her mouth. Instead, lays the loaded utensil down, which allows a gap for her to think how to answer. Looks up at the guy hired by her father to be her agent and business mentor, but who is little more than her father’s spy and tells him how Waverly’s episode will throw a spotlight on youthful ambition and how success is actually defined.

Xavier nods at her, a sign he’s swallowed her story complete. She’s good at this, good at pitching her ideas to make them palatable. It was the same with her father, pitching him the new concept for the channel, using all the right buzz words to keep him interested. Underestimated him though, in having to win his bet for the loft apartment on York Way.

“When will it air?” Xavier says as a waiter tops up their water glasses. “The boat episode.”

Waverly’s influence has her correcting him for a second time. “I’m filming that episode tomorrow. Once edited I want to air it first Tuesday of December.”

“Next week…” he qualifies. “Why the rush?”

She is in no mood to explain her father’s bet to him. That’s between them, and would put extra pressure on her to achieve the needed 7.00% engagement rate. Not that there isn’t enough pressure already, having to reach this absurdly high percentage in two short months. Sense would tell her to forget the apartment, give up on that dream, but when has she listened to sense. She wants that prize more than anything, or maybe what she wants more than anything is to prove to her father how good she is at what she does.

Later, over langoustine risotto, Xavier lectures her on brand reshaping and repositioning. His successful public relations company is well-respected, his deep knowledge of the industry sought out by many, taking great pleasure on occasions to stand in front of a live audience and spill his knowledge seeds all over them. She’s been to a few of his presentations, watched an audience fall in love, swoon at his words. Why wouldn’t they? He’s a good-looking man, who wears Savile Row suits, Jermyn Street shirts and Penhaligon parfum. Can read a wine menu like it were a treasure map, always selects the perfect red or white to accompany their meal.

This is her world. It’s the world she knows and understands. The labels, the luxury, the lavish meals at exclusive dining establishments, like this one in Clerkenwell. Eating alongside the wealthy, those who can afford a £100 wagyu burger. Is sure Xavier would order the wagyu if it was on the menu here. What would he think of warm slices of potato, wrapped in layers of paper and smothered in salt?

In the taxi back to Kings Cross she catches up on messages. Rosita is happy with the route they’ll take tomorrow. Likes the visual of her pausing in front of Central Saint Martin’s to talk about its history. Adds a snarky comment at the end, about Waverly not getting on board with her ideas. It has Nicole ringing Ros for an explanation.

“She’s going to be a problem,” Rosita begins, “you’ll need to work your charm on her.”

“What’s happened?” she replies as the taxi sweeps up to the hotel’s entrance.

“I showed her how I’d like the barge for tomorrow, and she flat out refused. I get it, but she’s missing the point.”

“Let me handle this,” she offers, having tipped the driver and exited the vehicle.

“It’s a great location,” Rosita adds, “the boat. But, it’s like she hasn’t got the first clue how to run it.”

“It was her uncle’s,” she explains as she nods at Cooper and heads towards the elevator. “I think she’s terrified to make it work.”

“Figures,” Rosita replies. “It’s a shame because she’s a looker. Get her on the front of a few covers and pow she’d rock it. She’d kill it with that walking stick too.”

Nicole feels the smile stretch across her lips at Rosita’s observation. She’s been thinking this too, that Waverly’s beauty is waiting to be discovered, which when matched with her spirited independence, will make filming tomorrow zing.

She half expects Waverly to laugh at her dinner suggestion. Senses an invitation to dine out would be met with a flat ‘no’. Already knows how stubborn Waverly can be, even in the face of freezing. The whole saga with the wood burner, waiting days for one guy to show up because he’s the guy her uncle would have used. It’s sweet, it’s sentimental, but it demonstrates perfectly that stubborn streak. Waverly’s way, or no way.

It’s hardly a surprise that she’s completely smitten with this free spirit. Beauty alone had her at ‘yes’ the first time she laid eyes on Waverly. She’s not naïve enough to believe the feeling is mutual, simply because Waverly comes across as not in the market for someone. Has she someone? They would have been at the pub Monday evening if she did. So no, Waverly would have said if there was someone in her life. Could this work? Opposites attract. It could be risky navigating their different worlds, can already hear Shae’s judgment on this. Not that she cares what Shae thinks. What Waverly will think of this is what matters?

Let’s not trip over our skis here, she cautions herself, as she orders the ingredients for mulled wine from the hotel’s restaurant. It will be a smoother of ruffled feathers, a peace offering, a way to oil conversation, determined not to repeat the same mistake she made with Wynonna. Filming with a hangover would be a disaster.

The snow is gone as she walks briskly towards the canal. The air is cold, Granary Square is quiet, the lights from Central Saint Martins casting a soft glow over the cobbled area. Whisps of white linger on top of what must be unoccupied narrowboats moored alongside Waverly’s. Two strings of lights have been hung on the outside of the barge; blue and silver Christmas decorations have been tastefully displayed inside. She catches Waverly with a duster in her hand, which she’s using as a mic to sing. Knocks on the window and sees Waverly jump, then wave, then realise she’s waving the duster and drop it.

“I thought we could have mulled wine,” she explains, as she holds up a bottle. “It’s cold enough.”

Waverly’s eyes widen as she accepts the wine and small bag of spices hastily prepared by the hotel. There’s an awkward gap before Waverly speaks, tells her to take a seat while she finishes tidying.

“I can help,” she offers. “The decorations look great by the way.” The emptied bookshelf beside the armchair catches her eye. “Want me to put those back?”

“No!” Waverly says. “Sorry, I’m…um…I’m reorganising for tomorrow. Ros was right about—”

“Ros isn’t always right,” she throws back, only to catch the surprise in Waverly’s eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s an amazing camera person, but she kind of has too many ideas.”

Now there’s confusion in those eyes.

“Which isn’t a bad thing.”

“You make it sound bad,” Waverly says.

“From a filming perspective, natural is best. If I told you to put up decorations, and rearrange the shelves, those would be my ideas of how the barge should look, not yours.”

Now there’s disappointment in those eyes.

“I love the outside lights. And I love the decorations…” A huff leaves her lips. “But only if you like them.”

“I do; they lift the barge.” Waverly hugs the red wine to her chest. “It’s been in the dark for too long.”

There’s a sudden zing in the air.

She places her tote on the floor and retrieves the bottle. Studies the label to distract herself from Waverly’s face. “I can put this on if you want to finish here.”

“I’m mostly done,” Waverly replies as she reaches for the bottle.

There’s a tug of war over the wine before Nicole gives in. “Okay, okay, you win.”

Because Waverly has won.

Later, they venture to the chip shop and place their order. Waverly insists on paying, asks before dowsing both portions in vinegar. Nicole adds mushy peas to her meal, Waverly a pot of curry sauce. Tells Nicole to trust her on the choice. She does.

Back on Matilda they dine in style off plastic plates and toast tomorrow’s filming. It’s a chance to tell Waverly about Xavier, and his advice about rebranding.

“Will this work for you?” Waverly says, sniffing her mulled wine before drinking.

“I have a good feeling about this,” she replies.

“Is that enough?”

She sets the chipped Radio 4 mug down and folds her arms on the table. Looks up to find Waverly studying her face. There’s that zing again. Fuck!

“What if your audience doesn’t like me?”

She pulls at the neck of her polo sweater and feels the heat of her cheeks. She’s not been this aroused in months, and it’s affecting her thinking. Looks for guidance from the few chips remaining on her plate, like they're rune stones cast on a table, but finds none.

“You’re taking a big risk with me,” Waverly continues.

“Maybe,” she replies, “you’re taking a big risk with me too.”

Waverly’s breath hitches. Fuck!

Is she reading the room right? Wynonna let slip Waverly is bi, at least she thinks that’s what she said, too drunk on peppermint shots, too unfamiliar with Waverly back then to care what was said. Now she cares. Fuck!

“It’s not that big a risk,” she replies. Adds one of her signature smiles. “Really, it isn’t.”

“I don’t want to be the reason for your channel failing. You’ve worked too hard on it for me to bring it all down.”

Her hand is across the small divide before she can stop herself. Rests it on top of Waverly’s. “It’s going to be okay. We’ve got this.”

Waverly doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, and it is all Nicole can do to resist closing the small divide between their lips. What must those lips taste like?

When she offers an excuse for leaving Waverly insists she stay. Any other time she would, but not tonight. Tonight is too soon for this to go any further. If she stays it will go further she has no doubt. If they are to kiss she knows it will have to wait until after filming. Has made a new bet with herself, to make Waverly her girlfriend on Christmas Eve, a bet she would give up the loft apartment on York Way for if it meant she has a chance.

Chapter Text

Nicole’s departure doesn’t have her on the phone to Wynonna. It does have her thinking something has changed, if only she could put a finger on it.

The novel she started earlier needs to be finished, the culpability of the babysitter still to be determined. Except, her current state of mind would have her struggling to stay focused, as it drifts repeatedly to Nicole, and why she’s being so nice. Filming hasn’t been cancelled, so there’s that, but she senses there’s an ulterior motive. Perhaps she’s being buttered up, kept warm for her moment in front of the camera, after which Nicole will move on to filming other business owners for her channel. Which is fine. It’s so not fine.

She lets Matilda’s wood burner die down and turns in for the night. Sleep evades her as she mulls over the conversation they had over chips. The easy flow to it, the humour, the teasing, as though they’ve been friends far longer than a week. Has it only been a week?

When sleep comes it’s restless. When morning comes it’s full-on panic to prepare for filming. The barge is as ready as it can be, but she isn’t, questions her outfit, questions her hairstyle, questions everything about her life and the direction of her life, and it’s not even nine o’clock. By ten o’clock she’s on the phone to her sister for moral support. This isn’t a big deal her sister reassures. It’s just a casual conversation with a friend, nothing to be nervous about. She listens, she agrees, but there’s something which has her all jittery.

“You’ll be great,” her sister says for the hundredth time. “Waves, you really will.”

She takes in a breath and says the thing she’s been holding back. “I might be...kind of...what if I have feelings for Nicole?”

There’s silence the other end.

“Crazy right?”

“Feelings,” Wynonna repeats, “as in feelings.”

“I mean, she’s out of my league. As in, so out of my league. It’s just…” She huffs at her own naivety, at her lack of perspective on the situation. “It’s just, maybe it’s just having someone being kind for a change.”

“I’m kind,” her sister protests.

“After what happened, I never thought I’d meet anyone else. You know, anyone who doesn’t look at me and see only the limp. But she doesn’t." She's huffing again. "It's me. I’m confusing kindness for something else. You know her mum had a cane. She’s just being kind because she understands.”

“Don’t pin your hopes on her,” Wynonna offers. “I agree, she is kind but she’s not our kind.”

Her sister’s wise observation clears away the confusion. “You’re right. Thank you.”

“Do the interview, enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame. And don’t forget to GTA girl.”

She smiles. “Got it. Have a great day and GTA.”

Wynonna laughs.

The clock on her phone becomes a constant reminder of how close to eleven it’s getting. Ten minutes to the hour she hears Nicole outside with Rosita, which has her good leg shaking. This is it. This is the moment they’ve planned for, talked about for a week. Whatever happens afterwards is down to getting this part right.

Rosita bounces onto the barge with a large bag. “Okay if I set up the lighting?”

At first she assumes it’s more Christmas decorations, only to realise it’s a halo on a stand. She points to a free wall socket and gets out of the way as Rosita plugs in the strange piece of equipment. It blinds her momentarily, enough not to see Nicole enter. When she opens her eyes and sees what Nicole is wearing she releases a silent gasp.

“You okay?” Nicole says, concern across her face.

“The light,” she lies. “Quite bright.”

“I’ll angle it away from you,” Rosita advises. “If you take that seat, we’ll finish the intro outside and come in.”

There’s but one thought running through her head as she takes up residence in the comfy armchair. Will the camera pick up any saliva trickling from her mouth? She sits and waits, and waits and sits, and wonders how she’ll get through this. Act natural, don’t drool, make sure to grab the attention, not too much, enough, look interested, not too interested, casual, relaxed. So not relaxed.

Rosita enters and positions herself behind the armchair. “Okay, so Nicole will enter, and you’ll introduce yourself and the boat, and what the boat does.” She calls out to Nicole. “Wait for my cue.”

The seconds pass and all she can hear is her heart, thump, thump, thumping under her functional outfit. Rosita shouts and it nearly deafens her.

Nicole enters, smiles, and Waverly forgets her own name, the name of the barge, and what the barge does. Rosita taps her on the shoulder.

“Hi,” she manages to get out. “I’m The Waverly, I sell barges.”

“This place is fantastic,” Nicole replies, taking a book from the shelf. “How long has it been here?”

Her mind suddenly is a blank. Every important date, every important milestone to do with the barge absent from her memory. All she can do is stare at Nicole, that’s it, nothing more, just stare.

Rosita taps her again on the shoulder. “Say something,” she whispers.

“I’m…I’m…” She rises from the seat, but has nowhere to go.

Nicole approaches and rests a hand on her arm. “Hey, let’s go from the top when you’re ready.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

There’s that smile again, the one with dimples. “It’s just a conversation.” Nicole looks over at Rosita. “How about we don’t film, just talk.”

“Can we?” she replies.

And so they talk, Nicole perched on a wooden stool, she back in the armchair. Or rather, she talks, while Nicole listens to her fears about the future, to her worries about the barge, to her hopes of making the business the best it can be. It’s raw, it’s honest, even if it might not grab anyone’s attention, or get her more customers, or delight Nicole’s audience. She forgets about Rosita, forgets the camera, and the halo light as she reveals her soul to the one person who has been kind to her this past week.

It's gone one o’clock before Rosita makes a sign to wrap up. Nicole thanks her for this opportunity to talk in depth about a life few are fortunate to live. How it’s given her the inspiration to re-evaluate what she wants to achieve with her own life. Coming from anyone else such a sentiment would sound saccharine sweet, too much on the nose, but not from Nicole. From her it sounds heartfelt.

Rosita congratulates them, packs up the light and leaves.

“You did great,” Nicole tells her.

She wants to apologise for earlier. Again, and again, and again.

"It was more than enough."

“I wanted it to be…” She is hit with a wave of sadness out of nowhere, swallows it down, fearing it might drown her. Nicole doesn’t need to see her like this, they’re friends, casual friends at best, even though she’s just opened up her heart about the barge to this casual friend.

“I’ll get the edit to you as soon as I can,” Nicole advises. Leans forward and gives her a gentle peck on the cheek. “Thank you,” she adds in a whisper.

All that lingers after Nicole leaves is her scent.

Waverly returns to the armchair and sobs. It’s cathartic, it’s releasing, but it doesn’t take away the fact that this is only a friendship with someone who is as kind as a kitten, but will never be her kitten because Nicole is not their kind of people.

When Wynonna calls to check how it went she lies. Tells her it went well, that everyone was pleased with how it went, even though her heart is breaking. The one person she likes is unattainable. The one person she might trust with her heart, after what happened, would never want someone like her. Champ saw to that, when he got a friend to run her over in a stolen car.

The barge remains empty the rest of the afternoon. With no customers she closes early and walks the short distance to the Star. Chrissy is serving someone when she enters, looks over and gives her a thumbs up.

“How did it go?” she says as Waverly takes a seat at the bar. “Everything okay?”

She shakes her head and lets a little more emotion spill over.

“Oh Waves, what happened?”

“Me,” she replies. “It’s always me.” Over a stiff vodka and diet coke she explains how she froze and how Nicole was an angel. “I made a tit of myself,” she explains then sips her drink.

“At least you’ve done it,” Chrissy replies. “Nicole has what she wants and won’t bother you again.”

“Yep.” A hand rests on hers. She looks up to find Chrissy giving her a look, one which says she can spill what’s eating her. She shakes head.

“She’s using you,” Chrissy says. “This was only ever about her channel. You know that.”

She knows this.

“Nicole is up her own ass; we all saw it. She acts like she fits in around here, but you and I both know that’s not happening. I bet she wouldn’t know what a snakebite is. Or who’s the goalkeeper for Arsenal.”

She stares at her friend. “I don’t know that either.”

“Well, you should.”

“Who is it?”

Chrissy winks. “No idea.”

It brings out an unexpected laugh. One she needs. She raises her glass. “To the Arsenal goalkeeper, whoever that is.”

Jeremy joins them and is equally stoic. Reminds her of the good which came from this encounter. The wood burner, the potential for more customers. He’s right, good has come from this, even if her heart hurts. Imagine if they’d been dating and Nicole called it off. At least this way she doesn’t have to go through the real heartbreak of seeing Nicole with someone else, someone gorgeous, someone rich, someone with two good legs.

He walks her back and accepts a cup of tea this time. They are midway through a discussion on authors who might agree to sign books on the barge when there’s a text from Nicole:

tks 4 t/day

She rests her phone upside down and continues their discussion. Mentions she might get paper bags made, with the barge logo.

“Do we have a logo?” he asks, dipping the remaining half of his hobnob into his tea.

“Sort of. I drew something ages ago. Might need to rethink it.”

“Words on the Water,” he offers.

“Ooh, I like it.”

“I think it works with the barge’s name. Has a flow to it.”

She laughs.

He throws her a look before getting his own joke. He laughs. Her phone rings.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Nicole asks. “Have I called…what’s funny?”

“Jez,” she replies. “Words on the water has a flow to it.”

“Like it.”

Her heart is thumping again on hearing Nicole’s voice. “How’s the editing going?”

“Good.” There’s a hesitation before Nicole continues. “Look, I was wondering, are you free tomorrow evening? Hugo is having a party at his house.”

“Hugo Cavendish?”

“You’ve heard of him?”

"I've heard of him.”

“Only, I thought you might like to meet him. Could be useful to you.”

This is how Nicole’s world works. Contacts who know contacts, who do things for contacts. Not her kind of people. “Thank you, but no.”

“He’s lovely,” Nicole persists. “Could be a good ally.”

“I really don’t think he wants to help someone like me,” she replies, her words laced with self-pity. “I’m sorry, it’s a lovely thought, but I can’t.”

“So where would you like to go...”

“Nicole, I can’t. We’re-”

“As a thank you,” Nicole adds.

“I don’t need thanking.”

“Not even a little bit?”

She smiles. “Not even a little bit.” Then pauses, then asks something even she can’t believe she’s asking. “Who's the goalkeeper for Arsenal?”

Without pause Nicole replies with a name. Then says, “although David Seaman is the best.”

It has her rethinking everything. “How the hell do you know this?”

“Have a drink with me tomorrow evening and I’ll tell you.”

Chapter Text

The editing process is slower than Nicole would like. It takes most of the morning to view the raw footage, and to decide how best to tell Waverly’s story. Before filming, she had everything mapped out, a script in her head which would stay close to the ten questions. But Waverly’s wobble means taking things in a new direction, shifting the focus away from her, towards one which actually might work out better. It’s produced juicier soundbites that’s for sure.

There’s a temptation to make the episode longer. Allow every one of Waverly’s words to be heard. But it would mean revisiting the Hoxton shop episode and making that longer too. There’s enough material but, after Waverly’s raw performance, Paul just doesn’t cut it.

It’s fascinating to see the results of Rosita’s work. The camera panning to capture expression, zooming in to pick up subtle changes on Waverly’s face. It would have been hard to get this honesty if she hadn’t paused to let Waverly warm up, let her become comfortable in her own voice until she forgot her words were being recorded.

They were never not going to film. Ros knew that, knew to hold back until Waverly found her feet. Her stride. That’s how good Ros is. Perhaps she had a hand in that too, getting Waverly to trust her, enough to open up. If her audience doesn’t appreciate the risk Waverly is taking here, then there’s not much hope for the channel’s new direction.

They’ve agreed to meet downstairs in the hotel lobby at seven. Both the location and the time had to be negotiated, Waverly fighting her all the way, reluctant to give so much as a whisker of compromise. Which only strengthens the desire to get to know her better. There’s plenty Nicole already knows, has a feeling there’s a lot she’ll never know. Not without a fight. About the accident, about Waverly’s dancing career which came to nothing. There are things about her own life she would struggle to share. Plenty of fears she wants no one else to have the power to use against her.

A text from Shae has her sending apologies for not being able to attend Hugo’s party that evening. Which results in a call from her ex.

“Hugo was looking forward to meeting this Wendy,” Shae says. “I thought you were keen for them to connect.”

She doesn’t bother correcting Shae over Waverly’s name. “Something’s come up,” she replies. “Hopefully another time.”

“Something, or someone,” Shae digs.

“Something. I’m heading to Oxford for the weekend to finalise the purchase on a new horse.” She isn’t, but it serves as a plausible enough excuse.

“How dull,” Shae replies. “You’re not still planning on taking part in that race?”

“Hence the horse.”

“You know how dangerous it is.”

She does, which is why she’s doing it. “Tell Hugo he needs to check out my next episode,” she replies, a convenient deflection from Shae’s judgmental comment.

“How is mine doing?” Shae asks.

The Christmas episode is doing well. Engagement is up, as are the comments. Conveniently leaves out the part about what most of the comments are saying. Or rather asking. The same question she’s asked every time Shae appears. When are they getting back together? She’s sure Shae has read each and every one of those comments. Is merely looking for another opportunity to bask in her own self-importance. That, or she’s fishing for more compliments. Which Nicole delivers, makes a point of complimenting Shae’s polished performance. Again. Makes a point of telling her to check out the decorations on the next episode, claiming they’re all down to Shae’s exquisite taste. All silver and blue. Makes a point of not drawing attention to Waverly’s raw-soul performance.

Late afternoon she’s starving. It has her visiting the stocked cupboards only to realise how satisfying it is to have food in them. Makes herself a bowl of tomato soup and takes pleasure dipping hunks of bread into the rich, red liquid. Such a simple act, so childish but fun. Takes a photo of her meal and sends it to Waverly, with a message: yummy.

Receives a text back and laughs.

There’s something about this girl. Something that has her smiling whenever Waverly pops into her head. Not that she can put a finger on what that something is, or put it into words. Not that she needs words to know how her body reacts being in the same space, the way Waverly looks at her and the panic it brings on, even if she’s good at hiding that panic. Does Waverly know? Can she sense how it makes her feel when she’s near?

Two hours to go before they meet and the first edit is ready. This is the nerve-wracking part, having to show Waverly. She might hate it, which would have her rethinking how best to present this story. She didn’t have this level of anxiety editing Paul’s episode. What’s causing this? Maybe it’s because this episode marks the end of something, without the certainty of there being a start to something. Something definite.

One hour to go and she is struggling to select an outfit. Waverly’s shocked expression yesterday tells her she overreached with Stella McCartney. Which looked gorgeous, but perhaps wasn’t in keeping alongside Waverly’s choice of clothing. Opts for something plain in brown, with beige accents, nothing showy, nothing which would cause Waverly to think of her only as a mannequin. Unlike her father.

Five minutes to seven she is waiting in the hotel lobby, catching every sharp blast of frigid air as the entrance doors swing open. Shortly before seven another cold blast has her looking over and smiling. “You made it,” she says as Waverly approaches. A hand is on Waverly’s upper arm before she can stop herself. “You’re freezing.”

“More snow in the air,” Waverly replies, then looks around. “So, where are we drinking?”

“I thought perhaps the Booking Office,” she offers, gesturing towards a door on the right. “It’s cosier than the atrium.”

There’s a wry smile on Waverly’s face.

She mouths ‘what’.

“I thought when you suggested the hotel we were drinking at your bar.”

She laughs as her heart pumps faster. “We could have a nightcap in mine.”

It’s Waverly’s turn to laugh.

“I need to show you the first edit anyway.” She crosses her fingers.

“How about I view it, then have that drink?”

Nicole holds it together, but inside she’s a nervous kid around their crush. As they head towards the elevator there is a sense of no longer being in control of this situation, that Waverly is the dominant one now. The alpha to her omega, and frankly if Waverly grabbed her in the elevator, pushed her against its side and kissed the life from her lips, she would be happy to die in that moment. Instead, they stand apart as they both face forward. It’s a noisy silence on her part, full of imaginings of what might happen in her apartment, what opportunities might present themselves. There’s a lot riding on Waverly liking the edit, even more riding on Waverly liking her.

She waits for Waverly to remove the red puffer jacket. The dress underneath has Nicole’s breath hitching. She compliments the colour and feels awkward in doing so. It’s a deep burgundy which accentuates Waverly’s slim form, the curve of her hips, and the roundness of her breasts. It’s simple yet sophisticated, unadorned yet complete. A killer of an outfit which has Nicole questioning her own casual clothing and her casual comment about how well Waverly’s dress suits her.

The laptop is retrieved from the bedroom and brought to the snug. “We can have that drink,” she says as she places it on the low table in front of the couch.

“A small whiskey,” Waverly replies. “Neat.”

“Which country?”

Waverly tilts her head.

“I have Scotland, Ireland, Canada, Japan…” Any whiskey would have done, but she wants to get this right.

“Um…Scotland?” Waverly answers.

“Highlands, Speyside, Lowlands, Campbeltown or Islay.”

Waverly’s laugh lightens the moment. “I have no idea. What do you recommend?”

“I’d go for Speyside.”

“I’ll try an Islay,” Waverly replies, and isn’t that just the sum of this girl.

“Okay, but I’ll warn you it’s like drinking a bonfire.”

Defiance flashes across Waverly’s face, and it’s all Nicole can do not to kneel before her in submission. She returns with two smoky malts and a bowl of nibbles which she presents to her new mistress. There will be no taming this one. She will have to hold on tight and let this ride take her where it wants to go.

Waverly’s nose crinkles as she sniffs her barrel-aged whiskey. Sips and nods, then coughs. “You’re right, it’s distinctive.”

“It’s my father’s favourite,” she explains. Fails to mention the hundreds of pounds a bottle costs, or that he likes to keep it for himself. “Says it reminds him of his youth.” That’s not something she has mentioned before, to anyone, her relationship with her father as burned as this whiskey. “He acts like he’s still in his twenties, out to conquer the world, get the best deal on everything.”

“Gus acts like I no longer exist,” Waverly replies.

“Your aunt.”

Waverly looks at her over the rim of the glass. “Curtis and Gus didn’t agree on the barge.” She studies her expensive whiskey before continuing. “Didn’t agree on much. After he died I couldn’t let the barge die with him.” Looks up with such kissable lips it has her entranced. “I had to keep going.”

She’s sitting beside Waverly, close enough to lean over. Steels herself against temptation. “It was the right choice.”

Waverly shakes her head. “It’s become a prison.”

There’s that jolt back to reality. “Prison?”

“Maybe not a prison,” Waverly corrects. “A fortress, a place to hide from the world. From what happened.”

She lets Waverly’s confession breathe. Lets it take up space in the room. Doesn’t need to rush for understanding, because to rush would spook her ride, push Waverly away. Allows the ride come to her, in its own time, under its own volition.

Waverly looks up from her whiskey, with the saddest eyes. “He took my dream.”

She’s floored by the honesty. “Who? Curtis?”

Waverly shakes her head again. “Champ.”

“Champ?”

“It was perfect in the beginning. He wanted me…I believed him. Believed everything he said.” Waverly’s voice breaks as she explains how her ex grew jealous of her success. How he wanted her to give up what she loved, her dancing career, just when it was taking off. How her getting the lead in a show led him to pay a friend to end that career.

“He got his wish,” she adds, resting a hand on her left thigh.

“Oh Waves, I’m so sorry.”

Waverly looks at her with those sad eyes. “Trust is hard.”

She wants to hold her, take her and hold her, and tell her she would never ever do something so evil. Wants to be her protector, her shield against the shits like Champ who do fucked up things in the name of love.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Waverly says, holding her glass. “How could I have been so stupid?”

It’s her head which is shaking. “He did this. Don’t ever blame yourself for his fucked up actions.”

“I should have listened to Wyn. I should have listened.”

She can’t challenge this, other than to ask what Wynonna said.

Waverly glances over, returning her gaze to the whiskey, as though it offers safety. “I should have followed my heart.”

She lets those words breathe too. Is afraid to ask where Waverly’s heart is right now? Hears the soft tap of glass against wood and catches the fear in those eyes.

A hand is on Waverly’s arm again. Couldn’t stop herself even if she wanted to. But it’s not her leaning in, not her closing the gap, but Waverly, whose lips taste of smoky whiskey.

Chapter Text

This kiss, it’s the biggest step she has taken since the accident. Not physically, but emotionally. Not that the physical side was any easier. Weeks in the hospital, followed by months of physio to get her walking again. The doctors warned she might not, but she did, she had to, otherwise Champ would have taken everything from her.

He came to visit her in the hospital, just the once, a week or so after the accident. Said he hated places like these, the smells, the sounds, the way everyone looked so effing sick. Didn’t admit to his involvement in putting her in one, even though it was as clear as the fake concern on his face he had something to do with the hit and run. When they found the car it was even more clear, because the wanker he paid to run her over had stolen his uncle’s car to do the deed. How stupid do you have to be to use your own relative’s car? Didn’t take the police long to piece it all together. Champ denied having anything to do with it, said he had no beef with his girlfriend. She set the police straight on that lie.

Kissing Nicole was never her intention. Not really. Kind of. Yes, those lips were on her mind as she walked to the hotel. Yes, those lips stayed on her mind as they headed to Nicole’s apartment. Trust, trust, trust, that was the other thing on her mind. Trust Nicole, trust herself, trust her heart.

She leans in and closes her eyes. Feels the hot breath of another against her own lips. If she’s ever going to move on from Champ she has to do this. Wants to do this. Wants the chance to live a normal life, have normal feelings for someone else, express those feelings. But, with Nicole? Now that’s asking. Wynonna is right, she’s not their kind.

Expects Nicole to push her away, ask her to leave, waits for two words to be said. Get out! Is surprised when she doesn’t say them, even more surprised when Nicole leans in and accepts what’s being done to her.

There’s a space after the kiss when neither say a word. Then no space as lips reconnect. Nicole this time, pressing against her mouth, firmer, as though she can’t get enough. Shit! This is good. This is too good. A week, it’s only been a week and they’re kissing. Like this! Nicole is not their kind, but Waverly likes this kind of kissing.

They part again, but Nicole looks like she’s not finished. Looks at her for permission, which she gives by closing the gap again. Because she’s hungry for this, damn she is so hungry for this kind of kissing. For the taste of another on her lips, for the warmth of another’s breath on her face. This can’t last. This can’t. How can it last with someone who is not their kind?

How long are they at it? Long enough for the ice to melt in Nicole’s expensive whiskey. Waverly knows her lips will forever have the memory of this moment, as will her body, which tingles while she adjusts her dress, then reaches for her drink. It’s surreal as she sips smoky malt but can only taste Nicole. She’s breathless but reborn. If this is all she has, if this is all she gets from Nicole then it is enough. It’s two jump leads to her heart. Can feel it beating again, getting stronger with each thump, thump, thump against her ribcage.

She returns the glass to the low table and cannot bear the suspense. If this is it, if this is all she gets she needs to know now. “I shouldn’t have,” she says as she edges back.

There’s that hand again, on her arm, stopping her from going someplace else. “I want this,” Nicole says. There’s the briefest of hesitation before she continues, enough for Waverly to worry what Nicole will say next, before catching the truth in her eyes. “But only if you want this.”

She cannot speak. She wants this, oh how she wants this. Wants to be normal again, feel what normal people feel, but with someone like Nicole? Could this ever be normal? Could their kinds ever come together and be normal?

She nods. Or her head nods, but inside she wants to hold onto Nicole and never let go. Afraid she’ll turn into smoke, disperse before her eyes. How is it that someone like Nicole wants anything to do with her? Nicole could literally have anyone. This has to be a joke, but Nicole is looking at her and there are tears, real tears in those sunset eyes of hers, and there’s something else in her eyes.

That question. That question. That question. Do you want this?

“Waves, you have to tell me that you want this.”

Nicole could have asked her anything. Anything, but that. Because asking that has real tears in her eyes too. Strong arms hold her. Hold her and tell her how beautiful she is. How brave and how strong she is. She isn’t. She has one good leg, the other scarred by someone who took more than a dance career when he paid someone else to hit her with a car. Stupid little shit. “I…I want this. But…”

Nicole releases her a little, only to keep hold of her upper arms. “No buts. I’m all in if you are.”

She wants this. God, how she wants this. Wriggles to get free of someone who would give her the world, she is sure of it. Someone who has enough money to probably buy the whole world for her if she wanted it. What she wants, what she needs is someone who is more than a meal ticket.

There’s something else, tapping on the inside of her skull. Looking for attention, asking the same question it whispers every evening. When she’s alone. Why me? Why me? Why me?

She has to ask Nicole, because if she doesn’t ask she will always have this thing hanging on her shoulder, pointing at everyone with two good legs, asking the same question. Why you, Waverly Earp?

Nicole looks at her as though she’s just asked why there is a man in the moon.

“You could have anyone,” she adds for clarity. “You could have someone with…”

Nicole speaks for her. “Two good legs.”

Those three words pierce her.

“I’m not that shallow,” Nicole says.

Those four words pierce her too.

“If you think that’s all I see, then you don’t know the first thing about me.”

Every single one of those words stab, and stab, and stab. She splutters to explain what she means. Knows she’s the one who is judging Nicole harshly. “No, I’m…I didn’t mean…” Oh, but she knows she does mean it, hasn’t ever stopped to consider how her words might pierce another’s heart. Until this moment, until a jagged piece of mirror is held up in front of her face.

Nicole’s eyes glisten as she speaks. “Hey, it’s okay. Waves, it’s okay. At least we’re being honest with each other.”

They are, and it’s scary, more scary than listening to a doctor tell her she might never walk. Because now she has to be honest with herself, honest enough to accept someone might actually have real feelings for her.

“There hasn’t been anyone since Champ,” she reveals. “Four years.” There’s no way she can look at Nicole, knows she has to, looks up and sees genuine concern in those sunset eyes. Stops for a moment to place a hand on Nicole’s thigh, simply to check she is real, that her hand won’t simply pass through Nicole’s thigh. “He found out I liked someone else, someone in the cast. Said I was sick in the head.”

She’s given away so much of herself this evening. Given away so much of herself the day before, during filming. Nicole moves a strand of hair from her face and places it behind her ear, leans in and kisses her forehead. “I’m not like him,” she says, as she places one finger under her chin, lifts it so Waverly has no choice but to look into those soft eyes. “I will never be him.”

“I know,” she replies. “I don’t doubt that. No one could be that…”

“You doubt yourself,” Nicole says, finishing her thought. The second time Nicole has rushed to do that this evening. “You doubt your ability to choose the right one, having chosen someone so wrong.”

Strumming my pain with her fingers. Singing my life with her words…

Nicole smiles as she runs a thumb down the side of her cheek, and lets it rest momentarily along her jaw. “I didn’t know what I wanted before you.” Her smile hints she finds it funny. “I honestly didn’t know, didn’t know where I needed to be. Why I needed to be there. I’ve been drifting for so long, too long.”

There’s a soft sigh to finish, and Waverly questions how she, someone with one good leg, who sells second-hand books from a barge could possibly be enough for Nicole. Says as much with her eyes, which has Nicole looking at her like she’s just asked what the man in the moon has for breakfast.

“You don’t believe me,” Nicole articulates. “You think with all this—”

“No!” She tries to look away but is trapped by those gorgeous eyes. “Yes.”

Nicole fixes her gaze on Waverly’s face. “For someone who hates being judged…”

The spotlight of hard truths blinds her momentarily, has her closing her eyes to avoid Nicole’s gaze. Feels a thumb caress her jawline forcing her to admit, to herself at least, that Nicole is right. She’s a fully-fledged judgemental bitch. Opens her eyes and pouts. “So, I’m just a project to you.”

Nicole throws back her head and laughs. Brings her hand down to Waverly’s left thigh and squeezes. “You are hard work, you know that.”

There’s a small shiver of satisfaction at having scored a point with her comment. “The Arsenal goalkeeper,” she adds.

“Don’t try to change the subject,” Nicole scolds, although she attaches a wink to the end.

“I’m not, I’m just curious.” God, Wynonna would be proud of her right now. Her ability to deflect.

“Okay, he’s my cousin.”

She lets out a small gasp. “Seriously?”

“Nope.”

Now she’s shocked. Sisterly instinct has her punching Nicole’s arm. “The truth.”

Nicole rubs the spot. “Ouch. Okay, my father is buying his apartment in Richmond. Selling this place to fund it.”

“Really?”

“I also happen to support them.”

“You’re moving to Richmond?”

“Not if I can help it,” Nicole says, still rubbing where she’s been hit. “There’s an apartment on York Way I want. I have a bet with my father for it.”

She can feel her forehead creasing. “A bet?”

“Get my channel’s ER to seven before the end of January, and it’s mine.”

“So, I am a project,” she throws back.

Nicole gives her A Look.

She brings her thumbs up to her face and adds a cheeky smile, which has Nicole laughing again.

“But seriously, you get an apartment if you can get this ER thing to seven.” Suddenly remembers her sister’s drunken phone call. “Wait, isn’t it like five or something?

Nicole lets out a huff. “If you’d asked me a week ago I’d have said getting it to seven was all that mattered.”

“What’s changed?” she says.

Nicole throws her That Look again.

“But you want that apartment?” Nicole shrugs and Waverly finds herself reaching over to touch her thigh again. “Is it important to you?”

“Not as important as you,” Nicole replies. “I can live anywhere. I’ll buy a boat—”

“Barge.”

Nicole laughs. “Barge. Park it by yours.”

There’s that tingle throughout her body. The one telling her Nicole might be a keeper. “Well then,” she says. “We’d better take a look at that edit of yours.”

Chapter Text

There’s a gut sense this is how it will be as Nicole closes the door. That stubborn streak has reclaimed Waverly, who refuses to stay another night. Admittedly, it’s too soon to be contemplating cohabiting after one kissing session, but Nicole feels obliged to offer her a bed for the night. The chance to see Waverly in one of her t-shirts again is worth the risk of asking.

In similar defiance, Waverly refuses to be accompanied back to Matilda, doesn’t want a cab called, says she’s used to walking the streets at night. Which makes her giggle for having said such a thing, which makes it all the more difficult letting her go, to walk those streets. Waverly promises, however, to text as soon as she is home. Which she does, then calls to say she’s glad they got to talk, as in talk talk. There’s no mention of the kissing.

Immediately after she leaves Nicole is back on her laptop, this time to learn about that fucker Champ. Not that the desire to spy on Waverly’s past hasn’t been on her mind before this evening, only it felt kind of icky to go snooping. She finally tracks down Champ under his real name. James Hardy, sentenced to five years for soliciting the crime. Should have been given life for doing what he did. He’s still in prison, so there’s that.

She finds a handful of news articles about the verdict. Other articles about Waverly’s career before the accident, including photos of her in costume, which Nicole squirrels away to drool over at leisure. There’s also a video, a minute forty clip with fellow cast members. Waverly looks younger, cheeks a little chubbier, still stunningly beautiful. She is telling an interviewer how excited she is to be given this chance. It must have been filmed a few hours before the hit and run, her voice fast and full of nervous energy, trying to get all her words out. There’s that giggle and that pout. It physically hurts to watch this knowing what happened afterwards.

By morning she’s forgotten all about Champ and is happy. Happy to be back in that lovely bubble which forms around a new relationship, because this will be a relationship that’s for damn sure. It will take work to get Waverly to accept this. Time, and the patience and the willingness to let Waverly lead. No plans have been made to meet over the weekend. That’s deliberate. Knows to give her space. Waverly will be working on the barge anyway, and she will be riding, and when not riding training.

Rosita picks her up Saturday morning to drive them to the yard. Her shiny new horse is on its way from Ireland, which means for now she has to make do with a borrowed racehorse. Ros wastes no time in grilling her about how the edits are going with the episode. Thinks this episode will be one of their best so far. Agrees it was the right way to handle Waverly, and her initial resistance to being filmed, by letting the story of the barge unfold at its own pace.

“She’s got something,” Ros adds, as they turn into the yard and she brings the car to a stop. “She’s a natural in front of the camera.”

“Used to be a dancer,” Nicole reveals. It has Ros doing that thing with her eyebrows, wiggling one slightly, which has her regret not keeping that piece of information to herself. “Don’t go thinking things.”

“And what would those things be?” Ros replies, giving her a wink.

She tries to escape without having released her seatbelt. “She’s just a friend okay. I hardly know her. In fact, you probably know more about her than I do.”

“Didn’t know she was a dancer,” Ros lobs back.

“She mentioned it,” Nicole replies. “When we went for chips.”

“Mhmm.”

“Really nothing in it Ros,” she repeats.

“I hear you,” she replies unfastening her own seatbelt. “But my eyes tell me otherwise. I know chemistry when I see it, and it was dripping between you two.”

“Which will be good for the episode,” she stresses. “Also the reason why I chose Waves to front the new direction.” Rosita’s shit-eating grin tells her defending this is futile. Still, worth a try. “You’ll understand when you see the final version.” She opens the door of the Range Rover and steps out. “But first, I have a race to win.”

Her horse is a dream to ride. Behaves impeccably all morning until the final gallop, when it decides to show her what it’s made of. Her trainer can do nothing other than yell at her ‘watch out!’ as she hurtles past, holding on for dear life. Fuck! She already knows how this will end. Badly, if she doesn’t find a soft landing fast. A bush breaks most of her fall, winds her for a minute or so, and leaves her with nasty bruising to her arm and her ribs. It could have been so much worse she consoles herself later in the shower. Plus, it saved her from being grilled further by Rosita.

She gives training a miss on Sunday, to allow her body a chance to heal. Which allows more time to work on the episode, which she sends to Waverly for approval later that evening. Ros is right, there’s so much chemistry between them they could win a Nobel prize. Tuesday morning has her fingers twitching over the keyboard. One click and that’s it; the episode will go live.

Her audience has been primed with teasers in the weeks leading up to this moment. Has been told what to expect. No more fluff pieces to camera, no more peacocking in front of a mirror, no more showing off new arrivals to her seasonal wardrobe. Definitely no more scenes where it’s just her. That’s the biggest difference. Not that she’s always on her own. Ros is there sometimes, silent behind the camera, like when she’s on a horse, when having a camera in one hand and the reins in the other would not end well. Although, having both hands on the reins didn’t end well either on Saturday.

This change to the channel hasn’t come out of the blue. The whole lifestyle vlogging scene is not the same as when she started, more content out there now, more competition, more wannabes wanting a piece of her market. It’s taken years of posting consistently to get to here, to get buy-in. Hard work to refine her story to find the sweet spot, honing her main character energy so others will want to keep consuming, will want to give up thirty minutes of their life to consume hers.

She keeps an eye on the channel’s analytics. Watches the view count tick up slowly, then speed up, cautions herself not to get too excited as this new content will need time to bed in. The first comments are encouraging though:

@laralea29 - What a fun place to sell books! Must visit. You have worked hard on this and it shows. More of this please! BTW - Love the coat Nikky ❤️❤️

@Sarweetee - This is so cosy ☺️watching you while getting ready for my class ☕📚

@AnnMO365 - New Nikky! you are so thoughtful, so amazing and so fashionable! I do not live in London, but I want to go to see it. love you and thank you Xx

A text arrives from Wynonna asking her to call. It has her questioning whether Waverly has let slip to her sister about the kiss. Not that it matters, but it would be nice to keep it between themselves for a while longer.

“You’re a minx,” Wynonna says when she finally plucks up the courage to call. “Waves thinks you’re amazing.”

“Thanks,” she replies. It’s hard to tell if Wynonna is talking about the episode which has been up two hours or what she got up to with Waverly four nights ago.

“I mean, I knew it would be good but girl,” Wynonna gushes. “I could not have done it better myself.”

She thanks her again. “Waverly helped a lot with the final edits."

“I heard.”

“Has she seen it?”

“She has. She’s with me right now.”

“She’s not at the barge?” she replies.

Wynonna laughs. “I’m at the barge. You fancy grabbing lunch?”

“No…I’m…I have…” Her brain can’t think of a plausible enough excuse.

“Waves really wants to thank you for doing such a great job,” Wynonna presses.

It’s no use pretending she’s too busy so as not to draw attention to the chemistry between them. “I can rearrange a few things…I guess.”

They are back at Mojo’s. It’s started snowing again, although the sky is bright and the flakes falling are few, fluttering to the ground in magical formation. Waverly has done her hair differently, it’s in a messy bun, which suits her, highlights that sharp jawline. Why does she look so sad?

She waits for Wynonna to go and order for them at the counter before checking how Waverly is.

“Could be better,” she replies, aiming for a smile but missing.

Her hand is across the table before she can stop it. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Blacking,” is all Waverly offers.

Before she can ask what that means footsteps force her to retrieve her hand. Over lunch Wynonna continues to gush about the episode, asks if she’ll do a follow-up. It’s definitely possible she explains, with the volume of video Rosita shot, and with the multitude of questions she still wants to cover.

As much as she enjoys her company, when Wynonna announces she has to leave Nicole is relieved. Waits for her footsteps to fade before speaking. “What’s wrong?”

Waverly’s smile falls. “I need to get both The Waverly and Matilda repainted. And, before you say anything I was meant to do it three months ago, but I didn’t. This is totally my fault.”

Nicole isn’t sure what to ask next. Leaves a space for Waverly to fill her in, which she does by explaining she’s approached the company who usually does it only to be told their prices have increased. Substantially.

“It’s my fault,” she repeats as she nervously fiddles with a teaspoon. “If I’d done it sooner I wouldn’t have this problem.” Looks up at Nicole and tries another smile, but fails. “Plus, I’ve spent some of the money on flights to Tenerife. What was I even thinking?”

She parks the Tenerife surprise to focus on blacking the boats. “How much are we talking?”

“Roughly two grand,” Waverly replies. “I budgeted for twelve hundred, so I’m short either way.”

Her hand is across the table again. Two thousand pounds would be small change to her, the price of a new Stella McCartney coat, or two of Stella’s tote bags. She wouldn’t miss it, knows if she were to offer to cover the cost of blacking the boats it would have Waverly running for the hills. Knows if it was Shae, she would expect such a bill to be paid. In full.

“What can I do?” she replies, “to support you.”

Waverly pulls away this time, can’t look at her. “This is my problem.”

“I know. I’m not offering to pay for it, I’m asking what I can do to support you.”

It has Waverly glancing at her. “I’m sorry,” she replies. “It’s not that I don’t want your help, I just can’t take anything from you.”

“Waves, I’m not offering anything.”

“I’ll cancel my flights,” she says fiddling with the end of the spoon. “I should never have booked them.” Continues to fiddle with that spoon end, stops, only to begin picking at her nail polish. “Jeremy will understand.”

“When were you planning on going?”

“The twenty third.” Looks up. “I might be too late to cancel.”

Fuck! That’s the day before she plans on making Waverly her girlfriend. “I’m guessing there’s still time to cancel those fights,” she replies.

Chapter Text

Waverly has a plan. It’s simple, it’s effective, and relies on getting off her sorry ass and doing what she is meant to be doing, selling more books. Everything was left to slide after Curtis' death, which floored her, took her months to embrace the responsibility of carrying on his work. Nicole’s passion for the business has renewed her, given her purpose. Who needs a holiday in Tenerife anyway?

But first, she needs to tackle the blacking. There’s no getting around that, because if it doesn’t get done she won’t have a barge on which to sell books, or a narrowboat to call home. Paying the full amount is impossible, too much of a stretch for her lean finances, which means she’ll have to be creative in the money department. Wynonna might be able to loan her a couple of hundred, the flights to Tenerife have to be jettisoned, perhaps the boatyard can offer staggered payments. In no way can she accept a handout from Nicole.

They leave Mojo’s and return to the barge. In the time it takes to reach the canal Waverly has given herself the biggest pep talk ever on how to make this work. It’s the effect Nicole has on her, from the filming, all the marketing suggestions, the possibility of meeting Hugo Cavendish, it’s renewed her passion for the barge. Nicole hangs around, offers to help rearrange the shelves, says she has an hour or so to spare. The extra pair of hands is accepted as they set about sprucing up the place.

It's not exactly hard work, but in the confined space and with the new wood burner pumping out plenty of heat she is forced to remove her thick woollen jumper and push up the sleeves of her thermal vest. Wishes she’d put a cooler top on as she offers to make them a drink. She returns to find Nicole stripped down to a white t-shirt, the sight of which has her nearly dropping what’s in her hand.

She points with the other. “Oh my God!”

Nicole follows her gaze downwards. “Oh that.” She prods the ugly purple bruise which covers most of her arm. “I may have dismounted too quickly.”

It takes Waverly a long second to parse for meaning. “You fell off your horse?”

“Ribs got the worst of it.” She lifts the bottom of her shirt to reveal the extent of the damage done.

Waverly’s good leg wobbles, Nicole’s injury taking the breath momentarily from her lungs. It sends her right back to the hospital ward, the smells and the sounds as she lay in bed, wondering why this happened to her, why someone driving too fast didn’t see her until it was too late.

Nicole is by her side, saying something, but her voice is somewhere in the distance. “Waves!” She’s being shaken, reality snapping back. “Waves!” Her name is harsh against the buzzing in her ears.

“I’m…” She’s not sure what she is, or why Nicole’s bruising has brought out such a visceral reaction. “I’m fine.”

Nicole takes the teapot from her grip and guides her to the comfy armchair. Waits by her side as she recovers her senses, then pours them each a mug of fruit tea. The sugar helps, although she’s shaken, fights to remove the image of Nicole’s bruises from her mind, but loses. Her baby is hurt.

“Can I do anything?” Nicole asks as she perches on the wooden crate.

“I have arnica,” she replies.

“Okay.”

She gestures with her index finger at Nicole’s arm. “For that.”

“Oh right. Does it help?”

She nods. After the accident, rubbing arnica cream on her own bruising helped it to fade, helped her take back some control over her body. A dancer’s trick, always with a tube of arnica gel in her bag, applying it daily to soothe aching feet and sore calves after a long training session.

“Guess I could do with putting some on,” Nicole adds.

It has Waverly out of the comfy chair, the walking cane forgotten as she reaches for Nicole’s hand. She limps them off the barge and onto the canal path, flakes of snow still fluttering to earth, the air sharp against bare skin as Nicole asks where they’re going. She doesn’t reply, instead guides her to where they can board Matilda. Inside is just as toasty as the barge, the smaller wood burner glowing contentedly in the corner. The bed would be the best place to apply the cream, although that pushes what she’s about to do into a whole new category.

Nicole is invited to sit on the couch, while she goes to rummage through a drawer in her tiny bathroom. There’s half a tube left of the cream, checks the date and breathes out. When she returns to Nicole she’s sitting there with a soppy smile on her face, as though it’s her birthday. God, if this is all it takes to make the girl happy then she has hit the jackpot.

Sat beside her, Waverly squeezes out a small line of cream onto her finger and gently presses it against purpled skin. Apologizes for her hands being cold, they’re always cold, as she massages the area most in need.

“How does that feel?” she says as Nicole remains quiet. “Not too painful.”

“Perfect,” Nicole replies, eyes fixed on her fingers as they glide across her arm.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

“You could never hurt me.”

She extracts a little more cream to apply to the top of Nicole’s arm. Looks at her expensive tee and asks the one thing that’s going to tip this whole thing over into the danger zone. “Can you take that off?”

Nicole’s eyes widen at the request. “Waves, are you sure?”

“I don’t want to get cream on your shirt,” she explains.

Nicole hesitates.

“Baby, I need to do the top of your arm.”

A small whimper comes from Nicole. Does as she’s instructed which exposes the full extent of bruising to her side. Holy crap! She holds it together while mentally assessing whether Nicole is able to fit lengthways on the couch. She can’t, unless Nicole scrunches up her legs, which would be uncomfortable. It has Waverly making the decision to move them to the bedroom, because she needs to tend to Nicole, and let’s face it that bra is amazing. Doesn’t want to rush this, but oh boy!

Nicole comes willingly. Lies down on what is thankfully a made bed and rests her head on a pillow. It allows her full access to the injured side while Nicole explains how she came to have this amount of bruising.

“It could have been much worse,” she adds flinching as Waverly applies more cream to her ribs. “I’m a little ticklish. No, I mean, if I hadn’t found that bush it could have been a trip to A&E.”

Waverly vaguely remembers the Accident and Emergency department she ended up in. Remembers people talking to her, telling her she’d been in an accident. Or was that in the ambulance? Remembers waking up in a hospital bed, Wynonna sitting in a chair by her side, eyes red. Gus was there too, looking tired, didn’t stay long. Curtis stayed though, visited every day, would bring a new book from the barge every day, even though she hadn’t read the last one. Had to take a stack home with him after a nurse complained they were getting in the way.

Nicole compliments her bedding, which makes this all the more awkward. They’re not here to get it on, although it feels super sexy having Nicole half naked on her clean duvet cover. Thank Buddha she’d put a new one on that morning. Takes her time to make sure the entirety of the bluey yellow patch along Nicole’s side is covered with arnica.

“I’ll give you the rest of the tube,” she offers as she takes one final peek at Nicole’s chest and hands back the white shirt.

“I think it’s helping,” Nicole says donning her clothing.

“Does this happen a lot?” she asks, gesturing at Nicole’s arm. “Falling off.”

“Not usually. Rodney likes going out in the field, takes some of the steam out of him.”

She nods, but doesn’t understand having only ever ridden a high horse.

“Once they go, they go. All you can do is hold on and hope they run out of steam. Unfortunately, I ran out of track, so it was the bush or a wooden fence. Took my chances with the bush.”

Waverly feels the shiver through her spine.

“It’s fun,” Nicole adds, “until it’s not fun.”

“Can imagine,” she replies, although what she wants to say is: are you flipping crazy? That amount of bruising is dangerous. You could have been seriously hurt, and I’m only just getting to know you. It’s selfish of you to go throwing yourself off the back of a horse into a bush.

“I won’t be riding Rodney again. My horse is coming over from Ireland, so I get to work with it up to the race.”

“In July,” she replies, remembering one of Nicole’s recent videos announced this.

“That’s right. Perhaps you could come see me ride sometime.”

It’s out of her mouth before she can stop it. “And see you hurt yourself.”

“I’ll be careful,” Nicole reassures, approaching her. “Are you worried?”

The honest reply would be: yes, I’m terrified something horrible will happen while you're on a horse. Simply shrugs and hands over the tube of cream. It’s accepted with one hand as Nicole pulls her close with the other. And well…

Their second kissing session ends with them back on the bed. Whether Nicole chooses to ride off into the sunset on a stupid horse is overlooked, because right now Waverly is concentrating on a pair of lips that are too delicious for words. Has abandoned her own high horse in favour of riding Nicole’s mouth, which in her opinion is well worth the trade.

Had it not been for a woman’s voice outside, there’s no telling where this session might have led.

“Hello? the woman says. “Is anyone in there?”

Waverly sits bolt upright. “Did you hear that?”

Nicole brings herself up to a sitting position. “Nope.” Pulls her back down which elicits a giggle.

“Hello? I’m waiting to buy some books.”

Waverly shuffles off the bed and unruffles her hair. “There’s someone outside,” she whispers.

“Can’t hear anyone,” Nicole replies.

She giggles. “Stop it.”

“I have to go,” the woman says, loud enough for both of them to hear. “I. Will. Leave. The. Money. By. The. Entrance.”

“Shit!” Waverly says. “Sorry, coming. Be right with you.”

She limps her way out of the bedroom and searches for her stick. Remembers it’s back on the barge and now has to navigate Matilda’s rocking by hanging onto the side. Her narrowboat only rocks when there’s a lot of customers on the barge. Flings open the doors and stares at a crowd, which has gathered on the towpath.

The woman in need of parting with her money steps forward. “I’d like to buy these,” she says, holding out six books. “It’s £34 in total. You can check.”

Waverly stares at the books, then stares at the woman. “All of them?”

“Is that okay?” the woman replies. “I saw Nikky’s latest video and had to come check this out. It’s amazing. Wish I’d known about it before, so coming back. I’ve told all my friends about you.”

“All of them?” she repeats. The most anyone buys is one, occasionally two books. But six. In one go.

Others hold up books, asking to pay. Nicole emerges behind her, and honestly it’s like Taylor Swift had just entered the chat. The crowd goes silent before someone takes it upon themselves to wolf whistle. Then the clapping starts. If they were intending to keep this a secret, it’s no longer a secret.

Chapter Text

An orderly queue forms along the towpath. Customers waiting patiently to pay, which speaks to their good nature, book buyers who could waltz off with whatever while the owner is sucking face. Nicole retrieves her hoodie and lends a hand with the sales process. During a lull Waverly informs they’ve made over a hundred pounds. One hundred!

She checks her YouTube channel and finds the view count has skyrocketed since she last looked, now in the thousands. Likes and comments are up substantially. More importantly, sharing of the episode is also up, which means a wider audience, which means the possibility of edging towards that 7% imposed target. It’s satisfying to have it within reach. She’s a Haught, her father’s daughter, meaning it’s in her blood to want to win, even if the apartment is no longer the major prize she wants in her life.

A little after six Waverly decides to call it a day. “It’s never been this busy,” she says with a look of pure joy. “I mean, we’ve had days which were decent, not like this.” She approaches and places a sweet kiss on Nicole’s cheek. “Thank you, for everything.”

“Wasn’t really me,” she replies.

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Waverly counters. “I can be a stubborn mule sometimes, so I appreciate all your effort getting me to take part in your channel. You were one hundred percent right.”

Waverly’s hand is warm to the touch. She pulls her near and wraps her arms around her No. 1 prize. “If you hadn’t kept this place going, I wouldn’t have been able to feature it.”

“Well, aren’t you two just the cutest,” comes a familiar voice.

Nicole releases Waverly to find Wynonna taking up space in the doorway. There is absolutely no way they can argue against what Wynonna is witnessing, because it’s right there, the two of them cuddling.

“Waves, can I have a moment?” her sister says, while giving Nicole dagger eyes.

Waverly reaches for her stick and dutifully follows Wynonna off the barge. There’s nothing for Nicole to do other than reinsert books into slots and worry this might be the shortest she has ever dated someone. Although, in fairness neither has officially stated such, but still it would utterly suck if this was over. Consoles herself by rechecking the channel’s analytics. Even she can’t quite believe how well the episode is doing, scrolls through the comments and spots the first mention of their on-screen chemistry:

@buzzibeek46 - Wow! You two are so good together. Are you dating?

And another:

@blingoo_ringoo - I see you nikky 👀 she’s a keeper…

And another:

@4site444 - who dat girl? me likey ❤️❤️

She likey Waverly too, but right now Waverly’s probably being chewed out by her sister. It doesn’t take long to find out when Waverly returns with her sister in tow. “So, you two are dating then?” Wynonna says, arms folded across her body, while wearing a look which suggests she’s thinking they are so not dating.

“I did kind of tell you,” Waverly replies.

Nicole shoots her a shocked look. That's not a denial.

Waverly’s cheeks redden as she holds up a hand. “Okay, okay, I may have mentioned I find you attractive.”

Nicole’s cheeks join in the fun. “Really?”

Wynonna retches.

“So, we’re dating?” Nicole adds, simply to make sure she’s not imagining any of this.

“Guess we are,” Waverly replies, still looking awkward. Turns to her sister and tells her how much money they’ve made in one afternoon. “One hundred and seventy-three pounds. That’s the most ever. Can you believe it.”

“Not bad,” Wynonna says, still looking like she’s put out by the whole relationship situation. “What happens now?”

“Well, I’m definitely getting paper bags, with our logo on,” Waverly explains.

Wynonna unfolds her arms and gestures. “With you two.”

“Oh, well…” Waverly turns to face Nicole but says nothing.

All the plans in her head, to make Waverly her girlfriend on Christmas Eve, vanish as she looks into those eyes. “We’re dating,” she replies, and sees the joy those two words bring.

“Okay,” Wynonna says, “glad we got that sorted out.” She offers a hand. “Can I have a go on that scooter of yours?”

Her laugh coincides with a groan from Waverly.

“Which obviously means I get to see this amazing apartment,” Wynonna adds as they shake on the newly minted relationship.

The wood burner is damped down; the doors to the barge locked for the evening. Inside Matilda the air is chilly, wood burner asleep in the corner. Outside a thinning carpet of snow covers the grey path, most of which will be gone by the morning. She has invited the sisters back to the apartment, or rather Wynonna invited herself and has offered to order in a Chinese takeaway.

Wynonna is already swearing under her breath in the hotel lobby. Then alternates between laughter and a strange jig once inside the apartment. Stops by the stairs and gives her initial impression of the place. “Holy fuck balls! This is insane.”

“I’m not here for much longer,” she replies closing the door behind them. “I’m hoping to move to York Way.”

“Nicole has a bet with her dad for another apartment.”

Wynonna makes no comment because she’s staring upwards at the showpiece chandelier.

“Want a tour?” she says, taking Waverly’s coat.

“Wait till you see Nicole’s room.” Waverly’s eyes ask for permission.

“Sure. This way.”

At the bedroom door Wynonna removes her boots and moves towards the four-poster. “Wow Haught, that’s some bed.” Nudges her sister. “Bet it’s super comfy.”

Red cheeks reappear as Waverly insists she slept in the guest room.

“Right.” Wynonna air quotes the rest. “Guest room.”

“Seriously, we’ve not.”

She offers to show Wynonna that room, only to receive the same air-quoted words.

Upstairs has Wynonna whooping and doing that funny little jig again.

“I think she likes it,” Waverly whispers. “Is this okay, us being here?”

She finds her hand and squeezes. “Perfectly.” Whispers the rest. “I’m sorry…”

“About what?”

“About it being like this.” It feels too soon, too public, is worried what this means for Waverly.

“Does that thing go?” Wynonna asks as she sashays over to the scooter in the corner and makes the exact same sound Waverly made. “Vroom, vroom.”

“I’m not sure,” she admits. “Never tried.”

She persuades the sisters to order from the restaurant downstairs. Says she’ll pay which appears to convince Wynonna it’s the better option. They dine together in the snug, while discussing the early success of the episode, and what this could mean for the barge. Waverly remains adamant she’ll cancel the Tenerife trip, but is met with protest, Wynonna offering to help out while Waverly’s away sunning herself. She offers too, because asking Waverly to be her girlfriend on Christmas Eve has been removed from the table and this will be her way of showing support. She’s not mad about Waverly waltzing off, maybe a little disappointed not to be able to be with her over Christmas, will have to break it to her mother she’s not going to Monaco this year.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Waverly says, as she uses a chunk of bread to wipe the last of the tomato soup from her bowl. “Nicole has her channel, and you have yours. Plus, your other work.”

“If customers keep coming, then you might need more staff,” her sister suggests. “You can’t do this on your own.”

“It’s probably just a blip,” Waverly replies. “It won’t last.” Looks at Nicole. “Could it last?”

Waverly’s insecurities hit hard. There’s no telling where this will go, but right now all she wants is alone time with her, to check this is okay, that this isn’t going too fast and cause Waverly to bolt. When Wynonna yawns and says she needs to head off Nicole takes Waverly to one side.

“You know you can stay,” she whispers. “If you want to.”

Waverly takes to biting her bottom lip having had her fill of soup.

“Absolutely no pressure. The guest bedroom is yours, whenever you want to stay.”

“I’d better go,” she replies, although there’s uncertainty in that statement. “Wyn’ll walk me back.”

“What if I walked you home?”

Waverly’s back to biting her bottom lip.

“I won’t stay, I promise.”

“No, it’s not that.” Waverly glances at her sister who is eyeing them suspiciously. “I’m just…it’s just…”

“Too much, too soon.”

There’s a half nod, half a head tilt in answer, and Nicole doesn’t force the issue. Waits nervously for a text, which Waverly sends twenty or so minutes after leaving the apartment. Calculates if she gets the York Way apartment she’ll be nearer the canal, nearer for Waverly to walk home if she chooses. Shae practically moved in after their first night together, took her time moving out, leaving two large suitcases in the utility room until asked to relocate them to Hugo’s pad.

The desire to call Waverly plays on her mind for what remains of the evening. Sits at her desk and reviews the analytics for the episode, then nervously reads more comments. Mostly positive, with a few from trolls, which is to be expected. Her audience likes what she’s doing with the channel, finds the new direction refreshing, wants more of Waverly. If she chooses to feature the barge again it will have to be in the New Year, once other episodes have aired of businesses she’s committed to featuring.

It's late when her phone rings. Feels a rush of excitement at the prospect of chatting with Waverly, only for her stomach to tighten at the sound of her father’s voice. “I’ll be in Oxford tomorrow,” he begins, without any consideration of the time, without first asking how she is.

“I have a new episode to film,” she replies, which she has. “How long will you be there?”

“One day. I want Cleo to view the new apartment prior to purchase.”

Who the fuck is this Cleo she wants to ask. Instead asks which apartment, only to be told it’s the one she has set her heart on. Suspects her father is adding this Cleo into the mix to spice things up. “Why can’t we meet in London?" she replies, already knowing the answer. Is tempted to tell him what he can do with the apartment, but isn’t that stupid. Nor is she willing to give up her prize just yet. Haught by name, and all that…

He informs her she must be out of this apartment by the fourteenth of the month. Says he needs the place empty before completion of the sale. Suspects this is just an excuse, but doesn’t question her father’s reason for vacating orphan Annie’s home. He doesn’t offer her another apartment in which to stay. Doesn’t ask about the channel, or the episode. Doesn’t mention their bet, or the engagement rate she must reach to stand a chance of living on York Way. Suspects this Cleo has a lot to answer for.

Ends the call and decides to take a bath. In order of priority she would have preferred to get filming of the new episode done, will have to let that business owner know something’s come up. And Rosita. If not filming, she would have offered to help out on the barge. Assumes business in the days ahead will be busy. Fingers crossed. Hears the intercom buzz and sits up alert. Who the fuck is it this time of night? Grabs a towel and drips water across her father’s plush bedroom carpet to go see. Peers at the small screen on the intercom and opens the door.

“I had to make it look like I wasn’t staying,” Waverly says, wrapped up for winter, a large bag slung over her shoulder. “Wyn stayed for ages…talking. Couldn’t get rid of her.” She looks at the bath towel. “Is this okay? I can go if it’s not.”

She doesn’t reply. Simply reaches for her bag. Who needs an apartment when she has Waverly.

Chapter Text

Waverly accepts it would have been wise to call before returning. But that would mean missing out on a semi-naked Nicole. Makes sure not to gawp at the ugly bruising down her arm, instead glances at the angularity of bare shoulders, and the slender curve of her neck. If she never sees Nicole again, this would be the enduring image. Perfection wrapped in a pink fluffy towel.

“Is this okay?” she says, a faster heartbeat accompanying her words. “I can go if it’s not.”

Nicole uses one hand to preserve her modesty, stretches out the other. “You know it’s okay,” she says, as she takes the bulky bag.

The door clicks and Waverly is back in the warmth. Kicks off her boots, lays her coat over an arm of the wooden couch, and leans her walking cane against the wall to save it from falling. Limps into the snug as though it’s her home, but doesn’t sit. When she turns Nicole is behind her, wearing a soppy smile along with that pink fluffy towel and is momentarily struck by the sheer absurdity of this scene.

“What?” she says, while Nicole remains where she is with that sweet smile still on display.

“I’m glad you came back.”

“I had to,” she replies, even though she isn’t fully behind those words, “we’re dating remember.”

Her arms ache to hold Nicole, but finds it difficult to reduce the distance between them. She is safe here, she knows that, safe with someone who cares enough. Still, she can’t bring herself to trust those last few steps which would leave her exposed and vulnerable. Why did she come back if not to take those steps?

“That’s right, we’re dating,” Nicole replies. The flirty wink which follows fails to hide a worried look. “Although, I wanted to wait.”

Those words are taken to heart, giving her that all-too-familiar sinking feeling in her stomach.

Nicole edges nearer, still with her bag, still holding onto the pink fluffy towel. “I meant I wanted to ask you on Christmas Eve, because I didn’t want to rush you into anything.”

She’s staring now, into those gorgeous eyes. Can’t quite believe this is real. “Seriously?”

The bag is dropped on the floor. The towel stays where it is. Shame.

“It’s true,” Nicole says, although there’s still that worried look. “I didn’t want this freaking you out.”

“I’m not freaked out,” she lies, drops her gaze from the towel to where her bag sits. “Okay, I’m a little freaked out.” Glances up and catches Nicole studying her. “Fine, a lot.”

Nicole reaches out again, this time to take her hand. “There’s no need to rush this. We take it slow, take our time, get to know each other. Get to understand how the other ticks.” Squeezes her fingers slightly. “The first time I met you I wanted this.”

Her heart leaps at those words, but still the doubt persists. “Why?”

Nicole pulls her in. “You didn’t like me.”

Instinctively, her head tilts to the side. She’s not sure whether Nicole means what she just said, or is teasing her.

“Which meant, you didn’t know me. You didn’t judge me for what I have.”

She thinks back to that day when Nicole waltzed into her life. The precise moment of her strutting behind Wynonna into Mojo’s. It’s true, she didn’t like Nicole because of how she came across, all legs and a trendy haircut, paired with what she assumed was arrogance. Except, the arrogance is on her side of this equation, because that’s the last thing Nicole is.

“I judged you before I really knew you,” she admits, while being held by this kitten. “I’m sorry.”

Nicole places a finger on the side of her face, and strokes along her jaw. It’s sexy as hell, helps to ease the nerves, helps to break the tension she’s been feeling since entering the snug. “What Champ did was unforgivable,” Nicole says as she runs the finger across her lips. “He didn’t deserve you.”

It’s everything she wants someone in her life to say. Holds back the emotion, holds back the emotion, until the pain of doing so is too much. The first tear reaches Nicole’s finger, and hears soothing words to let them out. Let them all out, every last one. She can’t bring herself to do that, to unload on Nicole like this. Instead, she buries her head in the pink fluffy towel and prays this is for keeps.

When Nicole doesn’t let go, when they’ve stood there for what feels like forever, she frees herself and gently lays a hand on the bruising. “You need more cream on that,” she offers. “Let me care for you.”

It’s all she can offer, because she sure as hell can’t compete on the money side. Can’t offer Nicole a fancy bedroom, or fancy food, or a fancy life.

“I’ll put your bag in the guest room,” Nicole offers, worry having returned to those gorgeous eyes. “Is that okay?”

She nods, but knows in her heart she wants nothing more than to curl up, or curl around Nicole and feel her warmth in the night. Counsels herself that this last preservation of independence is to make sure their relationship has a pair of good legs underneath it, that it will go the distance, because it would kill her if it didn’t.

She limps the short distance to the guest room and waits while Nicole places her dumpy bag on the bed. Hears Nicole say she’ll go change into something else while gesturing at the towel. Tells her not to.

“Your arm,” she explains as she points to the towel. “And your side.”

Nicole glances down then up. “Okay.”

“Which room?”

“Sorry?”

She points again at the one item of clothing Nicole is wearing. “To do you…it.” Feels the full flush of her cheeks. “Cream you.”

Nicole stares.

“Arnica?”

“Oh right. Um…” Nicole looks at the guest bed. “Guess mine would be better.”

She doesn’t protest. Doesn’t suggest this bed, because she wants the other one more than she can articulate, has a new image forming of Nicole naked on her four poster. Wants, no needs to make this image a reality, even if she’ll have to airbrush out the bruises from her mind afterwards.

She stands beside the larger bed and feels overdressed. Nicole returns with the squeezed tube of cream and hands it to her. Asks where she wants her to which she can say nothing but point. All those nights alone on Matilda, wrapped up in blankets to keep out the cold, and she’s here in an apartment too expensive to ever contemplate, about to see Nicole naked. Someone pinch her.

Nicole shuffles awkwardly onto the bed and lies down. “Is this okay?”

She nods, but is already wondering how she’ll position herself. It’s difficult to bend her left knee, even more difficult to put weight exclusively on her left hip. Decides to sit alongside and work at an angle, taking her time to caress the cream into Nicole’s arm. Finds herself lifting Nicole’s hand and kissing the back. A soft moan leaves Nicole’s lips, and it so easily could have been from her.

Under the bed’s canopy it is more intimate, the air thick with sexual tension. She checks on Nicole, who has her eyes closed and her lips parted slightly. They’ve known each other all of two weeks and they are here already, and she’s equal measures terrified and tempted. Will she be good enough for Nicole? Will Nicole want to keep seeing her after tonight? Will she ever be able to let go of the past and move on? Only one way to find out.

Her movements slow over Nicole’s arm. “I should do your side now.”

Here it comes, the big reveal, the moment of truth.

Nicole opens her eyes and studies her face. “Are you sure?”

“No.” It’s the first honest thing that’s come out of her mouth.

Nicole sits up and takes the open tube from her hand. It’s a simple action, one which would mean very little under different circumstances, to Waverly it means the world. It removes the pressure she’s placed on herself to make this moment count, to make the most of this moment.

“I..I haven’t…” she stutters, as she avoids Nicole’s gaze. “It’s been a while since I’ve...before the accident.”

“Hey, there’s no rush.”

“I know.” She’s now annoyed with herself for having got this far without being able to go further. “I’m sorry.”

“What can I do?” Nicole asks, and it’s all she can do not to tell her to hold her and never let go.

She shrugs.

“Waves, tell me what I can do. How can I support you?”

“I don’t know.” That’s the honest truth too. “I thought I wanted this. I just don’t know if…”

“Are you scared I might find your scars too much? Is that it? Is that what’s bothering you?”

Her body tenses.

Nicole’s hand is on hers. “Waves, is that it? Because if it is I’m so not that shallow.”

Somehow Nicole has been able to see into her soul. Past all of her defences and right to the very core of her being. The scars are a daily reminder of what love can do to another. A daily reminder that someone tried to kill her. Only, she didn’t die, she’s still here, still alive, still fighting. That’s a lie.

Nicole squeezes her hand. “I’m not here to change you. I’ll never do that.”

She looks up and feels the shame she’s carried dissolve a little. Enough to comprehend what Nicole is saying.

“I know you think my life is perfect,” Nicole continues, “it’s not. It’s wrapped in glitter, but it’s lonely most of the time, and it’s really fucking tiring having to weed out people who just see me as a bank. I don’t even have the luxury of being able to say this to anyone, because it makes me sound like an arrogant bitch.”

“You’re not,” she replies.

“My father wants me in Oxford tomorrow; to tell me he’s giving the York Way apartment to his latest girlfriend. Oh, and he wants me out of here by the fourteenth.”

“Oh Nic, that’s dreadful.”

“With nowhere to go,” Nicole adds.

“You can stay with me,” she replies. “You can have my room.”

“See, this is why I like you. This.”

“Friends look out for friends,” she explains.

“They do. Except I’d struggle to find one who would offer me their room without there being some kind of string attached.”

She leans in and places a kiss on those lips. Nicole tastes sweet and she no longer cares about her scars, or that no one has seen her scars since the accident, because all she cares about is letting Nicole know how much she cares about her. Finally realises there are no more steps she needs to take because she is home.

Her fingers find the top of Nicole’s towel. Releases the corner tucked inside and lets it go. Takes in the gentle rise and fall of Nicole’s chest, and once again feels overdressed. “Where’s that cream,” she says, not wanting this moment to ever end.

Nicole hands it back and lies down, exposed and vulnerable. Waverly squeezes out more arnica and resumes the task of caressing Nicole’s skin. Then stops, because if she is to do this properly she needs to be exposed and vulnerable. Lays the tube down and tugs at her jumper, pulling it over her head. Nicole assists in releasing the buttons of her shirt, says nothing as Waverly reaches behind and unhooks her faded bra. Shuffles off the bed and unzips her jeans, to reveal her scars.

Finds it hard to look at Nicole, who stretches out a hand. Back on the bed, the tube of arnica removed to the bedside table, they do nothing more than cuddle. Just cuddle, and it is enough.

Chapter Text

It’s the weight on her outstretched arm. It’s the smell of coconut conditioner. She has spent the night spooning Waverly, listening to soft breathing, the occasional restless whimper. She has laid a soothing hand on Waverly’s head and stroked sweet-scented hair, to let her know friends look out for friends.

Light enters the room through gothic-arched windows. She never draws the curtains, preferring to let the sun announce morning has returned. Perhaps these windows are the one aspect of this apartment she will miss, that and the crystal stars dangling from the chandelier in the centre of the ceiling. There was a time she considered them pointless, a feature some interior designer assumed would add charm to the room. Now they’re a reminder of the snowflakes which brought them together.

Waverly stirs, sits up and looks around. Cranes her neck and stares. Is out of the bed before Nicole can stop her.

She props herself up on an elbow. “Good morning.”

It’s the sequence of expressions which has her falling a little more for this new person in her life. Shock, then what she takes to be confusion, morphing into an eye-sparkling smile.

“Oh my God, we did!” Waverly's hands rise to cover perfect breasts.

“You want breakfast? I have plain bagels and some kind of vegan spread. Don’t ask me which one. Or, we could order something from the hotel.”

Her guest says nothing but limps quickly from the room, leaving Nicole to wonder whether this will be the one and only time they sleep together. She grabs the pink fluffy towel from the floor and follows, to find Waverly rummaging through her bag to retrieve a set of PJs. Gives Waverly privacy by returning to her own room where she checks her messages.

There’s one from her father saying he expects her by ten o’clock. Another from Rosita about the rescheduling of the next episode they were meant to be filming today, a third from the shop owner she was due to interview, complimenting her on the boat episode, and suggesting Friday morning would be best for them. She flicks to the channel analytics and feels the buzz of excitement. View count has trebled overnight. It’s already higher than any of her previous videos.

“Sorry about that,” Waverly says, returning to the room. Stops abruptly and asks what’s wrong.

“Absolutely nothing,” she replies. “Look at this.” She holds out her phone for Waverly to see.

“What am I looking at?”

“The stats for your episode.” Her voice is higher, her words coming out faster. “We’re at the 100k mark already. And it’s only been twenty-four hours.”

“I take it that’s good,” Waverly replies.

She reaches for the phone in order to show Waverly how good this is. “It’s…it’s…even better than I expected. My best video took six weeks to reach that number of views. That’s how good!”

“Oh.”

“Subscriptions are way up,” she adds. Reaches out again to squeeze Waverly’s hand. “I think this could actually go viral.”

Waverly stays silent. It takes several seconds for Nicole to realise, to look over and see the worried look on Waverly’s face. In her excitement the impact of this success to Waverly’s business has been overlooked. The phone is tossed onto the bed; her freed hands pull Waverly into an embrace.

“It’s going to be okay, we’ve got this. I’ll help, I promise. You don’t have to do this alone.” She cannot be more explicit than this. She’s caused this flurry of interest around the barge, has no intention of leaving this for Waverly to sort out on her own. Not now, because they’re dating. Wouldn’t have left her in the lurch even if they weren’t dating.

“I should be there,” Waverly says, although she doesn’t sound sure. “To open up.”

“It’s early. We have time.”

“I have to go. I need to…”

Tension returns to Waverly’s body. This isn’t a problem, or it’s a good problem. Either way this isn’t a problem to be faced alone. “I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t you have to be at your dad’s?”

She swears.

“I’ll manage. You need to go talk to him.”

She wants to say: to hell with her father and his latest girlfriend. Knows she needs to find out where she stands in his affections. Probably at the back of the queue.

“If it gets busy I’ll call Wyn,” Waverly adds.

“I could ask Ros if she’s free. We were meant to be filming today, which obviously I can’t now.”

“Ros doesn’t want to sell boring books on a boat.”

“Barge,” Nicole corrects.

Some of the tension leaves Waverly’s body. Two arms find her waist. “I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will, but you need to shout if it gets too much. Promise me you’ll shout.”

“Oh, I’ll shout alright.”

Quick showers taken, a packed lunch made for Waverly, they make their way to the barge. Euston Road is thrumming with vehicles; it’s the start of peak-time travelling. A steady stream of pedestrians accompany them as they turn into York Way. Nicole slows her steps sufficiently to keep pace with Waverly, slows them further as they near the building in which her father’s new apartment is located. She points to the top row of windows and tells Waverly that’s where she intends to live.

“Here?” Waverly says as she stares upwards.

“It’s so me,” she replies, her voice higher and faster again. “You’d love it.” Hears herself saying this, as though it’s a foregone conclusion she’ll get the apartment. Says as much.

“Would it matter if you didn’t?” Waverly asks still staring up to where Nicole might live.

Would it matter? There’s nothing stopping her from finding somewhere without her father being involved. An apartment nearby, big enough and modern enough for her tastes, but within budget. Moneywise, she could fund a two-bed place she guesses, but her father reneging on a bet would be hard to swallow. Completely out of character for him. Plus, they’d shaken on it. So, no backsies…

She goes to move off only to find Waverly is still staring upwards. “You okay?” she says, stopping to wait for her travelling companion. Waverly doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, which has her retracing the few steps she’s taken, to stand and look upwards too. “Great views from up there.”

“Curtis used to work here. Whenever we came past he would point to that window, on the second floor, and say that’s where he got the idea for the barge…up there.” There’s a smile. “It wasn’t really his idea. It was Nedley’s…” She glances over, the smile still visible. “Chrissy’s dad…”

She nods in recognition, her own mind picturing him walking her home.

“It kind of was his idea to begin with. Curtis was the one who ran with it though.” Waverly points again to the window. “He loved working up there, looking out over the canal.”

“What changed?” she asks. Something must have changed for Curtis to have left this building and go open a bookstore on a barge.

“New owners,” Waverly replies. “He was in publishing, spotted a couple of best sellers,” stops and glances up again. “Missed a big one though. You know, that big one.”

She doesn’t, but she’s hooked. Realises they could be here for a while. Doesn’t want to be late getting to her father, doesn’t want to rush Waverly’s story.

“It would be odd living up there,” Waverly adds as she begins walking.

“You don’t want to live there.” Perhaps walking away from it would be the better option.

Waverly stops again. “Oh no, it would be surreal.” Smiles to herself before looking directly at Nicole. “Curtis would have loved it.”

Once at the barge, she gets the wood burner going while Waverly makes them tea. Checks on trains out of Kings Cross and realises the window for getting to Soulcombe Park by ten o’clock is closing fast. Says her goodbyes and sprints to catch the 8.39 from Marylebone. If she had more time she would have driven, all of two hours, maybe more depending on the traffic.

Opts to take the tube from King’s Cross, instead of chancing her luck in a taxi. Sits by the window panting as the overground train pulls out of Marylebone, waits until it pulls into Gerrards Cross before texting Rosita to ask if she can help out on the barge. Gets a curt reply, along the lines she’ll do it if she has to, adding it would be different if Nicole was dating Waverly. By the time the train reaches High Wycombe Rosita is fully up to speed on the current situation.

“Wish I’d had a bet on it,” Ros says as the train slows to a stop.

She’s beginning to resent others betting on the direction of her life. “Yeah well, it’s early days. We’re taking it slow.”

“I’m happy for you,” Ros adds. “You deserve someone who isn’t—”

“Shae?” She knows Ros and Shae were never bosom buddies. Would go so far as to say Ros hated her ex. Shae always had some choice words about Rosita as well, which she put down to a clash of two big personalities.

Rosita laughs. “I was going to say, who isn’t out for themselves.”

She replies in agreement, choosing not to drag up the past. That the reason she split with Shae was her determination to oust Rosita from her life.

Her train arrives at Bicester Village eleven minutes late. She scans the vehicles outside the station and walks briskly towards a Range Rover. Her father’s driver makes a stab at small talk as they travel to Soulcombe Park. She distracts her mind by studying the passing greenery until they reach the quaint village of Middleton Stoney, where they turn off the main road, and onto the sweeping driveway which will take them to the main house.

If anything sums up her father it’s this sprawling estate. With its French-chateau façade, manicured parkland, and its loose association with aristocracy. It smacks of posturing and chest beating. Not that she hates it, because it’s somewhere she will inherit unless this Cleo gets her hands on it.

She finds her father in his study. Waits for him to finish a phone call before kissing him on both cheeks as is the custom.

“Cleo will be here shortly,” he tells her, then offers her a stiff drink. At ten in the morning…

She wants to go straight to the heart of this meeting. Where exactly does she stand regarding the York Way apartment? Her father rambles on about his portfolio of properties, about how he might convert this property into apartments. That’s news to her, has her asking why.

He looks at her as though she’s four. “It would bring in more money, that’s why.”

“But you love this place,” she replies.

“Cleo thinks this asset is not being sweated enough.” Sniffs his expensive whiskey before taking a mouthful. Swallows before swirling what’s left in his glass, eyes following its circular path. “I agree with her, this estate isn’t pulling its weight.”

Considering her father spends no more than two months a year here, Cleo has a point. However, she plans on getting married here, so converting the house into apartments is a no. Wonders why her father is suddenly taking real estate advice from a girlfriend. Doesn’t get the chance to ask him as a woman breezes in and plants a kiss on her father’s lips. Turns to her and extends a hand.

“Cleo. Cleo Clanton, of Clanton and Claiborne.” Their hands meet, only briefly before Cleo pulls back. “I’ve heard so much about you. Your papa says you’re participating in a charity horse race in July. I must say I’m impressed.”

Nicole already has the measure of this woman. Young enough to be her sister, Cleo Clanton is out to get as much as she can from her father. Even if it means portioning off her family’s estate. Which has her wondering why someone like Cleo Clanton would want the York Way apartment. It makes no sense.

Chapter Text

Another customer has a question. “Where can I find books on herbs?” The woman, who doesn’t look the gardening type, smiles in anticipation then adds. “I’m thinking of growing them on my windowsill.”

Waverly stares blank brained for what feels like forever, before the cogs begin turning. “Um…we have a section on outdoor pursuits,” she replies, pointing to her right. “Most of the gardening…I think there’s a book on herbs…” she pauses to remember who it's by, but can’t, which forces her to repeat what she’s already said.

Staying focused is hard, her mind distracted by other things rather than selling books. Well, one thing. Waking up in the same bed as Nicole had so not been the plan. The plan had been to return to the apartment so they could talk through their new relationship status. Only, beds became involved, and arnica cream and high-quality towels became involved. And well, lying next to Nicole became falling asleep next to Nicole, which became waking up with a warm body pressed against her own.

Herb woman sets off in search of a book which will satisfy her needs, leaving Waverly to briefly bask in the heat coming from the new wood burner. It’s bitterly cold outside, most surfaces having acquired a silvery coat, but customers keep coming, keep browsing her shelves, keep buying her books. If this keeps up she might run out of reading material to sell them.

A large chalkboard by the entrance informs only twenty can be on the barge at any one time. Even that figure is pushing the weight limit. Ten to fifteen is the ideal number, to give everyone enough space to browse, and to stop the barge from rocking too much. Which means when not answering customers' questions, or ringing up another purchase, her time is spent head counting and gatekeeping. Okay, and imagining Nicole without that towel.

Jeremy calls late morning. Spends ages gushing over how good she was in the video; how natural she came across and how passionate she sounded in explaining why the book barge needs to remain a part of London’s culture. Says he’s honoured to have been mentioned during the interview, about him helping out on Saturdays, and her paraphrasing of his words about independent booksellers and the rising trend in sales by them. His excitement matches hers in what this will do for the business, because she can see with her own eyes what this is already doing for business. He offers to swing by during his lunch break and lend a hand, an offer she politely declines. Not that she couldn’t do with his help, she really could, but because she hasn’t the heart to tell him just yet Tenerife could be off.

Admittedly, she’s not checked whether she can cancel her flights, or what penalty there might be for doing so. That’s another problem she will have to deal with tomorrow. Right now, her priority is to sell as many books as possible, to pay for blacking the bottoms of both Matilda and The Waverly. If business continues at this pace she might be able to cover the additional cost, without giving up two weeks in the sun.

But who would run the barge when she’s not here? Wynonna did offer, and she’s great with customers, seeing as that’s her other job when not lifestyle vlogging. But would she take it seriously? Would she go out of her way to give the best service, or would she get into an argument with a customer and ruin the whole experience for everyone? Nicole also offered, but her channel needs content and she can’t afford to focus solely on the barge.

Rosita’s unannounced arrival shortly after eleven is both welcome and a surprise. “Nicky says you might need me,” she says as she jumps the queue, receiving loud tuts from several customers. “I was free and passing, so I thought I’d pop by and see how it’s going.” She glances over her shoulder at the long line waiting to pay. “Looks like the episode worked.”

“You really don’t need to help,” she replies, then tuts at herself. “I’m sorry. Thank you for this, it’s getting a bit manic.”

“What do you want me to do?” Ros says, removing her warm coat and hanging it on a hook behind Waverly’s head. “Anything urgent?”

An image of Rosita’s chaotic shelf emptying pops into her head. “Um…are you okay on the till?”

She shows her how the vintage piece of equipment works, then leaves Ros to it while she mingles with customers and answers more questions. Returns frequently to check how her new assistant is doing, who seems in her element as she rings up sale after sale.

Early afternoon the queue outside begins to thin then disappears. By four o’clock the number inside has dropped to a handful, freeing her to thank Rosita for saving her ass. “I couldn’t have coped without you,” she says, handing over a mug of warm fruit tea. Offers her a hobnob. “Can’t believe how busy it’s been.”

Rosita accepts the chipped Radio 4 mug and jokes it’s all part of the service. It has Waverly wondering whether there’s an expectation of payment. Of course Ros needs to be paid for being here, but how much? “I’m um…” she says, not sure how to broach the subject. “I guess you’ll need to be…”

Rosita takes a sip of her tea and nods in appreciation. “Needed this.” She presses the mug close to her chest. “If you’re trying to say I need paying it’s all taken care of.”

“In what way?” she replies. It’s a redundant question because she’s already worked out who will be paying Rosita.

“Honestly, you don’t have to worry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Really, it’s fine. Nicky’s paying me for the missed day of filming, so it’s no big deal.”

There’s no point arguing, so she goes to check on the last customer of the day. Nicole paying Rosita for being here is generous, but it feels like she’s taking too much. Interest in the barge is because of the episode, she knows that, but it doesn’t mean Nicole has to pay Rosita. She’ll ask how much is owed and offer to cover the amount. In no way will she be a taker in this relationship.

Rosita rings up the final sale and comes to join her by the wood burner. “Gotta say, not a bad day’s work.”

“Thank you,” she replies, offering a top up of tea.

Rosita shakes her head as she places an empty mug back on the tray. “Best be going.” She retrieves her coat from behind the till but doesn’t put it on. Stops by the entrance, turns and smiles. “I’m happy for you,” she says. “If you knew the shit Nicky had to deal with with Shae,” pauses to look down at her coat, “what we all had to deal with…”

Rosita doesn’t wait for a reply, leaving Waverly to limp after her. She makes it to the towpath, but Rosita is already jogging up the ramp towards Granary Square. Turns and disappears. Calling after her is met with silence, Waverly accepting if Rosita really wanted to gossip about Shae she would have hung around.

The day’s takings are tallied, then counted again before the total sinks in. It’s close to four hundred pounds, which is more than she’s ever taken in one day. She’ll need to get in touch with local charities to restock the shelves with donated books. She’ll also need to hunt out that logo design and have bags made. Bags would definitely be good, brown paper, unbleached of course, with her logo in black. Wonders whether any authors would be interested in signing their books on the barge, now that it’s been brought back to life. Oh God, there’s so much to do, so many things to sort out.

It takes an hour of tidying before she’s back on Matilda. Moves no further than the couch for the first few minutes, even though a fire needs to be lit and dinner prepared. Crap! There’s nothing other than two packets of hobnobs and Nicole’s packed lunch for tea, which she forgot to eat during the day. Reaches for her phone and is about to order a Chinese when she spots Nicole’s text.

N: sorry stuck in ox cl ltr

She’s both pleased and annoyed. Pleased because Nicole is thinking about her, annoyed because how the hell can Oxford be reduced to just two letters of the alphabet. Checks the time the text was sent and spends too long deliberating whether to reply by text, or just put on her big pants and call. She calls.

“Hey, how did it go today?” Nicole says on answering.

“Really good.” She hesitates before continuing. “Thank you for sending Ros, it really helped.”

“I wish I could have been there. I’m on my way back.”

There’s a fizz on hearing this. “I was about to order Chinese. We could...”

“Sounds great.”

“I could order for us both?” Now she’s feeling nervous and uncertain, made worse when Nicole doesn’t immediately take her up on the offer. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” she adds, and Nicole’s sigh is painful to hear. “Another night perhaps?”

“I’m supposed to be attending a talk later. Xav’s giving it…I could come over afterwards. Would that work?”

“How did it go?” she replies, unable to answer Nicole’s question about it working. “With your father.”

“As well as expected.” There’s another sigh. “Mostly just him talking about Oxford. Apparently, his latest girlfriend is advising him on all things real estate.”

“Did he mention the apartment?”

Another sigh. “Briefly.”

She senses the reservation. Doesn’t know whether to push or let Nicole reveal more in her own good time. Asks what Xav's talk is about, only to be told it’s boring and so not important, which has her questioning silently why Nicole wants to go listen to something she’s not interested in.

“Okay enjoy,” she says, but hears how bitchy that sounds.

“I’m hoping I can catch Xav afterwards,” Nicole offers, “he might be able to fill me in on Cleo.”

“Okay.”

An awkward silence follows, Nicole the first to break it. “Xav’s my mentor, or as I like to call him dad’s spy.”

She listens.

“He’s also very well connected, so I’m hoping he’ll be able to give me some insider info on Clanton & Claiborne.”

“The developers?” she replies.

“You know them?”

“Kind of. They’re building new apartments opposite the barge. Someone wrote to me asking about my mooring rights.”

“Shit!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Probably nothing. Only, I said we’re dating.”

There’s another rush through her body. “You told your father?”

“Was that wrong?”

“No.” Because it’s so beyond right Nicole bothered to tell her dad this. “I told them it’s permanent. Well…kind of permanent. The mooring rights. Technically it’s in Curtis’s name, so legally I could be asked to move.”

“Can it be put in your name?” Nicole asks, more energy to her voice.

“I guess. But it would mean notifying all respective parties of my intention.” It’s her who is huffing because it’s a job she should have done immediately after Curtis passed. Has put it off and now she’s created a problem where there shouldn’t be one.

“I think you should put it in your name,” Nicole presses.

“Why?”

“As a precaution.” Nicole doesn’t elaborate even when asked why for a second time. Simply says she doesn’t trust Cleo Clanton.

“Your father is dating a Clanton?” she replies.

“Unfortunately.”

“So why does she want the York Way apartment?”

“Beats me,” Nicole says. “She has enough money not to have to fleece my father.” She lets out another long sigh. “I thought it was a power play on her part…it’s nothing. She can have it.”

“Where will you live?” she asks, her stomach complaining at having not seen food all day.

“With you. Do you think Matilda has room for a pink scooter?”