Wake Up Happy Every Day by Stephen May Page A

at him. Keeps right on crocheting. Linwood looks at the floor. He is handsome, sort of. A fine, well-built black man with that big-gunned, xylophone-abbed, even-featured look men aspire to over here. He has a face so sternly symmetrical, so coolly contemporary, it could win design awards. To tone this down he is wearing heavy black-rimmed specs, a transparent effort to soften the jockness.
    Linwood smiles and Lorna flinches at the sudden gleam of the wall of teeth. Like the sun shining off a row of riot shields.
    ‘You should have joined in. The class I mean. Gotta be better than knitting.’
    ‘Crocheting.’
    There is silence again.
    ‘You’re pissed at me. A little. Admit it. You are. For hitting your friend.’
    ‘She’s a big girl.’
    Linwood is delighted. It seems he feels this meant he is exonerated in the court of Megan’s friends. It isn’t the impression Lorna means to give. Not at all.
    ‘That’s it.’ He nods so vigorously his head actually seems to bounce. ‘Right. She’s an adult. And she’s the best. Totally. She’s just got to learn to keep her hands up. To defend herself at all times. Come on, stand up.’
    ‘What?’
    Linwood reaches down. He’s very tall. Like a big, black tree, only supple. A black willow maybe. He very deliberately moves the wool and the hook from Lorna’s hands and lap. Then he pulls her up to her feet. ‘You’ll like boxing,’ he says as he moulds her hands and feet into a fighting stance.
    ‘I don’t think so. I don’t do PE. Sorry.’ But she doesn’t attempt to move away or change position while Linwood pulls his gloves back on. Lorna feels ridiculous but also hypnotised somehow. It’s because she is so many miles from her comfort zone. When had she last been in a gym? Year ten was it? So that would be 1997. Empires have risen and fallen since then. The world has boomed and bust twice at least. There have been wars. Some of them have even finished. More or less.
    ‘Now try and hit me.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Hit me. Hard as you can.’
    ‘Hit you?’
    ‘Hit me. Give me your best shot.’
    ‘Oh, fuck it.’
    Linwood purses his lips. ‘No need to curse.’
    ‘I think you’ll find that there is usually every need.’
    And then she swings at him, and he bats her away easily with his gloved right hand. He laughs. ‘It goes best when you don’t shut your eyes when you throw one.’
    ‘I didn’t.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter, but you so did. Come on, again.’
    So she throws a few bare-knuckle punches, painfully conscious of how flappy and girlish they seem, even to her, and Linwood catches them all with no trouble. And he corrects her stance and teaches her about snapping out the jab and the difference between a hook and an uppercut, and shows her to swing her hips with the punch, and he more or less ignores the other women calling out their exhausted goodbyes to him.
    And after a few minutes he says, ‘You’re actually a natural.’
    To which she replies, ‘And you’re actually a bullshitter.’ And Linwood purses his lips again at the cursing. It makes her smile that this big tough guy is so prim. And she also can’t help feeling pleased at the praise, and then she notices Megan standing watching, hands on hips, eyes narrowed.
    ‘Ready to go, babes?’
    Megan just inclines her head slightly, then turns and strides away towards the stairs that lead to the car park and, feeling weirdly caught out, obscurely naughty, Lorna trots after those big shoulders, that narrow waist, those dancers thighs – the whole package, it seems to Lorna, transmitting a disapproving haughtiness.
    ‘Hey, Megan!’ Linwood is calling. Megan turns. ‘Nice work today. Fast hands.’
    Megan nods gravely but says nothing, just raises the hand that isn’t carrying her gym bag. She looks at him coolly for a long second. Flicks her wet hair away from her face.
     
    There are no words in the car for ages. Megan has the radio up too loud to talk comfortably and is concentrating on