Queen's Gambit

Author's note:

This is a first time submission and all comments are welcome, positive or otherwise.

This is the first of four parts and I'm currently editing part two. The sex is Chapter one is limited and comes towards the end (for those wanting the good stuff). However, I'd suggesting reading the whole thing. There are references made and characters mentioned which are later built upon.

Hope you enjoy.

*****

CHAPTER ONE: OPENING MOVES

"Fucking sit down mate," a drunk man shouts from behind me, his friends looking on amused. "No one wants to see your crap dancing."

The man's ire is directed towards a younger man, only just out of his teens perhaps who, unsteady on his feet as the night-bus chugs along at speed, is doing his best Michael Jackson moonwalk up and down the aisle.

"Aww, leave him alone," a young woman chimes protectively, "he's having fun. You carry on mate, we love it!"

Her two female companions cheer in approval and one seeks to facilitate the man's dance with a drunken rendition: -

"Annie, are you ok?

So, Annie are you ok?"

The others join in:

"Are you ok, Annie?

Annie, are you ok?

So, Annie are you ok..."

Dancing man, emboldened by his appreciative audience, continues his performance, adding exaggerated robotic hand movements, his inebriated face grinning like an idiot.

"Leave it out girls, he's shit. I wouldn't mind watching you lot dance though," the first man slurs, his voice heavy with sleaze.

His mate chimes in, muscles bulging beneath his designer shirt, "Yeah, fucking lap dance I reckon, she looks a right dirty one. Look at the fucking rack on it!"

Rather than call these guys out on their blatant misogyny, I instead silently acknowledge that the woman does indeed have an impressive cleavage. The plunging neckline of her olive-green dress expertly drawing the eye away from her face and towards her pert, bra-less breasts; strategically placed nipple tape preventing complete exposure.

"Fuck off, dickhead. You should be so lucky," she exclaims, unnerved by the objectification coming from the group.

"Haha, whatever love, you're rough anyway."

"Yeah, whatever. You know you would!"

I sink into my seat. Exchanges like this are commonplace at this time of night, especially within the confines of the night-bus, often a source of entertainment and conflict in equal measure.

Tonight, like most Saturday's, people are returning from nights out, high in spirits and attired to draw admiration. July has been kind this year and London is glorious, with days of hot unbroken sun followed by warm balmy nights. People are out in droves eager to eat, drink, dance and flirt.

It's approaching 3: 00 a.m. and the loud chatter around me varies in language and accent as much as in content, London's diversity on full display. Energetic conversation and boisterous laughter drum alongside the hiss of music coming from smartphones and the rumble of the outside traffic, creating a layered score for my fellow passengers and I to enjoy. Or endure.

The alcohol filling the air is sweet and rancid as it sits alongside stale sweat, itself rubbing stubbornly against the sweeter perfumes and colognes falling to mask its presence. The oily aroma of greedily consumed fried foods swirls heavy. On the upper deck of this poorly ventilated bus, these smells meld into something unique and oppressive.

As I continue people-watching, struggling in my Words with Friends game, I reflect that with all the stops the bus will make, the journey will take a good 45mins longer than a taxi. I feel glum at the prospect, even though I deliberately opted for bus over taxi tonight, as I seek connection with the world.

My phone beeps an incoming message and Mia's name flashes onto the screen:

"Hey, hope your journey back isn't too horrific. My Uber was really quick and I'm now tucked up in bed : -). Thanks for a great night. Maybe do it again sometime? x"

Our date had been good and we'd enjoyed each other's company enough to patronize the bars of Soho until the early hours, so I don't know why I'm surprised to hear from her.

"Glad you're home safe and sound. Still on the bloody bus so won't be home for ages : -(. Thanks for a lovely time though. Sleep well x"

It must be a symptom of my melancholy that I don't mention a second date.

Mia's nice and we had a good time but I'm suddenly feeling all existential. At 36 I don't know what I want or why I'm here. Dating's fine but feels unfulfilling. I haven't been in anything serious for years while all around me friends have married and are popping out kids. 'Do I want the same?' I'm not even sure but I can't shake the feeling I might be missing out, letting life pass me by. And ok, #firstworldproblems, boo hoo me, but happiness is happiness and right now I wonder if I'm getting my fair share.

I text Mia again.

"Sorry, just realised I hadn't responded re. 2nd date. I'd like that, let me know what suits. Not sure I mentioned it but I've got the week off : -) so I'm flexible. Enjoy the rest of your weekend x

[Beep] "You've got a week off work? Don't think you mentioned it once - more like five or six times : -). I'm not bitter, Matt but I hope it rains! Just kidding, enjoy your time off. Will text you in the week to arrange something. Love you x"

[Beep] "Not love you!! Sorry! I didn't mean that!"

[Beep] "I meant 'speak soon'. I have no idea why I wrote that. I am so sorry!!"

"Hahaha! I'm touched and I'll remember this moment forever but forgive me if I don't return the sentiment just yet : -). Lol, this reminds of once when I was a kid, I called a teacher 'Dad' by mistake. It was so embarrassing. My mates never let that one go. Don't worry about it : -) x"

[Beep] "Thanks, I promise I'm not a head-case. Just tired and tipsy. Sorry, Matt. SPEAK SOON x"

I'm smiling as I return to my Words game, uplifted by Mia's cringe moment.

The bus stops hard and people filter out noisily as they make space for new arrivals, 'dancing man' taking a bow as he departs to loud cheers.

A woman dressed in black work uniform sits in the aisle seat next to me and in front of us, a couple roughly my age now occupy the recently vacated space. They seem embroiled in a low-key row.

"Richard, I am not being dramatic. You seem to think being home with Grace is a walk in the park, it bloody isn't!" The woman is teary and speaks pleadingly to the man beside her. "She never stops, Rich. I'm trying my hardest but I feel like you don't appreciate how hard it is being with a 2yr old all day with no adult company and no respite. I'm just saying I could do with some extra help. I don't know why this has to be some big thing."

"You think help comes cheap, Cam?" The rhetorical question isn't sarcastic as such but seems to lack empathy. "I know you work hard and I try to do my bit but we just can't afford help right now."

"Sure, make this about money. I feel like you're punishing me for not returning to work already. I'm very aware you're providing for us, Richard, you don't have to throw it in my face."

"Jesus Camilla, I'm not throwing anything in your face. I'm just saying things are tight right now. Besides, loads of women manage without paid help. Mum rais-"

"I'm not your fucking Mother, Richard!" Camilla explodes, her teary tone replaced with seething wariness. "You never fail to remind me I don't quite measure up to her and all she did. I'm sick of it. Your fucking mummy complex is pathetic."

Richard is quiet now but I'm urging him to speak. I glance sideways, catching the eye of the passenger next to me and we both give that pursed-lip polite smile that silently acknowledges we're witnessing a scene.

"You're drunk," Richard's response is flat. "This was supposed to be a nice evening out, some time together on our own but you just can't...we'll talk about it another time, Cam."

"Sure we will. What's the fucking point anyway? You'll only say the same thing. I need you to actually listen to me and not just dismiss my feelings. You make me feel guilty and inadequate, Richard. And I'm not fucking drunk."

With that, the conversation is over. Camila staring silently out of the window, Richard fingering his smartphone with exaggerated concentration.

I watch them for a moment, peering into their lives through imaginary binoculars. They have a good life on the whole. Two professionals, not rolling in it but comfortable - a lawyer and a teacher perhaps. Richard works long days but occasionally avoids coming home early when he could, leaving Camilla with even more work and feeling even more isolated. They argue more than they used to but they love each other and they love their family unit.

The bus slices through the night, leaving central London behind as it carves through the quieter roads of east London. I'd obviously nodded off because I awake with a start.

Still packed, the bus is quieter now. Richard and Camila have been replaced by another couple, travelling silently, the woman resting her head on her male companion's shoulder. I too have a new neighbour. She's facing away from me speaking quietly to her friend across the aisle. The friend is sat facing into the aisle as she listens intently.

Surveying her, I cannot help notice the length of her orange dress. It is ridiculously short and I can see clearly the heart-shaped diamanté pattern on the front of her panties, the miniscule v of white lace only just managing to cover her modesty.

My eyes trail the woman's body up to her face and I'm confronted with her looking directly at me, watching unamused as I stare. I look away and the heat in my cheeks is fierce as I feel her friend turn to look at me before turning back and leaning in to whisper something, provoking laughter in them both. Hearing the word 'pervert' among their sniggers, I decide now is a good time to alight. I'm only a couple of stops early anyway.

"Excuse me," I mumble, squeezing away from my window seat. I don't dare meet either woman's eye but can't resist one parting, slightly lingering glance at the woman's crotch.

"Jesus Christ," she exclaims, exasperated, parting her legs to avail me a better view. "Want a fucking picture?"

I accept the invitation, composing an arty black and white shot with my iPhone. I don't, of course. Though my minds-eye does insist on capturing the image, recording in glorious HD as I scuttle away from the pair and descend the stairs in true pervert fashion.

Departing the bus, I'm grateful for the lighter night air as it acts upon my senses, lifting the grog and easing the heat from my face. 'Not far now,' I tell myself, and resisting the temptation of the approaching kebab shop, I stride purposefully into the night, welcoming the impending sanctity of home.

...

...

68 Tybalt Wharf greets me with indifference, my Docklands apartment contemptuously presenting me with the disorder I'd ignored earlier in the day. Dishes and fast food containers litter the kitchen. Guitar and chess books lay amongst more dishes in the lounge. Clothes are strewn across my bedroom floor. The bathroom's a state as well.

Sticky and exhausted all I want to do is sleep. A shower would be in order but it's 04.08, so screw it.

Sitting heavily on my unmade bed, I peel off my shoes and socks, considering whether I'll get to the gym tomorrow.

'Just do it.' The voice in my head is impatient and scolding.

Removing my shirt and trousers, letting them settle on the floor, I wonder whether Mia would think I was in good shape. I hope she'll get to make that assessment at some stage and it would be nice if she liked what she saw. No reason she shouldn't. I'm athletic, decently-toned with lean muscle. The weight around my middle is minimal but does fight determinedly for position with my lower abs. I turn to the mirror tensing slightly to accentuate them. It's becoming a close call. Tomorrow's gym session is definitely on.

"God, you look tired," I sigh, stepping out of my boxers as I move closer to the mirror in scrutiny of my face.

True it's after 4am but the bags under my eyes seem more prominent than usual. Perhaps I ought to begin a grooming regime while I still have relative good looks to preserve. Wrinkles are yet to set in and I still receive compliments on my smooth complexion, my deep-set brown eyes and long eyelashes giving me a strong, youthfully mature look. I think my shaved head helps. Shaved seems to work well on black guys.

Tired but pleased with the mirror's presentation, I open the balcony door welcoming cool breeze into the stuffy room. I take a chug from the water bottle on my side table before collapsing into bed. Laying still on top of the sheets, eyes closed, I await the arrival of sleep.

In keeping with every other night of my life, my mind selects memories from the day, playing them large on my internal projector.

I can see Mia, attractive in her yellow sundress. Her tiny feet, newly pedicured with red toenails, are presented impeccably in silver twist-plait sandals. I register a faint flutter in my chest. I recall the green-dressed woman from the bus, her beautiful tits a perfect handful and almost completely exposed. My flutter is morphing into casual arousal. I picture the woman with the diamanté heart opening her smooth legs for me, the imprint of her slit pressing tightly against her tiny thong. I replay the scene and her legs part in slow motion. I zoom in and can see through the sheer lace to her thin line of womanhood. I absent-mindedly give my dick a tug, encouraging the swelling creeping into it.

The crisp air flowing into the room gently kisses my growing cock as I massage my balls.

Mia's text floats into my mind and I recall her declaration of love. 'I love you, Matthew,' she purrs in my ear, her petite frame lying naked on my bed as she kisses me, a pale hand struggling around my thickness. I'm turned on in a dreamy way, pulling lazily at my length. All the way down. All the way up.

I'm enjoying the sensation, my erection warm and hard in my hand. But tiredness is pinning me down and within minutes, sleep arrives, deftly drawing my hand to a halt before taking over and pulling me off, into a land of sweet slumber.

...

...

I wake groggy but thankfully free from hangover. The sun punches through the open blinds as I stretch the final traces of sleep from my bones. I reach for my phone: 09.22. Rather than roll over in submission to the sun's blows, I recall my pledge, reminding myself that I'll feel better after some exercise.

My session is deliberate and intense. A hard 40min HIIT workout, a great calorie burner, followed by a 30min weights circuit. Walking home, spotlighted by the sun's warm rays, I'm full of post-workout glee and congratulate myself on the effort. Getting up and going is always the hard part.

Back home, and my good mood is dulled by the disorder around me. The place needs a good vacuum and the coffee stained rings on the table stare mockingly at me. The dust on the bookcase is thick and the big windows haven't been cleaned since I moved in. I need to sort it but the prospect of losing time to cleaning is depressing, especially on a day as nice as today.

'Why don't I don't have a cleaner again?'

The arguments are well rehearsed: it's a one-bed new build, I can take care of it myself. But I work long hours and don't want to spend my free time cleaning. But why should someone else clean up my mess? But people are cleaners and want to be employed as such. But...low-wage economy, exploitation? Pay good wages, provide good conditions. But a stranger in my house? Get references, get a nanny cam.

Blah, Blah etc.

As if sensing the tedium of my thoughts my phone beeps an incoming message and Toby's name flashes onto the screen:

"So how was it with Char's mate? Did you get some?"

T has a way with words.

"She was nice. She told me she loved me."

[Beep] "WTF? Are you serious?!"

"Ha, yeah, she said it by accident, she didn't mean to. She text me to say goodnight and it came out. She was mortified, poor thing."

[Beep] "What did you say?"

"Nothing much, just tried to make her feel better. She was just a bit pissed, there was nothing in it."

[Beep] "Fair play. Fucking hilarious though. You seeing her again? Have you told Char?"

Our colleague had made the introduction, recently making it her personal mission to find me love. I appreciate the effort but I can't help feel Charlotte should be concentrating on her and T's own situation.

"Haven't spoken to Char yet but yeah, I think I'll see Mia again. She's nice."

[Beep] "Nice? C'mon dude..."

"She is. She's cute too but she's really nice, we got on well. She does something in charity, can't quite remember what."

[Beep] "Cool, whatever works for you mate. Char will be pleased."

"Yep, she will. You guys resolved anything yet?"

[Beep] "Nah, it's all a bit fucked up. Neither of us really have the

appetite to meet things head on. We keep dancing around shit."

"Don't want to preach mate but you know how this ends. If Mel were to catch wind..."

[Beep] "Don't. I don't even what to think about that."

"Sorry... Hey, what do you think to me getting a cleaner?"

[Beep] "Fucking hell, not this again...you know what I think."

I do know what T thinks but his approach is to compare hiring a cleaner with the way the Traders at the bank spend their money, the 'exotic and illicit' as he calls it. I wonder if that's a low bar.

"I know but just because we're not in Browns every night doesn't mean getting a cleaner is right."

[Beep] "I'm not doing this with you again, mate. You're lucky enough to be able to afford help. If you want a cleaner, get a cleaner."

The couple from the night-bus come to mind, mummy's boy not getting Camilla the help she needs. T's right, I'm lucky enough to be able to afford help and lots of people couldn't. And isn't that what I work so hard for, to make my life easier?

"Fine. Gonna sort it. Chat later."

Buoyed by the mess around me, as much as by Toby's brusque refusal to engage with the admittedly recurring topic, the decision is made.

I'll pay above market rate and keep duties light. I can hire some single Mum struggling to make ends meet, she'll appreciate the extra cash and I'll get the help I want.

I opt for a Gumtree ad. With my week off I can conduct my own interviews.

The listing reads:

CLEANER WANTED FOR DOCKLANDS 1-BED APARTMENT. £30PH. MINIMUM TWO HOURS PER WEEK.

MUST HAVE REFERENCES.

INTERVIEWS MONDAY 29 JULY.

CALL xxxxx-xxx-xxx.

Within 20mins of the ad going live, my phone is ringing constantly. I probably speak with ten people across the next half hour. I ask standard questions about experience and references and invite four to interview the following day.

Pleased with my morning's productivity, I decide to wander into town. The weather is beautiful and Greenwich market on a Sunday will be lively. Plus, there's a travel photography exhibition I want to get to and this is the final weekend before it shuts. I'll grab some street food, maybe indulge myself with an ice-cream and just enjoy London.

'Should I text Mia?' I ponder briefly, before deciding against it. She probably already has plans and besides, gotta play the game a bit.

...

...

With the first interviewee due to arrive at 10: 00 a.m. I wake early and do a quick clean. Ironic really but I want to create a good impression.

The intercom buzzes just before 10.

"Hallo. I come for cleaner job."

"Hi, come up. I'm on the sixth floor, number 68. Turn left out of the lift."

I buzz her in noting my butterflies. 'Why am I nervous? I'm not the one being interviewed.'

Minutes later she's at my door.

"Hi, I'm Matt. Come in."

"Hallo. I am Sorana," she replies in a heavily accented voice, firmly shaking my outstretched hand.