THE BACHELOR FILES | EP. 15 THE WOMAN WHO HATED ME

The Bachelor Files – Episode 15

The Woman Who Hated Me

The first time I properly spoke to Saskia Reed, she called me a lying piece of shit in a gym car park.

To be fair, she’d already hated me for about six weeks by then. I knew because she made absolutely no effort to hide it. Whenever I walked into the gym and she happened to look up, I’d get the sort of expression normally reserved for something unpleasant you’d just discovered on the bottom of your shoe.

At first, I assumed I was imagining it. Then one evening I smiled at her.

Nothing suggestive. Nothing clever. Just the little half-smile you give someone you’ve seen twenty times without ever actually speaking to them.

She stared straight through me.

Another morning, I held the door open for her. She walked through without saying a word.

“Cheers, mate,” I muttered after her.

That stopped her.

She turned and looked directly at me.

“You really don’t remember me, do you?”

Before I could answer, she’d walked away.

That bothered me, because no.

I fucking didn’t.

The Blonde Who Couldn’t Stand Me

My name’s Nate Mercer. I’m thirty-nine, divorced and I maintain commercial lifts for a living.

It’s not particularly glamorous. Most days involve plant rooms, control panels, grease and somebody standing behind me asking when their lift will be working again while I’m quite obviously trying to get their lift working again.

I’ve been divorced for three years. There isn’t a dramatic story attached to that either. We married too young, stayed together longer than we probably should have and eventually accepted we’d become two people sharing a mortgage and arguing about whose turn it was to buy washing powder.

These days I live alone. I work too much, go for a drink with a couple of mates when everybody’s free and probably spend more evenings in the gym than is strictly necessary. Partly because I like keeping fit. Partly because the alternative is going home after work, ordering something I shouldn’t eat and gradually becoming the same shape as my sofa.

That’s where I kept seeing Saskia.

I didn’t know her name then, obviously. She was simply the blonde woman who apparently couldn’t stand me.

She was about five foot six and somewhere in her mid-thirties, with long honey-blonde hair she usually tied into a high ponytail. Slim waist, strong legs, blue-grey eyes and an arse that made concentrating on whatever exercise she happened to be doing in front of me considerably harder than it needed to be.

I’m telling you what I noticed.

I’m not applying for sainthood.

She trained properly too. Headphones in, weights on, get the job done. No spending twenty minutes arranging herself in front of a mirror for photographs.

Unfortunately, whenever those blue-grey eyes landed on me, they went cold.

My mate Darren found the whole thing hilarious.

“Your girlfriend’s here,” he said one evening as we were changing weights.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She keeps looking at you.”

“That’s because she wants me dead.”

Darren glanced across the gym. “Maybe that’s her thing.”

“Maybe finish your fucking set.”

After a few weeks, I became curious enough that I started looking back. If I caught her watching me, I’d hold her gaze for a second longer than necessary. She’d usually turn away first.

It became a strange little game.

Then one rainy Thursday evening, she finally decided she’d had enough of playing it.

“You.”

I’d finished training late and was halfway across the car park when I heard somebody behind me.

“You.”

I kept walking.

“You in the black jacket.”

I looked down at myself.

Black jacket.

Bollocks.

When I turned around, she was coming towards me with her gym bag over one shoulder. Her hair was damp from the rain and loose strands were stuck against her face.

She was also furious.

“Can I help you?”

“You really are unbelievable.”

“Apparently.”

“Do you actually think it’s funny?”

I stared at her. “Do I think what is funny?”

She stopped a few feet away.

“Laura.”

“Who’s Laura?”

That made her even angrier.

“You don’t even have the balls to admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“What you did to her.”

I looked around the car park, partly because I genuinely wondered whether this conversation was meant for somebody standing behind me.

There wasn’t anybody.

“Look, I don’t know who the fuck you think I am, but—”

“Oh, don’t.”

“No. You don’t get to ‘don’t’ me. You’ve been looking at me like I’m a serial killer for weeks and now you’re accusing me of doing something to a woman I’ve never heard of. So either tell me what the hell you’re talking about or leave me alone.”

For the first time, she hesitated.

Then she pulled her phone from her bag, tapped at the screen and shoved it towards me.

“That’s you.”

I looked at the photograph.

Then I looked again.

Well.

Fuck.

There was a bloke standing outside a pub with his arm around a brunette. Blonde hair, roughly my height and build, short beard. He was even wearing the sort of jacket I’d probably buy.

I enlarged the picture.

“That isn’t me.”

“Oh, please.”

“Look at his nose.”

She frowned. “His nose?”

“Yes, his nose. Mine doesn’t do that.”

For the first time since she’d marched across the car park, she actually looked at my face rather than glaring at it.

Then she looked at the photograph.

I pointed at the screen.

“He’s got a mole here as well.”

Her expression changed.

Only slightly, but I saw it.

“What’s your surname?”

“Mercer.”

The anger disappeared.

“You’re not Nathan Cole?”

“No. I’m Nathan Mercer. Nate to everybody who isn’t my mother or the taxman.”

She stared at me.

Then back at the photograph.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah.”

I could almost see the previous six weeks rearranging themselves inside her head.

Eventually she covered her mouth.

Then, unbelievably, she started laughing.

I wasn’t quite ready to join in.

“You’ve spent six weeks hating me.”

“I know.”

“You called me a lying piece of shit.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t even thank me for holding the door.”

She laughed harder. “I think that’s slightly less important.”

“It mattered to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s one.”

“One?”

“I reckon you owe me at least six.”

By then I was struggling not to smile myself. I looked at the photograph again and, annoyingly, I could see how she’d made the mistake. From behind especially, the bloke could’ve been my brother.

“Who is he?”

Her amusement faded.

“My best friend’s ex. He cheated on her for years, borrowed money from her and then disappeared when she finally found out.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“He used to train here. Then he moved away. When I saw you, I thought he’d come back.”

“And at no point did you think of checking?”

“I was very confident.”

“That much I gathered.”

She pushed some wet hair away from her face and looked genuinely embarrassed.

“I am sorry.”

I nodded towards her.

“What’s your name?”

“Saskia.”

“Right. Well, Saskia, try not to falsely identify anyone else before you get home.”

She smiled.

And that was the first time I properly saw her without the death stare.

It was inconvenient.

Because she was fucking gorgeous.

The Shoulder

After that, Saskia avoided me.

Completely.

If I went towards the free weights, she suddenly found something fascinating at the other end of the gym. Once I caught her looking at me through the mirror and smiled.

She gave me the finger.

Things were improving.

Then I hurt my shoulder.

I’d spent most of Thursday helping replace a lift motor in an office block. Heavy, awkward bastard of a thing, and somewhere between trying to manoeuvre it and refusing to admit I needed another pair of hands, I pulled something.

By Saturday it still hurt.

Naturally, I went to the gym.

I’d managed exactly one bench press when pain bit through the back of my shoulder.

I racked the bar.

“Shit.”

“You’re an idiot.”

I recognised the voice.

Saskia was standing behind the bench.

“Morning.”

“You’re injured.”

“Nothing gets past you.”

She ignored that. “What happened?”

I explained.

She told me to lift my arm.

“No.”

“Nate.”

“I don’t take medical advice from someone who treats Labradors.”

She folded her arms. “I’m a veterinary physiotherapist.”

“Exactly.”

“And muscle movement changes surprisingly little just because you’ve only got two legs. Lift your arm.”

I did.

It hurt at about shoulder height.

She stepped behind me and placed one hand against my shoulder blade while the other wrapped gently around my upper arm.

“Again.”

I raised it.

“There?”

“Yeah.”

Her fingers pressed into the muscle behind my shoulder and I winced.

She moved closer so she could feel what happened as I lifted my arm again.

Now, I appreciate she was being completely professional.

My body hadn’t received that memo.

Her chest brushed lightly against my back. I could smell something clean and slightly sweet in her hair, and suddenly I was considerably less interested in discussing inflammation.

“Muscle strain, I think,” she said.

“You think?”

“My usual patients can’t tell me where it hurts.”

“You work with horses.”

“And dogs.”

“Very reassuring.”

She came around in front of me and tested the movement from another angle. When I looked down, she was standing close enough that I could see the tiny pale freckles across her nose.

She noticed me looking.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

“I was appreciating the free consultation.”

She released my arm.

“Don’t train upper body for a few days.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll ignore me.”

“Probably.”

She picked up her water bottle and started walking away, then stopped.

“You can buy me a drink to say thank you.”

That surprised me.

“Can I?”

She looked over her shoulder.

“One drink.”

My shoulder still hurt.

Somehow it seemed less important.

One Drink Became Four

We met the following Friday at a pub a couple of minutes from the gym.

Until then, I’d only ever seen Saskia in leggings, trainers and gym tops.

She arrived fifteen minutes late wearing black jeans, heeled boots and a cream blouse underneath a leather jacket. Her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders.

I watched her walk towards me.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You didn’t need to.”

She slipped off her jacket as she sat down.

That didn’t improve matters.

“What are you drinking?”

“White wine. And this is still only one drink.”

“Absolutely.”

One became four.

Without the gym between us, she was completely different. Funny, sarcastic and much easier company than I’d expected.

She told me she’d started as a veterinary nurse before specialising in rehabilitation.

“So you massage dogs.”

She stared at me.

“Never say that again.”

“Horses?”

“Among other animals.”

“Rich people’s Labradors?”

“I’m beginning to understand why women dislike you.”

“Woman. Singular.”

She smiled over her glass.

Later, while I was telling her about getting trapped inside a service lift with an estate agent who wouldn’t stop asking whether I knew what I was doing, I felt Saskia’s knee touch mine beneath the table.

It stayed there.

At first I assumed it was accidental.

Then her foot moved behind my ankle.

I stopped talking.

She took another sip of wine.

“What?”

I looked at her.

“Nothing.”

“Good.”

The conversation continued, but something had changed. Every now and then her leg moved against mine, and neither of us mentioned it.

By the time somebody behind the bar called last orders, the evening no longer felt like an apology drink.

The Walk Home

Outside, it was raining again.

We stood beneath the pub awning while Saskia checked her phone.

“Taxi says twenty-two minutes.”

“My place is about twelve minutes’ walk.”

She looked up.

There are sentences that sound innocent right until you’ve said them.

That was one.

“Is it?”

“Yeah.”

She slipped her phone back into her bag.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she moved closer.

“You know what’s strange?”

“What?”

“I genuinely thought you were a complete bastard.”

“That’s nicer than some of the things you’ve called me.”

Her hand slipped inside my open jacket and rested against my waist.

“And now?” I asked.

Her eyes dropped briefly to my mouth.

“I’m reconsidering.”

I kissed her.

There was nothing hesitant about what came back.

Her hands caught the front of my jacket and pulled me closer while my arms went around her waist. All the looks, the arguments and the sarcastic gym bullshit suddenly turned into something much simpler.

She backed me against the brick wall beneath the awning and kissed me harder.

When we finally separated, she was smiling.

“Still smug.”

“You started that.”

“Your place?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

My Place

The walk took less than twelve minutes.

We were wet by the time we reached my house, and Saskia was laughing because I’d nearly gone arse over tit on somebody’s ridiculous decorative paving stones.

I got the front door open and she followed me inside.

Then the atmosphere changed.

No rain hammering against the pub awning. No people walking past. No background noise to fill the gaps.

Just us.

I turned towards her and she stepped straight into me.

Her mouth met mine, slower this time, while her hands slid underneath my jacket and pushed it from my shoulders. I pulled hers off and dropped it beside mine.

She kissed along my jaw, then my neck, and I felt the soft scrape of her teeth against my skin.

“Thought you didn’t like me,” I murmured.

“I don’t.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Her hands went underneath my T-shirt and moved across my stomach. Her fingers were freezing and I flinched.

She laughed against my neck.

“Cold?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Poor thing.”

“Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

She pulled my T-shirt upwards. I lifted my arms, forgetting about the shoulder until it protested.

Saskia immediately stopped.

“Your shoulder.”

“It’s fine.”

“You just winced.”

“That wasn’t entirely my shoulder.”

She followed my eyes downwards.

Then looked back at me.

A slow smile appeared.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

She kissed me again.

This time I started undoing the buttons of her blouse.

Slowly.

The cream material opened to reveal black lace underneath.

I stopped.

Saskia glanced down at my hands.

“Problem?”

“No.”

“Then why have you stopped?”

I looked at her.

“Admiring the view.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she finished the last two buttons herself.

The blouse slipped from her shoulders.

For a second I simply took her in.

I’d spent weeks seeing her in gym clothes, usually while trying not to get caught looking. Now she was standing in my hallway in black lace and jeans, blonde hair falling around her shoulders, watching me watch her.

And she knew exactly what she was doing to me.

My hands settled around her waist and moved slowly over warm skin. She came closer until there was no space left between us, then kissed me again.

We didn’t make it upstairs immediately.

There was a wall involved first.

Then the stairs.

Somewhere along the way one of her boots disappeared and my belt landed on the floor.

By the time we reached the bedroom, neither of us was laughing quite as much.

No Mistaking Me This Time

Saskia stood beside the bed in her underwear, her hair slightly tangled from my hands.

She looked completely different from the woman I’d first noticed across the gym.

Or maybe she didn’t.

Maybe I was simply seeing a side of her I hadn’t expected to.

I stepped towards her.

She put a hand against my chest.

“Wait.”

“What?”

She looked at me for a moment.

Then started laughing.

“What?”

“I just realised something.”

“That’s never good.”

“Six weeks ago I genuinely wanted to punch you.”

I looked down at the fact she was now standing in front of me wearing very little.

“Could you perhaps not remember that while we’re doing this?”

That made her laugh harder.

“I’m trying to be serious.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

I kissed her.

The laughter faded.

Her arms went around my neck and she pulled me down towards her. We landed on the bed together, and from that point there wasn’t much need for conversation.

There were kisses that lasted longer than either of us expected. Hands learning unfamiliar skin. The occasional awkward collision that comes with two people who haven’t done this together before.

Nothing choreographed.

Nothing romantic.

Just two adults who’d spent weeks circling each other for completely the wrong reason and had finally found a much better one.

At one point Saskia shifted my weight away from my bad shoulder without even thinking about it.

I noticed.

“You’re still working.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“You’re naked.”

“I can multitask.”

I laughed.

She shut me up with a kiss.

Later, when the room had gone quiet, she lay beside me with one leg resting across mine and her blonde hair spread over my pillow.

For several minutes neither of us spoke.

Then she turned her head.

“Nathan?”

I opened my eyes.

She was trying not to laugh.

“Don’t.”

That was enough.

She lost it.

“Get out.”

“You invited me.”

“It’s my house.”

“Details.”

I pulled the pillow over my face while she laughed beside me.

Strangely, it was probably my favourite part of the night.

The Morning After

I woke to an empty bed and the smell of coffee.

Downstairs, Saskia was standing barefoot in my kitchen wearing my T-shirt. Her hair was a mess and she looked far too comfortable for somebody who’d once wanted to assault me in a car park.

She handed me a mug.

“Your coffee’s terrible.”

“You made it.”

“Your actual coffee is terrible.”

“And yet you’re drinking it.”

“I needed caffeine.”

I leaned against the counter opposite her.

The T-shirt stopped high on her thighs.

She caught me looking.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re staring again.”

“I’m allowed. You’re wearing my clothes.”

“That isn’t how consent works, Mercer.”

“Fair point.”

She smiled and took another sip.

There was no awkward conversation about what the night meant. Neither of us wanted one.

Eventually she got dressed. I found her missing boot near the bottom of the stairs and handed it to her.

At the front door she looked at me.

“So.”

“So.”

“I’ll see you at the gym.”

“Are you going to glare at me?”

“Obviously.”

“Good.”

She kissed me once and left.

Not Quite Dating

Four days later I was underneath a lift in Cambridge when my phone buzzed.

It was Saskia.

Gym tonight?

I wiped my hand on a rag before replying.

Probably.

Her answer came a minute later.

Actually planning to train this time?

I smiled.

What else would we do?

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

Your place. Eight.

That more or less became our arrangement.

Sometimes we trained. Sometimes we had a drink. Other times neither of us bothered pretending the message was about the gym.

It lasted a few months, until work started taking me away more often and Saskia became busier with her own life.

The messages slowed down and eventually stopped.

No argument.

No dramatic goodbye.

It had been good while it lasted.

Neither of us needed it to be anything more.

The Woman Who Hated Me

I didn’t see Saskia again for nearly six months.

Then one Tuesday evening I walked into the gym and there she was.

Her hair was shorter now, just past her shoulders, but still blonde. She was standing beside the squat rack loading weights onto the bar.

I stopped.

She looked up.

Our eyes met across the room.

For a moment nothing happened.

Then her expression changed.

That look.

The original filthy look.

I couldn’t help myself.

I started laughing.

Darren was standing beside me and followed my gaze.

“For fuck’s sake. Does she still hate you?”

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed.

I pulled it from my pocket.

Stop staring at my arse, Mercer.

I looked across the gym.

Saskia was facing away from me now.

I typed:

Make me.

The three dots appeared.

Then:

Still a prick.

I smiled and put my phone away.

Darren was waiting for an explanation.

“Well?”

I picked up a dumbbell.

“Apparently.”

I never saw much of Saskia after that. Our lives had already gone in different directions, and neither of us tried particularly hard to change that.

But I remember her.

Of course I do.

Some women enter your life over dinner and a bottle of wine.

Saskia Reed arrived in mine soaking wet in a gym car park, called me a lying piece of shit and accused me of ruining the life of a woman I’d never met.

We had some drinks.

We had some laughs.

We had a few very good nights.

Then we got on with our lives.

And I never did meet Nathan Cole.

Probably for the best.

Apparently the bastard looks just like me.

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