fiction – Page 14 – three good words

August 20, 2017May 15, 2020

beanie’s beanery, III

First milk, billowing white into the deep caramel, then some sugar, a bit more than she wanted to admit actually, a short taste… yep, just right. Leaning back against the dark-chocolate leather, Sam warmed her hands on the cotton-white porcelain of her cup, sipping her hot beverage carefully. Hot beverage. It sounded so much fancier than ‘cuppa tea’. The door opened right then and another set of undergrads piled in. The velvet curtain, suspended high and wide to keep out the draughts, fell sumptuously back into place in thick Cabernet folds, that deep dark wine they once had with that perfect steak, where was that, ah, yes, that time… A week only, ok, ten days. Hot late-summer days, swimming, laughing, teasing, kissing, kissing, kissing, oh those lips… and warm nights that glowed way past midnight, wide awake, city lights all over, the shadows slashing black against faded street-light-tangerine… That had been a really nice bed actually, her body still remembered its comfort, luxurious.

Sam roused herself and drank another sip. That was then. Now, the three girls next to her who looked like versions of the Courtneys, Britneys, and Lindseys Sam had met so far, all three were talking in the familiar dialect of ‘like’ and ‘awesome’ and ‘ohmagawd’ with the over-enthusiasm of transatlantic twenty-somethings. Their blonde and brunette heads bobbed, their manicured hands rose and fell like their high-pitched voices, their white smiles showing their parents must have had excellant dental coverage. Then there was the man across of her, typing gravely, ashblack Bose sealing off his ears to the world, his fruit-stamped screen sleekly silver, ultrathin. Late twenties, neatly unkempt, maybe a graduate writing another CV – no, another fellow blogger, typing up the latest draft to his novel. He had that look on him, the one Sam recognised, that look that said a lot of thinking was going on, serious thinking, because the words had to be right, perfect, exceptional, breathtaking, the words had to be ‘ohmagawd’, the good kind, because all those other authors and interviews, all those great and terrible reviews, loomed large, like an icy sword of Damocles, ready to trike down and annihilate those delicate dreams of – what? A good book? No, a great book. The kind that generated tweet-threads and hashtags and followers. Of the right kind of course.

Sam wondered if this man, with his half-eaten muffin and tall extra blend, Beanie’s only used those cups for extra blend, Sam wondered if he worried about that kind of stuff, or if he actively chose not to care, like switching off a flat-screen, turning down a radio, or rather, x-ing an app, all apps, actually shutting down the whole thing? And suddenly Sam wanted to speak to him, this man who typed so seriously and looked like he could be someone interesting. She wanted to ask him what he was working on, talk about these things that were her things too, things that she wanted to share and not share at the same time. She wondered what playlist he was listening to, she was 99% certain it was Spotify, probably even Premium, he looked the type. Unless it was all iTunes.

Sam took another sip of her tea. If his smile was good he would be handsome. His eyes were dark from where she sat, as dark as his hair, his face cold-weather pale underneath the neatly trimmed beard because these days every single man below forty had a beard, it was frustrating. To Sam, beards were the hairy equivalent to push up bras, they just hid what was really there. His was short and neat and didn’t look itchy, though, which was a plus. Right then, Sam realised what she was doing, ‘tindering’ as Sonia called it, mental swipes, left, right, IRL. For that second, the casual cruelty of it was clear – she knew absolutely nothing about him, save what she could see – and Sam looked away, mildly embarrassed, hoping she hadn’t been staring.

Outside, beyond the panorama panes, strangers rushed past in their coats and scarves, hiding from the weather. No one talked out there, everyone passed each other in silence, sunk deep in their clothes, fighting the wind. They look lonely. It was in their eyes, their faces, that were somehow more absent than absent-minded, earbuds stark white in their ears. Sam took up her pen and wrote:

Bodies moving, hurrying from A to B, wishing they were in C.

She looked at the words. She added:

And even in C we wish for D or E, F or some mystical G, that perfect spot everyone’s so desperate to find.

But even G’s never enough. There’s always H and I and J and the rest of it.
Does anyone ever reach Z?

Or does Z just mean you start at A again?
Does it really matter?

Even in A it’s you in A — and if you’re lucky someone else will be there to share it with you.

Colin is there to share it with Greg.

Though even in that sharing there was that space, wasn’t there?

That space (in) between

that nothing could cross and left everyone with these three words:

lonesome
lonely
alone

Sam wanted to add free, but decided against it. She looked across the table. The Writer, as she called him now, was still typing earnestly, frowning gently, fingers hitting black keys precisely. Really, if his smile was good he would be handsome. She should stop this.

Woman stares at a man: a history.

Her phone was still screaming blue murder: CHECK ME CHECK ME CHECK ME. Oh all right. Sam woke up her phone, typed in the code, and checked. RTs from all kinds of people and a DM from Mac.

MacMillan
@thejoycehater
Mind if I join you?
Just for 5, not much
Srsly need some downtime b4
heading home
Sam?
6:31 pm

Sam typed quickly

Omg sorry Mac!
Just checked my phone
Sure come over
Greg’s terrifying Darren again
[3 x cryinglaughing]
7:12 pm
√

Hi
Ok
be there in 5 x
7:13 pm

[thumbsup] x
7:13 pm
√

Sam looked at the words she typed and the words she wrote down. She kept herself from looking at The Writer. Courtney, Britney, and Lindsey next to her were very animated about some party they went to last week, apparently a whole rom-com happened there. Sam closed her notes. For a split second, she was back in that hot summer night, at the beach, kissing, kissing, just kissing, snogging for days and centuries, like she hadn’t since her teens. Those lips. She would not find them again, she knew it. This was disappointment. Not heartache. Disappointment. She had her one taste, and that was it. Sam looked a her notebook, a smooth red Moleskine, lined. She had at least ten of them already, filled to the brim with thoughts and memories, questions, good brainstorms and silly ideas. They were her life, like grapes turned into wine, really it was that red, a deep, dark, thick red that had become the taste of summer to Sam. Just then, the door opened, and Mac fell in, looking rushed, hot, and harried. Clearly this Wednesday was way worse than expected.

August 18, 2017May 15, 2020

beanie’s beanery, II

Not PG rated

Sam was on page 52 when Greg turned up with the tea. ‘Don’t you look gorgeous today,’ he faux-gasped, a be-ringed hand on his chest, the other splayed neatly against his hip. Tall, model-slim Greg with the bright blue sleeves flashing underneath the cuffs of his black-striped shirt, Greg who looked far too cute in everything he wore.

‘Greg, you know I look awful right now,’ Sam rolled her eyes.
‘Awful shmawful, you know you’re always lovely, darling. Fab earrings you got there. They new?’
‘Yeah, got them last week,’ Sam smiled, somehow proud of having über-fashionista Greg acknowledge them at all.
‘Look at you, treatin’ yourself like a grown up,’ Greg smiled, and he meant that smile. ‘By the way, El Gringo thinks my pantaloons are too cute.’
‘Really?’ Sam asked, eyeing the super-tight purple fake leather Greg was sporting.
‘Nearly shit himself, the sod,’ Greg grinned nastily. ‘Probably thought I was about to infect him with some sex-lurgy. Next time I’ll throw some glitter on him just to see what happens.’

Sam couldn’t help laugh, shaking her head, ‘Greg, you’re too much.’

‘What? That phobic phobe of the phobes deserves everything he gets,’ Greg sniffed, looking like the poshboy he really was. ‘Anyway, just wanted to warn you if something epic happens.
‘You think it might?’
‘My goal is to make the boy cry,’ Greg sighed dreamily, before whispering, ‘Sob, mothafucka, sob.’

Greg flashed a devious grin, twirled a perfect 90° that showed just how professional his dancing once had been, and catwalked back to the counter like a prima donna, making those new to Beanie’s stare and the old crowd smile into their drinks.

Sam shook her head, smiling, Greg really was one of a kind, Greg who was actually Agregán, ‘cos mother was shagging some post-cubist madman or something. Nah, don’t ask me, Mater and Pater’re just mental,’ Greg who’s Dad was some double-named City banker, his Mum a minor ’80s socialite, and Greg their ‘super-duper-gay’ third son who co-owned Beanie’s. Only Sam knew about that, though, because Greg told her once when they were fabulously drunk at his brother’s birthday bash somewhere ridiculously expensive in Mayfair. Sam had been Greg’s date since ‘the family’ didn’t like witnessing Greg’s ‘habits and ways’, so he needed ‘a legit woman who looks good in a sparkly dress.’ So Sam it was, though Sam knew Sonia would have loved to come.

It was in that niche with the comfy cushions, sipping genuine champagne from the Champagne while Dr Dre’s samples thumped through the walls, it was there that Greg gave her the 411: he’d given Marion the money. He didn’t want it back, at all, ‘I wasn’t joking. Look, I have way too much of it already, so, y’know, if it helped sweet Mareyon, pourquois pas?’ So Marion got the money she needed to start her dream, all Greg wanted was for her to get Beanie’s up and running, but Marion refused to take it without giving something back, so Greg got some shares. ‘Thirty percent, that’s what. Marion said I can’t be trusted with more, and she’s right. Imagine me as a bossman.’ Greg burst out laughing before squishing a kiss against Sam’s cheek and sighing, ‘I love you, Sam-I-am, I love you so much,’ with tears in his eyes.

That was during the god-awful Weston time. Everyone in Beanie’s hated Weston, from the staff to the regulars to Aboyemi who brought the blends from St John Roast once a week. Weston was evil, Weston was wrong, Weston broke Greg’s heart really bad and it took way too long until Greg got away from him. Thank God Marion threw Weston out that time he attacked Greg in the middle of Beanie’s, punching Greg because Greg refused to give him more money, Greg who looked terrified and unable to flee, beautiful, salty Greg who suddenly looked so helpless. Marion raced around the counter, yelling, looking like a mother bear who just saw her cub get mauled, Marion who hit Weston over and over, shoving him across Beanie’s, yelling, ‘Get out! Get out! Get out!‘ Weston who didn’t know what hit him, he looked just as shocked as everyone else.

It happened so fast, suddenly Weston was just gone, Marion yelling down the street, ‘I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you piece o’ shit! Mothafucka! Yeah, run, before I cut your fuckin’ balls off! Run, mothafucka, run!’ When she came back into Beanie’s, she looked furious, embarrassed, and defiant, gave their shocked faces one look and said, ‘What? Greg’s my baby, you know that.’ And that somehow broke the spell. They all smiled with relief, the emergency was over and Weston, who scared everybody, was finally gone.

It was Marion who threatened Weston with the police when he tried to come back a week later, because everyone knew Weston always had some coke on him. It was Marion who basically locked Greg into her flat down near Shepherd’s Bush to save him from himself, because Greg had started saying things like, ‘He didn’t really mean it that way, he was just upset’, Marion who finally talked some sense into Greg after they all had an intervention with muffins, coffee, and very many hugs, and about three weeks later the mess was finally over: Marion had called the police on Weston who somehow knew exactly where his stash was and that was the end of the evil bastard.

It still took about a year until Greg was back on track again, a year until Greg really started laughing again, a year until Greg stopped with the lines and started getting healthy again, though the vegan-thing only lasted six weeks, probably because Marion’s pancakes and waffles were to die for. Now he was smiling again, Greg who loved bamboozling Darren, Greg who flirted shamelessly with women, Greg who was currently seeing a Colin, fresh out of Oxbridge and working for some Attaché or something, and so part of Greg’s posh crowd, except that Colin was surprisingly the sweetest, shyest, and prettiest sweetheart Sam had ever seen. Everyone liked Colin. Everyone told Greg this was the best one yet, everyone agreed with Marion who spelled it out, ‘He’s cute. Don’t fuck it up. Y’know, just enjoy it for once.’ And by the look of it Greg was really trying to do just that.

August 13, 2017August 13, 2017

hot water

late night, past midnight
and there is yet work to be done

so I top up the bottle
with more hot water
like some comfy hen
wrapping herself up in warm feathers
cluck cluck cluck

except I stopped pretending long ago:

sudden, unpredictable cold
shivering down the spine like
a branch of flashing leaves
in an invisible breeze:
I don’t brave that anymore
like some brazen teen
infatuated with designs of cool
of “what if anyone did see?”

but cuddle up to the hot water
bottled
snug close like a young cat
curled in the crook of my lap
fast asleep, purring
while my eyes droop over keys
fingers slipping, dipping into darkness
those invisible fountain pens
flashing glossy black
on bright white screens.

October 7, 2016May 16, 2020

Ellen, revised

Hello, all you lovely people. I don’t know how many of you remember this short story, but I thought I’d rewrite it again, see what I can do with it. I’m in a bit of a revising mood. Oh, and here’s the original – actually, a first draft – if you’d like to compare :)
j.d.

It was ridiculous where they met again.

Ellen was shopping at the deli for a dinner she’d promised her friends. She had most of what she needed at home except the ciabatta and two or three cheeses to round off the menu, her friends were picky like that. Scanning a selection of blues, Ellen heard someone not far off start an order very precisely – ‘. . . ten slices of the Dijon one, please, yes thank you, and fifty grams of the St Aubrey, no make it a hundred.’

Ellen looked over to observe this particular specimen of wealth. It was the voice: it was soaked with the certainty of real gold and genuine diamonds. The woman was, unsurprisingly, a tall blonde with perfectly done hair. She was over forty by a few years, maybe more, but she’d kept herself very well. Quite the looker actually, stunning in the right light. Her makeup was perfect, her clothes of the best quality. The jewellery flashing at her ears, around her neck and on her fingers was not tacky, and her handbag was that particular kind of smooth dusty blue that whispered bespoke. She was beautiful and rich, quite likely the CEO of something, or a therapist, maybe an attorney. There was a self-assuredness about her that spoke of genuine . . . power. Ellen saw how other customers glanced at her admiringly, the shop assistants behind the counter standing to attention like the rank and file, smiling brightly.

‘Honey, what do you say? A little Beluga or would Salmon be enough?’

Wait, they sell Beluga here? Ellen had always wanted to try some, just to see if it really was worth the preposterous price. Ellen tried to concentrate on which of the blues she should pick, but couldn’t help herself, she looked again. The blonde was talking to a man who must have turned up at one point. He was tallish with perfectly cut dark hair and wearing a suit of course. There was something in the way he moved that made Ellen look again. He had to be older though, never mind the dyed grey. Maybe a little discrete Botox around the eyes – no, that neck was too young for early, maybe mid-fifties, unless surgeries were getting really good lately. By the smoothness of that neck, and something in the way he moved, he had to be at least ten years younger than the blonde, maybe even fifteen. Then again, you could never tell with these people. Fork over fifty grand and suddenly you looked twenty years younger and fooled everyone.

Say, the blonde. She could have been fifty already, but she did look great. Round breasts too, possibly with the help of an enhancement. Her legs were slender and very long. Her whole body looked firm, all the gentle curves in their right place. She probably went jogging every day, yoga, some cardio – or she had a personal trainer, some super-encouraging Chris or Tyler with a six-pack and a health plan. Ellen turned back to her blues, full of carbs and lactose and bacteria. Health plans weren’t all that bad, really. Lucia was a nutritionist wasn’t she? At least she was working on her portfolio. Got everyone in their circle started on almonds, honey, and kale, though Ellen tried not to overdo it with the quinoa, she was more of a couscous person anyway. They did say it paid off later if you took care of your ‘intake saturation’, whatever that meant. Ellen felt it was bit like a down-payment for a house you’d later be living in. Make sure the walls didn’t cave in and all the furniture was in place once you were set to go. And anyway, who knew what would be around when she was past her 50s? Look at the world now, avocados everywhere.

But she liked avocados, long before it was fashionable to obsess about them in online photo-shoots where the poor things always ended up de-stoned and half-naked, sliced, baked, cubed and sprinkled over sauteed eggs. The blonde was ordering again. And really, if she had the means to keep herself really well, why not use them? Ellen wasn’t one to say no to a stint in a day-spa either. The blonde really did look good, not just pretty: beautiful. Was it all that surprising then that she was with someone far younger than herself? Men did that all the time. Suddenly they got their prescribed crisis and started shopping for ‘new and improved’. Now women were catching up too, and this woman actually looked really good, so why not? Ellen picked out a Belgian blue.

While the shop assistant sliced away, Ellen witnessed a short discussion between the blonde and her companion. It was too low for Ellen to hear and she anyway had to figure out how much Gruyère she wanted, the shop assistant was already smiling very helpfully. Ellen decided for the usual, a nice wedge that showed goodwill to her guests and wouldn’t make her hate herself next time she checked her bank statement. The rich blonde chose Beluga after all, wow, a whole tin of the stuff, Christ – but then, what was a fortune to Ellen was probably just peanuts for that beautiful woman. Ellen tried not to care.

The smiling shop assistant packed up Ellen’s cheeses in perfect wraps of brown paper and string, they looked as ‘no filter’-worthy as ever. Ellen couldn’t help think that the rich blonde would have been able to buy a piece of everything, not just the Belgian blue, the Gruyère, and some excellent Cheddar that her friends loved and somehow never could find on their own. The rich blonde would have bought enough to put together one of those fantastic cheese platters with grapes, figs, pine-nuts, and artsy sprays of aceto balsamico online folks kept on posting to the vast envy of everyone who knew how much the damn slices actually cost . . . But, Ellen wasn’t the blonde. She had a good life though, she really couldn’t complain. It just wasn’t as richly expensive, as glitteringly affluent as the blonde’s – that had to be Prada, surely. Then again, wasn’t it nice to see that a woman had such money and power, and not just status. She was definitely no Mrs. let alone the-wife-of. Everything about her told Ellen that she had worked hard to get where she was now, that she owed little to others and really owned herself. It was in a way reassuring. The possibility, at least, was there.

The cheeses were wrapped. Ellen smiled a thank you at the shop assistant and took the bag with Deluca’s Delicatessen curled across the pistachio green paper, showing the world once more that Ellen was an adult now, with money to spare. She actually went shopping in delis and knew what to buy there. She probably shouldn’t have felt so . . . satisfied by that fact, but she wouldn’t deny herself the pleasure either. She just finished a very adult kind of shopping – cheese for crying out loud. She was definitely a grown up.

Due to a sudden crowding at the second sale’s counter, Ellen had to walk the other way, past the rich blonde and whoever she was with. Still riding on the pleasurable wave of proven adulthood, Ellen said ‘Excuse me’ graciously, and moved past the other customers as best as she could, avoiding the stacked wheels of Gouda, the slim glasses of black olives, and the exotic olive oils. Maybe it was curiosity that made her check, but Ellen did take a closer look at the beautiful blonde, Mr tall, dark, and possibly handsome at her side – really, they looked Hollywood-cast.

It was only a glance, a glimpse of his face, just as they too turned to leave.

There was a second of genuine shock. Not surprise, but something equal to the sudden snap and crackle of electric when she put on her favourite rainy-day sweater: a jolt that was almost painful, making her whole body jump inside her skin. Heart racing, Ellen finally stopped at a shelf full of chutneys and breathed in deeply. Maybe she had seen wrong. Yes, maybe she had seen wrong. She must have. It would be ridiculous to meet in a place like this, especially if he was with that blonde. And who would she be anyway? But she had called him ‘Honey’. Maybe she was his mother? Even before thinking it, Ellen knew that was wrong. If the blonde had children at all, they would not be older than ten.

A row of chutneys glared back at her in oranges and reds. She must have seen wrong. It was probably a trick of the light and it was really only a glimpse. Anyone could look like anything in a second. Yes, exactly. Ellen exhaled and went to pay her cheeses and ciabatta. She had to wait in line and couldn’t help it, she looked along the other queue, Deluca’s was a middle sized place, maybe a quart smaller than that Trader Joe’s she went to in New York. They were there. She was in her open Burberry, marine sheath and Prada handbag, and he was in that suit. There was no way he bought it himself, he’d been a ripped jeans, vintage shirt, and beanie kind of person. She was talking to him and he was nodding. Ellen recognized the movement. It was in the shoulders and the turn of his head. It was in the way his hair fell and the angle of his face, showing a profile she could not forget. Just as the blonde moved to pay, he turned and their eyes met. Three things happened at the same time. Ellen’s mind forgot all the words. Her mouth remembered, ‘Fuck’. Her ears heard she actually said that out loud.

The older lady in front of her launched a baleful stare. Ellen couldn’t care less. It was him. Denying it was impossible, she knew it deep down, possibly on a molecular level. And he knew it was her, she could see it. ‘Miss?’ the young man at the cashier asked. Ellen heard herself say, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ She almost dropped the bag of cheeses, her hands had forgotten how to hand. Blushing such a flaming red the heat radiated off her skin, Ellen paid, not without dropping her card, then punching in the wrong number. Everything was going wrong, falling apart. Finally her fingers remembered what they were supposed to do. Payment accepted, receipt, a generic ‘Have a nice day’.

They walked past her just as she was done. He did not look. They left Deluca’s as a new couple came in and were gone. Ellen thanked the young man at the cashier and walked out into the rest of her evening.

Ellen tried, but denial was not possible. She had seen. He was not a figment of her imagination after all, as she had come to believe over the past year, ok, seven months. Six and half. And three days. Four.

It had been too perfect, suspiciously so. Those weeks had been too wonderful to be real. She must have read it or seen it somewhere. It could not have happened. Probably some rom-com Beverly made her watch. It could not have happened if she woke up that Monday morning and it was as if nothing had ever happened. Ellen had come to believe that, since it made it easier. She could live with it if she believed it was a dream, a hallucination, something she made up. If it did try to creep in, she’d act like it was a snippet from a movie. Easy questions like, Where did she read that? Probably a blurb or magazine somewhere. A fiction, that was how she could live with it, bear it. By believing it never really happened, she could smile ‘I’m fine’ and type out a ‘thumbs up’ and various species of smiley faces. Now that was impossible. It was him. She would have recognized that face anywhere.

Home. Ellen climbed the stairs, trying not to think further than that she got the cheeses she wanted and that the ciabatta was fresh – ‘Oh. Hi.’ Tara, one of her best friends, was waiting in front of her door with bags of shopping, grinning, ‘I got bored waiting and decided you need some help.’ Ellen smiled gratefully, opened the door to her apartment and stepped back into her life. Once in her tiny kitchen she started preparing the dinner she promised her friends, laughing with Tara who had new office stories to tell, Tara’s work was basically Parks & Rec. She really was a great friend. She somehow always knew when to turn up in time, almost as if she had a radar for when Ellen was about to ‘fall off the deep end’ as she called it. Once again, Tara lassoed Ellen back in, Ellen who smiled and laughed and was just grateful.

A week later. Ellen came home feeling exhausted. The whole week had been one giant drain. She had managed her dinner quite well, what with Tara making her laugh the whole time. Once Jeff, Leon, Beverly and whoever she was seeing again, Ellen always forgot his name, joined everything was great again anyway. But even after they left the memory was there, waiting like a bear-trap under pretty maple leaves, snapping shut the moment Ellen walked into her bedroom. The tears were back, but she refused. She would not. She refused to. It would not happen. No tear would pearl and slide, she would not reach for any Kleenex, she would simply brush her teeth, change for bed, and sleep.

Ellen managed very well until she was in bed, turned on the TV and found one of those sticky-sweet movies, the one with that young woman who had a face like a sweet young puppy – and just got kicked like one by the bastard friend she had, shouting gleefully, ‘He’s just not that into you!’ or something like that. The jerk of a friend was really relishing it. Ellen saw the tears slide down the pretty face on-screen and clenched her teeth. She would not. She would not. But she did. Awfully. She cleaned out her whole box of Kleenex, she just couldn’t stop.

Somehow Ellen fell asleep. When she woke up she saw the massacre of Kleenex on her bed and floor. That was the beginning of the end. Saturday was . . . not good. It was so bad, she called Lucia, because she’d already annoyed Tara enough with the mess, Tara who told her, ‘You sure about this?’ back then, adding, ‘He’s a bit too, y’know.’ She never said what ‘y’know’ was. Anyway, Ellen couldn’t tell Tara because Tara would inevitably be very sensible and sane about it and Ellen didn’t want sensible and sane. She wanted, ‘I’m so sorry, honey, that must have been awful,’ because it was. Lucia was very patient when it came to midnight sobbing. Except Lucia was ‘detoxing from connectivity’ again and never took her calls. Sunday turned up all shiny and bright like it didn’t care, and it might have gotten much worse if Lucia hadn’t come over after all. She’d gotten an ‘emergency vibe’ from her blanked phone and so switched it on. ‘That’s when I saw your calls, sweetie. I grabbed some stuff and came over, you poor thing.’ Ellen just nodded and sobbed and let her in.

Lucia had with her almond milk because cows were sacred, Ecuadorian coffee straight from the farmer whose barista cousin she met personally, ‘Angél is such a dear’; vegan carrot cake ‘from that place Olli talked about? They’re really good at this, trust me’, and two bottles of organic wine that she swore ‘was really good, I promise, Ellie, really, I checked this time, you’ll love it.’ Most importantly, she also had a jute bag of DVDs with her, because one thing about Lucia was that she was a die-hard rom-com fan. This always surprised Ellen because, to her knowledge, Lucia had been a Gender Studies post-grad in another life, one that was full of steaks, milkshakes, and chilli cheese fries. She didn’t like talking about it. Ellen was not going to argue this time either, made room for Lucia on her bed and thus the rest of her Sunday was spent watching all kinds of ‘love-drenched screen-treacle’ as Tara called it, eating vegan carrot cake that wasn’t half bad actually, and drinking genuinely excellent coffee. Ellen remembered to give compliments to Angél. Lucia smiled proudly as if she’d picked the beans herself. Ellen reminded her snide side to be kind, Lucia was being a genuine friend.

They watched one rom-com after the other, the worse the better. Lucia was convinced it was all cathartic reverse therapy. Ellen had no idea what that meant, but it did help in some way, since at one point they both had enough of loud orchestras, spectacular sunsets, and gliding shots of longing stares, and just sat and talked and laughed like friends, drinking the organic wine that was better than ok but not actually fine. They ended up falling asleep on Ellen’s bed, chuckling sleepily at the awful quotes they still remembered from their rom-com binge.

Monday showed up without asking and Ellen had a headache, a bad one, but she didn’t mind too much. Lucia was gone by the time her alarm went off, but she had taped a post-it to Ellen’s forehead, Lucia liked to do things like that. It was hugs and kisses and Need to talk? Call me! :), which made Ellen smile a real smile. Lucia had her ways, but she really was a very sweet friend, she really was. Ellen crawled out of bed, showered, dressed and went to work, lying that she felt a bit under the weather when someone asked her what was wrong. It was pouring outside so they believed her.

Even so, each day was a trial. By Thursday, Ellen was exhausted all over again. She didn’t want to remember anymore. The memories didn’t care and invaded everything. Kicking them out was a constant effort. By Friday, though, she began to feel that anger she loved, that anger that was her friend, that anger that she had met him – in a delicatessen of all places! He’d made fun of such places. He’d called them pretentious, ‘Just another way any basic urbanite can show off.’ And she foolishly believed he meant it. That anger Ellen wanted returned, the fury that she listen so avidly, answered so truthfully, and actually believe everything that happened meant something was happening. That rage that she had been stupid enough to give herself away like that, as if she didn’t know about the games people played. Ellen loved that anger, it brought her back into the life she knew, the life that was hers again. By Saturday morning Ellen knew her anger was real. Soon, very soon, she would spend her hours and days furiously living her own life, relishing her own peace of mind. She would, however, wait a few more weeks until she went to Deluca’s Delicatessen, she wasn’t particularly interested in being a full adult again.

August 15, 2016May 16, 2020

Iris Moore, Part VII

The stationmaster’s office was a middle-sized room with a broad desk and a wide window facing the platform. There were charts and timetables on the walls and a shelf full of ledgers took up one side. The kettle was steaming on the small stove and a blue teapot stood next to an empty cup with a spoon in it, a light spray of sugar scattered about a milk jug. The huge bulk of the desk was littered with papers, letters and more ledgers, half hiding a few pens, an inkwell, and bright brass lamp.

Mr. Andrews, as the stationmaster introduced himself, pulled up a chair for Iris and asked her to please sit down. He took out a cup with a saucer from an open shelf and handed it to her with a small bow after wiping it briskly, looking oddly like a bedraggled butler. He poured out the tea and offered milk and sugar, asking Iris how her train ride was and if she liked the country so far. Iris answered accordingly, smiling politely when Mr. Andrews exclaimed, ‘Seven days! My, you must be glad to have arrived. Too bad you’re husband’s delayed.’ Yes, too bad indeed. Again the panicked thought that Christian O’Brian might have actually forgotten her tried to steal itself into Iris’ mind but she shut it out quickly. Once she let it in, all others would follow. It would not do to lose her head. It would be much better to drink tea instead. Iris took a sip and realized that the tea was actually fine.

‘I hope it’s not too strong, I’m still practicing making it,’ the stationmaster said a little anxiously, looking small behind his massive desk. Iris said it was perfect. Mr. Andrews smiled proudly and took a healthy gulp from his cup. He was about to ask another question when he suddenly turned to the window. Something must have caught his eye. He put down his cup and got up hastily, excusing himself before stepping out to the platform. Given dusk had fallen rather quickly and the stationmaster’s office was brightly lit, Iris could not see who Mr. Andrews was talking to, but she heard a male voice, younger and deeper than Mr. Andrew’s by the sound of it – her heart lept in her chest when Mr. Andrews said, ‘Of course, Mr. O’Brian. ’

Sitting as she was, holding her saucer in one hand and her cup in the other, Iris did not know what to do. Real nervousness was starting to spread. Iris carefully set down the cup and saucer and sat as straight and dignified as she could. She would simply wait until he entered. It was, after all, inevitable.

‘I just made some tea,’ she heard Mr. Andrews say, approaching. ‘I thought your wife wouldn’t mind a cup while she waited. Sad about the gates, though,’ Mr Andrews continued, ‘Callaghan should finally do something about them.’

Mr. Andrew’s was almost at the door by then, the sound of heavy boots following the stationmaster’s quick tread. Iris sat as still as she could, her heart racing.

‘Mrs. O’Brian?’ Mr. Andrews called. ‘I think your husband’s here.’

Seeing that she could not risk to look hesitant, let alone reluctant with the stationmaster watching, Iris rose calmly from her seat and turned to the door, just as Christian O’Brian stepped into the light.

He was taller than she expected. Iris registered a simple jacket, dark and clean, a white shirt without a tie, a buckled belt and denim. She finally looked at his face. He did not look half as severe as his photographic twin. He was not unsightly, which was a genuine relief. She had not known his hair color for the black and white of the photograph, but now she saw that it indeed was black after he removed his hat before stepping in. His eyes were hazel under two even eyebrows, eyes that looked back at her directly, as if he had always expected to see her in the stationmaster’s office.

‘Iris,’ he nodded and Iris remembered where she was and who was watching them. ‘Hello, Christian,’ she answered and, after a heartbeat of awkwardness, she stepped forward, offering her hand. He took it without hesitation and kissed its back as if he had always done this and this was not the very first time. He held her hand just long enough for it to look like a familiar greeting and then let go, stepping aside to let her pass through the door.

‘I’ll tell Jeremy to get your trunk then, Ma’am,’ Mr. Andrews said and hurried on past Iris into the dark, calling out for said Jeremy to hurry up and bring Mrs. O’Brian’s trunk up front, ‘get to it, lad!’ Iris stood between the light of Mr. Andrew’s office and the growing dark of dusk, fully aware of Christian O’Brian standing only a step away – he turned to her right then as he put on his hat again.

‘My apologies for being late,’ he said politely. ‘There was some trouble with the river again.’
‘Another flood?’ Iris asked. He nodded,
‘I had to wait till they could close the gates. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long.’

He looked at her then, as directly as before. Iris shook her head, looking away, acutely aware of the simple ring on her finger. She was here now, married to this man, and the extent of what this meant was just beginning to dawn on her. It had all seemed far away as long as it was just letters and signatures and a long ride on the train. Now, however, what started with a bright morning reading Mr. Godfrey’s paper ended with her standing on Riverton Station’s platform next to an absolute stranger by the name of Christian O’Brian. She should probably start referring to him as Christian now, though it felt so strange to be so informal to someone she hardly knew.

Iris held her purse tightly and did her best not to look how she felt, which was a wild urge to run and hide. She could not say why, Christian O’Brian did not look menacing, but the urge was there to simply find a place where she could hide herself until she understood what was happening. Not that she didn’t know, and yet the shock was real: she was here. She was really, truly here. It was what made her jump when Christian O’Brian motioned for her to proceed towards the exit of the station once Jeremy appeared, carrying her trunk with Mr. Andrews’ help. She walked around the building to a lamp-lit street where an empty buggy was waiting, the dappled grey pawing the sand. Mr. Andrews and Jeremy made short thrift with her trunk, tying it to the back of the vehicle, Christian O’Brian – she would have to stop with the O’Brian – tipping Jeremy and shaking hands with Mr. Andrews, who asked if the gates were filling quickly again.

‘Fast enough, but not like last year,’ Christian O’Brian answered.
‘Well, that’s something then,’ Mr. Andrews nodded.

He tapped his cap to Iris with a ‘Ma’am’ and waited until Christian O’Brian was seated before he nodded to him as well. Iris, sitting in the far corner of the buggy, saw how Christian O’ – Christian flicked the reins and suddenly they were driving down into Riverton, the grey trotting easily on the sanded road, the turn of the wheels and the horse’s tread the only sounds in the silence.

Iris sat as still as possible, her hands folded over her purse in her lap, searching for something to break the silence, but all she could think of was that Christian O’ – no, he had kissed her hand as if it was the most natural thing, and now they sat in this buggy as if they were really a married couple, which they were, and that he was probably bringing her to his house (which she had seen with her inner eye for so many days, she wondered if the truth would shatter her dream), not to mention whether what she had done was sensible or if it was what she felt right then: complete and utter madness.

She did not know this man and yet she was bound to him by all legal actions and even before God, if the blessing of the curate counted as well. Iris watched the quiet, dark landscape pass by, disturbed every now and then by homesteads with brightly lit windows. She watched in silence, trying to tamp down a rising sensation of panic. No, it would not do to fret, let alone lose her head, she was here now and so far Christian O’Brian, no, Christian had been courteous if not a little reserved, but considering his letters that should not be a surprise. It was still difficult for Iris to equal the C. O’Brian she knew from the letters with the man sitting next to her who was guiding the grey down the road, past houses and gardens and other buggies and carriages, whose passengers, thank God, were obscured by darkness. Iris kept to the shadows as best as she could, not wanting to be seen, or worse, having someone stop and ask questions. She sat as still as possible, waiting for her heartbeat to settle, though she doubted it ever would again.