women – Page 2 – three good words

July 4, 2016May 16, 2020

Iris Moore, Part IV

More than a week passed before the answering letter came. By the time she saw the envelope lying square on her little room’s floor, Iris was already convinced that her reply had been too short and mean for Mr. O’Brian to answer it. She had been courteous and written to both Kenneth H. Williams and Trevor Bowden, thanking them for their letters, though, regrettably, she could not continue their correspondence since her choice had already been made.

Trevor Bowden wrote again, a letter that arrived by express merely three days after she posted her replies. Mr. Bowden’s second letter was a longer, more passionate one. He proclaimed he had fallen desperately in love with Iris the moment he saw her photograph. He could hardly eat let alone sleep since knowing she existed in the world – ‘I cannot live knowing you live just two days by train away!!’ – and quite nearly begged her to reconsider her choice. It was a sweet letter, never mind its incredible exaggerations (‘My heart bleeds in rivers, Ms Moore!’), repeated vows of undying love (‘God’s truth, I will never love another!’), and multiple exclamation marks (at one point five in a row), all of which had caused some amusement on Iris side and put an end to whatever inclination she might have still had to consider him. Kenneth H. Williams in turn never wrote again, and in his silence Iris thought to detect a certain element of pique, though she told herself she was being silly. It was just as well that he didn’t answer, since that meant she didn’t have to read another conceited letter.

Finally, one Saturday, ten days after she sent out her three replies, Iris returned home in a pensive mood. She had just been to an early afternoon mass where she had supplicated an honest, deeply felt plea to the Lord to help her out of her situation, for now Mrs. Emerson had started talking about some young men as well, young men who apparently inquired after Iris more than once. Much more forthright than Mrs. Rose as she was, Mrs. Emerson was becoming downright pushy. If the Lord, who was almighty, if He could furnish a table before King David’s enemies, could he do the same for her, her current enemy being the painful situation of soon being penniless? With the pittance she earned at Mr. Emerson’s and her diminishing savings, she would probably soon have to follow through with either Mrs. Rose’, Mrs. Whitney’s, or Mrs. Emerson’s plans for her, which Iris thought of with genuine dread. The prospect of spending the rest of her life with one of those eligible young men always made goose bumps sprout on her skin, and never pleasantly.

Seeing the tan rectangle on the wooden floor when she returned from church had felt like an answer to her plea that Saturday, and Iris had opened the letter eagerly, smiling when she read ‘Miss Moore’ in the now familiar quick, though legible hand. It was two pages long and explained the circumstance of Mr. O’Brian’s business, which was both in timber and land, explained the expanse of his house, which sounded spacious and well-thought out, next to a large front and back garden, and even a small cluster of apple trees whose fruit he had been told were very good for making pies and compotes, which was all rather meaningless of course if she did not like apples (this had made Iris smile). He explained the surrounding countryside, which, apart from the growing town of Riverton, was comprised of estates and wildlands, his own house surrounded by neighbours and families who where much in his own trade.

As to the household, there were work-hands and a cook who took care of the bare essentials, but a man in his position could not afford to be a bachelor for long, at least not in this part of the country. Since he did not have the time for adequate courtship, and she, Miss Moore, sounded like a sensible, straightforward woman (which had somehow flattered Iris, though it did sound a little aloof), he thought their chance for happiness was as good as any others. His philosophy on marriage had always been a simple one, meaning that as long as both marriage partners respected each other, nothing could go materially wrong. He hoped he was not mistaken in thinking that this would be the case between them, if Iris consented to be his wife. As for any further knowledge to her character and person, there was one thing he would have liked to know, for she had omitted this in her form: what, by and large, were her thoughts on children? He hoped the letter found her in time, since the Post could be slow this time of the year what with the floods coming in, ‘Yours, C. O’Brian’.

Iris read the letter twice, trying to picture the house, the garden, the apple trees and countryside, looking every now and then at Mr. O’Brian’s photograph, thinking his clear and unadorned words fit very well with the unflinching gaze he directed at the camera. He was not, she felt, someone who spoke for mere speaking and very likely only ever said what he truly meant. His honesty was maybe a little blunt, but better live with an honest man than a charming, deceiving one. She was not unintelligible to the familiar ‘Yours’ either, though it had nothing of Kenneth H. Williams’ expectation of seeing Iris as his wife. Rather, she felt that Christian O’Brian was very simply asking her to marry him, not for romance, and not because he expected her to, but because he needed a sensible housekeeper and thought they had as good a chance as anyone to find felicity in such a connection. It was this frankness that pleased Iris. There would be respect on both sides, that much they both had surmised during their short exchange, and with that in place, a harmonious life was possible. All in all it sounded very promising and Iris was quite ready to consent, if Mr. O’Brian officially asked for her hand. She was surprised and a little mortified, though, to find out she had omitted the Children section in her application form and so immediately sat down to write an answer.

She thanked him for his reply and praised his description of his house, compound and neighbourhood as very vivid, making her curious to see it. Though she did not know how time-consuming timber and land were, she could imagine that it left a man in need to make his living little time for more domestic affairs, and thus understood his more modern means of finding a companion. She too had always believed that respect was essential to matrimony and so far was convinced that this would be the case between them, if the marriage would be agreed upon. She was very sorry if her omission of that particular section in her form had led to any misunderstandings, but she was very fond of children and very definitely wished some of her own. She did not have a preference regarding their sex, since she hoped for one of each, though she would be interested to know if he, Mr. O’Brian, thought otherwise. Finally, Iris could not help add that she was surprised to read that the floods in that part of the country could be so devastating as to halt the entire Post, and wondered if the officials did nothing to overcome this disturbance since it must be detrimental to business transactions if torrents of water kept on carrying off the mail. ‘My warmest regards, Iris Moore.’

July 3, 2016May 16, 2020

Iris Moore, Part III

The MCA pamphlets said that five copies would be made of Iris’ application form and sent to those men whose likes and tastes most matched her own. If these showed no success, the MCA would progress with those who had slight deviations and so on until an eligible match was found. One was to expect at least three weeks’ time for an answer from the MCA, and guaranteed both a personal letter and a copy of the bachelor’s own application form. Since not all of the men were able to reach a photographer’s in time, some could not provide a photograph immediately, but would do so upon request by the lady in question. From then on, an exchange via letter was expected, by which both applicants would acquaint themselves with each other and find if they were truly well-matched or not. Considering the MCA’s statistics, of ten men and women who applied, seven found a match, and those three who did not were soon married as well. Thus, the MCA was considered by Sanders, Sanders & Jones, as well as those who had found their life’s happiness by the agency’s aide, a thorough success. This all sounded very promising, and Iris, who did not know what to expect, resolved to waiting.

Iris received a total of three letters. It seemed that Sanders, Sanders & Jones really were very successful and there was a current shortage in eligible bachelors. Iris did not know if this was simply a polite way of saying only three men had thought her application and photograph appealing or whether the shortage was truly the case. Even so, there were three letters and Iris read each carefully. There was a Trevor Bowden, who sounded a little too young and eager for her liking, despite his twenty-eight years. He lived in Texas, had recently acquired a claim and had invested too much time in business to find a wife. Iris’ application and photograph had intrigued him, and he would be happy to lead her to his ranch as Mrs. Trevor Bowden. The writing was a little clumsy and the wording sometimes rather wanting in elegance, but the entirety of the letter was still pleasant and Iris was smiling when she reached ‘My very deepest regards, T. Bow.’

The second letter was from a certain Kenneth Williams (37), who sounded very respectable after his introductory ‘Dear Miss Moore’. The letter was very well-written. However, considering his use of words such as ‘auxiliary’ and ‘perspicacious’, Iris wasn’t sure whether Mr. Williams was either trying too hard to impress her or so particular as to have to show his education in a simple introductory letter. Mr. Williams spoke of his large estate in Colorado, the size of his stables, the number of his horses, and the fact that she would be one of the leading ladies of Lesterburgh’s society, (which counted at least a thousand well-respected, Christian souls), if she conceded to be his wife. He had very adequate means to guarantee her a comfortable life, and she would not be sorry to have married him. She looked a sturdy, simple woman (Iris wondered in what ways ‘simple’) who could lead a household frugally, something he found was exactly what was wanting in modern wives, who generally preferred to spend rather than save. He would be very happy to receive her swift reply and was gladly awaiting the day he would introduce her to Lesterburgh as Mrs. Kenneth Williams. ‘With the most cordial wishes for your health and goodwill, Kenneth H. Williams.’

Iris didn’t know what to think of this letter. She had a feeling Mr. Williams rather expected she would marry him. Iris never did do well with those who expected her to do their bidding, implied or no, without so much as asking if she was agreeable to it. Maybe it was the rebellious Eduards’ streak in her, but after reading Kenneth H. Williams’ letter, she did not think she would ever be part of Lesterburgh’s society. And he, just like Trevor Bowden, had not provided her with so much as a daguerreotype, which Iris thought a little suspicious of someone who used so many cultured words. She had read enough in St. James to know that sometimes erudition only hid a far more simpler truth, which was usually pride or vanity or both. In the end, Iris could not find it in herself to like Kenneth H. Williams, even though all she knew of him was a short introductory letter.

Finally, there was the last of the three, and it was from a certain C. O’Brian whose full name by the application form was not Christopher but the more unusual Christian. He wrote ‘Miss Moore,’ without the usual ‘Dear’ and stated immediately that his sole reason for applying to Sanders, Sanders & Jones was his need for a sensible housekeeper. As he could not expect that any respectable woman would travel so far west as Washington Territory without an assurance of safety and adequate means of living, he was very willing to give his hand in return. He had found her application very convincing, and her photograph only enhanced this first estimation. However, he did not want her, Miss Moore, to be deceived into romantic ventures as many might, considering the form and nature of their initial acquaintance. He was a man of thirty-three years with his own business and own home, and considering his situation in life as a single man in a remote land, had found it best to lay his future into the hands of Messrs. Sanders & Jones. He would greatly appreciate her answer, since by her application form he had surmised that they would not be altogether mismatched, though, naturally, it was entirely to her own choosing. Without much ado, his ‘Yours sincerely, C. O’Brian’ followed and that was the end of the letter. He had, however, also enclosed a photograph, which was a pleasant surprise.

Iris held it before her and saw a man staring obstinately into the camera. He had regular, sharp-lined features, thick brows over clear eyes, a straight nose and a relaxed, well-shaped mouth. There was nothing soft about his chin as she had sometimes seen in the sons and nephews Mrs. Rose’s friends insisted she meet. In the photograph, Christian O’Brian was clean-shaven, looked healthily built, and was possibly wearing his best suit with a matching vest and tie, from the monotony of the photograph it was all a crisp black and white. He held his hat as if he had just removed it, though it did not cover the arc of his watch’s chain nor his straight, almost defiant stance. His dark hair, black on the photograph, was rather long for a gentleman, though it was not wholly unbecoming, and living in the wilds as he did such an unusual length was probably to be expected. Iris, upon seeing the photograph, thought that she could like the real twin to the image. Christian O’Brian looked neither dangerous nor violent, maybe a little grim, but you never knew on photographs. She just hoped he had good teeth, but when looking through his application form, he had crossed ‘sturdy’ in the box of Health, and left the comments section empty, where Trevor Bowden, for example, had explicated that one tooth had been knocked out during a dispute over some land.

Iris agonized for many hours over her answering letter to Mr. O’Brian. She finally wrote her thanks for his letter and that she was both grateful and, yes, a little surprised by his honesty, since it was not usual for a suitor to claim from the first a total lack of romantic feelings. She appreciated his frankness, however, since it showed to her that he was a man who was not prone to subtleties which were often the beginnings of deception. Even so, in keeping with his forthrightness, she was curious unto what conditions she would be living with him (though Iris found that sounded a little harsh, but it was already written and she could not waste too much paper) and if there was anything more he would have liked to know about her character or person. She thanked him again for his honest letter. Iris did not know what more to write, and though it looked like a short, mean little letter, she did her best to soften her words by closing it with ‘My sincerest regards, Iris Moore’.

June 28, 2016May 16, 2020

Iris Moore, Part II

Her situation was not favourable. Mrs. Whitney, who liked to write her long letters, had suggested Iris move to New York. It was true that her own daughters had no longer need for her excellent services, but one could certainly find a family who would be very glad to have Iris. She could make no promises, but Iris should consider the offer. And being such a pretty young lady, Mrs. Whitney was certain that Iris would not have to be a Miss Moore for long, since there were very many eligible men in New York with a steady income and excellent manners. Iris read these repeated offers and felt she was sitting in Mrs. Rose’ small parlour again, drinking tea and eating cakes while Mrs. Timms and Mrs. Smith-Feldworth eyed her carefully as if she might be carrying the Independent disease.

The letters had surprised and disappointed Iris who had thought Mrs. Whitney to be a more lenient woman. After all, she avidly supported the Suffragettes, much to her wealthy friends’ horror. Then again, Mrs. Whitney’s continuous invitations and suggestions to see New York’s eligible bachelors for herself also made Iris wonder if her life alone with her mother hadn’t made her a little too independent. She was used to taking care of herself, of cooking for herself and cleaning the house without any help, managing her own income and reading whatever she liked and wanted.
The reading, admittedly, was something not only Mrs. Rose and her friends, but Mrs. Whitney had always disapproved of: a young mind needed guidance in all things printed. Something that looked intelligent and fortuitous could be deepest vice in disguise, and thus adequate guidance was needed, though all suggestions the older women made were always met with polite smiles and an iron will never to follow them, though, naturally, Iris was careful not to show this explicitly.

Even at a young age Iris had considered herself bright enough to know what was good for her and what would make her spirits unnecessarily troubled. She made sure to keep an even balance between those novels Mrs. Timms disapproved of so much and more worthy literature such as that of Messrs. Milton, Coleridge, and Browning. When she grew older, she did add one or two French writers for entertainment’s sake, though Iris was careful to hide them from sight when they had guests in the parlour. Consequently her mind had acquired a certain natural independence, one her mother did not curtail, since she had come from a learned family; not to mention that, with Captain Moore gone for so many months, Mrs. Moore had acquired a sense of independence herself. Iris’ mother had always said it was an Eduards’ trait, Eduards being her maiden name.

‘All the women in our family were known to be headstrong, maybe even rebellious,’ Mrs. Moore had once said. ‘I guess there is some truth then, in the story about one of our ancestors who married a Red Indian. And with Grandpa Eduards’ marrying an Italian, you can imagine what that amounts to. So you see sweetheart,’ she sighed then, smiling at Iris. ‘It seems that a part of us will never adhere to rules.’

It was maybe this knowledge that had led Iris to not question her own independence. She always felt a sense of surprise if not outright disdain for those young women her age who were scandalized by her opinions or openly made fun of her, though that was no longer of any importance once they sold the house in Maple Street. And now she was in a small room above a busy street, living on very little, and that growing even less by the day. Iris’ circumstances didn’t look as if they were going to change soon either, despite her daily prayers for a means of help or at least a better place to work than Mr. Emerson’s.

Iris soon grew despondent. Was she to always live in this small room with the large advertisements of Forsythe’s White across of her, watching the carriages and trams pass by, while the sidewalks teemed with people? Was she to never live in a house again? Was she ever to cook in a decent kitchen again, instead of making some soup or frying a couple of eggs on the small stove she also used for heating? Would she ever drink real Earl Grey again instead of this very second-rate tea? Iris didn’t know, though she never ceased saying her nightly prayers. She saw her hours behind Mr. Emerson’s counter as an act of Christian patience, trying not to think of the fact that Mr. Emerson often treated her no better than a maid, even resolving to call her Iris rather than Miss Moore if there were no customer’s present. And sometimes even when they were present. At least Carter never forgot the Miss, but then Carter would look at her that way… Daily, Iris wished, hoped, and prayed for something to happen that would change her circumstances and so never forgot to say her prayers before she went to bed.

It was an unassuming day when things began to change. Iris could still remember how and when Mr. Godfrey from next door gave her his paper. He was a salesman whose family lived in the country. He only stayed in the room next door during the week, and like Iris during her days at St. James, took the train to his family every Friday afternoon, only to return straight to work on Monday morning. Mr. Godfrey was a portly man of forty-five who had had some education and was, though a little gruff, always a gentleman. He liked to say that it was nice to talk to a person with some sense in these parts. He also felt sorry for Iris, and if he happened to remember, asked her if she wanted the paper. That was the case that afternoon when Iris returned from Mr. Emerson’s feeling she would need some real and lasting distraction after a very trying day.

She accepted the offer and had a small chat with Mr. Godfrey about the past week, since that day was a Friday, before he ran down the stairs to catch the next tram to the station. Back in her small room, Iris made her meagre tea and drank it sitting at her window, watching the busy street below, and quite forgot the newspaper due to her fatigue. She didn’t remember it until the following morning which was a Saturday, the day of Sabbath for Mr. Emerson’s wife, who was actually a Lieberman, which made Saturday Iris’ only truly free day. Every other Sunday afternoon she had to help with the tea parties and picnics the Emerson’s liked to arrange for the wealthier families in Summerfield half an hour away.

The sun shone brightly that Saturday morning, the light falling in a broad beam into her small room. Iris sat at her small table in the sun and started reading the paper Mr. Godfrey had given her. She ended up reading every piece, from the news and society pages to the business section and the funnies. She even went through the obituaries, until she reached the personals, where she came across a peculiar advertisement.

It was from the law firm Sanders, Sanders & Jones and explained that there were men in the Territories out west, hardworking, respectable men who, due to their work, did not find the time to respectfully court a woman to be their wife. The Mountjoy Courtship Agency (MCA), headed by said law firm, had taken up the duty to find suitable women for these hardworking men. These women should all know how to cook and take care of a household by themselves, and be of a good Christian upbringing. For more information one was to write to the Mountjoy Courtship Agency, c/o Sanders, Sanders & Jones whose offices were, considering the address, in one of the best parts of the city. It was added that the Women’s Weekly Journal, one of the leading women’s magazines of the city, considered the MCA ‘a respectable organization that honored the values of upstanding Christian citizens’.

It was very strange. To Iris, it sounded as if these men were ordering their wives by mail, or rather, sending out lawyers to find them. How busy could they be to not find the time to meet and court a young woman? That was when she had to think of her neighbour Mr. Godfrey and those like him, men who worked all week and only had time to visit their family on weekends. If you did not have enough friends, or did not have the means to go to the city for some time and maybe attend a dance, finding a wife would prove difficult. And no respectable young woman would go to a dance without a friend at her side, or an eagle-eyed chaperone which made the situation even more difficult.

Iris read through the advertisement again, thought, pondered, and considered. The chances she had of finding someone suitable without the help of Mrs. Rose and her friends, or Mrs. Whitney and her eligible New York men was very slim. Yet to rely on these means to find a husband irked Iris greatly, for she had met some of the sons and nephews praised to her in the highest tones by Mrs. Rose, and had often seen the young and not-so-young men who came to visit the Whitney’s when she was still tutoring Rosemarie and Abigail. Iris could not see herself connected to a person who could either only talk of food and horses or only of himself. Thus, it maybe was not so unfortunate that she had come across the MCA c/o Sanders, Sanders & Jones.

Even so, Iris considered for the whole of that Saturday if she should contact Messrs. Sanders & Jones about the MCA. Then again, with the way things were going, with Mr. Emerson’s subtle insolence and Mrs. Rose’ repeated invitations to tea, Iris didn’t see why she should not see into finding an eligible bachelor on her own. Mrs. Rose and her friends would have found it very independent of her, but Iris felt she would rather prefer the Mountjoy Courtship Agency to find a possible suitor than Mrs. Rose and her fastidious friends. At least with the first she could be certain of an amount of objectivity. It was late afternoon when Iris took out ink and paper, and set up a short letter to the Mountjoy Courtship Agency, writing that a friend of hers had heard of their agency and was now interested to know what kind of courtship was to be expected from a respectable firm of law. She kept the letter serious and maybe a little cool, and sent it out that evening, using one of her last two-penny stamps.

The answer was prompt: a whole set of pamphlets and copies of ‘experiences’ by women who wedded these hardworking men, men they only knew by photograph and name. An Agnes Thornton née Bernard said her Mr. Thornton was an honest Christian, steady in his ways and never given to waywardness or drink. She counted herself fortunate to have married such a good man and could only encourage other unmarried women to find their partners by Sanders, Sanders & Jones’ honourable assistance, who enabled such a blessed opportunity to enrich the lives of so many.

A Winifred Reynolds née George was in even greater raptures. She had at first been sceptical, but finding herself in the uncomfortable position of having neither family nor fortune, she decided to find out if what Messrs. Sanders & Jones promised held true, only to meet Mr. Reynolds by letter and photograph, after which a few month’s of courtship ensued by mail. They were married by post and notary with the legal assistance of Messrs. Sanders & Jones and with the due blessing of a curate. Finally, said Winifred joined her Mr. Reynolds in a small logging town in Montana. It had been love on first sight, or rather, first letter, and meeting the real Mr. Reynolds, whom she until then had only known by paper, only enhanced her joy. Since then, Winifred Reynolds née George lived in constant praise of the Lord’s graciousness for helping her out of a truly desperate state to a life of happiness and contentment. She was forever grateful to the MCA and to Mssrs. Sanders, Sanders & Jones, since through their aide she had found true happiness.

All other letters, of which there were ten, were much the same, and seeing the women’s accounts were in fact only slight variations of her own, (for she, Iris, was indeed coming into ‘a desperate state’), she decided to fill out the form Messrs. Sanders & Jones had sent with the pamphlets and letters, describing her height, eye- and hair-color, writing ‘Christian’ in the Religion section, listing three of her best dishes, adding that she had learnt how to make a Bolognese from her mother. In the Housekeeping section, she gave her opinion on cleanliness and the necessity of good, lasting clothing and sturdy footwear, adding that she had nursed her mother for three years before Mrs. Moore passed away due to the gravity of her illness. Seeing there was also a space for Tastes, Likes, and Dislikes, Iris wrote that she enjoyed reading a good book on quiet evenings with the fire bright in the fireplace. She also added that there was nothing like the smell of freshly baked bread on baking day and that she approved neither of gambling nor swearing. In brackets she also added that it was said that she had a good voice in singing. Once written she felt a little silly about it, but left it since the words were in fact the truth.

Finally, with the application form written, there was the question of her photograph. She had gone to have a few made, three years before, when her mother was still well and their savings still allowed it. Comparing her present appearance in the mirror to that of her favourite picture, Iris found she had not undergone any drastic changes, but looked much the same. In fact, it seemed as if three years had not passed, though she felt it was only right and due to write on the back of the photograph that it was three years since it was taken. And thus she tore the blue slip from the white form to retain a copy of her application as the instructions said. Messrs. Sanders & Jones were intent on retaining their respectably, and would not have any of the ladies have suspicions – and very possibly lose the favour of Women’s Weekly, Iris added silently, remembering how her mother had always said she had a devious little elf inside her who spoke all those sly things. It made Iris smile sadly for a moment. Next to her mother’s warm voice and loving presence, she missed the freedom of speaking her mind the most. Now she had to make her little comments silently, to herself, and not even show with her eyes what she was thinking, for Mrs. Rose and her friends seemed to understand very well what they were saying. Finally, Iris slipped the form and the photograph into the provided envelope, added the stamp, and sent it all that evening, wondering if and hoping sincerely she did the right thing.

June 20, 2016May 16, 2020

Iris Moore

Hello, you lovely people. I know I’ve been neglecting this space rather cruelly, but I finally, finally found the time to experiment again. The following is an attempt – really, just that – at historical fiction. I have no idea where it’s going, so bear with me. This is the first part, there is more to come, and I hope it’s at least mildly entertaining. Merci for reading!
j.d.

Pacific Northwest, 1885

It was a Friday afternoon in late fall. Iris Moore gingerly stepped out onto the planks of Riverton station’s platform and found herself in the middle of a hurrying crowd. The steam of the enormous black engine rose high, billowing above the busy bustle around her: families reuniting, men of business hurrying along, loggers shouldering their travelling sacks, filing out in groups of twos and threes; students returning from their term, wearing fine suits and carrying valises, greeted enthusiastically by younger siblings and hugged warmly by their mothers. One, no, two had their fathers to meet them with a warm handshake and a proud slap on their young backs.

The station itself was far larger than expected, with runners in brass-buttoned blue uniforms. There was a waiting hall that was slowly emptying, while more and more people boarded the train. Iris thanked the boy who had taken her trunk and rolled it to one side of the wide station’s platform. She tipped him a little more than usual, she knew the thing was heavy. The bustle around her continued unimpeded – the talk of the people, the din of the street, the hiss and billow of steam from the engine, all formed to a noisy whole that left Iris feeling a little lost.

From what she had seen of Riverton before the giant pistons came to a screeching halt, the town was not what she had thought, a small cluster of houses with maybe a main street and a few side lanes. No, Riverton was a large town on the verge of blooming into a new city. On the last few miles to the station, Iris had seen construction sites and busy roads, large mansions higher up in the hills, and the jumble of innumerable roofs and chimneys down in the valley. She had expected to be in the middle of nowhere, only to see that Riverton was very much somewhere, busy with people coming home or leaving for new destinations. Everyone seemed to have someone waiting for them or a place to go, all except Iris, who stood next to her large travelling trunk, wondering yet again if her clever plan had been all that wise after all.

It had been a matter of quiet desperation. Iris could no longer stay in the city she had known as her home all her life. With her mother dead, and hardly any skills except a little education, housekeeping, and nursing to call her own, Iris had had no choice than to search for a means to provide for herself. To work at a hospital would have required a more thorough training, and she did not have the means to attend a nursing school. The Moores had never been a wealthy household, though the monthly sum her father used to send from the various ports of the world had always been a steady income, guaranteeing a simple yet wholesome life. At the age of seven, however, a month before he was to take leave, Captain Isa Moore drowned in a storm out at sea, and Iris and her mother were left to themselves in the small house on Maple Street. Since she knew her father mostly out of letters her mother read to her and trinkets he sent from faraway places, it was not difficult for Iris to continue as she was, telling herself that her father had reached a port that was too far away to send letters from, but otherwise lived and prospered. To her mother this was not so, nor did it change after the first year of mourning. As a consequence, Iris grew up in a house of ever-present melancholy, though Mrs. Moore had many well-meaning neighbours and friends.

They lived a quiet life, what with the widow’s pension and Mrs. Moore’s position as a teacher in the local school, making their staple supplies always affordable, and a few small luxuries very delightful. Life in Maple Street was not extravagant, yet to Iris it was complete. She accomplished her schooling in St. James School for Young Ladies by the help of a small inheritance from a spritey grand-aunt who thought a young woman should be well educated. To this grand-aunt, whom Iris had never met, St. James was a perfect place for her niece’s daughter, since it was a school lead by nuns and thus could hardly be a place of the blight of the land known as ‘modern vices’. (What those were Iris did not know exactly, but she wasn’t one to ask).

Iris lived with the other seventy girls of St. James on the premises during the week and returned home on the weekends. By the time she finished school, she was considered a right young lady with excellent manners, a sturdy education, and the kind of credentials which would find her a place as a school teacher in hardly any time at all. With the help of Principle Majors who headed the elementary school her own mother taught in, Iris became a private tutor to the two Whitney girls, young spoilt daughters of a wealthy salesmen. The two girls could be very unruly when they wanted to be, but due to their mother’s good sense they thankfully had a knowledge of discipline far enough to allow Iris to teach them how to read, write, add sums, play the piano, and sing a few songs that pleased their father greatly. Iris had been in the choir when at school and was considered to have a good strong voice, though she would never be a soprano, her alto was too deep. It did not matter much to Iris as long as she could stand in the lines and sing with the others. To her that was the most heart-felt prayer she could think of. As for her piano lessons, she enjoyed Mozart and a little Schubert, and played them to the delight of her mother and their friends. In her private hours, when no one but her mother was at home, she would play etudes, vales, and nocturnes from that young Frenchman whose name she always forgot, dramatic, melancholy strains that tore at your heartstrings and made Iris think of the poems her teachers had called ‘unsuitable for young ladies’.

All went well until Mrs. Moore fell ill one winter, not long after Iris turned twenty. What had started as a small cough turned out to be near-fatal pneumonia, which almost robbed Iris of her only parent, yet Mrs. Moore saw it through, though she remained very weak from the long sickness and never regained her strength again. Iris spent the following three years tutoring the Whitney girls and tending to her mother, who was finally too ill to teach a large gaggle of children and so had to stay home. The cut in their income was not so sorely felt at first, since both had lived frugally and laid aside enough for the first months to be as usual. Yet Mrs. Moore’s sickness became worse when the heat of the summer covered the city like an impenetrable dome, and doctor’s appointments and medicines rapidly diminished their savings.

Mrs. Moore had asked Iris to stop trying. If this continued, Iris would have nothing left to live on when she finally died, (Mrs. Moore spoke of her death with such chilling certainty that in turns it made Iris angry or want to cry), and so she maintained that it was best to simply let her pass away in peace, she could not bear the thought of leaving Iris penniless. Iris assured her repeatedly that as a teacher she could hardly be that, and so continued tutoring in the mornings and tending to her mother for the rest of the day, deeply grateful for their neighbour Mrs. Rose who came in the forenoon to make sure all was well.

Yet it was all to no avail. On a Sunday morning in the spring of the third year after that long winter of pneumonia, Jane Ellen Moore passed away and Iris was left all to herself. She had no siblings, she did not know any of her father’s family, and her mother had no one else save an elder brother who left the house at sixteen and never wrote nor returned again. Thus, Iris was on her own, and living in a large city with hardly any means and no real possibilities to earn a living in a respectable way, Iris soon found herself in a predicament. By the time Mrs. Moore passed away, they had had to sell the small house on Maple Street in order to pay the doctor’s bills, and moved into a small apartment in a busy part of town, where carriages and streetcars rolled by noisily, and it was never wise to leave the windows open if you wanted to have some peace. The Whitney’s had moved to New York by then, since Mr. Whitney’s business had grown so large as to ‘warrant a more fortuitous homestead’, and Iris was surprised and dismayed to see that there was no other school or place for tutorship that wished for her skills. Few families wanted their young boys taught by a young lady who ‘would not know what young chaps needed to learn’, and the other families did not think it necessary to teach their daughters more than the elementaries of reading, writing, and arithmetic, which their governesses could teach them as well.

Added to this unpleasant turn, Iris more often than not found herself faced with proposals for marriage than earnest propositions for a place of teaching. It seemed that everyone expected her to find a husband. As long as her mother lived, a widow who had no other means to support herself and her daughter than to be a schoolmarm, it was well and good for Iris to be a tutor and support her mother who was fortunate to have such a loving and helpful child. Yet now, as a young solitary woman, Iris realized that many thought it suspiciously independent of her that she would not join Mrs. Rose’s tea-parties, where Mrs. Rose’s lady friends talked favourably of their own sons and nephews or those sons and nephews of their acquaintance. Soon Iris found it better not to visit Mrs. Rose for tea so as not to be confronted by the quiet indignation of her lady friends, who thought it rather proud of a young penniless girl to not consider marriage to their well-off sons. With one thing and the other, Iris found herself fairly alone not even ten weeks after her mother’s funeral.

She lived as frugally a possible, yet all her saving could not keep the day away when no more money would be left and she would have to leave the small room she rented after moving out of the apartment she had shared with her mother, since the funeral had required most of what savings she still had left. There she was, living in one of the busiest, noisiest parts of town, working for a pittance as a shop assistant to Mr. Emerson, who already had a shop assistant, Carter. Then there was the fact that Mr. Emerson thought it unwise for a young lady to waste her time behind counters when she could much better become a wife and use her skills for her own household and children. Mr. Emerson said that if he gave her too much pay she would become too used to working, which was not very well for a respectable young lady, and thus the low income would eventually force her to be wise and find a husband.

‘You’re a pretty young lady, Miss Moore,’ he would say, ‘why are you trying to spoil your good looks with working? Mrs. Emerson knows a few fine young men who would be more than happy to meet you,’ he would add, which Iris was always quick to gainsay, explaining she was still in mourning for her mother and could not think of such things as marriage yet.

August 7, 2014May 17, 2020

Marla

So, this was it. She moved in, finally. All her boxes lay strewn across the wooden floor, toffee squares on polished, gleaming caramel where the sun hit it with bright syrupy rays. The walls were sugar white, but that could be fixed, and there was so much space! Marla turned full circle and smiled. They’d set up the bed under the third window, a broad thing, full of cushions and covers, and a bedside table she’d gotten from Rachel.

Rachel bought old furniture and painted little stories on the wood. There were trees and unicorns, lions and zebras, suns and geometry, and all this in strong, vivid colours. Every piece was unique and beautiful, and the moment Marla had enough money, she bought a little tea-table she now used for her books, lamp and old-fashioned clock that could wake the dead. Strange how, never mind the boxes, the room still looked empty. It really wasn’t a room, it was a space, a large, empty, white space. It was the kind of space found in museums or churches, smaller of course and not half as cold. It felt sacred in its emptiness, like the first day of creation before all the chaos set in.

Longer than wide, the space had two bay windows looking over this side of the city. The sills were broad and would be perfect for potted plants and candles and stray books she was bound to leave there. Books. Marla had many books. Very many, so many, her new housemate Sunny had guffawed – really, it was that sound, a sudden intake of breath, that fricative of fast-pressed air, that loose-jaw sound of awe, guffaw. Anyway, it was best if she started with that. She could save her sofa from the debris of her last life later on. Marla exhaled, held up her hair with a clip and set to work. She had two large bookshelves that proved to be just enough for all the literature she had stored in the boxes. Looking at the line of backs, Marla could see the progression of interest and education, the beginnings of literary adventure to the deep depths of her post-graduate years. She had come a long way from Charlotte’s Web and now, finally, felt that she was in her place. She could look at Discipline and Punish and know exactly what not to look for. Answers, for one thing.

It was late afternoon when Marla finished setting up house. Her space looked more colourful now, the plants were where they should be, the pictures placed, the posters hung, the bathroom beset with her belongings. She had rearranged her large atlases and art volumes to her coffee table covered with a square glass plate, her trusted old-school stereo was set, her guitar unharmed, her desk covered with all the usual paraphernalia, though tidier now than it ever would be again. Her wardrobe was filled, the chest of cupboards she found two days ago as well, its top set with an electric kettle, a few mugs, packets of tea and a closed jar of sugar. She would have to think about what to do with the milk. She also had wineglasses and two bottles of red, though with the pub downstairs, who knew how often she would need them.

She was surprised how quiet it was, considering there was an actual Irish pub not far from her feet. It was all wooden walls and faded pictures, mysterious corners, two pool tables, dart-boards and an enormous TV over the counter, a huge flat-screen for the football and rugby, as was happening just now. The whole place was crowded, spilled pints and lager decorating the floor, the two waitresses clearing the glasses while Mr. Tellis stood behind the counter making sure nothing went wrong. She should call him Caden though, he was hardly a year older than herself, and both of them were approaching thirty. Marla still didn’t know how he was connected to Sunny, her third housemate. They’d been living together for some time now and yet they were neither a couple nor brother and sister, though they were very close. They teased and argued and Sunny seemed to take Caden’s word for fact. Marla was certain that if Caden Tellis would have so much as frowned when they were introduced, she wouldn’t be where she was now.

Marla didn’t believe in chance encounters, but to her friends she seemed to have had an enormous stroke of luck when, just a few days ago, she stopped at the notice board on the way to O’Connor’s bathrooms. It was a week night and Marla and her friends had decided to be supportive and play fan-club to Rena’s brother’s band. So they sat in the middle of an Irish pub Marla would have otherwise never entered, drinking Guinness and lager, and listening to Operation 8, who were pretty good with their guitars. Half way through a song Marla had a pressing urge to use the ladies’. She didn’t want to get stuck in line when the band had a break, so she left the table and manoeuvred her way past enthusiastic fans and mildly impressed onlookers.

The bathrooms were tidy, a little old-fashioned maybe, but much cleaner than some others she’d seen. Marla always said you knew a place by its lavatories. No matter how chic the exterior, all the secrets came out in the loo. On her way back from the WC she saw the notice board, filled with advertisements and flyers in a conglomeration of colours and fonts. She was looking for an apartment after all, so why not check. There were many offers, some ridiculous, others intriguing, and a couple worth serious thought. She was reading one of the flyers when Sunny came sauntering down the passageway, holding a tray in one hand, her black apron slung as low as her jeans, showing off her flat, navel-pierced middle.

‘Lookin’ for a place?’ was the first thing she said, which was odd, but Sunny had proved to be such an open, chatty young thing, that Marla decided to smile and answer yes, she was. ‘Upped the rent, huh?’ Sunny hedged but Marla shook her head. She’d just moved to town, she said, and needed a place to stay. ‘D’you work here?’ was the next question and Marla affirmed she had just gotten a job at one of the institutes on the hill. Marla felt she should make it clear that she was not, in fact, desperate. Sunny pouted prettily, looking impressed. Then she asked how much she’d be willing to pay for a place. It was a bit forthright, yes, but Marla gave her an approximate all the same. Sunny’s answer to that was, ‘Sounds good to me,’ adding, ‘Good luck, then,’ before walking on. Marla was puzzled but didn’t think much about it until it was her turn to buy the next round. The band was playing something less confused and Marla didn’t have to shout to catch the bartender’s attention.

The bartender. Owner actually, Rena’s brother was in awe of him due to that fact, but still. Well, what to say? He was the kind of man who got female attention whether he wanted it or not. Jet-black hair, ruffled yes, but very fitting, hazel eyes that made you look again, even if you didn’t want to, and a very catching smile. He simply looked good, there was no way around it, though Marla felt it was a pity life should so resemble a cliché. Even so, bartender or no, it couldn’t be helped: the man looked good. He kept on combing his hand through his hair to keep back the large sable curls – sable? Really? Mills & Boon should have been out of her system by now, but his hair really was very black. His shirt was rather faded too, and his jeans were well-worn, but it all fitted the pub and his laid-back style. And anyway, you couldn’t look all nice and tidy when spending half the night behind a counter with calls for pints, whiskey, shots and lager, repeatedly dipping used glasses into vats of soap-water and clear, wiping them only to use them again. And all this with that relaxed, reserved air that pressed all female flirt-buttons, especially when he was so focused on wiping the glasses. He looked as if he really couldn’t care less about what was happening beyond the counter and that was to all female eyes equal to an invitation to be talked to, flirted at, and in every case given their fullest attention.

Marla waited while one of the many girls smiled and batted her eyes, her pert bust pressed conveniently against her arms folded neatly on the counter, showing off an ideal cleavage. She was pretty and if the bartender noticed, he never showed it, gave her two pints with a nod and half a smile, looking neither disappointed nor irritated when Sunny turned up to take the money. He just turned back to wiping stray glasses still wet from the last dishwasher round. Marla gave a sign then, but before he came to her side of the counter, Sunny held him back with an affectionate hand and whispered something. His reaction was surprise and a scrutinizing look in Marla’s direction, followed by a nod and a relaxed walk over to where she was. He said nothing more than, ‘Yeah?’ with hardly a frown over disinterested eyes. Marla ignored everything she was seeing and ordered the Guinness the girls wanted. Standing at the taps, both he and Sunny filled the glasses, Sunny still talking confidentially, repeatedly looking at Marla, while the bartender nodded every now and then, watching the black fill the glasses. It was Sunny who brought her the drinks, but before Marla paid she said, ‘You know, we have a place upstairs.’

‘Sorry?’
‘A place,’ Sunny smiled. ‘You were looking for one, right? We have one. If you want, Caden could show you. It’ll be a bit more than you expected, but it’s really nice. I’m sure you’ll like it.’

Perplexed, Marla looked to said Ca-something, she didn’t catch what. He was taking another order from a young, highly enthusiastic Operation 8 fan who was overflowing with smiles. She asked, ‘You live here?’ and Sunny nodded ,‘Yeah, upstairs. There’s a loft that’s empty, and it has a separate bathroom with a shower. I’m serious, you should go and see. I’m sure you’ll like it.’ ‘I can come tomorrow,’ Marla said, not wanting to intrude on an obviously busy night. ‘Why?’ Sunny frowned sweetly. ‘You’re here, Caden’s here, it’d just take a few minutes. And it’s not like it’ll take you an hour to see if you like it, right?’ Sunny smiled happily, adding Marla shouldn’t worry, she’d take the pints to her friends while she went up.

This left Marla at the counter feeling awkward. She waited until Ca… well, whatever-his-name-was had finished with his next order before approaching him. Before she could say anything though, he wiped his hands and said, ‘I’ll be right out,’ without much ado. His ease was no show then. He really couldn’t care less about what was happening beyond his personal space. It was intriguing, and maybe a little annoying, but then again why be surprised. He was probably ogled at 24/7, really she should stop staring.

The bartender whose name she really did not catch – Kalen? No. – walked around the counter and motioned her to follow him to the back. Marla did just that after a quick glance to her friends who were unanimously grinning. It was a short walk through a narrow passage to a broader hallway and then up a flight of stairs to a front door. Marla tried not to register firm shoulders, well-formed arms, and considering how he walked in his jeans the rest was rather perfect as well. His trainers were well-worn, but with how life behind bar-counters could be, that was probably a good sign. He wasn’t much into outer appearances, but was it just a ruse or did he really not care? And why exactly was she thinking about this? The man could wear what he wanted, it was none of her business.

He opened the door without a word and they walked in, she really would have to find out his name. Kay-something, she was sure of that. He motioned to Marla’s immediate left, there was another flight of stairs. Marla proceeded. After eight stairs there was a corner, another four led to a small landing with a closed door. Stopping Marla heard, ‘It’s open,’ and pushed the door open. She didn’t find the light switch right away. The sensation was immediate, a sudden touch, not light, not gentle, an entanglement of fingers. His hands were warm and damp from the water. Marla walked further in, crossing her arms, and the lights were on. She fell in love with the room. There were skylights like stars in the ceiling, shedding warm, welcoming light onto a polished-wood floor. The slanted roof was spanned with thick old-wood beams and there were three windows, black now that it was night outside. Marla looked around and could immediately see herself in the open space. She smiled, pleased when she opened the door to the small bathroom. The tiles were tiny and of a fresh, minty blue until the rough stone started above shoulder level, lending the bathroom something unique without being too much. The walk-in shower had a glass door and the rest of the furnishings were smooth, white porcelain. The entire loft had an even balance between old and new and was in itself an invitation to come and stay. Walking to the centre of the room, Marla saw – really, what was his name? – lean against the door-frame, arms crossed, waiting. For a moment Marla couldn’t help wonder. He had to know how that looked. It was a bit too right, somehow.

‘It’s perfect,’ Marla smiled.
‘It’s not much of a view.’

Marla stepped to one of the windows and looked out. So far she could identify rooftops, chimneys, street lights and a lot of sky.

‘How much sun is there?’
‘This side is south, south west’

All Marla heard was sun and sunsets.

‘You work on the hill?’ she heard next.
‘Yes. I’m part of a research programme, but the pay’s steady, so – ’
‘Any pets?’ he interrupted, clearly not interested in her payroll.
‘No. Ahm – you?’
‘A cat. It’s somewhere, I don’t know where. You ok with that?’
‘Yes, I love cats,’ Marla smiled.

He just nodded as if she’d ticked the right box.

‘Sunny told you the expenses?’
‘She said it might be a bit more than I intended,’ Marla answered.

He stepped further into the room, hands at his hips, looking around as if checking if everything was in its right place. Really. Where was a camera when she needed one? Then he explained the rent and Marla felt it was rather affordable considering the newness and the space. She said, ‘I’ll take it then. I mean, if that’s all right -’ His answer was a simple, ‘Ok.’ Marla waited for more, but that was it. He walked to the door, stopped as if remembering something and asked when she planned to move in.

‘As soon as possible. If that’s ok.’
‘Yeah, that’s fine.’

And with that he walked down the stairs, leaving Marla in empty space. She clearly was no more to him than a possible lodger. And that was just right and well. Marla followed him out of the room, really what was his name? He was waiting in the hallway, and seemed eager to get back to the pub again.

‘The kitchen’s down here, and this is the living room,’ he said, switching on the lights to the respective rooms. Marla walked in and saw an open comfortable-looking living space. window 1 There was a fireplace and ample entertainment equipment, women’s magazine’s littering the coffee table. There was a room adjoining, larger than Marla expected, with a desk, computer and shelves that made it look like an office. Marla liked what she saw, there was nothing over-done or overly tidy about it. It was the kind of living room where people actually lived, which said a lot about its inhabitants. The kitchen was a surprise though. It was fairly large, dominated by a round, scrubbed-wood table with six chairs, the type of table where a family could meet and eat and talk about the day. The counter spanned the entirety of one wall, ending in a voluptuous fridge. A broad sideboard ruled the opposite wall, two sashed windows inhabited the connecting side. Marla had to smile at the lamp, a glass-drop chandelier she couldn’t help ask about. ‘It came with the house,’ was all he said, standing in the doorway again, while Marla looked around. Really, that shirt hid nothing at all. ‘The main bathroom’s just down here,’ he said, turning back into the hallway, and ‘that one’s Sunny’s and that’s mine.’

So they had separate rooms. Puzzling, but every couple had their oddities. Aware it was maybe a little too nosey to look further, Marla just nodded after peeking into the spacious, white-tiled bathroom with the blue wallpaper. What followed was an awkward moment, two strangers standing in a hallway, Marla feeling a little overdressed standing across Whatever-his-name-was really, if she didn’t find out soon, it would get embarrassing. He looked comfortable and Marla felt oddly stiff. She hadn’t really known where they were going, Theresa liked making a mystery out of everything, and so Marla wore something that would fit anywhere, though she never expected an Irish pub. She would have preferred jeans to this, but there it was, she was in a skirt and heels, feeling a little fidgety. She hadn’t forgotten her friends’ grins.

‘Is there anything else you might want to know?’ she finally asked.
‘What I’d want to know?’ he frowned.
‘About me. What I work, where I’ve been. Usually people like to know who they’ll have in their house,’ Marla smiled, trying to sound amusing.

There was another awkward silence. He looked as if Marla had said something genuinely strange. Then he said, ‘I should get back,’ turned, opened the front door and walked out. Ok. Marla didn’t know what else to do than follow him out. She told herself he wasn’t being capricious, he simply couldn’t care less. He was probably used to being universally stared at, and Marla hadn’t been all too careful had she? It was probably a small miracle he agreed to have her as a tenant. They reached the lower landing by then and Marla realised they hadn’t really talked about contracts or anything else.

‘Ahm, about tomorrow –’
‘Yes,’ he said, walking on.
‘Well, the paperwork and everything, I just thought –’

He stopped abruptly and turned.

‘Four o’clock?’
‘Ahm – ok.’

He nodded curtly, opened a door she hadn’t seen and suddenly they were back in the pub. He disappeared behind the counter and Marla found she was at her friends’ table seconds later, four pairs of eyes looking right back at her.

‘And where have you been?’ Theresa asked, raising an eyebrow.

Marla curtailed the urge to say, ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’ Instead she sat down and said a sober, ‘Inspecting.’

‘What do you mean, inspecting?’ Rena asked. She was just as bad as Theresa.
‘They have a room here,’ Marla said evenly. ‘It’s a whole loft with its own bathroom. We’ll share the kitchen.’
‘What? You mean – you’ll be living with that?’ Val grinned, pointing over her shoulder. Val always did that.
‘Is that why you left?’ Beth asked right after. She actually looked envious.
‘Yeah, he lives with the blonde waitress,’ Marla explained.

All four looked heartily disappointed. Beth maybe a little less so.

‘As it looks like they don’t mind having me,’ Marla continued. ‘I just saw the place, it’s really nice.’
‘And when can you move in?’ Theresa asked, sipping her drink like that.
‘We’ll meet again tomorrow for all the formalities.’

All four passed knowing looks between each other.

‘What?’ Marla asked.
‘He’s, well, y’know…’ Val grinned again.
‘You know what.’
‘Kind o’ hot?’ Rena grinned.
‘Sizzling.’ Val, of course.
‘Tssssssssss,’ Rena added, pressing her finger on her skin, making the others grin even more.
‘Pity you don’t share the same bathroom,’ Theresa grinned and they chuckled all over again.

Marla rolled her eyes and drank her Guinness. Yes, he was good-looking, she did have eyes in her head, but there was Sunny. She had that flawless blonde beauty that even Rena couldn’t compete with, though Rena added to her own with her really relaxed style. Sunny and She-really-should-find-out-his-name lived together and considering their familiarity, they knew each other long and well, which made this whole conversation rather pointless.

The band started playing again, making any type of conversation impossible, saving Marla from more teasing, though they always started again the moment the band took another break. Marla let it pass, returning with Theresa to Theresa’s flat without commenting on her suggestions of all possible possibilities, all the things that could be done, ‘Seriously Marla, admit it. Come on! Come ooooon! Admit it! Admit it!’ Theresa always got very wink-wink nudge-nudge when she was drunk. She wouldn’t stop through their whole cab-drive back to her place, until Marla finally gave up after they paid and got out. She sighed,

‘Admit what?’
‘You know what! Marla! Admit it!’

‘No I do not know what, Theresa,’ she said, tugging Theresa into the right direction. If Theresa was drunk enough she started trying to sleep on the sidewalk, complaining in tears that Marla was such a bitch for not letting her get some fucking rest for five fucking minutes.

‘Then I’ll tell you,’ Theresa insisted. ‘You wanna hear?’
‘Actually, I don’t.’
‘But you’ve gotta. Wait for it – here it comes.’
‘Ok.’
‘That man. Marla. That man’s fuckin’ hot. You hear me? You hear me? He’s! mother! fucking! hot!’

Theresa actually shouted that into the street, and the neighbourhood she lived in did not know much about rap-songs. They shouldn’t have done those Tequila shots, but Theresa was giggling anyway, which meant Marla could coax her into the building, the elevator and all the way to her flat. Thankfully Theresa was busy complaining about how drunk she was and how awful she felt and how she would kill Rena for ordering the Tequila shots, which ended with Marla helping Theresa undress and get into bed. Not that that stopped Theresa. Next morning she started all over again. She still couldn’t shut up about ‘that eye-candy that you’ve got downstairs.’

Anyway. Now, two days later, Marla was in her new living space, and standing as she was, surrounded by her things, Marla sighed and smiled. She felt at peace here. After the past few years that was a great relief. They’d all managed to end up in the same city, Theresa and Rena naturally, Val via detours and Beth by design, and now Marla had returned, last of the five, and they could continue where they had left off four years ago. Marla started her electric kettle and prepared her tea, looking out of one of her windows to the rooftops. It was the kind of view where you expected Mary Poppins to come sailing through, the sky grey and damp, and everything warm and cosy inside. It would be good here, she would be able to think here, relax, really sleep, simply be, and in effect that was all Marla really wanted.