The Lonely Fajita

by Abigail Mann

  I hop to my feet and lean over Suki’s arm, turning the contactless card machine over in my hands. ‘This is amazing – honestly – it’s such a good idea. But there’s no one here to use it,’ I say, gesturing to the green. ‘The only reason I haven’t called it off is because all this lot got excited about a tombola.’ I look over at Derek, who is using a frame to walk across the grass, barely moving an inch on each carefully placed step. ‘I don’t want to let them down. And this is hardly a business, is it? It’s a fair. An unusual fair, but it’s still a fair. Look at all the bunting.’

  Suki nods at the plastic triangle flags as they slap against the wall in the wind. ‘Babe, we’ll talk about that last thing in a bit, but what do you mean, “There’s no one here”? Are you keeping them all outside to build suspense, or something?’

  ‘Outside? Outside where?’

  ‘On the road, you pillock! Nigel has been lining everyone up. I’ve already gone down the queue twice with this thing,’ she says, holding up the payment device. ‘We’ve got … £276 already.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Suki throws her head back in a laugh and flicks the side of her nose. ‘Trust!’ She pulls a miniature tablet out from her satchel. I grab her wrist to pull the screen close.

  ‘Someone donated thirty quid? Why?’ I say, marching towards the archway. Suki catches up in a half-run and flops an arm across my shoulders. ‘This is not a thirty-bloody-pound event. Have you seen Gwen’s floral watercolour stand? She’s got Parkinson’s! This is bad, Suki. This is—’ I stop at the threshold of Evergreen Village and my voice bounces back down my throat.

  ‘See?’ says Suki, giving a jaunty two-fingered salute to a group of people at the front that I recognise from the canteen at The Butcher Works.

  ‘They can’t all be here for this.’

  ‘They are,’ she calls over her shoulder as she jogs down the queue. ‘I’m going to catch people at the back.’

  Against a fence almost swallowed by a thick, sprawling holly bush stand clusters of people tucked into the shade as far as the spiky leaves allow. I step backwards off the path and crane my neck to look round the corner and jump out of the way as a taxi comes to a stop behind me. The engine grumbles as the driver hops around the cab and when he pulls open the passenger door, a white, shaky hand places a walking stick down on the tarmac, followed by a younger woman wearing a boldly patterned head-scarf. They hook arms and step slowly towards the back of the line.

  ‘Miss Elissa,’ says Nigel, flicking open the top button of his waistcoat and blotting his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘I have been asked by one of our visitors how much longer they are to be waiting. Do you have any information for me to pass on?’ I turn to look at Nigel and flick a bit of gravel out of my sandal.

  ‘Um, wait a minute,’ I say. I jog back under the archway with my arm held down over my boobs to stop them from bouncing quite so aggressively.

  ‘You all right, love?’ says Annie, putting her hand on my forearm. ‘You look a bit odd.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. I’m definitely fine. Look, can you do a whizz round to see if people are ready? And can you make sure Kenneth has his trousers on?’

  ‘Elissa. Everyone is ready. Everything is fine, and what’s not fine isn’t worth worrying about. Now, what’s the bloody problem?’

  ‘I’ll let them in now, yes?’ calls Nigel from the archway.

  ‘Yes!’ shouts Annie before I have a chance to respond. ‘Send them in!’ She turns to me, her eyes bright. In the full sunshine, only the faintest tinge of yellow is left around her eye socket, but it might be that I only noticed because I know it’s there, hidden beneath the ultra-thick concealer I lent her. ‘I’ll check Kenneth doesn’t have his wanger out,’ she says with faux exasperation.

  ***

  Within half an hour everyone outside has made their way into the village and I’ve twice had to use the garden wall as a sort of observation deck so I can stand, one hand across my eyebrows, to check that there aren’t any bottlenecks round the ‘Silver Surfers’ station. I see the top of Suki’s shaved head as she leans over to point at an iPad, and from his flowerbeds George instructs a group of twenty-somethings wearing corduroy and chequered shirts in the art of deadheading roses. Margaret stands sentinel-like nearby, ready to bark at the first person to drop a clod of mulch on the wrong side of the border. She’s already taken a pair of gardening gloves away from someone who ‘wasn’t taking it seriously’, but luckily the victim of her reprimand thought she was joking and they’re now working on the cyclamens, unfazed and elbow-deep in muck. Delighted at the flurry of new people and fuelled by fistfuls of cake, Jackson and Codey periodically run between stands, smears of paint on their cheeks, and fingers sticky with icing and sap from swinging from the apple tree in Annie’s front garden.

  ‘Have you seen Mum?’ asks Richard, pausing on the last word as though the taste of it is unusual. ‘I’m nearly out of raffle tickets.’

  ‘Oh, yep, sure,’ I say, hopping down from the wall. I wiggle through the crowd, shoulder first, stick my head underneath a flap of the marquee, and root through a cardboard box that we’d found in the back of the porter’s shed, so old its sides were sagging. I pull out a handful of half-used raffle books and rub them on my skirt to brush off the powder of disintegrating sugar paper.

  ‘Boys, boys! What did I say about running? No, it’s not his fault. Come here! Would you give them to Mum, Elissa? I’ve just got to sort these two out.’ Richard turns and marches towards the younger of the two boys currently howling on the grass, having run so hard into the trampoline-like stomach of a rotund elderly man that he’d bounced back down to the ground with surprising velocity. I walk round the side of the marquee and scan the purple-rinsed ladies speckling the crowd, leaning backwards to avoid being in the shot of a young man wielding an old analogue camera. Next to him, a pensioner reaches up to twist a number of dials on the lens and when he steps aside to let me pass, that’s when I see her.

  Annie stands just inside the archway, her hands held delicately at heart level. In front of her is a man, and on the floor between them, a fruit basket. I stop and look from one to the other in quick succession, ignoring the wind as it pulls my hair out from the bun I’d twisted and pinned in place. The man turns a straw trilby hat around in his hands and looks at Annie with a smile that dimples his cheeks, despite the deep-set wrinkles around his mouth. I’m barely ten feet away, but if I broke into a Highland jig – naked – in the narrow gap between them, I don’t think they’d notice. He starts to speak, and despite the melodic hum of voices from behind me I catch a ripple of conversation. His voice has the same lilt of Jamaican that I’d heard a few days before. I flush like I’ve seen a celebrity. This is him. This is ‘H’.

  ‘Your accent hasn’t changed,’ says Annie.

  ‘Did you think it would have?’

  ‘It’s been long enough.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’

  Annie swallows and fiddles with the ring looped through a chunky gold chain that I’ve only ever seen tucked into her blouse. As I take a step backwards to slip away, Codey runs past me and clips my thigh with a pointy elbow, coming to an abrupt stop as he flings his arms around his grandma’s knees. Annie emits a soft ‘Oh!’ and pats his head. Codey looks up at the man through a fringe that’s plastered to his forehead with sweat. Their bubble popped by the appearance of an overstimulated child, Annie and ‘H’ break their gaze and I hold my breath.

  ‘Who are you?’ says Codey, exercising a frankness that I’ve always found quite disturbing in young children.

  Annie looks back at ‘H’ and her brow softens. ‘Well, um—’

  ‘Harold. You must be Harold Higgins, right?’ says Richard, walking to stand beside Annie with crossed arms. He glances down at Codey, who catches sight of his brother head-butting a balloon and thus distracted, immediately runs off to join him.

  ‘I am,’ Harold replies, placing the hat back on his head, ‘I’m—’

 
; ‘I know who you are.’ Richard doesn’t move. Instead, he restlessly taps his arm with his little finger and drops his gaze to the floor. ‘Yeah, I know who you are. I think,’ he says, his voice softening. ‘If this is the same … Mum?’ Richard looks at Annie for reassurance.

  ‘It is,’ she replies in a voice so full of hope and strain that my heart aches listening to it. No one speaks. It’s like the sound of chatter, clinking plates, and the warbled PA system has been turned up, pushing in on the space around us. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, I feel like Davina McCall is gonna jump out from t’ bush with a camera and start playing soppy piano music. This is all very new, Richard. I promise you that everything I said the other day were true.’ I glance sideways at Harold, who looks decidedly upset.

  ‘You kept your word,’ Harold says, eyes on the ground.

  ‘About not seeing you? After it all came out? Course I did.’

  Annie turns to Richard and briefly squeezes his arm, as though still unfamiliar with the intimacy between them. ‘I’m not bringing it up to make you feel bad, love, but when I got blamed for the family falling apart like I did, I needed someone else to blame. I didn’t feel like I deserved to be happy – with Harold – when I’d lost everything else.’

  Richard shifts and runs a hand through his thinning hair. ‘Mum, I—’

  ‘Don’t, love. I’m not asking for an apology.’ Harold looks at Annie searchingly, the lines deep set around his mouth. ‘I didn’t offer you an explanation, Harold. But I never offered anyone an explanation.’

  Harold stands taller, his hands wide, imploring. ‘I tried to come back.’ He hesitates. ‘You should have let me.’

  ‘I couldn’t. You reminded me of what I lost. Or what I thought I’d lost.’ Annie roughly dabs her eyes with the back of her hand and tuts. ‘Oh, look at me.’ She takes a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Look at you,’ says Annie, glancing from Richard to Harold, her voice strained.

  Feeling like I’ve ruined any chance of slipping away unnoticed, I turn to my right and squint at a hawthorn tree with my hands on my hips, like the appreciation of flowers in bloom was the only reason I walked over.

  ‘This must be the week for catching up with conversations that should have happened a long time ago,’ says Richard, looping his thumbs through his belt loops. I can’t wait any longer, I’ve got to jump in.

  ‘Ah, hi again!’ I say, taking a slow step into the periphery of the circle, immediately feeling a prickling heat climbing up my neck. ‘The fruit basket, great! Thanks so much for bringing it up!’

  ‘Oh, sure, sure,’ says Harold, pulling up his trousers at the knee as he bends down to pick up the basket, which is overladen with fruit and topped with the biggest pineapple I’ve ever seen. He hands it over to me and I smile at Annie so broadly I can feel at least three chins pushing into my neck in a way that I’m sure looks, and most definitely feels, horribly uncomfortable. Annie narrows her eyes and looks between me and Harold.

  ‘Ahh, I like the googly eyes!’ I say, noticing a pair of lopsided eyeballs stuck haphazardly onto the pineapple, giving it the look of a neurotic fruit-based serial killer.

  ‘My grandson did it. I tried to get them off, but the fella’s grown on me, you know?’ Harold says. Annie laughs and covers her mouth.

  ‘That was mine who was just here,’ says Annie, patting her thigh. ‘And this is Richard, my son, although I’m sure you’ve gathered that.’ Richard holds out a hand and Harold shakes it with both of his.

  ‘It’s a pleasure, son, a pleasure,’ says Harold, and adds, ‘I’ve left mine at the shop – my son. He’s taken over as I inch towards the armchair. Says I get in the way now, but I’ve got to keep an eye on things. Old habits.’

  I pat my pockets and glance over at the raffle stall, where the crates of champagne have drawn a small crowd of people, most of them around my age. Who can blame them, really? Between prosecco and discounted bottles of Shlöer, it’s a type of fizz I’ve only ever seen at the posh wedding of a cousin who got married in a chateau.

  ‘Oh, God, I’ve got to get the raffle tickets back to Peggy,’ I say, moving the fruit basket onto my hip. ‘Look, I’ve got everything covered, so if you want to duck out for a bit and catch up, or whatever, that’s cool.’

  Annie hooks her little finger round Harold’s and takes a half step towards him. ‘We’re all right, love. We’ve got plenty of time,’ she says. ‘What do you say, H? That raffle won’t win itself.’

  ***

  The burnt corners of a flapjack tray bake are all we have left by the time visitors start drifting off. From the wall, I almost have an uninterrupted view to the other side of the green, which is incidentally how I found Gwen’s husband smiling stupidly at a blackbird, using an empty bottle of champagne as a prop for his foot, badly swollen with arthritis. Creepy Craig may have had a point. I definitely wouldn’t have considered the inebriation of geriatrics on a risk assessment form. After I’ve propped him in the shade with a cup of tea and a stack of rich tea biscuits, I take a slow walk around the green and share tired smiles with Evergreen residents and the last group of volunteers in the rose garden, whom Margaret won’t allow to leave until she’s accounted for a missing pair of secateurs.

  Maggie chats to the only remaining Girl Guide and nearby Suki reclines in a plastic garden chair with her ankles propped on the corner of a table. When she spots me, Maggie breaks into a smile and leaves the girl with a bin bag and instructions to collect the paper cups.

  ‘There you are!’ says Maggie, blowing hair out of her face. Six hours wrangling teenage girls and she still has a composure that ageing reality stars spend thousands on Botox trying to achieve. Unbelievable.

  ‘Nice girl,’ she says, motioning to the Girl Guide with a jerk of her head, ‘but a bit … keen. I’ve told her she can go home, but she’s not taking the hint. Did you see Grandma earlier?’ she says, resuming speech at normal volume.

  ‘No,’ I say, silently thankful. When I was first introduced to Maggie’s grandma, she told me that my fringe made my eyes look bulbous, so needless to say I’m slightly terrified of her.

  ‘You all right down there, Sook?’ I say to Suki, who hasn’t looked up from her iPad. The corner of her mouth twitches and she flips the screen towards her so it lands on her stomach.

  ‘Yep. I’m good. Great.’ She drums her fingers on the tablet case and rolls her tongue around the inside of her cheek.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she replies, smacking her lips. She lifts her chin and raises an eyebrow as her glance shifts over my shoulder.

  ‘Hi.’

  I turn around and when I see who it is, I become acutely conscious of the makeup I’ve rubbed off my chin and the baby hairs that have frizzed up like a halo around my temples. Theo, who looks as painfully cool as he did when I last saw him in The Butcher Works, stands in a blue linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He pushes sunglasses on top of his head and blinks in the sunshine. Before I can wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, he reaches out to shake my hand and I take it, unable to say anything because my brain is desperately trying to think of a good opening line, one that’s witty and confident and alluring.

  ‘Sorry I’m so sweaty!’ Nailed it, Elissa. He laughs and swings his arms, tapping his fingers together behind his back.

  ‘Me too, me too. Hot today, isn’t it?’ Ah, good old British weather talk. This is a conversational starting point I can work with.

  ‘Yeah, we’ve been really lucky, haven’t we?’ I say, turning to include Maggie and Suki in the conversation. They nod and parrot agreement. Suki hops up from her chair and looks at Theo with her head to one side. She’s got a certain expression that’s mostly reserved for when she’s shagging someone new or has taken an unsanctioned two-hour lunch break.

  I try and think of something to say that isn’t about sweat.

  ‘Just dropping by, Theo?’ says Suki, the picture of innocence.

  ‘No, not exactly. I’ve got to head back to the City sharpish, bu
t I just wanted to propose something.’ Marriage. Please let it be marriage, you bloody beautiful specimen of a man.

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’ I reply. In my head, I thought it would sound coy, but the effect is more underpaid children’s television presenter.

  ‘It’s a business proposal,’ he says, as though he’s read my mind.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I heard about Lovr going under. I know you guys were working on something really great over there before the company collapsed. But it clearly wasn’t the idea that was the problem, right? I mean, I’ve been following your social media feeds all day. This event … it’s been huge.’ Social media feeds? I wasn’t aware we had any, other than the event page Annie took charge of, but that was last week. I glance at Suki. She’s smiling so broadly her lip piercing is stretched wide.

  ‘Yeah, it’s been amazing.’ I add, ‘Although it wouldn’t surprise me if the people who signed up to the rose garden are regretting their decision now. Margaret’s essentially used them as unpaid labour.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Theo laughs and looks from me to Maggie and Suki, clearly hoping they’ll toddle off somewhere. Maggie tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and Suki taps a Doc-Martened foot on the grass. Unperturbed, Theo continues. ‘Elissa, we’re keen to join you. These crowd-sourced community events have got serious potential for expansion across the city, further than that, even. We’ve been working with a Danish grassroots project for a about a year now, and with their experience and our capital, there’s talk of a partnership. With you.’

  ‘What does that … mean exactly?’

  ‘Well, you’ve had the idea, you’ve engaged with the community, and for a first event, well, you’ve done better than a lot of stuff we’ve launched, so we’d be looking to acquire. You’d be kept on board, in a consulting role.’ At this point, my limited understanding of business is no longer helpful, which is unsurprising considering all my knowledge has come from reruns of The Apprentice featuring Alan Sugar’s tired puns about profit and loss.