And yet. Sometimes, I wasn’t even sure who her best friends were – the same girls I used to hear about playing with their Barbie dolls or sat round screaming over the hundredth round of Hungry Hippos? Or a different crowd? Did she spend too much time with boys? With people who weren’t a good influence? I’d try to grill her during those precious hours in the weekend together, but she’d never offer up as much as she used to. When she was little, I would know every tiny thought that would enter her head: she would blurt it, embarrassingly and truthfully. Of course I missed that, instead hearing those monosyllabic replies, her eyes rolling. And if we were getting on, I wouldn’t want to probe or push, just thankful I had my wonderful girl with me: her wit, energy, zest for life making me feel excited about the future, as if anything was possible.
How did a mother balance along this fine line? There she would be in the hallway, telephone cord wrapped around her fingers, having leapt on it on the first ring. The mumbled conversations, arrangements scribbled in ink on the backs of her hands. I’d try to peek, try to find out. Sometimes she’d even tell me. I wouldn’t push, guilt stopping me from being stricter. Would any of it have happened if I’d been stricter?
Twenty-Seven
It was another day before she noticed the single sheet of folded paper that must have been pushed through her letterbox. She picked it up without a thought, assuming it would be a leaflet, a flyer – junk. Her name was written in bold on one side and with a frown, she unfolded the sheet.
‘Mrs. Your art stuff got taken. I’m sorry I swore at you. Troy.’
She read the words, then re-read the words over and over. The artist’s set, someone had taken it from him. Maria thought back to the day at the skatepark, and the angry curl of his fists. She had misread it, assuming he was angry at her, bothered by her, when in fact he had been ashamed. Someone had stolen the present she had given him, the precious gift he had clutched to his chest. Her heart ached now that she replayed his expression, the defensive scuff along the ground, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.
God, it didn’t matter. She could buy him another one, it was replaceable.
A noise outside made her open the door, hoping perhaps to see him standing there, too embarrassed to knock. When had he delivered the note? Had she walked past it this morning? Yesterday? She had lost track of the hours, the days, had simply been existing in these four walls, curtains drawn, windows closed, time blurring.
It was the woman from the apartment on the floor below, the sound of a car seat banging against her door as she rooted for keys in her bag, her child tugging at the hem of her sweatshirt.
‘Mum, Mum, Mummmmmeeeeee, Mummummum.’
The neighbour looked up at the sound of Maria’s door opening and caught her eye, managing a wary smile.
‘I’m sorry, he’s hungr—’
Maria said it before she’d really thought through the words, ‘Do you want some help?’ She found herself moving out of her apartment, padding down the small staircase between them in her slippers and dressing gown, not even embarrassed to be dressed in that way. ‘Let me,’ she said, holding out a hand for the car seat.
‘Oh, that’s alright, you’re OK…’
Maria recognised the dismissive gesture, the false note of cheer. She had been like that, she had refused offers of help, outings, opportunities.
‘Well, let me get the door for you at least,’ she said, gently pushing open the door and allowing the woman to scrabble inside.
The baby in the car seat, alerted perhaps by being put down, started to screech and the harried woman wiped a hand through her unkempt auburn hair, the roots needing doing. She was pretty, Maria thought: smooth skin, a beauty spot just above her lip.
‘Mummmmmmeeee, raisin biscuit, raisin biscuit!’
‘In a minute, let me just—’
‘Egg on toast. Raisin biscuit. BANANA MILKSHAKE!’
‘Yes, OK, I’ve just got to…’
The woman seemed to dither between removing her little boy’s jacket, plugging a dummy in her baby’s mouth and placing her own handbag down. Then she seemed concerned with ensuring Maria was alright, ‘Thanks for the help. And I’m sorry about the noise, he’s been a bit off today… he’s normally fine.’
The baby started screaming again, dummy ejected, and the toddler began chanting, ‘MILKSHAKE, MILKSHAKE!’
‘Look, why don’t I make the young man his lunch while you take care of the baby?’ Maria found herself saying, almost an out-of-body experience.
‘No, no, we’ll be fine. I just need to…’
Maria could barely make her out as the baby’s wail intensified.
‘…Sorry…’ The woman flushed as she scooped the baby out of the car seat, her sobs gradually soothed as the woman made light circles on her back. ‘…Sorry, right, I can hardly think.’
‘Mummmmmmmeeeeeeeeeee.’
‘Honestly, I could do with the company,’ Maria said, hoping the woman wouldn’t take offence at her offer. She suddenly felt a desperate urge to help, to do something for this frantic woman who seemed distracted and exhausted and alone.
‘Want eggs on toast,’ the toddler repeated.
‘Oh god, I don’t have any eggs,’ the woman said, almost on the verge of tears.
‘EGG ON TOAST, THANK YOU MUMMY, THANK YOU, PLEASE.’
‘I’ve got some eggs in the apartment,’ Maria said, praying that she was right, ready to pad back up the stairs. ‘Let me get them.’ Here was something she could do now, right now, to help. So what if she was still wearing her dressing gown, hadn’t looked at her reflection in days? She had a renewed purpose.
‘EGGGGSSSSS.’
Thank goodness for the four eggs she found in a carton on the side, about the only food she had left. Her own stomach rumbled as she returned.
‘If you’ve got bread, I can make us some eggs on toast. I need to eat something too so it’s no trouble.’
The woman only lingered for a second, jiggling the baby in her arms, her toddler tugging at her, still repeating, ‘EGG ON TOAST, EGG ON TOAST’ on loop. ‘If you’re sure, I don’t want to bo—’
‘I’m absolutely certain, I’m starving. Right, young man, do you want to help me whisk the eggs?’ She was talking, acting, as if something else, someone else, had taken over her.
Amazingly, the toddler fell silent and after a momentary look at his tired mother he was clearly too fascinated to refuse the offer.
‘And what’s your name?’ Maria asked him as he sidled over.
‘That’s Owen,’ his mother answered.
‘Come on, Owen, let’s go and make eggs.’ Maria ushered him into the kitchen and helped him up on the chair, swiftly navigating around the space, which was almost an exact replica of her own kitchenette.
She found the items she needed and soon she was showing Owen how to whisk eggs. There was a slightly tense exchange when he insisted on holding the remaining two eggs and had almost dropped them, but Maria had wrestled them back from him by showing him how the toaster worked and the crisis had been averted. The woman had settled on a bar stool at the counter, her baby drinking from a bottle.
‘This is really kind,’ the woman said, still sounding a little embarrassed.
‘Honestly, you’re doing me a favour, anything to avoid putting on the laundry and I don’t have any fresh bread so this suits me very well. I’m Maria, by the way,’ she added with a small smile at the woman.
‘Cara,’ said the woman, looking up from staring at her baby.
‘No, I’m Owen,’ the toddler said, glaring at his mother, making Maria laugh.
Maria set a plastic plate on the table and filled a plastic beaker with water. ‘Does he want the eggs chopped up?’
Cara looked momentarily horrified. ‘No, no, he likes to do that.’
Maria couldn’t help laughing at her expression. ‘I remember that well. My girl used to hate it when I took the yogurt lids off, she threw so many on the floor.’ Maria slid a plate across the counter.
‘I’m sorry if they’re not any good, I didn’t time them.’
But Cara just looked delighted that someone else had cooked something for her.
Then they sat together and ate their eggs. Maria wasn’t used to company anymore, didn’t fill the silence with questions. It didn’t feel awkward though, Owen providing some commentary to fill in the gaps and Maria simply enjoying being in the presence of someone else, and someone who she thought might actually feel the same.
The baby started straining and squawking as Cara jiggled him on one knee, eating her eggs with one hand.
‘How about you let me tidy up here while you go and play with this one?’
Cara finished the last mouthful. ‘Oh no, honestly, I couldn’t…’ she said, swallowing quickly, hand over her mouth.
‘Of course you can,’ Maria scoffed, ‘it would be my pleasure.’ She wouldn’t let Cara refuse.
Maria watched as Cara fussed over Owen, wiping his hands and face before he raced out muttering about his cars. A sudden memory of her own child at that age: a ball of energy diving from one activity to the next.
Cara paused, biting her lip, clearly not sure what to do.
‘Go,’ Maria said, giving her a gentle push. ‘Please.’
Once she had finished washing up their meal, scrubbing at the plates and saucepan, wiping at the crumbs, she discovered some Marigold gloves under the sink. Hearing the noises next door – ‘Look, Mummy, it’s a digger, a lellow digger’ – Maria quietly snapped them on. She started to scrub at the sink, the draining board, counter tops, the table, the windowsills, neatly tidying as she went, discreetly moving a dead basil plant to one side before watering it. She wiped at the top of the oven and all the while she enjoyed the ache in her hands and her arms as she worked, enjoyed the harder beat of her heart, the sounds from the other room: the excited burble of the baby, the exclamations from Owen, delighted at spending time with his mother.
Cara appeared in the doorway, eyes round as she looked around the room. ‘Oh wow, you’ve transformed the place. I haven’t got anything much to pay you with, but…’ She moved across to her handbag.
Maria batted her hand in the air. ‘Don’t be silly, it took two seconds. It’s the least I can do, and anyway, you gave me the bread…’
The woman laughed. ‘That’s not exactly a fair exchange.’
Maria didn’t say anything, thinking then of Albie. She knew the list had given her permission to engage again. In helping others, she was honouring the spirit of his wish list, remembering all the wonderful things he had done. Since Paris, she had doubted her own memories at times, had found herself skirting the things Cathie had told her, not wanting to believe that the Albie she knew could have been the young man Cathie had described.
‘It feels good to be able to help others. Recently, I’ve been thinking about that more and more.’
Cara stood thinking for a moment, not responding. Then a slow smile lit up her face, lifting her features so that for the first time that day she didn’t look as tired. ‘Well, I think you’re a very special lady.’
Maria felt a lump forming in her throat. How wrong Cara was. She looked down and picked up the egg carton to hide her mixed emotions. ‘I’ll be getting back to the apartment, but I really enjoyed chatting with you.’
‘Owen,’ Cara called out, ‘come and say goodbye and thank you to Maria.’
The toddler appeared momentarily in the door. ‘Bye, bye, please.’
Cara shrugged. ‘Close enough,’ she said, sounding lighter already.
An idea grew as Maria left the apartment, smiling at Owen, who gave her a toothy grin and a distracted wave. She had almost completed Albie’s list, but what if she added items of her own to it? What if the wish list continued?
She could add Cara to it: she could do a weekly clean for her, offer to babysit, offer to help her out. The plan started to take shape as she thought of the other things she could do.
She washed, got dressed, and felt more herself for the first time in an age. She glanced at the note Troy had left her: she would text him too. It felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest, as if she could breathe again. She hadn’t realised the fug she’d been living in, and as she pulled back the curtains, she noticed a bright blue sky, wisps of clouds.
Mr Khan looked up as she entered the newsagent with her carrier bags. ‘Hello Mrs, we’ve missed seeing you in here, did you get away?’
She was touched he had noticed her absence, wondered why she always assumed people didn’t care. People kept surprising her. Placing the items for a couple of shepherd’s pies on the counter in front of him, she replied, ‘I did, I’m back now though.’ She felt pride inside as she said the words. The list would live on, and she would be the one to make that happen.
I hadn’t gone into her room, felt strange pushing open the door, knocked without thinking. No one answered, of course.
There were clothes strewn on the floor: neon pink legwarmers, her favourite T-shirt, all bundled together where she had flung them. Trainers kicked to the side, her cherry lip gloss abandoned, blue eyeshadow still open, the applicator on the carpet. Before, I would have sighed, told her off for being so careless.
The silence was overwhelming.
I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t be bursting in, accusing me of messing up her stuff. Couldn’t believe she wouldn’t be sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to perfect her latest bold look. Couldn’t believe she wouldn’t be playing her cassette player at full volume, tapes scattered over her bed as she crooned to Blondie.
I moved slowly across the room and lowered myself onto her bed. I just sat there, sat dumbly staring ahead, as the sky turned from blue to navy to black. I just sat there.
Twenty-Eight
She had stared at the list long into the night, reading about the things Albie had done, thinking about the ways the list had reached out and touched so many lives, and her idea just grew and grew. The next morning, she was overwhelmed with wanting to tell someone who had known him, to share the seed of her idea, and found herself pushing open the door to the café. This was always the space that reminded her of him, reminded her of the happy hours she had taken for granted, foolishly imagining they would last forever.
‘Maria,’ Pauline chimed from her spot behind the counter.
Maria focused, back in the present, lifting her hand in greeting.
‘It’s lovely to see you. Keith and I were just wondering where you’d got to, thought you might have gone away again, Paris gave you a taste for travelling…’
Maria felt her face become red as she thought of how Paris had ended. She hadn’t liked to dwell on the things Cathie had said about her, or on the Albie Cathie had described, clashing in Maria’s mind with the image of the man she carried around with her.
‘No, I’ve been here,’ Maria replied, approaching the counter, which was piled high with delicious-looking treats: macaroons, muffins, fresh bread rolls, croissants.
‘Well, I wanted to get hold of you, see if you wanted to come to the cinema with me. Meryl Streep’s in something new and I love her, but I haven’t got a number for you.’
‘Actually,’ Maria said in a shy voice, rummaging in her handbag, ‘I do have a mobile now.’ She pulled out her new phone, held it up.
Pauline clapped her hands together. ‘You’ve joined the twenty-first century! About time, brilliant, write your number on this!’ Pauline flung her a napkin and took a biro from behind her ear, before turning to serve an approaching customer.
Maria stared at the napkin blankly.
‘All OK?’ Pauline asked, twizzling a paper bag and handing it to the man.
Maria nodded, pen hovering.
‘Maria?’
Maria looked up, eyebrows drawn together, ‘I just realised I don’t know my number.’
Pauline chuckled. ‘Amrit,’ she called over her shoulder.
Amrit appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, biting into a hot cross bun. ‘Yep?’
; ‘Can you work out Maria’s new mobile number, you’re good with technology,’ Pauline said, taking coins from the customer.
‘Sure,’ Amrit replied as Maria handed it to her, and watched as Amrit tapped numbers and scrolled, until only seconds later, she was scribbling the digits down on the napkin. ‘And I’ve saved it in your address book, Maria, under “ME”, so you can bring it up when you need it.’
She handed the phone back and Maria smiled and nodded.
‘Thank you.’
Keith emerged from the same doorway, apron round his waist, a tea towel flung over one shoulder. ‘I thought I heard your voice,’ he said, immediately stepping forward and planting a kiss on Maria’s cheek. She felt wrong-footed, eyes widening. He seemed to stand taller than she remembered, his gaze level and confident. She marvelled at the changes in him, pleased to see the wide smile, healthy complexion: he looked wonderful.
‘Hey, I don’t pay you to flirt with the customers,’ Pauline said, coming over and punching Keith lightly in the arm.
‘Maria’s no ordinary customer,’ he said, ‘So where did you get to? We missed seeing you in here.’
‘Oh, I’ve been…’ Where had she been? She had been hiding away, assuming these people didn’t care or wouldn’t notice. How silly, she thought as she stood looking at their open, interested faces. Why did she imagine she was so invisible to others?
‘I was hoping you’d get here so I could take a break, it’s like slave labour around here,’ Keith grunted, unable to keep the smile from his face.
‘I could pay a slave a lot less,’ Pauline scoffed, pushing the till closed with her hip.
Maria pointed at the chalkboard suspended over the counter. ‘You’ve got some new specials.’
Pauline glanced up, unable to keep the respect from her voice, ‘That’s this genius here, he knows a million recipes, that one.’
Keith grunted again, a blush building from the collar of his polo shirt.
The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC) Page 23