‘Hi, I’m Effie.’ I held out my hand. She looked down at it as if she didn’t know what to do with it.
‘Ali,’ she replied in a far-off accent. She shook my hand. It was so cold that it felt like the hand of a dead person, her nails dirty and bitten.
I handed her some tokens for the soup kitchen and some food, which she took with a chorus of ‘Thank you’ and ‘Great, cheers’. I looked at Ali, her brown hair sticking out beneath her black woollen hat, cut inexpertly at the nape, and the dark circles that sat around her eyes. I heard a rustling from by her legs and it was only then that I noticed movement beneath the sleeping bag. She pulled it back and the large head of a grey Staffordshire bull terrier poked out. He pushed his cold, wet nose into my palm and licked my wrist.
‘That’s Otis,’ she said with a smile. ‘He’s my heart.’
I looked up at her, the smile on her face widening as he licked her chin.
The smile lit up her face and I saw, for a split second, the person beyond the circumstances. Had things worked out differently for Ali she might have been a dental assistant or a doctor – anything in fact. She could have lived in a flat, a house or a mansion and chosen her path through life, but the doorway of Boots was all she’d been given and that wasn’t even hers.
‘Where are you from, Ali?’ I asked. ‘That isn’t a Birmingham accent I hear.’
‘I’m from Boston, Massachusetts.’
‘What brought you over here?’ I asked. She looked at me, our eyes connecting as she spoke.
‘My mom’s American, Dad’s from here. They broke up when I was twelve and Dad brought me here with him. Mom never hid the fact that she preferred my brother, so I was happy to come over here with him.’ She took a breath and stroked Otis’s head. ‘Dad started gambling and drinking about a year after we moved here. Soon enough all our money was gone. I dropped out of college to try and help him but any money I brought in went straight out again on booze and slot machines.’
‘Did you get through to him in the end?’
She shook her head. ‘He died before I had the chance to. That was when I was seventeen and three years later, here I am.’
My eyes widened in shock. I had thought her around thirty years old, not eight years my junior.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, knowing that it wasn’t enough.
‘Gotta take the good with the bad. If that hadn’t happened, then I wouldn’t have met Otis.’ She smiled down at him again, her eyes igniting while they lingered on him.
‘What do you do when you’re not here?’ I asked, looking around at the dingy doorway. It smelled of human dirtiness and the faintest smell of acrid urine drifted in from the corner.
‘I spend most nights here and a few at the shelter, if I can get in. In the day I go where I can; every day is different.’ She smiled at me, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was missing a tooth right at the front. ‘What about you?’
‘Me? Oh, I work in a bookshop,’ I said, surprised by her interest.
Her smile widened for a moment and she raised a hand into the air. ‘What is that book called, the one about the lion and the wicked ice queen?’
‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?’
‘Yes! I used to love reading those books.’ She regarded me for a few seconds before saying, ‘Dad got me the set one year for Christmas, but that one was always my favourite.’ She leaned back and looked at me, as if trying to fit my whole body into the frame of her eyes.
I heard Ned’s voice behind me as he and Cassie arrived to pour Ali a cup of coffee. I said goodbye to her, promising to come back and see her on my next shift and when I stood, I found Caleb standing behind me, a satisfied smile on his face.
‘What?’ I asked as we walked on.
‘You were incredible back there,’ he gushed.
I suddenly felt embarrassed; praise was not something I took with grace.
‘Was I? I didn’t do anything except talk to her.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but you talked to her like she was a human being.’
‘That’s what she is.’
‘A lot of people don’t see it that way.’
Ali stuck in my mind that night, the sadness that surrounded her and the happiness that I’d seen when she’d looked down at Otis, burning the image of Theo from my mind. It was incredible that she could still find it within herself to smile.
On Wednesday morning I woke with a feeling that was almost enthusiasm. It was strange to feel something positive for once. My body wasn’t used to it, not after such heavy and prolonged doses of wallowing. Apart from the short but scarring portion of my life that Theo had been a part of, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt enthusiastic about anything that wasn’t writing-related. I couldn’t wait to go back and help someone else, to revisit Ali and Otis and see the others in the team who I had quickly grown to like.
The shop didn’t need opening for another hour so I decided to make myself some breakfast, frying some bacon and brewing some coffee. The weight had slid from me in the twenty-eight days since Theo had made me leave Wales and cut contact. So, I made enough bacon for two. I’d just put the bacon into a floury bread roll and sat down to watch some crappy breakfast television when my phone rang.
‘Dad? You’re where?’ I asked with astonishment.
I went down to the front door and let him in through the shop.
He came up and sat down on the sofa. I handed him a cup of coffee – black, no sugar – and then sacrificed half of the bacon to make him a sandwich. He looked around the flat as if he’d never set foot outside his own house before, which wasn’t too far from the truth. I couldn’t tell if he liked it or hated it, but that was one of the quirks of my father: you could never tell what he was thinking.
We ate without conversation – this wasn’t unusual for us but it still felt pretty weird – and watched as a weather man told us that this Christmas was unlikely to be a white one, but he’d inform us again nearer the time.
‘I don’t know why anyone bothers hoping anymore,’ Dad said, his voice startling me. ‘We haven’t had a proper white Christmas in almost fifteen years.’
I slid my empty plate onto the table and turned my body round to face him.
‘Why are you here, Dad?’
He swigged his coffee and looked at his knees. ‘I wanted to see if you were okay. You’re still my daughter even if you live elsewhere.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, and realised for the first time in a while I meant it. I filled him in on Arthur and Toby’s travels and my volunteering at the shelter and Ali and Otis and Caleb.
‘It sounds like you’ve picked yourself up.’ He smiled and looked me in the eye for a split second before looking back at his knees.
‘Does Mum still hate me?’ I asked. I couldn’t say I regretted anything I’d said. I’d meant it all, in the moment at least.
‘She doesn’t hate you, Effie. She’s just angry, is all.’ He sighed and stood abruptly. ‘I wanted you to know that you’re welcome at home for Christmas Day.’
‘Does Mum know about this?’ I asked.
‘She’s the one who made me come here and tell you.’ He smiled. ‘I think she’s calming down about it all.’ We chatted some more about what had been happening since I’d left home, and when it was time to open the shop, I hugged him and he left. I felt ever so slightly like things were finally going well for me.
That evening I sat talking with Ali as she ate an energy bar and sipped at her tea, the night air biting at our faces. Caleb gave Ali a blanket and she wrapped it around Otis who shivered with his big head on my lap.
As we walked back to the shelter, the quietness of the street somewhat calming, Caleb turned to me and asked how I was getting home. I’d told him that I’d walk but he insisted that I let him drive me home. I didn’t do much in the way of refusing; my feet were killing me. I sat down in the seat of his car, letting out a long old-person groan as I did, and directed him to the shop.
&nbs
p; ‘You live in a bookshop?’ he asked as he pulled up onto the kerb. ‘That’s awesome.’
‘It’s not really mine. I’m looking after it for a friend while he’s off gallivanting around the world,’ I replied, popping the door and feeling tiredness weighing down my eyelids.
‘You staying here alone?’ he asked.
‘Why? You gonna try and attack me if I say yes?’ I answered, the tiredness evaporating.
‘Yeah, that did sound kinda creepy didn’t it?’ He smiled and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I only ask because … well, would you, perchance … want to … go on a date … with me?’
I choked on nothing, the surprise lodging in my throat and making me splutter.
‘All right,’ he said, patting me on the back, ‘no need to try and kill yourself, a simple no will suffice.’
I laughed and composed myself. ‘I’m sorry. You just took me by surprise.’
I looked over at him as he waited patiently for me to reply. The feeling in my chest, the one that felt like my skin was tearing, like my heart was falling loose, began to flare. I thought of Theo, as I did every day, and wondered if I could do it again. If it was possible for me to let someone else in to plaster over the cracks he’d made inside me. I wasn’t as well versed in love as other people were, but I was sure that what I’d felt for Theo wasn’t the run-of-the-mill love affair that happens all the time. I looked at Caleb’s dark hair, his green eyes, his quirky style, his smile that was nice but didn’t have the hypnotic powers that Theo’s had. He was the opposite to Theo in every aspect of appearance and maybe that’s what I needed: someone different, someone new.
‘Yes,’ I said with a wavering voice. ‘I’ll go on a date with you.’
As I said the words, I tried not to wonder what I was getting myself into and I tried not to think of how I wished it was Theo who had asked.
Caleb arrived at the shop at six thirty the next evening. He was wearing black jeans, oxblood winkle-pickers and a Seventies-era shirt beneath a sheepskin-lined denim jacket, on the lapel of which sat several enamel pins.
I wore a dark green dress over black leggings with calf-high boots, a green beanie hat on top of my freshly tamed curls and a long purple coat that I’d had since I was seventeen. I’d taken off my splint. The inside had looked like the bottom of a used Petri dish. I’d worn it for long enough now and it barely hurt at all, so I called time and said goodbye to the splint.
He greeted me with a smile and a gift.
‘What’s this for?’ I asked as he placed it in my palm. It was a small pin in the shape of a dog’s face. I couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to Otis.
‘I didn’t know where you stood on flowers. I don’t have a problem with feminism, but it has confused me somewhat on the flower front.’
‘This is much better than flowers,’ I said, pinning it to the lapel of my coat before we set off.
We walked into town and it was only ten minutes or so before we got there. The streets were filled with people doing late-night shopping in the manic rush of Christmas.
‘Where are you taking me then?’ I asked, my hands pushed into my pockets for warmth.
‘Do you like art?’ he asked.
‘Depends on the art,’ I replied as he turned in the direction of the Museum and Art Gallery. I followed on.
‘There’s an opening and I’m going to try and impress you with how very cultured I am.’ He shot me a smile – it didn’t quite leave me cold but it didn’t make my knees buckle either.
‘Very smooth,’ I said as we climbed the sandstone steps and met the buzz of people gathered on the mosaic floor on the other side of the heavy oak doors. I’d been here before, once with school and then once again with Kate when we’d had an art project to research. I found myself wondering what Kate was doing now after the long radio silence following our fight. She was probably at some fancy cocktail party with business big shots, wearing a sexy dress and heels that never seemed to make her feet hurt.
Stop it!
Don’t think about Kate. She’s gone. Just like everyone else.
I turned around to talk to Caleb but we’d been separated by the crowd. I looked around for his dark curls but all I saw were comb-overs and quaffed white blonde bobs fixed with hairspray. The sound of chit-chat and kitten heels clomping against the floor echoed around the room, amplified by the large domed ceiling. I felt someone take my hand and when I turned, I saw him through the crowd. I let him pull me from the throng, up the ornate marble staircase and into the gallery where a woman sat at a desk awaiting payment.
I reached into my bag to take out some money but Caleb placed a hand on mine and told me he had this one covered. He sauntered over to the woman and gave his name. She checked her list and then nodded him through, telling him to enjoy his evening.
‘I know the artist,’ he said with a slightly embarrassed smile.
‘Show-off,’ I said, quietly but loud enough for him to hear, as we followed the crowd.
Five minutes later I found myself staring, confused, at a piece of art on the wall.
What the hell was it supposed to be about? The swirling purples and blues looked like waves, but the piece was called Galaxy of Sinners. At one point, Caleb asked me what I thought, I’d just nodded and said words like interesting and juxtaposition – I’d remembered that one from my Fine Art theory paper.
He introduced me to the artist, a girl with caramel-coloured skin, lips painted black and a buzz cut that she’d dyed turquoise. She seemed to be wearing every colour in existence as she glided around, her chiffon jacket billowing out behind her like rainbow smoke.
‘Effie, this is Molly. We went to school together,’ Caleb said, leaning in and kissing her cheek. Molly’s girlfriend, Luna, joined us as conversations and reminiscences of their school days began. I tried not to zone out, but there’s only so much interest you can have when hearing stories about people you don’t know, doing things you don’t care about.
The air in the room was stifling and it began catching in my throat.
‘Do you mind if I steal him away for a moment? My mum wants to say hi,’ Molly asked, already taking Caleb’s arm and leading him away.
Before I could answer she’d pulled him halfway across the room. He shrugged his eyebrows and smiled at me before disappearing from view. Luna nodded me a farewell and followed them.
I wandered through a pair of glass doors into a room that didn’t have anywhere to sit. Through the next set of doors, I saw a curved wooden bench and set my feet on their path towards it. My legs ached from standing all day and when I slumped onto the seat, I let out a long sigh that echoed around the empty room.
It was nice in here, quiet, calm. In here I could breathe again. I took my phone from my bag and, for the millionth time, I tried to write to Theo. I had so much to say to him, so much weight that I needed to get out of me and place on him. He’d had his say in his letter. His closure was complete while mine was still wide open. I watched the empty space and waited for the words to come, but as they had so many times before, the words failed me.
I pushed my phone back into my bag and looked up at the room around me. It was almost silent, apart from my quiet breaths and a mechanical whirring sound that made me feel like dozing. The light was diffused and sleepy as it emanated from the sconces up near the domed glass ceiling. I looked back down the gallery at the two sets of glass doors that sat between me and all the people I’d just left. They smiled and enthused and drank Prosecco from plastic flutes. Why hadn’t I been offered any Prosecco?
I couldn’t hear them from here. It was like watching a very dull silent movie with no storyline. I closed my eyes and took a deep inhalation of the culture-infused air. I didn’t know if I could do this. I had never been good at social chit-chat or just participating in life in general. I wasn’t wired like the rest of them. I didn’t know how. I held on to the bench with both hands, as if it was keeping me grounded, and looked up at the painting on the wall opposite.
/> In the picture sat a woman, her eyes closed, her head tilted back and bathed in a light that sparked at her fiery hair. On either side of her stood a figure: one shrouded in shadow, the other lit from above by a heavenly light. Her open hands lay in her lap holding a flower that had been delivered by the bird perching on her arm.
I stood and took a step closer. There was something forthright about it, in the combination of anguish and relief on her face, in the way I almost heard the sorrowful breath leave her lips. I looked at the small plaque of information beside it and read.
Beata Beatrix by Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1870
Rossetti made this a memorial to his wife, Elizabeth Siddal, after her death. They shared a tumultuous relationship during her time sitting for her husband’s work and the work of the other members of the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. She died of what is believed to be suicide, by overdose of laudanum, in 1862.
I suddenly hated the picture, yet I loved it too. We were the same, she and I. Ruined by the men we had loved, driven to contemplate the worst, and only one of us had seen the light before we’d gone a step too far. A tear rolled down my nose but I didn’t wipe it away. I didn’t care; there was no one to see it. I caught my reflection in the glass that separated us both and stared into my misty eyes. I wasn’t crying for Theo or for Rossetti or for anyone else, except me and her. I wanted to reach out and take her hand, to tell her that everything would be okay, that he wasn’t worth her life; he wasn’t worth her tears. I took a step closer and lifted my hand to the glass, my fingers resting an inch away from hers. At that moment, I heard a voice in my ear and my thoughts were broken.
‘You can get kicked out for doing that,’ he said, nodding to my hand against the glass. ‘Here, take this instead.’ Caleb handed me a glass of Prosecco. I took it and drank down the bubbles. ‘Nice, isn’t it? I meant the painting, although the drink is also pretty good … and free. That’s always a bonus when it comes to art openings,’ Caleb said as he sat down. I wiped away my tears, drank down the rest and moved to join him. His arm was touching mine as we both stared forward at the woman on the wall. ‘Molly tells me off for using that word when it comes to art. She says that “nice” is just a way of getting out of an answer.’ He shifted closer. My initial instinct was to move away and open up the gap between us, but I forced myself to stay put.
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