by Fiona Gibson
Max picked up the roller and dunked it into an old paint can which he’d half filled with turpentine. He couldn’t face applying one more stroke of paint to the blasted wall. In fact, as he examined his handiwork, he wasn’t sure that he even liked blue. Where colors were concerned he was beyond hopeless. He’d allowed that young salesguy with vinegar breath to convince him that Hazy Dawn was the perfect shade for a boxroom. “It’s soothing and neutral,” he’d insisted, but on the walls it looked bleak. It matched the way Max felt inside.
It was occasions like this—following casual meetings with Jane—that reminded him how dismally he’d failed as a human being. There wasn’t even anything decent to eat in the house. He headed downstairs, grateful to escape from the paint smell, figuring that he’d toast the remains of some aging bread. He found himself wishing he had butter or even margarine to spread on it, which struck him as particularly tragic.
He opened the kitchen cupboard and grabbed a packet of biscuits. They were a brand he’d never heard of, purchased from the nearest corner shop where the depressed-looking owner had been smoking and scattering ash all over a word-search puzzle. Jane and Hannah never opened a cupboard to find only a sole packet of biscuits called ‘Coffee Time.’
It pained him, as he ripped open the packet, to admit to himself that he’d bought this house fueled by some ridiculous notion that it might bring Jane back to him. As if these huge, light-filled rooms might draw her in like some home-coming bird. He must have been out of his mind. Now he was stuck with a walloping mortgage and three times more rooms than one person required, all requiring major repair.
A sharp rap on the front door gave Max a start. By the time he’d reached the hall Veronica had let herself in. “Hi,” she said through her perfumed aura. “I’m back. Hope I’m not intruding, Max, but I ordered this Thai chicken salad from the new organic take-away and there’s too much for me. I wondered—” she flashed a pearly smile “—if you’d like to share it.”
He thought of his stale bread and Coffee Time biscuits. “Thanks,” he said, “that’s really thoughtful of you. Come in, have a seat—I’ll find us a couple of plates.”
She carried the foil tray to the kitchen. He placed two plates on the table and she divided the salad between them. She had changed from the suit, which had made her look rather scary, into a floral summery frock and pale blue cardi. Over her potent fragrance Max could smell chili and lime from the salad. His mouth watered. Veronica opened the cutlery drawer and took out two forks. “I hope I’m not imposing,” she added.
He glimpsed the biscuits’ cheap-looking red-and-yellow wrapper on the worktop. “Of course you’re not. This looks great.”
The first forkful tasted delicious. Veronica looked up at him across the table, widening her eyes as if to say, isn’t this good? “Hey,” Max said, “there’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. Why don’t I pour us a glass?”
“That would be lovely.”
Max found two tumblers at the back of the cupboard, poured the wine and took a large gulp. Veronica sipped hers daintily.
He glanced at her, and a surge of warmth fluttered through him. She wasn’t remotely his type, and he had zero intention of getting involved on any intimate level. Yet sitting here, drinking wine and eating Thai salad, he’d begun to feel better. Better, in fact, than he’d felt in a long time. Max was sick of painting, sick of Hazy Dawn, and sick to the pit of his stomach of being alone.
5
Whenever Ollie Tibbs was around, Hannah was aware of every cell of her body, every nerve ending and hair on her skin. It was as if she’d morphed into an incredibly lifelike android, and the most instinctive of acts—walking, blinking, sipping Coke from a can—now consisted of hundreds of separate, minutely connected movements. No wonder she hadn’t been given the part of Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors when Beth had announced the leads at theater workshop tonight. She was ungainly, embarrassing—a robotic fake.
“It’s not fair, Han,” Ollie was telling her as they wandered along the towpath beside the murky canal. “You deserve a main part. You’re really good, you know that? You should say something to Beth.”
Hannah forced a laugh. “I’m not bothered. Anyway, she’s already decided—there’s no point in arguing and making a fuss.”
Ollie cast her a quick glance. “You really don’t care?”
“It’s just a crappy little club,” Hannah murmured. Why had she said that? It sounded as if theater workshop was some dumb activity she involved herself with solely to while away Monday afternoons. In truth, she loved it; it was where she could lose herself, be whoever she wanted—though not Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors, obviously.
It had rained while they’d been inside the church, and their footsteps were mushing a thin layer of mud. Hannah was conscious of slowing down her natural pace. Ollie strolled, rather than walked. He had an angular, rich boy’s face, and a rich boy’s accent—faintly posh, but stopping short of the kind of laughable plumminess that made Hannah think of polo matches and shooting pheasants. He managed to sound confident, yet warm and interested.
Ollie’s fair hair flopped around his finely sculpted face. He had pronounced cheekbones, gray-blue eyes fringed by long, curving eyelashes and full lips, which made Hannah think of them pressing against hers as she breathed in the scent of his skin. Despite the fact that they’d being hanging out after theater workshop for the past few weeks, he hadn’t kissed her or even held her hand. All they’d done was talk.
Since Ollie had joined a couple of months ago, Hannah had found herself becoming ridiculously excited about Mondays. On Sunday nights she’d lie awake with her belly fizzling and her brain swishing with lurid thoughts. How could he possibly not know that she’d been thinking those things about his lips and his skin? In an effort to compose herself, Hannah fixed her gaze on a lone duck that was pecking at a floating milk carton on the canal.
“What I think,” Ollie continued as they climbed the steps to the bridge, “is that the classes should be more structured, don’t you think?”
“Um, yeah,” Hannah said, even though the lack of structure was precisely what she enjoyed. Why did she feel the need to be so agreeable? “It helps though,” she added, “because you feel more comfortable with yourself and get to know the others in the group. There are enough rules at school—‘Do this, stop that, is that eyeliner you’re wearing, Hannah Deakin?’”
“Is that eyeliner you’re wearing?” Ollie asked, making her laugh.
“No, I was born with these incredibly dark, smoky eyes….”
“Well,” Ollie offered casually, “you look good to me.” Hannah’s earlobes singed. He’d never complimented her before. “And freezing,” he added quickly, pulling off his coat and draping it around her shoulders, a gesture that felt kind and sweet but oddly old-fashioned.
“Thanks,” she said, feeling the warmth of his body all around her. She wished she didn’t feel so shy; that she was capable of asking pertinent questions about his life, his family, what he got up to when he wasn’t at college or theater workshop. Trying to formulate coherent sentences felt like plunging her hand into a bag of Scrabble letters.
“Want to go to the park, see who’s there?” she asked, even though she didn’t fancy running into Emma or Georgia or any of the others who hung out at the bandstand after workshop. Those girls always seemed to have some boyfriend on the go. They’d often show up with their necks decorated with lovebites, which they’d make a big performance of trying to hide with pasty concealer. One snog was all Hannah had had, with Michael Linton, a horrible fuzzy-chinned boy who’d ground his chapped lips overenthusiastically against hers round the back of Angie’s Bakery. It was an episode she’d rather forget. If the kissing hadn’t been bad enough, the bakery boys had come out with their giant trays of loaves, and laughed uproariously as they’d loaded the van. Hannah couldn’t smell baking bread without being haunted by the spectre of Michael’s undulating mouth.
“It’s too cold for the pa
rk,” Ollie said. “I’m starving—fancy getting something to eat?”
“Okay,” Hannah said. She checked her watch; just gone five thirty. Jane wouldn’t expect her home from Amy’s for another hour or so. They could get chips, or a sandwich from Bert’s Bagels.
“Let’s go to the Opal,” Ollie said.
Hannah wanted to ask, “What’s the Opal?” and, “How much does it cost to eat at the Opal?” but he’d already turned swiftly down a side street and was sauntering, more purposefully now, along the narrow lane that ran alongside the canal.
The Opal’s sign swung idly from its spindly support. Hannah hadn’t known this place existed, and why would she? She and her mother ate out around twice a decade. Ollie stopped outside the restaurant, fished out his cell phone from his pocket and read a text. As he tapped out a reply, Hannah glanced at the framed menu on the outside wall. Ollie probably came here all the time for grilled haloumi, whatever the heck that was. His mum, Hannah had decided, would be one of those women whose handbag toned with her shoes, tights and nails—every detail carefully thought out and matching. She wasn’t sure that her own mother owned a single accessory. Jane stuffed her purse into the pocket of her jeans, her hair usually looked like she’d taken about one second to tie it back into a ponytail, and her nails were always clipped short. Despite her age—thirty-six, thirty-seven or thirty-eight—she could be quite decent-looking, if only she’d make something of herself. Ollie’s mum would be groomed, Hannah was certain of that. Their house would have a massive flat-screen TV. There’d be a conservatory, one of those patio heater things in the garden, and no embarrassing shed. Not that Hannah cared what Ollie did or didn’t have. She’d already decided, when he eventually invited her round to his house, that she’d manage to look totally unimpressed.
The Opal felt warm and smoky as Ollie pushed open the heavy glass door. Café*Vins*Petit dejeuner*Diner was etched across the pane in ornate writing, as if this were some tucked-away place in Paris—not that Hannah had ever been to Paris—and not a gloomy side street in Bethnal Green.
“Hope there’s a table,” Ollie muttered. Hannah glanced around at the gaggle of drinkers crowding the bar. The Opal seemed to be the kind of place where everyone fitted in. A man was perched on a bar stool—he looked about a hundred years old—reading a damp-looking newspaper. A bunch of studenty types were tightly packed around a table, picking at bread from a basket. Everyone seemed happy and relaxed. Even Ollie, who was just two years older than Hannah, knew how to be.
Hannah threaded her way between tables toward the bar. The music was jazzy, the air thick with garlicky smells. She caught sight of herself in a tarnished mirror, grinning inanely, like an idiot who’d stumbled in by mistake. Her bulging schoolbag, stuffed with the school uniform she’d changed out of before theater workshop, thudded like a boulder against her hip.
“Glass of wine?” Ollie asked from the space he’d miraculously discovered at the bar.
“I, um—”
“The house white’s good, or there’s a decent sauvignon or a sancerre…”
Did he have to refer to wines by their French names? Hannah had dropped it last year, incapable of grasping the concept of ordinary things like chairs or suitcases being a “he” or a “she.” She blinked at the bar. The Opal’s drinks menu depicted an elegant girl with ridiculously thin limbs perched on a stool. “Malibu and Coke please,” she said quickly.
Amusement flickered across Ollie’s face. Hannah silently cursed herself. She’d had alcohol plenty of times before—at Granny Nancy’s sixtieth birthday do, and at Amy’s when her mum had been out and they’d helped themselves to vodka and orange, which they’d sucked noisily through bendy straws.
This was different. She was in a bar—a place that sold vins—when she should have been immersed in biology homework at Amy’s. While Ollie ordered, she found a space to stand by the cigarette machine where she willed herself to turn invisible. “Hi, Han!” someone called from the students’ table. The girl had rod-straight hair, which was pulled back from her face by a confusing array of glittery clips.
“Hi,” Hannah mouthed back. Panic rose in her like a fluttering fish. Who was that? Hannah was sweating; she could feel moisture pricking her forehead and upper lip, and—worse—her underarms. She felt trapped inside too many layers of clothing and feared that her face was blazing red. No one else had burning faces in the Opal. They were normal. At some point she’d have to take off Ollie’s coat and her jacket, and there’d be stinking damp patches under her arms. Her sweat was probably soaking straight into Ollie’s coat right now. She could smell something meaty, although that might have been coming from the kitchen.
The straight-haired girl beckoned Hannah toward her table. Hannah took a few tentative steps. “Here with some friends?” the girl asked. “Never seen you in here before, Han.”
Hannah could place her now. She worked with her mum at Nippers. Christ. “Just some people from theater workshop,” she replied. She swung round to face the bar and cut that girl from her line of vision.
“Here you go,” Ollie said, handing her a drink.
“Guess what,” Hannah hissed. “I’ve just seen someone who works with my mum.”
Ollie frowned. “Not going to be in trouble, are you?”
“No, of course not.” She took a desperate swig of her drink. It tasted like Coke with sweets dissolved in it; she could barely detect the Malibu at all.
“You don’t look underage so maybe she won’t think to mention it to your mom,” he added. “Come on, let’s see who’s here.”
She felt foolish, trotting behind Ollie like a puppy. The cigarette smoke was making her chest hurt and her breathing feel tight, but no way was she pulling her inhaler out. A waitress squeezed past her with some kind of towering open sandwich on a tray. Ollie had already joined a table at the far end of the restaurant. She checked her watch; just gone six. A wave of sadness came over her. Ollie was bantering with his friends as if he’d forgotten she existed. One of the girls threw back her head and laughed theatrically.
If she stayed to eat she’d be horribly late. Her mum would start calling her cell—“I’m not hassling you, love, just wondered when you’ll be home”—and it would be so cringey and embarrassing and end up with Hannah withering inside. She couldn’t have her mother phoning her at the Opal.
Ollie turned round from the table and smiled at her. Ollie, with those lips and those cheekbones, surrounded by rich boys and girls who looked gleaming and golden as if they’d all been on holiday together. More than anything, Hannah wanted to belong.
The girl from Nippers had turned back to her friends, seemingly forgetting that Hannah was there. Stuff it, she thought, fishing out her phone, switching it off and plunging it back into the murky depths of her schoolbag.
Taking a deep breath, and gripping her Malibu and Coke, Hannah sauntered over to join her vivacious new friends at the Opal.
6
Archie-someone, that was who Jane needed right now. She’d seen those colors—fiery shades to bring warmth into Max’s dingy back room—at Archie-someone’s exhibition at the Barbican. She flicked her gaze along the spines of books crammed onto the shelf in the studio. From a distance, Archie’s panels had looked crazed, like stars exploding. Up close you could see the tiny fragments bonded snugly together.
Jane hadn’t planned to see the exhibition or known the first thing about stained glass. Yet she’d found herself pacing the gallery, reluctant to leave, and had still been enthusing about Archie’s work as she and Hannah had left the building. Hannah had fixed on her yeah-yeah face.
Unable to find any reference to an Archie in her books, Jane headed back into the house. There were three answer-phone messages: “Han? It’s me, Amy. What are you up to at the weekend? Want to come over? I’ve tried your cell but it must be switched off.” Weird, Jane thought: Hannah was at Amy’s right now. Must be an earlier message.
“Jane,” Sally gushed, “sorry to land this on you—mean
t to mention it but you were in such a rush to see Max…how was his house by the way? Anyway, could you cover for Lara on Wednesday, do the double shift? She’s got some hospital appointment, so sorry…” Jane could hear the frenetic rustling of papers in the background.
“Jane, are you there?” There was a clang, and the sound of a tap being turned on full blast. Nancy, Jane’s mother, was incapable of attempting one task at a time. She’d be slapping gloss paint on to a window frame while pouring industrial-strength coffee; brushing mud off her boots while squabbling on the phone with a council employee about trash collection. “Just checking,” her mother boomed, “that you and Han are still coming on Tuesday, got some belly pork in, don’t want it going to waste. There’s enough waste in this world with all those food mountains.” The phone was slammed down abruptly.
Jane smirked as she switched on the PC in the corner of the living room. She logged on and Googled Archie Stained Glass. Here it was: the exploding star, the colors melding together like cross-sectioned volcanoes in Hannah’s geography books.
The phone rang again. Jane picked it up in the kitchen and brought it through to her seat at the PC. “Hi, Mum,” she said, still focusing on Archie’s website.
“So are you coming?” Nancy asked.
“Yes, of course—only no meat for Han, Mum. She’s vegetarian, remember? Has been for seven years.”
“It’s only belly pork.”
“Pork’s pig, Mum. Pig’s an animal.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, how did everyone get to be so faddy?” Nancy’s voice was swamped by a glooping noise.