by K. L. Slater
I feel like the girl opposite is listening in to our conversation. I glance over, but she is resting her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder and she has her eyes closed. I’m being paranoid again.
I turn back to James and his face has paled. ‘I’m sorry, you must have the wrong person.’
And there it is… Now that he’s seen me close up, he’s not interested.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I wonder if it is possible to die of embarrassment. If so, I’m probably going to die right here, in the middle of a city-centre coffee shop.
I feel hot under my coat and sweater, and illogically, I want to run outside. But I’ve come this far, and if I back off now, I know it will be the end of it… the end of everything. I’ll probably never speak to a man again in my life.
So I clear my throat, ignore my burning face and say what needs to be said.
‘I see you from my window every morning.’ Did his eye just twitch, or did I imagine it? ‘Sometimes you look up and smile and wave.’
His gaze searches my face. He’s a very good actor, but I’m feeling quite vulnerable now. Why did I even start this conversation in the middle of such a busy place?
Just because he looks up at my window and waves doesn’t mean he wants to take things any further… doesn’t mean he has any wish to speak to me in real life.
And then I have an awful thought that sets my heart pounding.
I glance at his left hand. There’s no wedding band there, but not all men wear them. Especially ones who like to flirt openly with other women on their journey into work.
The girl opposite has gone back to canoodling with her boyfriend. I lean forward.
‘Are you married?’ I whisper.
‘What?’ His eyes widen. ‘God, no! Look, can we start again. I’m James Wilson, pleased to meet you.’
I shake his extended hand. ‘Alice Fisher,’ I say.
‘Hello, Alice. I do recognise you, you know.’
‘Then why did you act as though you didn’t?’
He glances around and shrugs. ‘Believe it or not, I’m a really shy person.’
‘You seem much bolder when you’re on the tram.’ I feel a trickle of sweat inch down my lower back. ‘The way you stare up at my window like that…’
‘Well, it’s easy looking confident when distance is involved, isn’t it? So, what’s it like, living in Carlton Court?’
‘Not for everyone, I suppose.’ I shrug. ‘My flat is quite small, but I like it.’
‘Let’s see, you must live on the…’ He mimes counting the floors.
‘Third floor,’ I say.
‘Yes, I thought it must be. I hope you don’t mind me looking up at your window.’
I glance at my hands. ‘It’s fine. I don’t mind at all.’
He starts slightly as his phone begins to ring. He glances at the screen and ends the call without answering.
‘Don’t mind me,’ I say. ‘Take the call if you need to.’
He seems a bit edgy. ‘No, it’s fine, honestly. They can wait.’
He slips the phone into his pocket.
I wonder what happens now. How do two people get from waving from a tram to chatting and then possibly arranging to meet up for drinks or maybe go to the cinema?
I can’t ask him out, I just can’t. It feels too forward. The first time we’ve met in real life, at least.
The shrill ring starts up again and he snatches the phone back out of his pocket, presses a button to end the call once more.
‘Somebody’s persistent.’ I grin.
‘Yes. Annoyingly so. It’s just work. Think they own you, don’t they?’
I nod, and am about to ask him where he works when the phone rings for a third time. He glances at the screen and then springs up out of his seat.
A woman with two small children standing directly behind him cries out as his elbow knocks her tray sideways. Coffee and cake fingers fly out at all angles. The little boy screams as hot milk splatters over his face.
‘Sorry! Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,’ James exclaims, his hands flying up to his hair.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ The woman picks up the distressed child.
‘Sorry… I have to go.’ James looks at me, his eyes dark and haunted. ‘I’m so sorry… Alice, but…’
And with that, he grabs his bag, scarf and mac and scurries away without looking back at me or the woman and her son.
‘What an idiot! Do you know his name and address?’ she snaps at me. ‘I could sue him for this, you know.’
She dabs the child’s face, which fortunately isn’t marked but is rather flushed, with a wedge of napkins provided by a concerned member of staff.
‘Sorry, we don’t know each other,’ I tell her.
I bend down to pick up my own bag, eager to get out of the place, and that’s when I see it. A slim silver phone, lying under James’s chair.
It must have slipped from his pocket as he jumped up.
I grab my bag and scoop up the phone in one smooth movement.
My throat is dry and my face feels very hot.
I ignore the woman’s accusing stare and make my way out of the packed shop with James’s phone nestled cold and comforting in my sticky hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Outside the coffee shop, the road is now choked with cars.
I rushed out to get to the cool fresh air, but instead I find myself among revving engines and frustrated motorists glaring into the middle distance as they wait for the gridlock to ease.
My fingers tighten around the phone in my pocket and I look up and down the street, just in case James has realised it’s missing and returns for it.
Not that I’d have to give it back right away if I didn’t want to. Nobody saw me pick it up.
As soon as the thought of keeping it appears, I have to smile at myself. Who am I kidding? I’d return it to him without hesitation, but still, the delicious feeling of having something almost forbidden… it feels so good, so exciting.
It occurs to me then that perhaps the right thing to do is take it back inside and leave it with the staff behind the counter in case he calls back in for it at some point. But I imagine the staff are annoyed at James causing an incident with the woman and her son. They might not be too obliging after that.
A woman huffs as she brushes by me, and I realise I’m standing in the middle of the pavement. I step back towards the coffee shop window and slip James’s phone into my pocket. It will be safe there until I can return it to him myself.
I inch through the stationary cars that snort like disgruntled metal dragons and head back down towards Old Market Square. I can see the tram stop from here.
Impulsively, I stop at the small Italian deli on the way and buy a square slab of freshly made vegetable lasagne and a bag of salad for tea.
I feel so extravagant when I emerge from the shop clutching one of those stylish brown paper bags that signify artisan food. People buzz around me and the streets are busy. I’m in the city alone, and most importantly, I’m OK. I’m really OK!
It’s a normal thing for most people, but today, to me, it feels like I’m actually living again for the first time in a very long time.
There’s a loose gathering of passengers waiting at the tram hub.
I huddle inside the shelter, pressing myself back against the Perspex screen, the phone seeming to throb like a living thing in my pocket.
But I can’t take it out here. I don’t feel comfortable being in close proximity to crowds of people, haven’t done for some time.
I think back to only a few years ago, to when I worked at the gallery, meeting and greeting important customers, organising art exhibitions and VIP pre-viewings… I took it all in my stride, confident of my own abilities.
Now, it feels like I’m thinking of a different person altogether. A stranger.
An old lady with a wheeled shopping cart hobbles inside the shelter and I inch a little further up. I feel a twinge in my back and I kn
ow what’s coming. When I push the pain aside, it always wreaks its revenge on me.
I’ll have to find time for a rest when I get back home.
The tram arrives after a few minutes. Once I take my seat, the tension in my neck and shoulders starts to dissipate a little.
I take a breath and congratulate myself that I did it. I escaped the solitary confinement of the apartment and got myself out here again.
The high-pitched whine starts up and the tram begins to scoot forward. I stare out of the window as we glide past the people, the cars. Odds are, somewhere not too far away from here, James will still be thinking about the incident at the coffee shop.
He’s probably questioning himself: should he have stayed to make sure the young boy was OK? Of course, he most definitely should have done.
He seemed so distracted by the phone calls he claimed were nothing important. Yet his face told a different story.
Now I come to think about it properly, he acted rather oddly from the moment I sat down to share his table.
I accept he probably felt embarrassed when I pointed out I’d noticed him passing the apartment building each morning, but pretending he didn’t recognise me at all was taking it a bit far.
He admitted it in the end, though, and I suppose that’s all that matters.
We were getting on so well until those annoying phone calls set him on edge. He might’ve asked me to go for a drink or a meal… who knows? That final call was the one that did it. Up he jumped, sending coffee flying everywhere.
Still. All is not lost, and it’s obvious what I need to do next.
I’ve now got a great excuse to board tomorrow’s early tram. Sitting next to him would seem a little forward at this stage, but it’s a completely natural thing to do when I have a good reason like returning his lost phone.
It’s the perfect opportunity to get to know him a little better.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The tram glides past a road that I know leads up into the Lace Market, specifically to Moderno, which is still the biggest art gallery in the city.
Not that I’ve been able to face visiting recently, but those times are still fresh in my mind.
Three years earlier
The first few weeks at the gallery were a whirlwind of activity, and I loved it.
Setting up social media accounts, working with a local company on building The Art Box’s website, and organising the printing of flyers, banners and other promotional material.
Jim had also set up several meetings with PR firms, so that we could decide which would be most suitable.
‘Are you happy for me to leave the decision to you?’ he asked me. ‘I think you’ll have the freshest, most adventurous approach to this.’
Was he kidding? I felt honoured to be given such responsibility so early.
‘I’d love to,’ I beamed. ‘Thanks, Jim.’
‘We can have a ten-minute meeting daily just to keep me in the loop. I’m going to be in and out a lot of the time, but you know you can get hold of me any time at all.’ He held up his phone.
I both welcomed and embraced the challenge. I met with several agencies and finally settled on East PR, who I felt really understood the image we wanted to build. They also happened to be Louise’s company.
I arranged for Finn and Jim to meet representatives from the company, including Louise, over coffee in the meeting space up on the mezzanine level, overlooking the city’s rooftops from a big picture window.
Afterwards, both men articulated their approval. I mentioned that one of the key personnel was my sister, but Mr Visser just shrugged as if it was irrelevant.
‘You really understand what we’re trying to do here, Alice,’ he said approvingly. ‘You’re going to go far.’
Jim nodded his agreement, smiling at me.
I tried to bask in their compliments, to enjoy the moment, but the ceaseless voice in my head reminded me that I’d have to do far better to be anything more than a shop girl in my mother’s eyes.
As Jim had said, he was often out, driving up and down the country sourcing artwork and meeting other gallery owners. This left me alone for much of the day.
All the signage had been designed and was stored in the back room ready for securing out front just two days before opening, so that nobody would know the location of The Art Box until the last minute.
This suited me, left me the time and space to enjoy the serene atmosphere of the light, airy gallery. I enjoyed visualising how it might look when the stands and artwork were in place.
Jim showed me pictures of all the work he’d agreed to exhibit so far, and I was delighted at the rare mix of pieces that would initially be on show. Some were already coming in, and I personally took delivery of several enormous packages a day.
When Jim came back to the shop periodically, we would carefully unwrap the packages together and discuss the art within.
I often felt like pinching myself to see if this job I’d landed was real.
There had been other unexpected benefits, too.
When I awoke each morning, I stared at my image in the mirror, astounded at the transformation that was taking place.
My skin glowed, my hair seemed glossier, and best of all, food had already become a bit of an inconvenience, taking up valuable time when I could be working, rather than being the mainstay of my day.
One day, the weather turned cooler. Skeins of cloud knitted across the blue sky and a chilly breeze saw off any rays of warmth from the sunlight still managing to break through.
I’d carved out some time during the morning to look more closely at local artists. In the bidding to become a UNESCO City of Literature, Nottingham had a vibrant writing community, and likewise some excellent artists. I’d always felt proud that the city I lived in valued the arts and such a diverse culture.
Both Finn and Jim were delighted when I suggested they ring-fence a corner and perhaps a small section of the main wall for up-and-coming local artists to exhibit.
‘I’m loving your ideas, Alice,’ Finn remarked, and I smiled and vehemently pushed aside the negative voice still trying to pipe up in my head.
That day, I sat in the back office with the blinds down in the main showroom. I wasn’t expecting any new deliveries, and if Jim was returning to the shop, his habit was to text me when he was on his way.
I turned to the outsize iMac and began working through the list of artist websites Jim had left me to take a look at. The first couple were promising. A young woman from the Meadows area of the city, whose art merged her African heritage with her English working-class roots. The paintings were vibrant and alive with colour and movement.
The second artist was a seventy-year-old man who took an avid interest in the old industrial structures of the city: the Raleigh factory, the Player’s building… He had an eye for representing the wastelands where they had once existed.
I became so absorbed in his work that I only vaguely registered a noise, but then jumped at the sound of a louder knock. I glanced at the wall clock. Ten thirty. Jim had said he wouldn’t be back until after one.
I stood up and listened. The knock had been here, at the back of the shop. Delivery drivers always came to the front; only staff used the back entrance.
I jumped again as someone rapped on the door, louder this time.
I moved closer, latched the chain and then opened the door a few inches.
A tall man, about my own age, stood there smiling. He had good teeth and shiny hair and was dressed in black jeans and a Morrissey T-shirt. My heart blipped and I swallowed to try and relieve the dryness in my mouth.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so,’ he grinned, sending my heart rate racing again. He held up an art portfolio case. ‘I’m Jack Hampton. I don’t suppose you’ve got a minute?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Three years earlier
That day at the gallery, I ignored everything I’d ever been told about opening the door to a stranger
. I released the security chain without a thought and invited Jack Hampton inside.
‘I’m Alice. My boss is due back any time now,’ I said. ‘If you’d like to leave your contact details, I can ask him if he’ll see you.’
‘That would be brilliant,’ Jack said, stepping into the office. ‘Thanks ever so much.’
I pushed a piece of paper and a pen across the desk. Jack placed his large black case against the wall and leaned over to write.
His glossy black hair caught the light and reminded me of a crow’s feathers. I idly wondered if it shone different colours in full sun. I noticed his skin was olive, rather than pale. It stopped him looking like a goth with his black clothing and made him appear more exotic.
He looked up questioningly and I realised he’d said something but I’d been too absorbed in watching him write.
‘Sorry?’ I willed my cheeks not to flush, but I could already feel the heat.
‘I said, shall I stick my email down here too?’
‘Oh yes. That would be good, thanks.’
‘No, thank you.’ He smiled, laying down the pen and standing up straight. I gauged he was just about six feet tall, which was perfect alongside my five-foot-six-inch frame.
‘How did you know we were here?’ I asked him.
‘Honest answer?’ He looked bashful. ‘My uncle is a delivery man. He mentioned in conversation that he’d dropped something off at a new place called The Art Box. Knowing I’m an artist, he asked me if I’d heard of it. You can imagine my reaction. I prised all the details from him. I accused him of telling stories at first, because everyone is talking about this place, but nobody has a clue where it’s going to be.’ I felt hypnotised by the intensity burning in his dark blue eyes. ‘I woke up this morning and thought, today’s the day I grow a pair and give it one more push to get my work out there. I’d sort of accepted it probably wasn’t going to happen for me and that I was going to have to get a full-time job.’
I decided not to ask his uncle’s name and which company he worked for. Mr Visser would probably want his head on a plate. He’d gone to great lengths to keep the location of the shop private until he was ready to reveal it.