by A. E. Radley
It was the variety that she liked the most; she’d delivered a McDonald’s bag to a woman who must have been in her eighties. She’d also delivered a stack of freshly baked waffles to a house of well-dressed adults, the sound of the Star Wars theme song distantly playing as she handed over the treats.
Delivering food to people’s houses was fun, and the business grew every day, which meant that even though Katie had been doing the job in this new area for over a month and a half, she still got to visit new places, customers, and restaurants.
Today it was a new restaurant. They’d recently been added to the system, and Katie had yet to have a pickup from them.
She pulled up her bike outside the back entrance of Whitely’s, a mid-price French restaurant. She grabbed her padded bag and walked in the back door and made her way to the front desk.
“Hi,” she greeted the woman there. “Pickup for Roberts?”
The woman consulted a piece of paper and nodded. She turned and gestured to the kitchen. Most of the upscale restaurants cooked some of the food at the last minute, just to ensure the quality was the best it could be.
“It’ll just be a couple of minutes,” she said.
“No problem.” Katie looked around the restaurant. It was elegant, decorated in whites and light woods, with soft but adequate lighting, and music playing quietly through speakers.
It was nice, classy but welcoming, and not too pretentious.
Her eyes caught a familiar figure. She struggled to hide her laughter. Of course Verity Forsyth would be there. Just her luck.
And, judging by the way Verity shifted uncomfortably in her seat, she’d seen Katie and was also doing her best to ignore her.
“I’ve not seen you here before. Are you new?” the waitress asked.
Katie shook her head. “No, I’ve been picking up jobs over in Richmond lately.”
“Shame.”
Katie raised an eyebrow and grinned at the shameless flirtation. She regarded the waitress more carefully. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, had long, blonde hair, and startling green eyes. She was cute.
“I’m Katie.” She held out her hand.
“Deanna.”
They shook hands.
“I’ve not missed the mark, have I?” Deanna asked, suddenly a little unsure of herself. “I’m guessing, I mean, I shouldn’t. Appearances and all that.”
“You’ve not missed the mark,” Katie reassured her. “Your gaydar is functioning perfectly.”
Deanna smiled brightly. “You seeing anyone?”
Katie blinked. Deanna didn’t hang around. But then again, she was a delivery driver and food was on the way. If she beat around the bush at all, Katie would be gone.
“I’m… not,” she said. “Just got out of a relationship. I’m going to enjoy being single for a while.”
Deanna nodded. “I understand. Maybe you should come to Sticks.”
“Sticks?”
Deanna laughed. “Yes, the lesbian club. You’ve not heard of it?”
“I’m pretty new in town.”
Deanna picked up a piece of paper from the podium and scribbled down some details.
“It’s a nice place, and it’s all we’ve got so we have to support it,” Deanna explained. “Too many of our spaces are closing down.”
“We nest,” Katie said.
Deanna handed the piece of paper over. “Excuse me?”
“Women… who love women. We nest. Find the one, set up a home, don’t go out anymore. Bars and clubs don’t stand a chance once we meet someone.” Katie took the piece of paper and slid it into her back pocket.
She noticed then that Verity was looking at her, anger in her eyes. Katie wondered what she’d done wrong this time. Her bike was out of sight and she hadn’t slammed a door. She wished Verity would return her attention to the man she was having dinner with.
Deanna was laughing. “You’re right, I hadn’t thought about that. Maybe they need to set up coffee mornings during the day so all the nesters can hang out?”
“Sounds more my scene, to be honest,” Katie said.
“I included my number, you know, just in case,” Deanna said, a twinkle in her eye.
Katie grinned. “Thanks.”
Deanna looked over to the kitchen. “Your order is up. I’ll just go and check it. One second.”
Katie watched her leave. The fitted black trousers and the plain white shirt fit Deanna snugly. But Katie didn’t know if she was ready for all that yet. It had been a few weeks, but the memories of her time with Chris were still raw.
She turned from Deanna, her eyes settling on Verity again. This time she was talking to the man she was with. He wore a suit and tie, looked handsome for a man of his age, and chuckled whenever Verity said something funny.
Katie didn’t like him; she couldn’t pinpoint why.
Verity wore a silk blouse; it was black and perfectly highlighted her light hair and skin tone. Katie wondered, not for the first time, how old Verity was. It didn’t matter, but it was a mystery and Katie liked to solve mysteries.
She knew she had a great-nephew. If Katie squinted, she could just remember her own great-aunt. Even back then, she was old. Katie was eight when she had died of old age.
But families were different these days. If Verity had an older brother or sister, and they’d had children when they were young, and so did that child…
“Here you go.” Deanna handed her the paper bag of food.
Katie shook her head, trying to pull her mind away from the mathematical equation she was attempting to solve. Not that she was sure why it mattered how old Verity was. Or why Verity mattered to her at all.
“Thanks.” Katie put the paper bag into her padded delivery bag. She pressed a button on her phone to indicate she had the food and was starting her journey.
“Hope to see you at Sticks!” Deanna called after her.
“Maybe,” Katie replied as she left.
It was nice that Deanna had reached out and Katie was flattered to get her number, but Katie didn’t know if she was ready for all of that or not.
She was enjoying settling into her new, quiet life. No one to worry about but herself—and occasionally Kitty.
She’d keep the piece of paper, just in case, but she doubted that she’d call or visit Sticks.
10
Maintenance Day
Verity turned from the street into her garden and stopped dead. On the right side of the path was a piece of tarpaulin covered in motorbike parts and tools. Katie was adjusting something with a spanner, music emanating from a phone on the windowsill.
It looked like a garage. Worse, it sounded like one too.
Katie looked up, and Verity noticed she attempted to hide her displeasure at seeing her neighbour.
“Afternoon, nice day,” Katie said as if nothing was wrong.
“It was,” Verity said.
She took a step into the garden and looked at the abundant display of parts. “I hope you know how to put that all back.”
“I do,” Katie confirmed.
“And I hope you can do so quickly.”
Katie tossed the spanner to the ground. She picked up a torn, oil-stained rag and started to rub it against something at the back of the bike.
When Verity realised no reply was forthcoming, she continued. “I have a dinner party tonight. I wouldn’t want my guests tripping over carburettors.”
“It’s all on my side of the garden,” Katie said.
“You do such a lovely job of maintaining the back garden, haven’t you considered doing the same with the front?” Verity tried. “Or speaking with the landlord? I’m sure he would be happy to invest some money in making the place look nice.”
“It’s where I park my bike. I don’t think a pond or a rockery is going to fit in.”
“As I have said before” Verity turned and gestured to the road behind her, “you could park your bike on the street. You’ve surely been here long enough to notice that this area isn’t a ho
tbed of crime?”
“A car window was smashed four doors down just last Wednesday,” Katie said.
Verity’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Katie said. “They didn’t take anything, but the damage was done. So, no, I’ll keep my bike here, thank you very much.”
Verity had no idea a car had been broken into. She knew the area was fairly safe, but, as with all cities, there was crime. Poorly timed crime that absolutely nullified her point.
She was sick of the bike. She heard it every evening, once in the early evening and once much later. She’d never liked the sound of motorbikes. Now she positively hated them.
“You are a courier?” Verity asked.
“Food delivery,” Katie answered.
“Like pizza?”
“Like anything. You name it, someone will deliver it.”
Verity thought back to the previous week when she’d seen Katie appear in Whitely’s. It seemed surreal that someone would order the food from Whitely’s to be delivered to their house. Surely it was nicer to eat in the restaurant?
“Very odd,” she murmured.
“Some think so,” Katie agreed. “Others prefer the convenience.”
“At what cost?” Verity asked.
“Couple of pounds more than it would be in the restaurant,” Katie said, still working on her bike.
“No, I don’t mean the price, I mean the quality of the food. And why eat it at home?”
Katie looked up; she had a smudge of grease across her face. “Just because it doesn’t appeal to you doesn’t mean it doesn’t appeal to others. We’re not all the same, you know.”
Verity chuckled bitterly. “Oh, trust me, I’m painfully aware of that. But I don’t see why someone would want to order the swordfish from Whitely’s to be delivered in a box twenty minutes after it’s cooked.”
Katie looked exasperated. “Firstly, it’s never more than ten minutes. I’ve seen food sit on the pass at the restaurant longer than it’s taken me to deliver it. Secondly, sometimes people want to eat at home. Maybe they can’t get out. Maybe they don’t want to. It’s a service, and you’d be surprised how many people use it.”
Verity shrugged. “To each their own.”
“So, a dinner party? I’ll assume you won’t be ordering from Whitely’s for me to deliver?” Katie asked.
Verity laughed. The very thought of serving food from the back of a motorbike to her guests was preposterous. “You assume correctly.”
“Oh well. What time are they arriving?”
“Seven,” Verity said carefully, wondering if she should be giving such sensitive information away to the enemy.
“I promise to be out of sight by then. Not a washer to be found.” Katie returned to whatever it was she was doing with her bike.
Verity felt relieved and confused. Why would Katie be so kind? Was this an olive branch of sorts? Or was she lying? Would seven o’clock bring an entire Hell’s Angels group?
“Thank you,” Verity said.
“It’s the neighbourly thing to do,” Katie said.
Verity wasn’t sure, but she thought that she detected a hint of sarcasm in Katie’s tone. She ignored it and continued up the path and into her apartment.
11
Dinner Party Guests Meet Neighbour
Bumps and bruises were a normal part of being a courier. Katie knew that, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less when she got injured. Thankfully, this time, it was only a slightly twisted ankle. She’d experienced all sorts in her time, being pushed off her bike multiple times by other road users, often cars, but sometimes buses too.
Motorbikes seemed to be universally hated; pedestrians didn’t like that they could weave in and out of traffic and appear anywhere. Wheeled vehicles didn’t like them for their ability to go around traffic, especially as they were traffic.
But this injury was her own stupid fault. A misstep coming out a restaurant. Nothing major, or so she’d thought up until the moment she got back on her bike. The throbbing had made itself instantly known.
It was annoying that such a simple injury, something she’d walk off in a day or two, was currently smarting so much she had to call it a night. It was only ten o’clock, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d called it quits so early.
To make matters worse, as she pulled into the garden, there was a group of four people staring at her with utter shock and disdain, as if she wasn’t allowed to be there.
One of them was Verity.
She ignored them, pushed her bike to its usual parking spot, and started to chain it up.
“Whatever do we have here? Vere, you’ve been holding out on us. Is this a new neighbour?” a man asked.
“Yes. Anyway, as I was saying, the event starts on the third this year and tickets will be a murder to get,” Verity said. Her voice was loud and shrill, the kind of tone someone made when they were desperately trying to shift someone’s attention.
“Food delivery, eh?” the same man said, approaching Katie.
Katie pulled off her helmet.
He blinked in shock. “Oh, look at you. Scottish, I take it?”
Katie fluffed up her red curls. “However did you guess?” she asked sarcastically.
“Love the Scots,” he said. He held out his hand. “Alan Ford.”
She ignored the proffered hand and offered him a tight smile. She didn’t want to talk to him or to any of Verity’s guests. She wanted to get inside and get off her ankle.
“Oh, not very friendly. Still bitter about the whole ‘part of the union’ business?” Alan asked.
“So, you deliver… food?” a woman asked, sounding completely shocked by the idea.
“Yes, haven’t you seen these things whizzing all over town?” Alan asked. He gestured to the bike and the logo on the bag. “You go online, or get the app, ask them to deliver you a portion of fish and chips from wherever you like, and these poor saps go and get it.”
“Oh, how jolly clever,” the woman replied.
Katie stepped around the woman and up onto the step. “Excuse me,” she muttered.
“How do they make sure it’s not cold?” the woman asked Alan. Then she turned to Katie. “Excuse me, how do you make sure it’s not cold?”
“Magic,” Katie replied sarcastically under her breath.
Verity shot her a look.
The woman didn’t seem to have heard; she was too busy staring in wonderment at the bike as if she’d never seen one before.
“The bag,” Alan said. “It’s padded, keeps things warm.”
“Does that work?” the woman asked. “Doesn’t seem like it would work. Do many people complain?”
Katie put her key in the lock.
“Does she speak English?” the woman asked, confused that Katie wasn’t answering her questions.
“Sadly, she does,” Verity said. “But she’s frightfully rude, so count yourself lucky.”
“You shouldn’t park the bike there, young lady,” the other man said. “Ruins the ground. Looks terrible, too.”
“I have tried to mention that to her, Seb,” Verity explained. “Doesn’t listen.”
Katie opened the door, stepped inside, and quickly slammed it shut again behind her.
She leaned on the door and took a couple of deep, calming breaths. She could hear them talking on the other side of the door. Alan and Seb were talking about getting Katie to move the bike, explaining to Verity that she should speak directly to the landlord. The woman was still asking about the temperature of food, thinking the bag had some kind of power unit inside and asking how that didn’t overcook the food.
“Lunatics,” Katie mumbled.
She pushed away from the door and limped up the hallway. The distant murmuring of Verity and her arrogant friends filtered into the apartment. Katie opened her Spotify app and turned on some music. She kicked off her boots and her bike wear, dropping everything to the floor without a care.
She went into the kitchen,
opened a window, and made herself a sandwich. It was time to get some more groceries in, so it ended up being a cheese sandwich made entirely from the leftover cheese crumbs at the bottom of the plastic container she stored it in.
Thinking ahead had never been Katie’s strong suit.
She picked up an unopened envelope and scribbled a shopping list on the back of it. Then she opened the envelope and took the bank statement out of it. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was supposed to do with bank statements. Check them? Shred them? Store them in a folder?
That last one definitely wasn’t going to happen.
She placed it in the drawer along with the other random paperwork she had amassed. Her theory was to keep things until so much time had passed that it would be reasonable to throw it out.
It wasn’t like she’d ever be able to find a piece of paper she really needed anyway. They had a habit of disappearing. Pension forecasts vanished without a word; takeaway menus from restaurants that had closed down twelve months ago she had in abundance.
Maybe one day she’d crack the whole being an adult thing, but she doubted it.
She ate her sandwich, checked all the cupboards, and made a comprehensive shopping list. Then she washed up her plate and utensils and debated if she should exercise her ankle or simply stay off it entirely.
Rest seemed like the more enjoyable option. The problem was that both her bedroom and living room were at the front of the house, and she’d no doubt be able to overhear Verity’s dinner guests complaining.
She eyed her laptop where it sat on the dining room table from earlier that day. The dining chair wasn’t the most comfortable option, but it was preferable to being near the front of the house. She sat down and opened Apple TV and browsed for something to watch.
A documentary on creativity caught her eye, and she started watching. She was only fifteen minutes into it when there was a loud knock at the front door.
She paused the documentary and limped towards the door, already knowing who it would be.
“Good evening,” she greeted Verity as she opened the door.