by Camilla Way
Cleo looks up from her cornflakes and stares at her in disbelief. ‘What are you on about, Mum? Of course I know that. I’m not six.’ She rolls her eyes and turns back to her book.
‘Yes, I know. Of course you’re not. Sorry.’ She bites her lip, ‘But promise me, won’t you, if anything odd happens, you’ll tell me straight away …’
Cleo puts her spoon down. ‘Mum, why are you being weird? What’s going on?’
‘Nothing!’ She makes herself smile. ‘You’re right. I am being weird. I worry about you, that’s all.’
At night her dreams are filled with threat, at work she jumps at slamming doors, sirens wailing, shouts from the street, and she eyes every man who walks through the café’s door with suspicion. But the days pass uneventfully and when Bennet eventually calls her to check there have been ‘no more incidents’, she has to admit that all has been quiet.
‘Good,’ he replies. ‘Perhaps that will be an end to it then.’
When she puts the phone down, for the first time since receiving the newspaper cutting she dares to allow herself to hope that he might be right.
It’s a day later that she receives a text from Alek saying that he’s free the following Tuesday. She stares down at the message blankly then phones Samar. ‘He wants to meet up. I think I’ll tell him I’m busy,’ she says. ‘I’m not really in the mood any—’
‘Don’t you bloody dare,’ Samar interrupts. ‘Text him back immediately and say yes.’
‘But—’
‘Viv, go on the date. It’s only a date. You need to think about something other than Jack Delaney. Seriously. If you don’t text him back, I will come over there and do it for you.’
‘All right, all right! Jesus.’ She hangs up and does as Samar says, arranging to meet Alek in a pub overlooking the Rye at 8 p.m. the following Tuesday. And after that, just as Samar said, she barely thinks of Jack Delaney at all.
9
When Tuesday arrives, Samar comes to Viv’s house at seven thirty, ready to keep Cleo company. ‘We’ll watch Saw II and smoke crack,’ he promises loudly as Viv leaves the room to get ready.
Upstairs, she stands in front of her mirror and wonders what to wear. She pulls out a dress and holds it against herself before discarding it for another, then rifles through her wardrobe once more, trying not to panic. Eventually she decides on a silky blouse, black jeans and heels, with lots of eye make-up and red lipstick, and considers her reflection again. Jesus. When did she get so old? She stands up straighter, sucking her tummy in, examining her crow’s feet. She thinks of Alek, of his look of confusion when she’d suggested this date, and feels a fresh flurry of nerves.
Samar whistles obligingly when she finally comes downstairs. ‘You look hot,’ he tells her cheerfully. ‘He’d be a total fool not to fancy you in that.’
Viv turns to Cleo. ‘What do you think? Too much? Too boring? Oh God, I’m so nervous.’
‘You look really pretty, Mum, I hope he’s nice. I hope you like him.’
She gives her a hug. ‘Me too. Wish me luck!’
As she hurries from the house she thinks how out of practice she is – she’s barely dated anyone over the past thirteen years. She’s been too busy – with work, with Cleo; too determined not to fall back into the self-destructive cycle of her teens and early twenties, when one bad man had followed another, and then another. Her heels click against the pavement and she wraps her coat around her as she tries not to think about how thrown Alek had been when she’d suggested this date. She sees the pub ahead and inhales deeply. Oh God oh God oh God.
Alek is there already, sitting at a corner table when she arrives, and he stands up as she approaches. They dip and weave, making a clumsy fudge of kissing on both cheeks before he hurries off to the bar.
When they’re both seated with their drinks they smile self-consciously. ‘So,’ he says.
‘So.’ She raises her eyebrows and gives a half-laugh. ‘How was your day?’
The conversation flows easily enough; she asks about his job and he tells her that he’s an anaesthetist, and that he recently transferred to King’s College Hospital from St Thomas’s. In return she tells him about her café, and they then discuss the pros and cons of life in London, how the area he now lives in compares to the one he just left. He wears a pale blue cotton shirt, open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up to show the smooth olive skin of his forearms, lightly downed in dark brown hair. She notices that the material on his collar is frayed, worn and pale with age, and when he gets up to return to the bar she sees that one of his shoes is coming apart at the sole.
‘So you’re from Kosovo,’ she says when he returns.
He nods. ‘I’m Kosovar Albanian. My ex-wife and I came over in ninety-eight. Our daughter turned fourteen this year.’
‘And you said they returned there?’
‘To Pristina, yes.’
‘You didn’t want to go?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, I do not wish to return there.’ He drains his drink. ‘It is … I guess … defiled for me. I can never go back …’ He trails off, shrugging. ‘The war …’
She nods, the following silence holding the weight of his last two words, alluding to an experience she can have no hope of understanding, of horrors she can’t begin to imagine.
‘But tell me about your café,’ he says, brightening. ‘You have had it a long time?’
‘Since my mid-twenties. I inherited some money when I was eighteen, a real windfall, so I spent it on buying a house and getting Ruby’s off the ground.’
He looks impressed. ‘Quite an achievement, so young.’
She smiles, thinking about that time. How, after she’d moved back to live with her mother and slowly begun to heal, she had discovered her love for cooking. Instead of getting high, staying out all night, and sleeping with random strangers, she’d put her energy into experimenting in the kitchen, eventually realizing what she really wanted to do with her life. At twenty-five she’d invested some of her grandparents’ money into buying the café and spent months studying how to run a business before finally opening its doors a year later.
After a few moments she says, ‘I see you writing a lot, in the café. What are you working on? A novel?’
He smiles, ‘No, I’m writing to my daughter, I send her letters every week.’ He hesitates, ‘Things are not simple between us.’
He shifts in his seat and she catches his scent, smells the sharpness of lemons, the weight of musk. He is almost laughably attractive, despite his slightly shabby appearance. She thinks about how she’d got dressed up for tonight, how it seems ridiculous now, the idea that he might be interested in her when the polite distance between them seems so impassable. Yet when they reach for their drinks and their hands accidentally brush he does not instantly pull his fingers away and electricity crackles between them as their eyes meet. She feels a jolt of surprise. Had she imagined it?
‘It gave you a shock when I asked you out for a drink,’ she says at last, deciding to be bold.
He shrugs. ‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t want to?’
‘No, I did. I did. I just … it has been a long time, for me.’
She nods. ‘Yeah, me too.’
They smile, the awkwardness dissipating a fraction as her eyes search his. But too soon, even though it is barely ten thirty, there is the sense that the evening has come to a close and they both rise and shrug on their coats.
‘So,’ Alek says when they are standing in the street. ‘I’m going this way. And you …?’
She nods and they set off together, along the edges of the dark and silent Rye, its treetops stirring restlessly in the wind.
Samar and Cleo are playing Gin Rummy and watching Gossip Girl, and as Cleo deals the cards she thinks about her mum and wonders if she’s having a nice time. Lately she’s been acting kind of odd – on edge and jumpy, staring into space a lot. Sometimes in the mornings she looks as though she’s hardly slept the night before. Cleo wonders about
the man she’s meeting and what he’s like. Her mother never goes on dates, or hardly ever, and when she was younger Cleo had been fine with that, had found the idea of sharing her kind of horrible. But things are different now.
A change has come over Cleo lately. So slow and vague at first it has crept up on her almost without her knowing. She can feel herself for the first time separating from Viv, feel herself wanting to break free from the ties that have always bound them so tightly. That safe little world consisting of her, her mum and grandmother doesn’t feel as satisfying as it once did. Sometimes she finds herself looking at older girls – at school, on the street, at the shopping precinct – observing their make-up and their confidence and their fast way of talking, how they flirt with boys, how they laugh and toss their hair and move through the world with such certainty, and she feels drawn to them in a way she hadn’t before. It makes her feel both thrilled and fearful, pulled between the world they represent, and the one she’s always known. Talking to Daniel feels a safe bridge between the two.
She sighs. ‘Wonder how Mum’s getting on,’ she says.
‘I guess we’ll find out soon enough,’ Samar shrugs.
She picks up a card from the pack and says, ‘Rummy. Can I stay up and wait for her?’
‘Nope. She might not be back for ages yet.’ He nods at the playing cards. ‘Another game?’
She’s about to agree when her mobile bleeps. Snatching it up eagerly, she jumps to her feet. ‘I’m just going to the loo,’ she says.
‘Who’s that?’ Samar asks, then laughs. ‘You got a boyfriend, Cleo?’
She glances at him crossly. ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s Layla.’ She rolls her eyes and heads for the door.
‘OK, sorry I asked.’ Samar stares thoughtfully after her as she hurtles up the stairs.
Once safely in the bathroom, Cleo clicks on her new text message. Hello beautiful, it says.
Smiling, she types her reply. Hey! How are u? U OK?
No, my dad’s being an arsehole again.
She bites her lip. He didn’t hit u, did he?
Just a shove this time, but I tripped and knocked my head. I’m OK, though.
She reads the words in horror. Look, maybe I should tell my mum. She’s really nice, she’ll be able to help u. She’ll know what to do.
His reply is almost instant. Please don’t do that. My dad would kill me if he finds out I’ve told anyone.
She stares down at his message, feeling his panic. I wish I could help u.
Maybe I could come to London to see u soon? I could tell my dad I’m at my friend Adam’s house. I’ve got some savings so I could get a train down. What do u think? U could come and meet me and we could spend the day together.
Her eyes widen with excitement. How amazing would that be! Yes, I’d love that.
Don’t tell ur mum though.
She thinks of how odd her mother’s been acting recently, how distracted she’s been. I won’t, she writes. I promise.
Viv and Alek walk together, the street almost empty. A silence has opened up between them; whatever brief spark of chemistry there’d been in the pub entirely absent now. She feels her spirits sink with every step. She had tried, but it hadn’t worked out, and now the evening she’d so looked forward to had come to an end, and she feels sadder than she thought she would, knowing that she would have to go home to Samar and paste on a cheerful smile and say, ‘Oh well, another one bites the dust,’ and drink a glass of wine or two.
But then Alek comes to an abrupt halt and turns to her and says, ‘Vivienne, forgive me, I am not good at these things, I have spent too much time …’ but his voice trails away, and he doesn’t tell her what it is he’s spent too much time doing.
‘No, it’s fine,’ she falters.
He continues to look at her, the expression in his eyes indecipherable, and it strikes her in that moment that she is not happy, despite the café, despite her love for Cleo. She is not happy with her life – not really. And she is so surprised, so blindsided when he steps forward and kisses her that at first her mouth won’t react. It is a brief, cautious kiss, over before it’s begun, but when they pull apart she looks up at his face, at the brown depths of his eyes, the curve of his mouth and, suddenly unlike herself, she reaches up to put her hand against his cheek. They stand like that as a car passes, its tyres slick against the wet tarmac, and he gently takes her hand and kisses the heel of it before he lets it fall, and when she says goodbye she thinks how, though she knows him not at all, a small part of her that had always felt empty feels a little less so, just a bit.
At her gate she pauses, wanting to savour the last ten minutes before she’s cross-examined by Samar. Just then a movement catches her eye and she looks up to see Neil standing at an upstairs window. She raises her hand in a wave but he turns as though he hadn’t seen her and, shrugging, she lets herself in.
Samar touches his wine glass with hers. ‘I have a very good feeling about this,’ he tells her.
She thinks about Alek, their sudden, unexpected kiss, and leans back against the sofa cushion. ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘But I’m not getting my hopes up.’ She looks at Samar and says anxiously. ‘Everything was all right here, wasn’t it?’
‘Yep. Everything was fine, don’t worry.’ When she nods unhappily, he asks, ‘That dickhead Shaun hasn’t been hanging around again, has he?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Nothing like that. I just … I feel like I’m waiting all the time for Jack to come up with something new to scare me with.’
Samar squeezes her hand. ‘You know you and Cleo can always come and stay with me and Ted, don’t you? I mean it, Viv, you’re welcome anytime.’
‘I know. Thank you, Sammy.’
It’s as she’s seeing Samar to the door that her phone bleeps. She frowns at it in surprise when she sees that it’s from Alek. Will you come to lunch at my flat? it says.
Samar reads it over her shoulder. ‘Blimey. He’s keen.’
‘Maybe they don’t believe in beating around the bush in Kosovo,’ she replies.
‘Well, go on then,’ he prompts. ‘Text him back.’
She thinks about it, then types, When?
His reply is instant. I have a day off on Friday.
‘He’s totally asking you round for sex,’ Samar says.
‘It’s a perfectly innocent lunch date,’ she says primly. ‘Why shouldn’t he cook for me at his place? It’s all totally normal. You’ve just got a squalid mind.’
‘It’s a sex date and you know it. But so what? Fill your boots, it’s been a while, after all – well, apart from Shaun, but the least said about that the better.’
She laughs and pushes him towards the door.
Upstairs in the bathroom, Cleo washes her hands and listens to the sound of voices drifting up from the living room. Samar’s low rumble, her mother’s occasional light burst of laughter. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, at the specks of grey and hazel in her green eyes. Her hair is growing longer, the curls almost to her chin. Last month her mother had watched her playing football, and afterwards she’d said, ‘We need to buy you some bras, sweetheart.’ And though she’d smiled as she said it, there’d been a look in her eye, the same one she’d had when Cleo had started her periods earlier in the year – just the smallest trace of sadness, of fear. In five months she will be fourteen, only two years from being the age Ruby was when she died.
Occasionally, when she watches her mum and grandmother together, she sees how careful her mother is with Stella, how unthinkingly she jumps in to please her, to protect her. It is because of what happened to Ruby, she knows. That long-ago explosion of violence that reverberates to this day. And she feels her mother loves her differently because of Ruby’s murder, loves her in a fearful sort of way that weighs her down, constricts her. She’s never talked about this with anyone – these are things she’d be hard pressed to articulate, but nevertheless she feels them, understands that they are true.
The following days pass wi
thout incident and a cautious sort of hope begins to bloom inside Vivienne. When Friday morning rolls around she feels a mounting anticipation as she drives to the address Alek had texted her. Her satnav leads her to an area of Herne Hill where the rapid spread of gentrification clearly has not yet reached. His flat is in a rather shabby street above a chicken shop, its paintwork peeling, its guttering broken, black bags full of rubbish on the street outside, the smell of marijuana wafting from a next-door neighbour’s open window. She presses the doorbell and waits.
After a few seconds she hears his footsteps and when he opens the door they kiss each other lightly on both cheeks, before he leads her up the narrow stairway. When he pushes open the door to his flat she follows him in and looks around at the cramped, low-ceilinged rooms, the stained carpet and peeling wallpaper and feels a small jolt of confusion. She’s not entirely sure what an anaesthetist earns, but even taking into consideration NHS wages, she’s more than a little taken aback.
But, ‘This is nice,’ she says, as enthusiastically as she can. When he doesn’t reply she turns awkwardly to the mantelpiece and picks up a small framed photograph, ‘Is this your daughter?’ she asks.
He comes to where she’s standing. ‘Yes, this is Elira.’
‘She’s lovely,’ Viv murmurs. The picture shows a sweet-looking girl of around ten, with long dark hair and olive skin, a wide smile and Alek’s dark soulful eyes. ‘Elira? That’s a pretty name.’
‘It’s Albanian, it means “the free one”. The last time I saw her was when this picture was taken.’
There’s such sadness in his voice that Viv puts the picture back where she found it, casting around for something else to comment on, but she can feel the heat of his nearness, smell the musk of his skin, and the words die on her lips. ‘Come and sit down,’ he says, nodding at a small table in the corner, which she now sees is laden with dishes of food. But when neither of them moves he bows his head and brushes her mouth with his.