by C. J. Skuse
I sniff. ‘I don’t like coffee.’
‘What do you like?’
‘Strawberry milkshakes.’
He touches my head and his hand comes away with a chunk of white foam from the bath. He smiles and it lights up the dark, damp hallway. It’s a glowing lamp in the fog. A flame in a cave. A lifeline. All I can do is smile back.
I sit in the coffee shop – Full of Beans – stroking Emily’s head in the papoose, watching Kaden’s grey T-shirted back as he orders our drinks – a Columbian Granja La Esperanza roast with hot milk for him, and a milkshake with cream and paper straw for me. I can’t believe I’m here with him. I imagine we’re Man and Wife. He’s on paternity leave and we’re out showing off our new baby. An older couple look across at us in sweet recognition. A woman in a peach overcoat stops by the table and bends down to peek at her. I instinctively pull away, covering the top of Emily’s head with her blanket. I hear her grizzling.
‘Sorry, she’s a bit under the weather today.’
‘Aww, how old?’
‘Five weeks.’
‘Ahhh, she’s gorgeous.’
She can’t even see her properly but the woman is right, Emily is gorgeous. All babies are. The woman thinks me and Kaden really are a couple with a baby and that’s a lovely feeling. A warm, huggy feeling. Perhaps it really is Our Anniversary, like it was Mary Brokenshire’s. Perhaps we Met Here.
When he returns with our drinks, I snap out of it – he’s here because he’s a nice man and he’s concerned that he scared me. And something is clearly wrong in my life if I’m terrified of my own door buzzer. That’s the truth. And the truth always stings.
He sets my milkshake down before me with a ‘There you go.’
It’s only when he sits down with his cup and saucer and biscotti that it occurs to me how childish my drink choice is. He’s changed his motorbike gear for a T-shirt and jeans and white trainers, and the back of his neck is still slightly sheeny with sweat but he doesn’t smell badly at all. I’m close enough to smell his aftershave properly now – not Paco Rabanne as I’d initially thought. It’s that one in the blue man-shaped bottle. Le Male by Jean Paul Gaultier. Oh it’s lovely. My cheeks heat up. Foy and I used to go mad in the fragrance department in Boots, spraying them all up our sleeves.
‘Think it’s going to be a nice day today,’ he says, staring through the window. ‘You can see the Lake District from here.’
I look out in the direction of where he points. Blurry mountains. ‘Cool.’
‘Have you ever visited the Lakes?’
‘No. I’ve been to Scotland.’ I can’t tell him about that, so I hurry on. ‘Have you?’
‘Yeah, I used to go hiking in the Lakes all the time with a couple of mates from Uni. It’s really stunning. It’s good to inflate your lungs with a long walk every once in a while. You could take the little one to the Beatrix Potter house.’
‘Emily’s only five weeks old. I don’t think she’d be that impressed.’
‘No, maybe not,’ he laughs.
‘I like Beatrix Potter though.’
‘Oh right.’
‘I mean I did when I was a kid,’ I clarify. ‘Tom Kitten’s my favourite story. And the one with the frog. And the patty pan one. I still don’t know what a patty pan is.’ I’m losing him. Men don’t talk about Beatrix Potter. I need to talk about more grown up things, more manly things like motorbikes and wrestling. But I can’t think of anything I want to know about motorbikes or wrestling. I push my drink away. ‘How long have you lived in the flats?’ I say, even though I already know the answer.
‘Nearly two weeks,’ he says. ‘You?’
‘Two months tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I don’t think people live in our flats for long.’
He smirks. ‘Yeah, the landlord gave me that impression as well. What do you make of him, old Sandy Balls?’
I laugh too. ‘He hasn’t exactly got people skills, has he?’
‘Have you met the junkies in the flat between us?’
‘No, they keep to themselves.’ The flat between us. One flat away from us living together. One floor of separation. I wonder if his bed is directly above my bed. I wonder if he lies on top of me at night. My cheeks go warm at the thought.
‘Where were you before?’ he asks.
‘Nottingham,’ I tell him. This is true, but I was only there for a few months, less than a year. I can’t tell him any more than that. And I can’t tell him about Liverpool or Dumfries, or Manchester or Scarborough… certainly not Scarborough.
‘Ah, fancied taking in the sea air, did ya?’
‘Mmm. I prefer the flat here to the one they gave me in Nottingham.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘The council,’ I lie. ‘That one was awful. I never got a full night’s sleep. Drunks would spill out of the clubs below every hour through the night. And the fridge had slugs in it.’
‘Nasty.’
‘Yeah. The one drawback here is that it’s a basement flat, not top floor, so I often get a drunk peeing in the front garden or a can thrown over the wall.’
‘Better for the little one here though, I’d have thought?’
‘Yeah. Much.’ I kiss the top of Emily’s fluffy head.
My god I can barely look at him. In anyone’s storybook he is stunning. He’s every Disney prince only four-dimensional and with smell-a-vision. I could look at him for the rest of my life. His eyes sparkle like the sea and he has faint freckles on his cheeks. If I get to know him better, I’ll count his freckles. I’ll lie next to him counting them, waiting for him to wake up in the morning. I wonder if he sleeps naked. I blush again, furiously, and it goes all down my neck too. I pretend to focus on Emily.
‘Do you have any family?’ he asks. ‘Apart from Emily?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’ I think about telling Kaden the well-rehearsed lies that Scants gave me, but I don’t want to lie to him. I want him to know as much of the truth as possible. So I leave out the untrue stuff. ‘I live alone.’
‘Oh right,’ he says. Is that pity in his eyes?
‘How about you?’
‘No, I’m here in the short term for work. My family all live in London.’ Family, he said, not girlfriend, not boyfriend, not fiancée. That’s good. That means a mum and a dad. Though it could mean a wife and kids. I’m not going to think about that right now. ‘I’m a PT at Sweat Dreams on Tollgate Road, at the end of the seafront?’
‘Yeah, I know it.’ There’s a plunge of dread in my chest as I take in what he said before. ‘So you’re not staying here permanently?’
‘No, it’s a temporary contract. Six weeks’ cover. My predecessor broke his leg doing an Iron Man, so I’m filling in for him until he’s back at work.’
‘But you’ll definitely go back to London after that?’
‘Yeah, as things stand, though they might keep me on longer. It depends.’
It’s not enough hope to cling to, but it’s small comfort. I want him to stay as long as I stay. I want to know every inch of him, even the hidden inches. Thank god he’s not looking at me, I can feel yet another blush coming on. I stroke Emily’s back. ‘How are you coping with her on your own?’
‘Fine. She’s a very good baby so I must be doing something right.’
‘Are you on maternity leave then?’
‘No, I don’t get any. I managed to find a childminder who takes them from new-born so I could still work. I’m a housekeeper at The Lalique.’
‘Do you like working there?’
‘No, it’s not really a job to enjoy. My colleagues all hate me for some reason. There are some parts of it I like. The views from the top floor over the bay. And there’s a lavender air freshener we’ve got in the lobby at the moment that’s really nice. And the porter, Trevor, he’s okay. Well, he gave me a mint once. I love meeting the children who stay there as well. I adore children.’
‘Me too,’ he says, and I have a sudden vision of our children buying him a Best Daddy in the World mug for
Father’s Day.
He’d be a good dad. I’d watched him for two hours walking around the pool at the gym, giving swimming lessons to the St Jude’s kids then tidying up the floats afterwards and chatting to parents. He was so sweet with them all. I knew it wasn’t an act. By the time I left I knew more about him, more clay I could add to the statue of him I sculpted every night in my mind to get me to sleep. The shape of his torso, the muscle pattern of his back, what his feet looked like in flip flops. He has a tattoo of a snarling tiger on his right shin. I imagined what Us would look like. Us on our wedding day. Us getting the keys to our new home. Us wheeling a trolley round Ikea, choosing crockery. Us at the hospital, me in labour sucking on the gas and air, him scrolling his phone for funny videos. Stroking my face. Telling me he’s proud of me.
My heart thumps abnormally.
‘Are you a member of the gym then?’ he asks over the hissing of the coffee machine and the clanking of cutlery as a waitress clears a neighbouring table.
‘No.’ His face flattens. ‘I was thinking about joining though.’
‘You should. Or come along for a class, if you like. We’ve got Ladies Only Pilates, Ladies’ Boxercise, Fight Klub, which is like a self-defence class but to music…’
He’s staring at me – the way he said ‘self-defence’ was loaded with meaning. He wants to ask me more about my hallway hysteria. There’s nowhere to hide. His eyes hurt me – green like ponds, flecked with tiny pennies. He touches my arm. Fingertips to forearm. Skin to skin. My thoughts are scrambled egg.
‘I rescued a duck last week,’ I tell him. ‘On the beach. Its wing was broken.’
‘Oh right,’ he frowns.
‘And one of the cats caught a little bird once, brought it to the door. I rescued it. Took it to the RSPCA centre in town.’
He looks at me. ‘Is it her dad? The one you’re afraid of?’
I bite down on my lip. I give him a nod that barely registers. He says no more about it. ‘I love animals, do you?’
‘Yeah, but I couldn’t eat a whole one,’ he winks. ‘I’m gonna get a refill,’ he announces. ‘Won’t be a minute. Do you want anything else?’
I shake my head, smile flickering where it won’t stay on my face. He disappears up to the counter and I feel it this time – the ache. I resent the easy way he chats to the barista. The adoration in his eyes when he looks out towards the Lakes. I’m jealous of mountains. Of the half-eaten biscotti on his saucer. Touched by him.
When he sits back down, I know he wants to address the hallway thing so in a rush of confidence, I beat him to it.
‘I can’t really tell you very much about it, why I cried and panicked earlier.’
‘It’s alright,’ he says. ‘I can guess.’ He offers me his new biscotti. I take it.
The smoke alarm goes off – a forgotten cheese toastie on the grill by the looks of it – and the chef spends a good minute flapping the ceiling with a tea towel.
‘I’m not a weirdo,’ I say. ‘That’s the truth. I’m just a little messed up right now. I’m a newly single parent and I’m struggling but I will be okay. Her dad – isn’t a part of her life anymore. He can’t be. That’s all.’
‘I get it, Joanne. Really I do. You don’t have to say anything else.’
I deflate. I wish he’d call me by my real name. I wonder how it would sound in his mouth. But for now, I am Joanne and Joanne will have to do. ‘Thank you.’
He checks his Fitbit. He’s going to leave soon and I’m dreading it. ‘Listen, I’m two flights up. You get scared again, or anyone visits who you don’t wanna see, call me. If I’m not home, I’ll be at the gym. I can put my number in your phone, if you like.’
He gestures to take it from me, but then I remember the picture of him as my wallpaper. ‘I’ll make you a new contact,’ I say, fumbling. ‘What’s your number?’
I punch it in and switch it off. ‘Thank you. For listening. And for the drink.’ It doesn’t look like I’ve drunk very much of my shake – I can’t suck the thick cream up the flimsy paper straw but since plastic is not so fantastic anymore and I don’t want to pig great spoonfuls of cream in front of my Future Husband, I reluctantly leave it.
‘I better go – I’ve got a client in twenty minutes. Come along later and check out the facilities at the gym if you like? I can give you the grand tour. First month’s free.’
‘Okay, I might do.’
He stands up, gathering his wallet, phone and keys. ‘See ya, Chickadee,’ he says to Emily’s covered head, tickling the top of her hood.
He’s touched her. He’s touched my baby. They have a connection now. He’s growing to love her like his own, I’m sure of it.
Long after he’s left, I’m still staring out at the distant mountains he’d watched so lovingly. We’ll go there someday, Kaden, Emily and me. We’ll go there on holiday. Be one of those fit families that hikes in North Face coats and big boots. Emily will sit in one of those baby backpacks, peeking out over her daddy’s shoulder. Our Family.
‘Helloo, Earth to Genevieve?’ A voice filters through my private imaginings. Vanda from work stands beside my table, face full of make-up, big red lips and carrying two large shopping bags. She’s surrounded by children all whining for ice cream.
‘Oh, hi Vanda. Hi boys. And girl.’ They’re not interested in saying hello – they race to the counter and start choosing Freakshakes from the menu.
‘I saw you from outside. Why you not work yesterday and today?’
‘I called in. I told Trevor that Emily had a bug.’
She frowns at the papoose. ‘She got bug now?’
‘Uh no. She’s much better today thanks.’
‘So you be in tomorrow, yes? I need to know or else I get cover. You don’t let me know again, I give your job to someone else.’
‘I’ll be in at eight, I promise.’
She bats her enormous spider-lash eyes. ‘You better be there or I come down on you like ton of fucking bricks, yes?’
‘Yes. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Her children are obstructing two paying customers at the till but as Vanda shrieks ‘Kids move!’ at them, they quickly disperse and fall into line in silence.
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