by Jenny Colgan
The man smiled.
‘Lovely. Can I bring you a negroni?’
Lissa looked around, still feeling excited and nervous and so pleased with the fact that she’d managed to do the right thing. It wouldn’t bring Kai back, but she’d been able to look Mrs Mitchell in the eye as she’d left.
‘Yes please!’ she said. Then she took a picture of the bar sign and texted it to Cormac.
She also sent Anita a Skype message to say she had done it and thank you: the woman had been right all along. Anita responded by sending her a picture of an ice cream cone and Lissa smiled to herself.
Lissa finished her drink and immediately declined another, the idea of being drunk when Cormac arrived too hideous to contemplate. She considered a coffee, then worried her breath would smell, and settled for a fizzy water. The waiter looked a tiny bit concerned. A cloud passed across the sun.
She thought whenever Ezra hadn’t been in the mood to see her, he’d just not answer any of her messages or texts. It happened to Kim-Ange all the time when she met guys and then they got cold feet. Ghosting was awful.
But that wasn’t going to happen here. Not with Cormac. He’d asked her to lunch after all. They’d arranged to meet.
Although they hadn’t booked anywhere specific, had they? They hadn’t actually said, ‘this restaurant in this place’. Just Borough Market. It was fairly non-specific, after all, when you thought about it.
She shook herself. Come on. She was catastrophising, overthinking, everything a therapist would say was unhelpful. She’d got through one thing today. She was going to manage. She was.
She tried not to drink all her water too quickly. Her battery was running a little low. Still no message.
Chapter Thirty-two
‘So you came to meet some bird,’ said Fred scornfully, ‘that you’ve never even met.’
They had been in the cell together for some time and were trading stories.
‘Yeah,’ said Cormac.
‘What if she’s, like, a fuckbeast?’ said Nobbo.
‘I’m sure she’s not a fuckbeast,’ said Cormac carefully.
‘Well, did she send you pictures? Of her tits and that?’
‘No, of course not! Women don’t do that.’
‘Fuckbeasts don’t.’
‘Could you stop using that term? It’s really unpleasant.’
Fred sniffed a bunch of catarrh up his nose with one finger closing a nostril and hoiked it into the seatless metal toilet at the side of the room. Cormac didn’t necessarily feel this was an improvement. He paced up and down, feeling worse and worse – she must be there, or had she left by now? Stormed off, furious with him? Maybe she’d never speak to him again. Maybe that was his chance and he’d muffed it. After all there was only another couple of weeks to go . . .
And he’d be back home which was . . . well, it was fine of course.
But the cottage could feel a little empty on those long, dark evenings that came in the winter time.
‘MacPherson?’ came the guard at the door, unlocking it. ‘You can make your phone call now.’
‘Are you charging me?’
‘We’re going to have a word, so hold your horses.’
‘He was just pulling off Big Al!’ shouted Fred, and Nobbo agreed vociferously, while laughing like an eighteen-year-old at the same time.
Cormac sighed as he followed the officer down the hallway. Who on earth was he going to call?
Chapter Thirty-three
Kim-Ange shook her phone crossly.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’
There was a blubbering noise.
‘Stop crying,’ she said as Lissa tried and failed to stop crying down the telephone.
‘Come home immediately. You know, I didn’t have him pegged as a wasteman. Mind you, he treated Yazzie pretty shabbily. And I never saw his “friend” again.’
‘I mean . . . I keep thinking, maybe he’s here, but nearly everyone’s gone and all the stalls are closed up and the vans have driven off and I’ve drunk a litre of mineral water . . .’
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Kim-Ange encouragingly.
‘So I keep thinking I’ll miss him every time I go to the toilet and . . .’
‘Are you freaking out?’
‘It’s been a very long day.’
‘Take deep breaths.’
‘I’ve been trying that. The waiter is looking at me funny. He was friendly three hours ago.’
‘Don’t tell me you waited for him for three hours!’
There was a pause.
‘I can’t not tell you that.’
‘Would Beyoncé wait for Jay-Z for three hours?’
‘No,’ said Lissa in a quiet voice. ‘Although Kim probably has to wait for Kanye for three hours all the time.’
‘Three hours?!’ said Kim-Ange again.
‘I . . . I really thought I liked him,’ said Lissa.
Kim-Ange bit her lip.
‘Come over,’ she said. Then: ‘Hang on, let me just make sure he’s not here.’
‘Oh God,’ said Lissa. Then, more hopefully, as if the thought had just occurred to her: ‘Maybe he’s fallen asleep or something, just lost track of time!’
Kim-Ange couldn’t bear to hear the forced casualness in her voice.
‘Mm, give me a minute.’
She banged loudly on her side of the wall, their normal method of communication.
‘Nope,’ she said finally. ‘That always works. He’s not here. You’re safe – come over.’
Lissa felt her heart plunge. That was her last hope. Well, that or him being wounded with something painful but not aesthetically disfiguring in hospital somewhere where she could tenderly nurse him back to health, but she didn’t really want to say that one out loud.
‘But then he’ll find me sitting there when he gets back like some kind of mega stalker! He’s already in hiding from me!’
Kim-Ange sighed.
‘I am taking you to the gin bar. That is the only way out of this situation.’
‘Can we talk about him?’
‘No. Just gin.’
‘Can I cry a little bit?’
‘Gin only.’
‘Engaged,’ said Cormac ruefully, hanging up the phone. Kim-Ange would almost certainly be talking to her parents again, something which took place, on and off, quite a lot of the day.
‘Mmmm,’ said the policeman, uninterested. Cormac was still worried about whether or not they were going to charge him.
‘Want a solicitor?’
On a list of things Cormac wanted, a solicitor was so far from being something he wanted he nearly cried. Instead he said clearly, no, he didn’t, and hoped he’d made the right decision.
The interview room was horrible, small, with a tiny cracked reinforced glass window set high above their heads and a revolting stale odour made no better by the heat of the day. What was lovely outside in London was very muggy and unpleasant in a basement near the River Thames. Feet were just visible above his head, walking back and forth in freedom. He watched them pass, feeling defeated, which he imagined was the point of the place, after all.
‘I was trying to stop the big lad hurting anyone,’ said Cormac for the fourth time to the two police officers opposite them. ‘I was using Army defence methods to restrain him, nothing more. They went slightly wrong,’ he continued. ‘But you know the trouble these big lads get themselves into. We were already there because of a horrible accident. Really wasn’t in the mood for another one.’ He sniffed. ‘Also, sorry to point this out but we were in a courtroom facility crawling with police officers and security guards. Why was I the only person in there trying to sort something out to stop them killing each other?’
The police officers looked at each other for a moment.
‘Okay,’ said the policeman finally. ‘Well. Big Al said to say thanks. He could have killed that guy and he’d feel very bad about that.’
He was reading from a piece of paper.
‘He
’s pleaded guilty to affray. Shouldn’t get him into too much trouble – slap on the wrist if he’s lucky.’
‘Anger management? He needs it.’
‘I hope so,’ said the female officer. ‘Perhaps a medical professional could write a letter of recommendation.’
‘Happy to,’ said Cormac.
They all looked at each other. Cormac tried desperately not to glance at the clock.
‘Ex-Army, huh?’ said the police officer, checking the files on her computer. ‘Says here you served in Fadge?’
Cormac nodded.
‘But you’ve never been in trouble?’ She smiled, rather wryly. ‘My brother was out there.’ She gave him a shrewd look. ‘He found it quite tricky coming home.’
Cormac found himself swallowing suddenly.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said in a quiet tone of voice.
‘But you’re doing well.’
‘Apart from being in prison,’ said Cormac, thinking of everything that had happened, everything he’d learned and seen in the last few months. ‘I’d say . . . nae bad.’
The officer stood up.
‘Right. Off you go. Stay out of trouble.’
Cormac chanced his arm.
‘They’re just lads, you know. And they’ve been through a lot.’
‘They have,’ said the woman. ‘So have a lot of people who don’t start punch-ups in public places.’
‘They started . . .’
Cormac realised quickly he was going to get himself into trouble again as a frown crossed the other officer’s face. He stood up fast.
‘Thank you so much.’
The sarcastic police officer looked practically disappointed to see Cormac ready to walk out.
‘Leaving so soon?’ he said.
‘Aye,’ said Cormac. He was handed back an envelope containing his wallet, watch and phone. The battery was completely drained. Shit. He winced when he saw it. Then he realised he didn’t have a lot of time to lose. The other lads had already been released; he was the last one.
‘Good luck with the fuckbeast!’ shouted Nobbo as Cormac ran out of the police station at top speed. They had found a pub next door to the police station, which seemed to Cormac unwise to say the very least, but he didn’t have time to do much other than wave quickly.
Chapter Thirty-four
‘I have been ghosted,’ said Kim-Ange dramatically – she had quickly put on a large black fascinator to chime with the sombre feel of the occasion, ‘twenty-seven times. It has been terrible every single one of those times.’
‘Perhaps he’s dead,’ said Lissa hopefully. Kim-Ange had bought four massive balloons full of a gin concoction to save time, and she was drinking from them, Lissa realised, rather like she’d drink beer, just because the glass was so big. This was unwise. On the other hand, screw absolutely everything.
‘TO DEATH,’ said Kim-Ange, and they chinked glasses. Lissa sighed.
‘Was he really tiny though? Did he look like a mole? Did his nose come straight out of his neck?’
Kim-Ange sighed. Shook her head.
‘I had no idea you liked him so much.’
‘Neither did I!’ burst out Lissa. ‘Until I literally found myself right here, saying this. I think I just . . . I needed a little crush.’
‘Are you sure it isn’t his house you like?’
‘I do like his house,’ said Lissa, thinking of the cosy fire and the little wooden staircase.
‘That’s what you’ve done,’ said Kim-Ange comfortingly. ‘Projected the idea of home ownership onto some bloke. It’s the idea of owning your own house you are in love with.’
‘Maybe,’ said Lissa a little dreamily. ‘So, he’s a wasteman then?’
‘He has,’ said Kim-Ange, crossing her fingers to try and save her friend from more pain, ‘seven toes on each foot and ears bigger than his head. He comes up to my waist and sheds hair like a pony. And, oh my God, the smell.’
‘Really?’ said Lissa, approaching the bottom of the vast glass. The house didn’t smell at all. Nice, if anything; that scent of almond shampoo, the same type she’d started using.
‘Yup,’ said Kim-Ange. ‘Lucky escape if you ask me. Another?’
Chapter Thirty-five
‘Kim-Ange?!’
But nobody was answering the door. Cormac slumped in the door frame, sweating. He had run all the way there, and even though it was later, the heat was still dense and humid, unpleasant, as if all the buildings were holding it in, storing it all day like a battery only to give it back during the evening. Cars had honked and people had yelled as he tore past, his lungs ragged with what felt absurdly like freedom. She had to be at the nurses’ halls, she had to be. Where else would she go but to see her best friend? There were a million places she could go of course, but he couldn’t think of that right now; only that she’d be there.
He had charged through Borough Market, but the stalls were closed and the bars full of couples and groups and as if she’d have waited all day; it wasn’t even possibly or remotely likely. Nobody noticed him as he ran past, tension on his face, except for one waiter, clocking on to his second shift, who looked at him as he tore through and wondered . . . just wondered . . . and hoped it would be okay for the sweet girl with the sad face.
And here he was. Stav the doorman had smiled happily at him – it had taken a quarter of a year but Cormac had worn him down eventually with a very expensive pain au raisin habit – as he’d hopped up, sweaty and dishevelled, checked his own room then banged on Kim-Ange’s door, even thinking he really ought to take a shower but unable to wait, completely unable to wait even one second more to see her.
Yazzie walked past.
‘Hey!’ said Cormac. She sniffed loudly at him, which he found slightly puzzling as he had absolutely no idea she was annoyed with him. ‘Have you seen Kim-Ange?’
‘She’s got a boyfriend,’ said Yazzie pointedly.
Cormac blinked.
‘Aye, I know that . . . I just wondered if you’d seen her.’
‘You look filthy and awful,’ pointed out Yazzie.
‘Thanks,’ said Cormac.
‘Just call her,’ said Yazzie.
‘Could you? I’m out of charge,’ said Cormac. ‘Please? Please! Tell her if she’s with Lissa I can explain . . . please? Tell her I’ll call.’
‘Sure,’ said Yazzie, walking off and pretending to put her phone to her ear.
He glanced at his watch. Shit! It was after eight o’clock already. The train left at nine. Euston station was half an hour away.
Chapter Thirty-six
‘Did you call your mum?’ said Kim-Ange, pouring Lissa into a taxi. ‘Don’t call her now, I mean. Just . . . call her.’
‘I didn’t tell anyone I was coming today,’ said Lissa. ‘Because I didn’t know if I could manage it . . . and because I wanted . . . I wanted to spend it with . . .’
Lissa’s lip was wobbling. Kim-Ange leant into the cab and gave her a big full-body hug.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘You did the right thing. Go back to Scotland, pack up and I’ll see you back here in a couple of weeks. Don’t worry about that wasteman. I will make his life absolute hell.’
‘Don’t put prawns in the curtains, because when I come back they will still be my curtains,’ said Lissa.
‘Okay.’
Lissa checked her phone again.
‘PUT YOUR PHONE DOWN! You know you will hear from him. Tomorrow, with some bullshit excuse,’ said Kim Ange fussily. ‘Then it’ll all pick up again: the flirting and the little jokes and everything until it comes time to meet again and then the same thing will happen. Trust me. I know men.’
‘I know,’ said Lissa.
‘Is she going to spew in my cab, love?’ said the taxi driver.
‘NO!’ they both said together.
‘Give me the phone,’ said Kim-Ange. ‘Come on, hand it over. You’re pissed and in possession of a phone: it’s a deadly weapon.’
Lissa sighed. Kim-A
nge grabbed it and hit a few buttons. She’d done this before.
‘I’ve blocked his number. Stop any recriminatory texts.’
‘I’ve got his number at home.’
‘Yes, but that will be the morning and then you can think about what you’re doing. In between sending me a thank you bouquet.’
The meter ticked on.
‘Don’t . . . don’t lose the messages,’ mumbled Lissa.
‘Messages are saved, but you can’t send any more and neither can he, if he sends you one – which he WON’T,’ said Kim-Ange. ‘You wouldn’t get it anyway. At least, not till you sober up.’
‘Thanks,’ said Lissa, flinging her arms around her again. ‘You’re a great friend.’
‘I am,’ said Kim-Ange grimly. ‘Now I am going back to set fire to his bed.’
‘It’s my bed!’
‘Oh yes. I’ll think of something.’
It felt suddenly unbearably unfair to Lissa that Kim-Ange was going back to Cormac and she wasn’t.
‘Maybe he is dead,’ she said. ‘Saving a bunch of children from a burning orphanage. Even then I still hate him.’
‘In you go,’ said Kim-Ange, slamming the door behind her as the cab shot off into the night.
Chapter Thirty-seven
There are several ways of getting from the South Bank to Euston in half an hour: Thameslink, the Northern line, the number 63 bus, a black cab which will do puzzling things around Bedford Square – but if you are in a tearing hurry and, frankly, a bit of a panic, you could always try running it. I wouldn’t, personally. But then it very much depends whether or not you are thinking straight.
Cormac wasn’t thinking straight at all.
But as he flew down the stairs and out into the humid night, hit the great river and charged along it, he felt better running, more free than jiggering about in a cab stuck in heavy traffic or a tube inching forwards. He couldn’t have borne it.
To his surprise, he realised he knew where he was going. Across the bridge at Embankment, diving across Trafalgar Square and into Covent Garden, passing hordes of Lycra-clad tourists looking confused and buskers looking tired, cutting through towards Bloomsbury with its pretty red mansions and well-trimmed squares. He felt the ground under his feet and realised at last the pull of the city – that it could be your city, that it was expensive, yes, and grubby and strange, but you could belong too once you knew how to skirt the crowds, find your corner; then you could experience the whole world on your doorstep.
