For Adam, who always knew.
Sometimes, running away means you’re headed in the exact right direction.
* * *
– Alice Hoffman, Practical Magic
One
When Livi Callaway ran away from the place that was, or wasn’t, home, she planned to keep her distance. From there, and from others. Safety in anonymity.
The anonymity part was easy, but distance was a problem.
In her short time back in London, travelling on the tube had provided way too much direct experience of human anatomy. Her areas of unwelcome expertise now included overripe armpits and sweaty backs, as well as the endless varieties of Adam’s apple (usually noticed while dodging malodorous morning breath).
Once in a while, though, there was a fellow passenger she wouldn’t have minded getting closer to. Someone like the darkly handsome man she was catching glimpses of now, on the last Victoria Line train. Someone who provided a welcome distraction, until he got off at King’s Cross, or Finsbury Park, or Seven Sisters, to continue his above-ground life.
Certainly not someone like the unsavoury character who’d pressed himself hard up against her on the evening commute one night, his expressionless face revealing nothing of what was going on lower down. The worst thing wasn’t that he was doing it (think what those poor Tokyo women put up with), but that she didn’t just turn around with a sharply aimed knee lift, instead of sidling away. I’ve reverted to Britishness already, she thought. Why didn’t I go to New York instead? No self-respecting Manhattanite would put up with that.
Now, on this summer Saturday night, her carriage was jammed—but at least the passengers were cheerful. Although she was lightheaded with tiredness from a long, long day and night at work, she smiled as the people around her chatted and joked and jostled. Standing by the doors, at each stop she was forced to get off with the departing passengers and back on with the new batch.
After the third time, an American voice said, “You’re like an onion tonight.”
She turned and replied, without thinking, “That’s not the kind of vegetable I’d choose to be.”
The instant the words left her lips she knew it was all wrong. A mere second too late, it was blindingly obvious that he’d said not onion, but yo-yo. How could she possibly have imagined that anyone would randomly liken her to an onion? Now, as she looked up at tanned skin, dark eyes, glossy hair, and teeth that could only be from across the Atlantic, her heart beat out of sync. She took in distressed jeans, vintage polo shirt, and a battered leather satchel hanging from his shoulder.
Suddenly she was unsteady on her feet, not just because the train was lurching unevenly. Looking at his face, perplexed and amused, she willed the floor to open up and drop her on the tracks. She’d rather be electrocuted on the line than be a late-night crazy person on the Underground under his perfectly proportioned scrutiny. But there was nowhere to escape until the next stop, so she stood, cheeks flaming, praying he’d take pity on her and pretend he hadn’t heard anything.
Instead, he said thoughtfully, “No, if you were a vegetable it would be something much more delicious. Sweet corn…cherry tomato, maybe.”
Was he flirting? She chanced another glance. A rugged sweep of stubble and a scar on his jaw roughened his looks, making him even more compelling. Anyone who looked like that must flirt for a living. But suddenly she was uncomfortably aware of the harsh lights, and how tired she must look. She ran her hand through her hair, though she knew it wouldn’t make any difference. “That’s a nice thing to say,” was all she could think of to reply.
“My mom always said, you know, if you can’t say anything nice…she was English, she liked good manners. Plus, it’s important to say nice things to nice girls, don’t you think?” And he gave her a wink.
She couldn’t help laughing, he was so shameless. “Don’t think you can get away with being so cheeky, just because you do it in that accent.”
“Okay,” he replied, with a shrug and a grin. “But I don’t think you spring from round here either.”
Just then the train began to slow again, and there was a surge as people started to squeeze along to the doors. He put his arms out and made a protective space around her, shaking his head. “Oh, no. You can stay here this time. I’m not letting you go until I solve this mystery.”
Up close he smelled warm and woody and clean, and she had to stop herself from leaning in and breathing deeply. At this distance he could probably hear her heart pounding. His full mouth turned up at the corners, a permanently tempting curve. Her hips threatened to arc towards him in a very inappropriate way. She wouldn’t have been surprised at the crackle of blue sparks. If she actually made contact with any part of him, there seemed a real chance she’d just burst into flames.
Then the doors closed and the train started moving, and he grabbed the overhead strap to steady himself.
“Maybe that was my stop,” she said, heady from their closeness. “Then what would I have done?”
“Come for a drink with me?”
She was enjoying this now, feeling a glow, forgetting her embarrassment, and her sore feet and backache from standing in the salon all day. “At this time of night, unless you want to go clubbing, I don’t know where you’d find somewhere to just have a drink. This isn’t LA or New York.”
“I’m not from LA or New York, I’m from Idaho.” He looked at her closely. “And maybe I didn’t mean somewhere.”
“Ah,” she said, and suddenly felt a little flat. That’s right, she knew this story. Off she’d go to his place, with him and his charm and banter. They’d have a night that seemed unbelievable. And the next day it would be unbelievable, unbelievably awkward, as she pulled on yesterday’s clothes and tried to find her way to an unfamiliar tube station, with unbrushed hair and uncleaned teeth. The walk of shame. She had no interest in taking it. There was a time, when she’d first arrived, maybe…but not any more.
Her change of mood must have shown. “Hmm,” he said. “Maybe that’s not something you should say to a nice girl from…?”
Looking at his expectant, handsome face, she gave herself an internal shake. Lighten up, she told herself. He’s just a guy on a train, even if he does look like he stepped out of a catalogue. Just enjoy that someone, maybe, fancies you a little. And then she pushed her shoulders back, and put her smile back on.
“Actually, I was born here, but I’ve been living a long way away. Further away than you.”
His face lit up. “Australia!”
“Uh, no. Sorry to disappoint you.” Why was Australia always the first guess? Anyone would think there was no populated land beyond Sydney. Next stop Antarctica.
“Well then…ah, damn, this is my stop.”
They lurched together as the train made a last jolt, and his satchel banged against her hip. All at once she was aware of the crush of other travellers again, as they began their relentless move towards the door. He was carried along in front of two large women, but called over their shoulders, “We could try to find somewhere.”
She hesitated for a moment, not wanting him to be gone. Then, just as the two of them realised his bag buckle had caught on hers, the women swept him out and the doors closed. They looked at each other through the glass, his expression going from confusion to surprise to a sort of panic. And she was left holding his bag as the train pulled away.
Two
Livi pushed the American’s leather satchel around behind her back, and plunged her arm into the depths of her own bag, feeling around for keys. When she was a teenager her mother had sent her on a self-defence course, where they taught the girls to always walk to the door with key ring in fist, keys poking out between their fingers, ready to attack any shadowy prowler. But by the time the train got to her stop she was usually too tired to be vigilant, worn out from a day of trying to be hair-salon fabulous behind the reception desk.
Getting sick of rummaging, and dying to get to the bathroom, she breathed a sigh of relief as her fingers
finally came upon the keys at the very bottom of the bag. But as she unlocked the door and went to step inside, a voice called out from above.
“Come up the stairs slowly, we just need to…get organised. Won’t be long!”
“Hurry up,” she yelled back. “I’m bursting!”
Jiggling at the bottom of the stairwell, she smiled to herself and wondered what this one would be like. In theory, her flatmate Cass had the pick of London’s men. Livi thought she was what a woman from a Renaissance painting would look like if, slimmed down several sizes, she stepped out of the National Gallery into modern London. Golden-red hair, creamy skin, long limbs, and brown eyes with a truly unfair length of lashes. Enough, really, for Livi—or any everyday woman—to cross her off their friend list.
But with Cass, she laughed like mad every day. Cass said what she thought, and what she thought others should say too. Men were her weakness, though. Since they started sharing a flat near the Blackhorse Road tube, Livi had marvelled at the unlikely guys who’d come through the door. Most of them seemed as amazed as Livi that Cass had chosen them, and she guessed they weren’t amazed when they never got over the threshold again.
Finally the inner door to the flat banged open again, and Cass stood grinning and glowing at the top of the stairs in her gold satin dressing gown.
“Come on then, why are you hanging around down there?”
Up the stairs at last, Livi dropped everything in the entranceway and flew into the bathroom. She avoided the long mirror on the wall while she washed her hands. What if she saw something horrifying—a sudden pimple, smudgy mascara or, oh joy, something in her nose? After the embarrassing beginning, it was better to imagine that she’d looked her best for the American. (Ignorance being bliss, especially after midnight.)
But as she left the room, she gave in and looked, just for the briefest moment, and sighed. Yes, smudged mascara below her hazel-green eyes. An open face that invariably gave away her emotions, despite her best efforts. Unruly waves of glossy hair, once plain dark brown but now highlighted in chocolate and caramel (one benefit of sharing a flat with an expert colourist). And curves that were not runway fashionable, but had been her natural shape since her teenage years.
Those curves. She had to grit her teeth every time she saw another magazine headline shouting about how curves were back—while featuring long-limbed women airbrushed and elongated to within an inch of their pixelated lives. They may have had slightly more than an A cup, and a butt that actually provided some padding for sitting, but that hardly constituted radical curviness. She bet they didn’t have any trouble getting clothes to fit. Womanly proportions were more difficult when they came in a package barely higher than an Olsen twin. Her curves would be fine, she’d decided, if she was several inches taller.
She came out of the bathroom to find Cass waiting.
“I never even noticed when we first met, but look, he’s a mechanic and he bites his fingernails,” she whispered. “His greasy fingernails! Honestly, I can’t be doing with that.”
Livi laughed. “Well, maybe you should notice a bit more before you bring the next one home. Now go in there and notice your hair, you’re still all mussed up.” She nudged her beautifully dishevelled friend into the bathroom, and went down the hall.
It always gave her a shock to see a full-sized man in their cosy living room. ‘Cosy’ being the word an estate agent might use, to make its smallness seem quaint rather than claustrophobia-inducing. As he sat on one of their squashy, mismatched sofas, this particular man’s knees pressed against the coffee table.
“Hi,” she said.
He leapt up, a copy of Cosmopolitan sliding to the floor. Tease Him, Squeeze Him, Please Him: We Tell You How! shouted the headline on the cover. She and Cass had read that article, and Cass had been keen to test the advice on the next guy to come along…which would be this guy. She tried not to laugh at his guiltily flustered expression.
“I’m Livi. Sorry about the reading material.”
He held out his hand, and she tried not to look at his fingernails.
“Hi, that’s okay, nice to meet you…I mean, I’m Steve.”
As they shook hands, he went pinker still. Probably quite a sweetie, she thought, noticing his deep blue eyes. Better than the last one, who’d been flashy and overboiled, though still dazed by Cass.
Suddenly Steve’s gaze was over her shoulder, and she turned to see Cass there, smooth and sleek and dressed again. Time to make herself scarce.
“I’m going to make tea, can I get you two anything?” she offered, just to get out of the room.
But Cass grabbed her hand and steered her out, saying in an extra-bright voice, “I’ll just show you where I put the tea bags today.”
In the narrow kitchen, she leaned against the cupboards and looked dramatic. “I must be getting old, if I’m actually considering a cup of tea afterwards,” she said in a low voice. “Say it’s not me. It must be the quality of the performance.”
Livi laughed. “I’m sure it’s not you, you’re not over the hill yet, and I can’t judge the other. Move across please, I need a spoon. Why do we never have any teaspoons, only big ones?”
“I don’t know. And actually, it was nice.”
She took a clean spoon from the dishwasher. “Just nice?”
Cass thought for a moment. “In a good way. I mean, he was hot…but there was something sweet about it. But I made him wash his hands first. You’d think that would’ve killed the mood, but no. Aren’t men extraordinary, almost nothing seems to put them off.”
She looked genuinely intrigued by this, so Livi held the spoon in front of her nose.
“Cass, look. Even upside down and concave, you’re gorgeous, so no, I don’t think it’s extraordinary. Now, is he going or staying? Because I need to know if he takes sugar, and I need to show you something.”
* * *
She put the battered tea tray down on the narrow coffee table, and flopped onto the sofa opposite Cass and Steve.
“When I suggested staying open later on Saturdays, I didn’t mean this late. By the time we clean up, it’s always a sprint for the last tube.”
“It’s a great idea for Nicolette,” said Cass. “She gets to carry on with her fantastically stylish weekends, while we take turns at wearing ourselves into the ground making her even more money.”
Nicolette loved owning Peach, her chic hair salon in deepest Soho—just as long as it didn’t interfere with her aspirational social life. Every now and then, when things were quiet on her social calendar (between romances, in other words) she’d have a burst of business enthusiasm. Grand plans would be hatched, schemes would be proposed, and excitement would be in the air. Until she got distracted, and forgot about them again. Mostly, Livi and the other staff kept things ticking along themselves.
“It has been a big success,” Livi admitted. “It’s brought in a lot of money.”
Her original idea was to stay open later to cater to the clubbing crowd. The girls (or guys) could come in after dinner, get dolled up to the nines—for an equally pretty price—and then head straight out and hit the clubs. But what she hadn’t thought through was that no one hit the clubs until it was seriously late. On the plus side for Nicolette, as well as the extra income, it had gained the salon a wave of publicity (which Livi easily managed to keep her name out of, arguing that it should be all about Nicolette and the stylists).
The salon was the first place Livi had temped when she arrived in London. At the time, she hadn’t cared where she worked. After a painfully public disaster and subsequent escape from New Zealand—that too-small country—she just needed an income. And while England (where she spent her earliest years) was the obvious first stop, in her mind she’d already stepped across to the next rock in the stream, on her way across the water to somewhere else again. Just keep moving, she figured. Any kind of action was good.
But somehow she found herself absorbed into the life of the salon, and months later she was still th
ere. And good things had come of it—like meeting Cass. Without her, Livi knew, she might have sunk into a permanent slump.
Now she reached under the table into their secret stash, a shoebox full of chocolate.
“I think that place is in some kind of warp on the space–time continuum, though. Time goes more slowly there as the day goes on.” She sat forward to pass Steve his tea, then ripped open a Galaxy bar.
“That’s appropriate,” he commented, as she held it out to him. “It’ll be Planets next.”
“Well…” Cass ducked to rummage under the table again and emerged triumphant with a dark brown packet. “Ta-da! Soft, crispy, or chewy?”
“Impressive,” he said, accepting a handful. “Now just Mars bars and Magic Stars.”
“Funny how so many chocolate things have space-related names,” Livi commented. Cass offered her the Planets, but she shook her head. “I’d better not,” she said, feeling around her nose. “Do I have any pimples that weren’t there this morning?”
She leaned across, and Cass squinted at her. “We need another lamp. No, no pimples. Why, can you feel one coming?”
“No, I just…I was talking to someone on the tube tonight…” Then she remembered. “Sorry Steve, you don’t need to hear about my pimples.”
“You don’t have any pimples,” he said, looking perplexed.
“Wait!” Cass held up a hand. “You mean, you were talking to a man. Sorry Steve.”
“That’s all right,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m just a fly on the wall.”
“A massive fly…on the sofa!” She rocked back, laughing, then sat up again suddenly as hot tea sloshed onto her lap. “Oh, damn.”
Steve looked down into his mug.
The Near & Far Series Page 57
