by Zoë Folbigg
What’s she doing here?
Kate surveys Amber from the ground up. She wears knee-length black leather boots over black skinny jeans and her long golden hair weaves down her chest over a perfectly pressed cream silk shirt. Her face looks fraudulently make-up-free in subtle shades of nude and peach, and suddenly Kate feels like an overdone summer pudding, waddling over all plump and bursting with redness. She wants to quickly swipe her lipstick off, onto the back of her hand, but knows it’ll make an awful mess, even if she uses one of the antibacterial wipes in the handy packet in her bag.
‘There you are!’ Kate says, sidling up to George, breaking up their conversation about whatever it was. ‘Amber, how are you? What brings you to the PTA?’
Amber flashes Kate a charming smile, illuminating the hearth with a row of straight, white teeth.
‘Hi, er, Kate isn’t it?’
You know it is. We chatted for at least half an hour by the simnel cake stand at the WI Easter Extravaganza.
Kate nods, genially.
‘Amber here is going to be teaching the Year 3 class come September,’ says George, proudly. ‘I was just telling her to look out for Jack. “Here comes trouble”!’ he bumbles.
‘Jack’s no trouble,’ Kate brushes defensively, before turning to Amber. ‘Gosh, how wonderful. I didn’t realise you were a qualified teacher?’
‘Seems there are many strings to Amber’s bow,’ George gushes. ‘She was telling me she can speak Mandarin. Not much use at Claresham C of E, but we could use more Mandarin speakers at Digby’s the way the markets are going!’ Kate’s eyes glaze over as she feels an invisibility cloak shroud her. ‘Tell me, Amber, did you ever use your Mandarin at the High Court? Amber here worked in her dad’s chambers…’
Claresham’s largest house, on the village’s most expansive piece of land that edges onto vast Suffolk meadows, belongs to Amber’s father, Archibald Barrie, rumoured to be the next Master of the Rolls, and certain master of his Rolls, which his driver Ken ferries him from to his pied-à-terre in Chancery Lane three times a week.
Amber’s peachy cheeks flush as her doe eyes look into her prosecco flute before she realises Kate doesn’t have a drink in her hand. There is something both awkward and consummate in Amber’s faraway eyes.
‘Kate, you don’t have a drink, shall I get one for you?’ she says, looking for her exit strategy.
Kate gives George a scornful look. It was embarrassing enough having to listen to him fawning over Amber, but now Amber has pointed out his negligence.
The chink of a fork on glass draws all three of them out of the fireplace with a sigh of relief.
Melissa Cox stands in the middle of the bar with her back to a wall and taps the fork on her glass of Beaujolais five times swiftly.
‘Before I hand over the reins to the highly competent and completely unflappable Kate Wheeler, I’d like to say a few words of thanks…’
Kate looks around the room to see everyone look for her fleetingly, but not able to find her, in this clammy corner of Corky’s, and they all look straight back to Melissa as she says her thank yous and her farewells. Kate’s face feels hot and her throat parched.
I need a drink.
Twenty-Three
June 2014, Day 357
Click, click, click went the bank of plugs as Cecilie started up the machines. She sat down at her favourite terminal, the second one in on the first row, and realised she had a few minutes to spare before the sands of the egg timer would stop flipping and get her to middle-of-the-night Mexico.
She jumped up out of her white plastic chair and skipped down the stairs, two at a time, as elegant as a fairy in clumpy boots could be. The long ropey twists of her hair tangled themselves into the neck of her cream jumper and she freed them as she walked to the ground floor; to get herself a drink from the coffee machine behind the reservations desk.
She had a giddy feeling in her tummy. One of excitement. Today was a packed day of events at the library, all of which Cecilie had coordinated. Baby rhyme-time at 10 a.m.; a visit from a class from her favourite infant school at 11 a.m.; an author talk, which she would come back for in the evening.
Today was also the first time that Cecilie had known Hector Herrera on his birthday. When they met in a fan forum almost a year ago she didn’t know he had just turned thirty-three.
Yesterday, during a particularly quiet shift at the Hjornekafé, Cecilie had messaged Hector on her phone to ask him what his birthday plans were, and he said he would be out chupando that night: to get the party started early, with some friends, his girlfriend and all the other people Cecilie imagined Hector knew in town.
As she stirred a third splash of milk into her coffee and swizzled her spoon into a cyclone, she looked at the time lighting up the drinks machine. It was 8.15 a.m.; 1.15 a.m. in Mexico. She had fifteen minutes before Fredrik the man mountain would carefully wheel his bike through the back door.
Cecilie thought that although today was a new day for her, and it was Hector’s birthday, it would still be yesterday to him. He would still be out chupando, or he might be partying at home. Wherever he was, Cecilie knew to expect one of their more stilted, unclear chats: the ones they had when Hector forgot his English and talked about being muy bien pedo – which Cecilie had googled, and the translation hadn’t made much sense either. But Cecilie’s excitement about her day ahead, as she climbed back up the open staircase to get ready to log in, meant she was prepared for one of their more awkward chats, she could take that in her dreamy stride.
As she sat down at the terminal and inhaled a slug of milky coffee, she tried to picture where Hector was – would he answer on his phone or his laptop? – would he be waiting for her or would she catch him by surprise? She tried not to think that he might be otherwise engaged, making love to Pilar… and she typed in her password with both a furrowed brow and a glow of excitement.
Let’s see…
Cecilie didn’t want to see Hector’s beautiful bronze face all drunken and slurring, so she decided not to FaceTime. They rarely spoke with the cameras on, unless it was an unusually quiet afternoon on the art desk at La Voz and Cecilie was home alone for the evening. In fact, they had only talked face to face a handful of times in the past year since they’d met. They would mostly stick to chatting in green or blue boxes, and send silly pictures of themselves, or snippets of their favourite music videos or funny clips from movies they both loved – it was safer like that.
Are you there?
Siiiiiiii.
Are you ‘very well fart’?
Cecilie loved the literal translation google threw her for Hector’s drunken state.
Siiiiiiii.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY/ FELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS/ GRATULERER MED DAGEN!
Cecilie added some balloons, party poppers and gift emojis in the box.
Thanks! It’s started well.
Glad to hear it. Where did you go?
Octava – a bar in town. Hang on, I’ll send you a foto…
You there now?
Hector didn’t answer. Instead, a picture pinged onto the screen. Cecilie looked straight into the far-apart flirtatious eyes of the drunken man in the middle, strong arms up in the air. He made a peace sign with one hand, the other arm was tucked around the neck of a friend, and they were surrounded by more friends. Hector was wearing a khaki T-shirt with a white skull-and-crossbones illustration on it and Cecilie looked at it, knowing it was probably still clinging to his back right now, with a heady scent of turbulence and tequila embedded into the fabric. She wished she could inhale it.
Looks fun! Who are they all?
Cecilie asked, wondering which of the girls Pilar was.
OK, gimme a second… Ready?
Ja.
OK from left… that’s Anael, Xochitl, Ricky, Elias, Edgar, Nayeli, meeee, Heriberto, Luis, Efrain, Armando, Pilar…
So that’s Pilar.
She was half cropped out but Cecilie could see she had very black, very big hair, almost bigger than P
ilar herself, that seemed to drown her tiny face and frame. She was wearing a tight black dress with a sweetheart neckline. She looked like she was from another era. A pin-up from the 50s – not a girl from the same continent as Cecilie – only Pilar looked frail and spindly, not buxom like Ava, Bette or Jane. Her cheeks were sallow and sunken, her hooded eyes large and dilated, or was she just startled by the flash? She was not the sexy schoolteacher Cecilie expected, and it made her sad to see that Hector loved a woman who looked so different to her. She knew at that moment that she would come back to that photo, to linger on it, to torture herself, but she snapped herself out of sadness with the excitement she felt, wanting to tell Hector about his birthday surprise.
They look like a funky bunch.
They are. Most of them are back here now hassling me to get off the computer.
You home then?
Siiiiiii.
But not making love to Pilar.
OK so I got you a present.
Un regalo? For me?
A little present.
Un regalito then!
Hahahaha.
In their last conversation Hector had explained to Cecilie the Mexican obsession with the diminutive. Hectorcito. Ahorita. Mañana por la mañanita.
Cool, how do I get it?
Tomorrow in the little morning go to the post office. The correos. You know where that is?
Hector laughed.
Mañana por la mañanita. Of course I know where it is.
It opens at 8 a.m.
I won’t be there at 8 a.m., but thank you, I will go on my way to work!
Ask for ‘Post Restante’, there’s something with your name on it. Take ID.
It’s OK, I know everyone who works in the correos.
Don’t take ID then. But your regalito will be there. It should be there, I sent it three weeks ago.
Wow, I’m honoured.
It’s just a small thing. And I didn’t know your address.
Hector felt relieved Cecilie hadn’t sent anything to the apartment on Benito Juárez, even though he had nothing to hide of course…
Hector was sitting in the bedroom of the apartment, at the laptop on his bed while Pilar and Elias each rolled a joint on the sofa in the living room and Nayeli was raiding their fridge for snacks.
‘Pilar no wonder I can see your bones, there’s no food in here!’ Nayeli hollered.
‘There are totopos in the cupboard, gordita!’ shouted Pilar from the sofa, as she put the spliff to the corner of her lips and closed her eyes.
Ricky and Edgar walked into Hector’s bedroom to see where the birthday boy had disappeared to.
‘You jerking off in here, güey?’ asked Ricky, a tall man in a sleeveless white hoodie that showed off his sepia skin.
‘Are you fucking Ricky’s mamá online again, cabrón?’ laughed stocky Edgar as he tried to look at Hector’s screen and anticipated the punch on the arm from Ricky.
Hector hadn’t told anyone about his online chats with Cecilie yet. Not even Pilar. He always gave Pilar the impression he talked to several different people in art, music and political chatrooms, rarely going back to the same discourse.
‘Fuck off outta here, guys!’ Hector slurred, relieved that neither Ricky nor Edgar knew English as well as he did, so they wouldn’t be able to read the words on the screen.
Besides, the boys were sidetracked by Nayeli, shouting that one of them should go down to the convenience store on the street below for snacks.
‘A su madre…’ cursed Ricky, knowing he had little choice if he wanted to keep his girl happy.
Look I gotta go! All crazy here. Thanks for the regalito – I’ll pick it up tomorrow!
Hey no problem, gratulerer med dagen! Have a fun night.
Gracias.
Hector closed his laptop and gave a sigh, taking a moment to appreciate the peace a conversation with Cecilie brought him, before heading back to the party.
In the quiet of the bright library Cecilie’s eyes filled up. Of course, Hector was having fun with his friends. With his girl. He’d told her as much. Why was it bothering her anyway? She was nothing more than a friend to him, and if she was a good friend she would be happy for him.
Cecilie felt a wave of dejection and despair wash over her, then she remembered the gift waiting for him and she felt a swell lift her, and thought that even though she would never meet Hector Herrera, she wanted to make him happy. And that made her happy.
Cecilie gazed across, to the rows of bookshelves beyond the computers, and in one corner of the silent library she could hear a muffled, muted noise. Figures were stumbling over each other, with mirth and laughter, to get imaginary drinks from the reading tables. She watched dreamily, the hum of smoke rising into the high recess of the curved ceiling. She saw Hector, sinking back into one of the colourful cushions people sink into and read on, while she watched faceless friends ruffle his hair and a diminutive girl lean her head on his chest…
Suddenly Cecilie heard the back door to the ground floor entrance slam shut and the calm reassurance of spokes revolving. The figures in the library faded up into the atmosphere, distorting and shape-shifting like the smoke rings Hector exhaled.
*
In the morning, Hector woke alone, to the sun streaming down on him through the curtain-less window overlooking his and Pilar’s bed. His head was fuzzy and his tongue furry. Pilar had already left for school without waking Hector to say happy birthday, so he got up, threw on a clean T-shirt, a yellow one with an illustration of a red and orange sunset on it, over brown shorts with pockets on the side. He walked past Edgar lying on the sofa, and saw Elias through the open door of the spare bedroom, lying on a mat on the floor. He grabbed a tall carton of orange juice out of the fridge, put on his military cap, slung his hessian satchel over his broad shoulders, and slammed the apartment door shut as he left, to deliberately wake and irritate his friends.
On his way to the offices of La Voz, Hector planned to call in on his grandfather at the ramshackle house on Calle Bremont for a birthday breakfast of huevos rancheros, but before that, he walked into the post office.
‘Hola, Silvia,’ he said to the woman behind the next available counter.
‘Hectorcito, good to see you. I have a parcel for you!’ she said, with glee in her eyes. She went out the back to fetch it, knowing exactly where it had been sitting for a week, and came back hastily. ‘It’s from Noruega! Look at the stamp!’ she said, pointing to a picture of a Viking ship on it, as if the letter had come over the seas on such a vessel. ‘Maravillosa,’ she muttered under her breath while she pointed at a line for Hector to sign on.
Hector scribbled an illustrator’s signature, then smiled and doffed his cap to Silvia. ‘I’ll pass on your best wishes to Abuelo,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. Silvia blushed.
Hector stepped outside and sat on the steps of the correos, pushing his hessian satchel to one side so he could open the parcel. He looked at Cecilie’s writing. He had never seen it before and it certainly looked like a stranger’s handwriting. The alphabet was the same, but the letters took a different curve. Hector stroked the picture of the Viking ship softly with his thumb, then tore open the hard-backed cardboard envelope. Inside was a book. Hector pulled it out carefully. It was a graphic novel called The Left Bank Gang by a man called Jason. He had neither heard of the book nor the author, so he flipped it over and read about Jason, or John Arne Saeteroy, an illustrator from Norway. Hector flicked through: devouring the artwork, mesmerised by the brilliance and the politics of it, by the thought put into sending this, this, work of art, across seas and an ocean.
This was the first birthday present of his thirty-fourth birthday, and as Hector carefully slid his new book into his satchel and made his way to meet Abuelo for breakfast, walking with a spring in his step, he knew that no present would touch this today. If ever. Apart from the photograph Alejandro gave Hector on his eighteenth birthday. One he’d held back for a special occasion, as it was the only fami
ly photo with all three of them in it. Of Victor and Lupe Herrera holding Hector on the beach at Veracruz as a young toddler. Apart from that, he had never been given anything he treasured as much.
Twenty-Four
July 2018, Tromsø, Norway
‘Thank you, Cecilie, that was wonderful as ever, Liv’s whole being lights up when we come here, I’m so so grateful to you.’
Cecilie looks at the woman with the tired face and pointy chin. Her greying hair is scraped back and her delicate toddler is balanced on one hip as the mum leans down to pick up a soft giraffe from the floor of the library basement.
Cecilie takes Liv’s hand in hers, to steady her as an anchor as her mother bends with difficulty. She looks into the little girl’s far-apart eyes and slides a finger down from the flat bridge of her nose to the delicate tip, where she gives an affectionate double tap.
‘You sang beautifully, Livvy Loo,’ Cecilie says to the little girl. Enchanted eyes gaze back. Her mother stands and hands the soft toy back to her daughter. ‘Come back and see me next week, yes?’ Cecilie smiles.
The girl nods with an open mouth. An indebted mother smiles and slips away to gather bags and cardigans and coats, and put them all on the buggy.
Cecilie collects the books scattered around the floor and stops at the feet of a pair of familiar tan-coloured brogues.
‘Did you collect your order at the desk?’ she asks, looking up.
