by Vikki Patis
‘They are, aren’t they?’ I turn to Beth. ‘Do you want to share one?’
‘Have one each!’ a male voice says from behind the coffee machine. ‘Treat yourselves!’ The owner of the voice emerges: a young man with short platinum-blonde hair and arms covered in tattoos.
Beth’s fair cheeks redden at the sight of him, and she lets out a giggle. The waitress laughs too, and waits, knife poised over the rest of the cake.
‘One each?’ she asks, grinning.
‘Yeah, why not?’ Beth says before I can respond.
‘Oh, okay.’ I can always take some home, I think.
‘Anything else, ladies?’ the man asks while the waitress fiddles with the till.
My glasses have begun to return to clear now that I’m out of the sun. I scan the board above his head.
‘A latte, please, and…?’ I turn to Beth again, my eyebrows raised in question.
‘The same,’ she says, smiling sweetly at the man, who winks at her before ducking behind the coffee machine again. Is Beth flirting with him? I stifle a laugh. He is quite attractive, I think, seeing his tattooed arm appear again as I rest my card against the contactless machine. Did Beth smile like that at Jake? The unwanted thought breaks in and I push it aside.
Beth grabs the plates of cake, forks balanced precariously on the sides, and indicates a table in the far corner. I hover by the counter until the man says, ‘I’ll bring your coffees over, love,’ and smiles. I feel my cheeks heat up, then shake my head. I’m a married woman.
I follow Beth to the table, grateful that it’s next to the back door, which is propped open with a stool. A cool breeze filters inside, blowing around my ankles. We sit opposite one another, plates loaded with cake on the table in front of us. Beth picks up her fork and digs in.
‘This is really good,’ she says, closing her eyes in appreciation. I laugh, then look up as the waitress places our lattes on the table.
‘Thank you,’ Beth says around a mouthful of cake. I pick up my own fork and try a small bite.
‘It is good,’ I say, closing my eyes for a moment as the flavours explode in my mouth. ‘But I doubt I’ll be able to eat it all. Maybe we should have shared one after all.’ I look up to see that Beth has already eaten half her cake. She grins sheepishly at the surprise on my face.
‘Haven’t eaten all day,’ she says. I smile back and pick up my coffee, blowing gently to cool it.
Beth finishes her cake in record time, while I pick at mine. She slurps her latte, grimaces.
‘Needs sugar,’ she says, opening the little glass pot and dropping a few sugar cubes into her cup.
‘I’m sure this cake is ninety-five per cent sugar,’ I remark, taking another small bite.
‘No doubt!’ she laughs, and takes another gulp of coffee. ‘That’s better.’
I set my fork down. ‘So,’ I say, glancing around. Every table is taken, full of people chatting and laughing. A couple of dogs laze on the floor, heads on their paws. ‘What did you want to talk about?’
Beth looks taken aback. ‘Oh, nothing really,’ she says slowly, her eyes cast down. ‘I just wanted to, you know, check in, I guess?’
I frown. Check in? I thought she did that with the phone call. ‘Okay,’ I say, drawing the word out. She looks up at me, and I realise how rude that sounded. Didn’t you want to be friends? I scold myself. You’re not giving a very good impression.
‘What happened afterwards?’ I ask. ‘I saw you being taken to an ambulance.’
Beth blows out a breath, a strand of hair fluttering across her forehead. ‘Yeah, they thought I was in shock or something. They just checked me over, then I went to the police station.’
Beth tells me about her interview, how unpleasant the officers were. I remember the male officer, his gruff exterior, his impatience. It had felt as if he suspected me of something.
‘I didn’t see you there,’ I say, pushing the memory away.
‘I saw you.’ She shrugs. ‘When you left. I saw you get into the car.’ She grins suddenly. ‘Flash car, that.’
‘It’s my husband’s,’ I say automatically. ‘His pride and joy.’ My words sound flat, but Beth is still grinning.
‘Nice,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I was just coming out after you. Had to walk home – bastards didn’t even offer me a lift.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Could no one have picked you up?’
‘Nah,’ Beth says, but she doesn’t elaborate. I take a sip of my coffee. I picture her trudging home after her shift that night, only to have to make the journey again in the early hours. She must have been exhausted.
Beth picks up her coffee again and drains the cup. ‘Thanks for that,’ she says, pointing at the empty plate. She glances at mine. ‘Ain’t you going to eat that?’ I wince internally at her coarse accent, then chide myself for being a snob. Clearly I’ve spent too much time with Judith.
‘I’ll take it home,’ I say. I raise an eyebrow at Beth still eyeing my plate. ‘You surely can’t still be hungry?’
She lets out a laugh. ‘Always.’ Her gaze flits around the room. I’m drawn to the bags of ground coffee on the shelves behind her. I consider buying some to take home.
‘That man,’ Beth says suddenly, reaching across the table towards me. ‘Did you know he was a soldier?’
‘A soldier?’ I blink. The term sounds so foreign, so strange in my small town.
‘Yeah. Well, he used to be. Was in Iraq.’ She whistles softly. ‘And then he’s murdered by some crackheads in a Golf.’ She shakes her head. ‘Ain’t no justice in this world.’
‘I thought it was a Corsa.’
Beth shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. I can’t help but agree with her sentiment. To have lived through war in a country so far from home, and then be knocked down on a street in Hertford, our supposedly safe little town.
‘It’s not very fair,’ I murmur. I look at her. ‘Were they crackheads?’
‘Eh?’
‘The driver, the people in the car. How do you know they—’
‘Oh, I don’t, but they probably were. Who else is tearing round the streets at bollocks o’clock in the morning?’ She laughs again.
I peer at her face, take in her uneven foundation, thick eyeliner. Her hair is the colour of milk chocolate. I remember her uniform from that night, the plain black trousers and white shirt. It made her look young, like a schoolgirl. She’s wearing jeans and a top today, something nondescript.
‘Anyway,’ she sighs when I don’t speak, ‘I hope they catch ’em. Wankers.’
I nod. ‘There should be CCTV around there, near the McDonald’s maybe?’ I finish my coffee, setting the cup on the saucer. ‘Where is it you live?’ I ask.
‘Across the street, in the flats by the shop.’
I suppress a shudder as I recall the run-down exterior, the intimidating teenagers hanging around outside, hoods pulled up, bikes discarded nearby. So different from my side of the road, with our white picket fences and young professionals leaving for work in BMWs. I look at the woman across from me, this woman who lives so close but in a completely different world. The street running between our two homes, the two estates, is like a wide-open sea. I think of Beth in a council flat, surrounded on all sides by growing families and noise and crime; then of my relatively new house, built in the nineties, in an area fondly named Foxholes. I can’t help but think of the nature that was destroyed to make way for the humans who now live there, the copse of trees that once grew where our house stands.
But it wasn’t too long ago that I lived in a very similar place to Beth. I understand that life only too well.
I shake my head to clear it, check my watch. It’s nearly half four. Where has the time gone? ‘This place will be closing soon,’ I say, standing. ‘I’ll just grab something for this cake.’
At the counter, I ask the good-looking man for a box, but I’m not thinking about him. I’m thinking about Beth, and how tired she looks. The late shifts at the restaurant must be taking a toll o
n her. And perhaps this experience is hitting her harder than I first thought. I remember her from that night; her wild eyes, her pale skin, how her hands shook as she placed her phone on the ground between us. ‘A-ambulance please…’
I shake the memory away. Cake boxed up, I slip it into my handbag then wander back over to our table, where Beth is staring into space.
‘All good,’ I say, startling her.
‘Shall we go and sit by the river?’ she suggests, her eyes bright and wide. ‘I don’t have to be at work this evening, and it’s a lovely day.’ She sounds so hopeful, I find myself glancing outside. It is a lovely day. Why should I waste it at home, sitting in the garden I could draw from memory? Every blade of grass, every visiting bird, every shadow as the sun passes overhead. The shadow Jake casts when he’s home.
‘Okay,’ I agree after a moment.
We leave the café together, murmuring thanks to the staff. Outside, the heat is intense, bubbling up from the pavement. We head back towards the river, turning right down a wide alleyway. Beth darts ahead and nabs an empty bench, patting the wood next to her. I give her a smile and sit down.
‘Shame the Starbucks is closed,’ she says. ‘I could do with a Frappuccino in this heat.’
I open my mouth to mention the petition I signed last week in an attempt to force Starbucks to get rid of their single-use plastics, but think better of it. Beth doesn’t seem like the kind of person to sign a petition like that. I take out my cigarettes instead.
‘Can I pinch one?’ she asks. I offer her the pack; she gets a lighter out of her pocket, handing it to me to use once her cigarette is lit. We sit in silence for a few moments, watching the ducks glide down the river, listening to the music spilling out from the pub.
‘Listen,’ Beth says, turning slightly to face me. Her voice is more urgent now. ‘I just wanted to say, it wasn’t your fault. You know. That he…’ She trails off, her cheeks flushing.
Died. The word hangs between us in the sultry air. I flinch.
‘You tried your best,’ she says hurriedly. ‘I couldn’t even touch him. I just…’ she gropes around for the word, ‘froze, I guess.’
‘It’s understandable,’ I murmur. ‘I just…’ I too struggle to find the words. ‘I just wish I could have helped, done something.’
‘But you did do something. You tried! That’s more than most people would do. More than I did.’ She looks so downcast now, her eyes filled with worry, regret.
And in that moment, she seems so vulnerable, so like the girl – that frightened, unsure girl – that I once was. I feel a spark flare in my mind, my heart softening as I look at her. How long has it been since I had a friend? Someone other than Jake to talk to, to listen to, to laugh and drink and dream with? I never had a sister, but I remember yearning for one when I was young, desperately needing that connection, the connection that only sisters can have.
But sisters don’t have to be blood, I think, then reprimand myself: you’re getting ahead of yourself. You hardly know this woman. I smile at her.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, patting her arm lightly, ‘we’re in this together.’ And Beth’s eyes light up as if I have just offered her the moon.
Six
Beth
Beth decides to ask Isla for a lift, anticipating that she won’t refuse, and she’s right. They walk slowly back to the car park, enjoying the feel of the sun on their faces.
‘Just over here,’ Isla says, leading Beth towards a shiny grey Ford.
‘Nice,’ Beth says. ‘Not as nice as Jake’s car, though,’ she adds. ‘That seems too flash for your tastes.’ Isla darts her a look, but then she gives a laugh that sounds almost like a sigh.
‘You’re not wrong. Hop in.’
The interior of the car is hot; Isla quickly rolls down the windows, turning on the air con. ‘You can smoke if you want,’ she says. Beth looks at her in surprise.
‘Really?’
Isla smiles, indicating left out of the car park. ‘Of course. This is my car.’
Beth digs around in her pockets for her tobacco and begins rolling one. The Rizla flaps in the breeze; tobacco spills on to her legs.
‘Oh, you can have one of mine,’ Isla says. ‘They’re in my bag. Can you grab me one too?’
Of course she has proper cigarettes, Beth thinks, reaching for the handbag on the back seat and extricating two. She lights one and slips it between Isla’s outstretched fingers.
‘Thanks.’
As they drive through the town, Beth stares at the shops, amazed as always to see the divide. There are boutiques and charity shops, grubby cafés and upmarket restaurants. Even the Wetherspoon’s looks fancy, a great glass building overlooking the theatre.
She glances up at Isla, with her perfectly styled curls and manicured nails, then looks down at her own hands. Her nails are short and ragged, and she doesn’t need to look at her hair to know it’s a mess. She straightens it within an inch of its life every day, using straighteners she’s had for over ten years, but it remains stubbornly frizzy and unmanageable.
‘Where do you get your nails done?’ she asks, nodding at Isla’s hands resting on the steering wheel. Isla indicates and pulls out onto the dual carriageway.
‘Oh, a woman comes round to mine. She’s a mobile beautician. I think she lives in Hoddesdon?’
Beth almost snorts. Of course someone goes to her house; she wouldn’t go out to a salon like everyone else. ‘Oh,’ she says instead. Isla shoots her a glance, apparently sensing the judgement in her tone.
‘It’s cheaper that way,’ she says, in what Beth suspects is a vain attempt to ingratiate herself. But you don’t have to worry about money, do you? Beth thinks uncharitably.
‘Cool.’ She tries to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. ‘They look great. Maybe I’ll get mine done one day.’
Isla smiles, eyes on the road as they come up to a roundabout. ‘That would be nice,’ she says carefully.
Beth senses some hesitation in her voice, but she doesn’t press her. Be nice, she tells herself again. You want to be friends.
‘So,’ she says, throwing her cigarette butt out of the window. If Isla disapproves, she doesn’t say anything. ‘What are you up to tonight?’
Isla purses her lips. ‘Erm, not much. Nothing. Just dinner, I guess. You?’
Beth thinks about what’s waiting for her at home: a dirty flat, a loser boyfriend. She suppresses a sigh. ‘Same.’ She picks at a loose thread on her top. ‘Today was fun. We should do it again sometime.’ Isla nods but says nothing. ‘Maybe I could come to yours?’ She’s pushing her luck, but she’s dying to see the inside of that house.
Isla is silent for a moment. ‘Uh, yeah, maybe,’ she says eventually. ‘Do you have to walk up this hill every day?’ she asks suddenly, putting her foot down as they approach Gallows Hill. Beth laughs.
‘Yep, it’s a killer.’
Isla shakes her head. ‘I doubt I’d be able to do it. Even the car struggles sometimes. Can you drive?’
Beth looks at her. ‘Of course,’ she lies swiftly. ‘I just can’t afford a car.’ In truth, she couldn’t even afford to learn to drive.
‘Oh.’ Isla purses her lips again. ‘Sorry.’
Beth pauses for a moment. ‘My boyfriend hasn’t worked for ages, so it’s just me bringing home the bacon, so to speak,’ she confides. She can’t remember the last time she had bacon.
‘Is he ill or something?’
Beth snorts. ‘Unless idleness is an illness, no. He’s just a lazy sod.’ She shakes her head. ‘He got laid off, like, a year ago? He looked for jobs but there was nothing for him at the time, so he just gave up.’
‘Oh,’ Isla says again. Do you know any more words? Beth thinks, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes.
‘Left at this roundabout,’ she says unnecessarily. Isla nods. Beth can see her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. Ah, yes. This is where it all started. ‘You okay?’ she asks as Isla turns left. Isla shrugs.
�
��I just… I can’t pass that place without seeing him, you know?’ She shrugs. ‘Silly, I know.’
Beth shakes her head. ‘It ain’t silly. I’m the same. It was awful.’ This, at least, is sincere.
Isla glances at Beth, her eyes searching her face, before returning her attention to the road and pulling into Beth’s street.
‘Anywhere here,’ Beth says, waving a hand. Isla finds a space outside the shop, yanking up the handbrake and putting the car in park. Beth looks down at the gearstick. ‘It’s an automatic?’ she asks. She sees Isla tense.
‘Lazy, right?’
Beth lets out a laugh. ‘No, smart. Why not let the car do some of the work?’
Isla pauses, then laughs too. She has a nice laugh, high and tinkling. ‘That’s not what my husband says.’ Beth fancies she can hear a note in Isla’s voice. Irritation? Disdain? She wants to probe deeper, but it’s too soon for that. All in good time.
‘Ah well, sod him,’ she says lightly, and reaches out to open the car door. ‘Thanks for the lift, and the coffee. We should arrange something else soon.’
‘What days do you work?’ Isla asks. Beth senses some restraint, as if Isla is trying to play it cool. She wonders why.
‘Every day apart from Mondays and Wednesdays. Sometimes I do day shifts, but mostly I work in the evenings.’ She gets out of the car and slams the door, poking her head through the open window. ‘I’ll text ya later.’ She gives Isla a grin and turns toward home.
Inside the flat, Beth lets out a sigh. Kyle is asleep; she can see his snoring form through the open bedroom door. Closing it softly, she goes into the kitchen to make herself a drink. There’s no cider in the fridge, but there is a half-empty bottle of vodka hidden at the back of one of the cupboards. She pours herself a measure and sits down on the sofa.
She wonders what Isla is doing right now. Does she sit at home drinking vodka by herself? Beth doubts it. She’s probably in the kitchen, rustling up a home-made meal, apron covering her dress, hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Her husband will come home from work, briefcase in hand, and smile at the domestic scene in front of him. Maybe they’ll watch TV after dinner, curled up on the sofa, then they’ll clear up together, Isla stacking the dishwasher while her husband wipes the worktop, wrapping up the leftovers and putting them in the fridge. They’ll smile at one another, and her husband will offer Isla a massage, holding her tiny feet in his hands.
