by Helen Cox
My plan was to hide out in the kitchen with Lucia until he got bored and went home but as I was setting down the cup his hand brushed against the back of mine. This time, to my surprise, I didn’t recoil like the other day. Like every other time anyone who might be considered an eligible boyfriend came within reach. Instead, I looked down at our hands sitting on the counter, just an inch apart. His fingers drew nearer and touched the tips of mine. Keeping my hand still, neither accepting nor spurning his advance, I looked back up at him.
With the exception of my friend Ryan back in England, who didn’t really count, the actor was the first man to touch me in two years. I’d forgotten what it felt like: the spark that shoots through your body when someone you want makes it clear they want you back. His touch was softer than the last I’d known. A warm dream rather than the clinical stranglehold I’d learnt to pretend to adore.
‘That’s enough,’ I said, snatching back my hand, trying to work out if that was longing surging through me, or panic. He eyed me for a moment, taking in the effect he’d had on me. I took a pointed step backward.
‘Did I do something to offend you?’ he asked with a noticeable slur.
‘Are you drunk?’ I looked harder at him and tilted my head to one side.
‘Pffft,’ he almost snorted. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘The stench of whiskey is a bit of a clue.’
At this, his eyes fell to the counter. He sat up straighter in his chair and ran a hand through his hair which was still damp from the rain.
‘I might have had one or two glasses with a friend. But drunk? Of course not.’ He gave me an oversized smile in an attempt to make a joke of the fact that he was somewhat squiffy.
‘Is that the truth or are you just acting sober?’
He smiled. ‘Oh, so you know who I am now?’
‘Not remotely –’ I leant back on the work surface behind me, crossing my arms ‘– but my colleagues tell me you are some form of minor celebrity.’
‘Minor?’ The skin around his eyes wrinkled as he narrowed them.
‘Yep. Minor.’ If I was borderline obnoxious to him for long enough maybe he’d take the hint and give up this unwelcome plight to get to know me. He sat there with his mouth half-open. Groping for his next words.
‘Well, your colleagues are an informative bunch. Especially Mona. When I came in this morning she told me you were working later tonight.’
‘Did she? How helpful of her.’ I made a mental note to spend a good ten minutes giving Mona my Death Look the following morning. ‘Well, she further informed me you’re starring in some sappy-sounding movie about a girl with amnesia.’
‘It’s not sappy. It’s a very heartfelt script.’ He paused to stir a fifth consecutive sugar packet into his coffee. ‘But it doesn’t surprise me that romance isn’t your favourite genre.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yeah. You seem a touch too level-headed for that.’ He sipped his coffee, watching me over the rim of his cup.
‘I see. Any other dazzling insights? I mean, please, therapy is expensive over here so do go on.’
‘You pretend to be angrier than you really are.’ He pointed a playful finger as he spoke but I wasn’t to be drawn. Turning to the shelves behind me, I started stacking side plates.
‘Well, sorry you get that impression but you don’t know a thing about me.’ I could feel his eyes permeating, even with my back turned. The idea of him looking my body up and down should’ve made me shrivel. But instead, something stirred. An unusual twinge. Desire, simmering just beneath the skin.
‘Maybe that’s true but I’m a fast learner. And you never answered my question, by the way.’
‘Which one?’ I turned to face him. ‘You seem to be full of them.’
‘Did I do something to offend you?’ As he repeated his question the kitchen door creaked open ajar. Lucia had heard his voice from out back and was now, no doubt, enjoying the show.
‘No. It’s impossible for strangers to offend me. Their behaviour has nothing to do with me,’ I replied, wondering yet again what had caused the weird, wall-punching episode.
‘Strangers?’
‘Yeah. Strangers. People who don’t know you. At all.’
‘Well, I must’ve done something. Didn’t see you being so icy with Walt.’ He leant forward as he spoke.
‘Icy?’
‘Icy.’ He took a confident mouthful of coffee, clearly elated that he’d struck a nerve.
‘Do you wish to make a complaint about the service, sir? I can pass your number onto my boss in the morning?’ His eyes darted up and down as he looked at me. Was that aggravation or attraction?
‘Are you asking for my number?’ He leaned forward even further than before and looked, unblinking, into my eyes.
‘In your dreams,’ said my mouth but my face, against my will, moved closer to his. ‘I recommend you find yourself one of those polished and prim girls. You know, the type who think Pretty Woman is a genuinely romantic movie, and have time for manicures and will sit on a bar stool for hours laughing at your jokes. Go find one of them. I’m not about to become a founding member of the Jack Faber fan club.’
‘A woman who likes her movies but hates actors. That’s…that’s novel.’ He looked into my eyes and then down at my lips.
Lucia poked her head further round the kitchen door. ‘Hey Esther, it’s almost twelve. You locked up?’
‘Uh, just about to, Lu.’ I looked at Jack. He had the start of some wrinkles on his forehead that knitted together when there was something he didn’t understand. Attractive and on the brink of movie stardom, I reasoned he was unused to women showing any reluctance. But I was sure the curiosity my foot-dragging had sparked in him was only temporary.
‘Alright. I suppose I’m finished.’ Jack stood and pulled on his sodden suede jacket. Something about the way his hair hung forward as he did so roused an emptiness inside me. Maybe it was his accent reminding me of home or maybe I still had the words from the old man at Coney echoing in my ears but in that moment I wanted to be close to him. If only for one evanescent night. No consequences. No conversations. Just skin against skin. Of course, when I opened my mouth to speak no sound came out.
Jack noticed my attempt and seized on it anyway. ‘Do you want me to wait while you shut up shop and I’ll walk you home?’ His eyes were wider than before. Perhaps with hope or maybe he was just starting to sober.
‘No, but thanks,’ I said in a gentler tone. ‘It wouldn’t be worth your time. I just live around the corner. So…’
‘You say that but you managed to get mugged between here and there in broad daylight.’ He rested his hands on the counter, and flashed his roguish smile at me.
‘I’m not sure I have a sense of humour about that yet.’ I hung my head to one side and pursed my lips.
‘Wait, you have a sense of humour?’
I let out a quiet laugh in spite of myself.
‘So whereabouts do you live?’ he asked, edging towards me with the same caution an animal-control officer might exhibit whilst entrapping a mad dog.
‘If you must know, on Clinton Street.’ I took off my apron and folded it up on the counter. ‘The rent is so pricey I live largely on leftovers from this place but I wanted to be on that street. It’s mentioned in this Leonard Cohen record I’ve always loved.’
‘Oh. “Famous Blue Raincoat”.’
At this, I looked at him and now it was my turn to frown.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s right.’
‘It’s a powerful song.’ He smiled – not his charming, glitzy smile but a softer, subtler version that was somehow more appealing.
‘Yes. It, it is. I went through this phase when I was a teenager of listening to it every day. It’s sort of hauntingly beautiful for reasons I’ve never been able to articulate.’ He nodded as though he understood. ‘Anyway…’ I said, remembering myself, and Jack’s fist crashing at the wall just yesterday.
‘You sure you do
n’t want me to walk you home?’ he asked, and his hands, still resting on the counter, moved closer to mine. ‘I’d be glad of the company.’
‘Look. I … it’s kind of you to offer. But I’m fine.’
‘I’m not asking for your hand in marriage. Just to make sure you get home alright.’
My eyes widened.
He froze, understanding he’d said something he shouldn’t have – though he couldn’t have known what. In a split second the raw throb of all I wanted to forget came screaming back to me and, as a result, I all but screamed at him.
‘I don’t need your help, OK?’ My face had reddened. ‘I don’t need you to be nice to me or walk me home. Allow me to quench your unsolicited curiosity: I’m ordinary, alright? I’m nobody. I just want to do my job and live quietly. That’s all I want. So just… just sod off and leave me alone.’
Jack’s frown evolved into a scowl. He shook his head before pushing an exasperated hand through his hair. ‘Psycho,’ he muttered, his voice glacial. Something dark and unspoken weighed heavy across his brow. Creasing the skin.
I swallowed hard. Psycho was a bit unfair. I wasn’t running the Motel o’ Death, I just couldn’t be entrapped once again by a beautiful face. For all her mistakes, that one was mine. My weakness for a strong jawline was the lightning bolt that had birthed the late Mrs Delaney. I was her Frankenstein; she was my creature.
I opened my mouth to ask if he thought all the women uninterested in dating him were psychos but shame over my outburst kept me quiet. Jack fixed his eyes on the counter, laying down ten dollars in a slow, deliberate manner.
‘Keep the change,’ he said, not even looking at me before storming out into the rain.
Chapter Four
‘See you’re all sunshine and light this mornin’,’ Mona had the audacity to say as she tied her apron strings. I glowered, dolloping vanilla ice cream into the blender to make some kid a milkshake. All night, I’d replayed my clash with Jack, resulting in little shuteye.
‘Well,’ I said, sticking my chin out, ‘I had a certain unwanted customer last night.’
‘Who?’ Mona knew who.
‘Patrick Swayze.’
Mona shrugged as though she still had no idea what I was talking about.
‘Jack. Jack Faber,’ I said, louder than I meant to. A woman in the corner wearing a red, hooded sweater looked over. Even from a distance, her green eyes pierced through me.
Mental note, Esther: lower your voice when ranting about budding actors who won’t take no for an answer.
‘So?’
‘So why’d you tell him I was working the late shift?’
‘All I said is that you was on later. He was a customer and he asked me a question. What you makin’ a big deal outta this for?’ Mona, put a hand on her hip.
‘A big deal? I –’
‘And I didn’t tell him anything,’ Walt piped up out of nowhere.
Turning, I scowled at the old man. ‘Walt? What did you say about me?’ I said, wishing I had something sharper than an ice cream scoop to shake at him.
‘Nothin’…’ He continued to cut his omelette into small pieces, looking at me over the top of his glasses.
I pressed my lips together and switched on the blender. The blades clattered and churned. Once pulverised, I delivered the milkshake to a sulky kid who didn’t even have the manners to say ‘thank you’.
‘Might’ve told him you like books but he could have guessed that for himself,’ Walt admitted once I was back behind the counter.
‘Look, I don’t interfere in your personal lives so I’d appreciate you paying me the same courtesy.’ I glanced between him and Mona.
‘Well, excuse us.’ Mona put her hands on my shoulders and gave me a little shake from side to side. ‘We were just concerned that if we didn’t interfere you might never have a personal life.’
I looked at her, fighting a smile. ‘The wall-punching egotist with no understanding of personal space, that’s your idea of boyfriend material?’
‘What makes you think he’s an egotist?’ said Mona.
‘All actors are egotists.’ Our resident lady in red glanced over again from her corner. She had the hood pulled up on her sweater but I could still see her face was drawn, like she’d been fretting over something for a long, long time. As soon as she realised I’d noticed her, she again lowered those deep, green eyes and stared into her coffee. She wasn’t a regular. Knowing my luck she was also an actress and I’d just lost my tip.
‘Really? You’re protestin’ an awful lot,’ said Mona, drawing my attention away from the stranger.
‘Mona, come on… I’m serious.’
‘Hey Esther. Here’s one for you.’ Walt scanned along the crossword clues with the nib of his pen. The tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth as he did so.
‘You think after you gave sensitive information to the enemy I’m going to give you crossword answers?’ Quite a cruel thing to say to a Vietnam veteran, I admit, but a point had to be made. Hard as it was being alone, my life was complicated enough without these two stirring things up. ‘He didn’t even torture it out of you,’ I added.
Walt’s face contorted. ‘No. He gave me twenty bucks,’ he admitted.
‘What?’
‘He gave me twenty bucks to tell him what I knew about you. And I don’t know that much so, if you think about it, I played your enemy for a fool.’
He tried to snigger but I wasn’t amused. What kind of person paid an old man to get information about somebody they’d just met? Nice try, Faber. The drawbridge was up so you went in search of a rope to throw over the wall. Of course, I was already hiding behind the parapet, poised to cut you down with my sharp tongue. ‘Alright,’ I said, as Walt was starting to pout. ‘What’s the clue?’
‘Novel. 1938. First line: Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’ The conspiratorial smile returned to the old man’s face.
‘Oh, come on, Walt. You must know that one,’ I said. ‘Haven’t you watched any Hitchcock films in your time?’
‘Too busy watching baseball. You know it, don’t ya?’ He pointed his pen at me.
‘Rebecca.’ Walt checked the spacing in his puzzle and nodded.
‘What’s your story, kid? One day you gotta tell me.’
‘Once upon a time I lived in England.’ I replenished the napkin holders along the counter as I spoke. ‘Then I got a job cooking omelettes in an all-you-can-eat-buffet in Atlantic City. Then I became a waitress in New York. The end.’
‘Gotta be more to it than that.’ He squinted, taking a sip of his coffee.
‘Well, knowing how cheap it is to buy information off you it’s best I keep the rest to myself.’
Walt grunted and returned to his crossword.
‘What’s with you?’ said Mona. ‘Why you so cagey ’bout everything? Particularly round fellas. You haven’t had one date since you moved here.’
‘I’ve got my reasons.’
‘Yeah, I’m listening.’ Mona stared at me hard. Waiting.
‘I’ve seen what men can do. That’s all.’ Mona raised an eyebrow, and my shoulders tensed. I knew that look. That eyebrow wouldn’t budge till I spoke again. ‘I knew someone, alright? Back in England. A woman. And her husband hurt her, really bad.’
‘Gawd, what he do to her?’ said Mona.
‘She died because of him.’ I folded my arms. Something about that last sentence wasn’t quite right. Wasn’t true. But it felt it. Deep down.
‘That’s awful.’ Mona shook her head. The lie scuttled down the back of my neck, making the hairs stand on end.
‘Yeah. She should’ve got out. I mean, she tried but she should’ve tried harder. Sooner.’ In fairness to Mrs Delaney, she did struggle the first time. But never again. Never again until the day she died.
‘That’s real sad, it is,’ said Mona, ‘but honey, not all men are like that, y’know?’
‘Why risk it?’ I said, catching sight of Walt’s paper. The city murder rate hit
its peak that year and the headlines grieved the dead in black, dismal ink. Most of us had learnt to numb out the latest atrocity but that day’s story wasn’t the kind you just shrug off. Printed on the front page of The Times was a picture of a little girl. Back then we knew her only as Baby Hope. The image was a reconstruction of what experts thought she looked like. No one could tell from the corpse alone. It’d been a month since the police found her body decomposing in a cooler. They still hadn’t identified her. I read her story. Each word, a punch in the gut. Before her murder, the four year-old had been tortured, and raped.
I scrunched my eyes shut and leant on the counter. Blistering tears burned behind my eye sockets, and for a moment the world seemed darker and far away.
‘Er, Esther? You alright?’ I heard Mona say. I nodded. The bell above the doorway chimed. Only then did I risk opening my eyes, swivelling to see who it was. My shoulders relaxed when I realised it was just Julie-Ann, a wannabe writer in her forties who, thanks to three separate alimony pots, was a self-made lady of leisure. She came to the diner a few times a week to gossip and to work on her novel. In my limited experience gossip always took precedence. According to Mona, she’d been working on her book for over six years. The consensus was she’d never finish it.
‘Hi Julie-Ann,’ I called over trying to blot out what I’d just read, and felt. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’
‘Oh, yes please. Definitely need a caffeine hit this morning. Had a late night – if you know what I mean.’ She took a seat and toyed with the ends of her hair which was permed into corkscrew tendrils and dyed with a colour she called ‘Deadly Nightshade’. To me, it just looked black. She was somewhat dishevelled which was unusual for her. The silk of her purple jumpsuit was creased. Her thick eyeliner blurred at the edges.
