by Helen Lowrie
My stomach tensed with nervous excitement at the sight of two new emails in my inbox but it was short-lived. Rather than information relevant to my search, they turned out to be words of comrade-like encouragement from other ex-foster kids. As kind as the messages were, I couldn’t help feeling deflated. Half-heartedly I keyword-searched the various sites for posts with the names Kat and James (just on the off-chance she was actually looking for me) but came up empty as ever. Sighing, I shut down the laptop, took off my glasses and rubbed the bridge of my nose. What if she simply didn’t want to be found?
Chapter Nine
Feeling typically frazzled for ten o’clock on a Thursday morning I turned the fryer down to a low heat, rested my elbows on the counter and gazed out at the market with envy. I had a clear view of Jo’s stall – a multicoloured array of fruit and vegetables held aloft on emerald carpets of artificial grass: bunches of smiling yellow bananas, stacks of glossy red tomatoes and bulbous sweet peppers, as vibrant as traffic lights. It was a warm, sunny, spring day outside and I longed to go for a walk, to feel the sun on my skin, the breeze in my hair – but of course I would do no such thing.
Vic didn’t like me leaving the building without his prior permission and even then I was only allowed as far as the market. In much the same way as we got discounted fruit and veg from Jo, Vic had similar deals set up with the butcher, the fishmonger and the bakery round the corner. In the first few years of our marriage I’d taught myself to cook by watching TV shows and following recipes from magazines. Vic would take me to the local supermarket once a month so I could stock up on the ingredients he couldn’t scrounge from stallholders or bulk-buy from the cash and carry. But my culinary efforts were wasted on him and he resented spending the extra money. Now we ate at the cafe during the day, our evening meals were plain and simple and the trips to the supermarket had long since dried up. The only other place I’d ventured to in the past eighteen years was the hospital.
The way Vic controlled and confined me with his set of ‘rules’ and the constant threat of violence was wrong, I knew that. I no longer found his possessiveness flattering; I’d long ago recognised him for the bully he was. A private part of me – the daring girl I used to be – silently railed against my husband like a feral cat trapped in a cage: all bared teeth and sharp claws. But in reality it was not worth fighting. With my aversion to physical contact and crowded places Vic’s restrictions on my movements had, over time, become easy to adhere to and were now strangely comforting. The irony was not lost on me. It was only on days as beautiful as this one that I was really conscious of how confined my life had become. I sighed. Today I couldn’t even roll up my sleeves because Vic had carried out an impromptu stock check the day before and noticed a few things missing – a Mars bar for one. He had grabbed my arm in order to berate me about it, painfully twisting my wrist and giving me fresh bruises that would invite difficult questions if seen.
From where I stood it seemed Gary the flower seller had some beautiful new blooms in: buckets bursting with lilies, carnations and roses and – were those freesias? They must smell fantastic.
A glance around the cafe confirmed that every customer was seated with food or a newspaper; no one needed me or was even looking in my direction. Recklessly grabbing a handful of paper napkins, I walked over to the front door and wedged it open, quietly revelling in the noisy, fragranced air that assailed my senses. Standing on tiptoe and craning my neck to discover what else Gary might have on his stall, I clocked a tall, attractive, young man. He was unloading a colourful selection of planted pots, troughs and hanging baskets from the back of a small van. I’d never seen him before and something about the way he laughed politely, presumably at one of Gary’s bad jokes, drew my attention.
Straight away I could tell he wasn’t from around here – it wasn’t just his good looks: we sometimes got stray city types cutting through the market, lost or on their way to somewhere more important. And it wasn’t just the way he was dressed – in trendy jeans and a smart rugby shirt that implied better taste and breeding than was the local norm. It was his energy – an air of wholesome health and vitality, a light in his eyes that spoke of optimism and fresh possibilities. In these parts that was rare indeed.
I was too far away to hear what they were talking about but I unconsciously leaned into the door frame as the young man finished unloading the last of his wares, his broad shoulders and back muscles flexing and moving with practised ease, his thigh and butt muscles filling out his jeans with each smooth crouch and squat. He was locking up his van when Gary suddenly jabbed a finger towards Vic’s greasy spoon.
Blinking in alarm, I abruptly snapped out of the strange trance I had drifted into as the stranger began to turn in my direction. Embarrassed, I pivoted on my heel and returned to the counter before he could catch me staring at him like a lunatic. What the hell had got into me? I wasn’t the sort of woman who lusted after men – especially not twenty-something boys who were too young for me and completely out of my league. Picking up a cloth I wiped down the already clean counter top, holding my breath as the tall, dark figure sauntered in through the open doorway.
Chapter Ten
Shaking Gary’s hand on our agreement I thanked him before strolling over to the cafe he’d recommended for a late breakfast. He was impressed with our Easter planters and that was a weight off my mind. I was confident that the stock was top quality and Lil had made a professional job of the planting but it was a relief even so – a regular weekly order was just the sort of custom the nursery needed and would look promising to a potential investor.
The woman working in Vic’s Cafe captured my attention even at a distance – something about the way she moved. She was not conventionally pretty like Jasmine. She was tall, pale and slender almost to the point of gauntness, with eyes slightly too large for her face, a long nose and a sharp chin. Not my usual type at all. But there was something about her, a quiet dignity and grace which was somehow incongruous in a modest greasy spoon, and which distracted from the noise, the heat and the odorous smell of fried meat.
I found myself taking a stool at the counter just to be near her, as if we were two friends in a room full of strangers. She blushed slightly as I caught her eye. I was staring but I couldn’t help it.
‘What can I get you?’ Her voice was steady but gentle.
‘Oh, um, I’m not sure,’ I said, picking up a menu and glancing at it blindly. ‘Just some coffee and toast would be great.’
‘Brown or white?’ With her fingertip she entered my order into the till.
‘Brown, please.’
She nodded and poured my coffee. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’ With her chin she indicated further along the counter, her eyes briefly connecting with mine.
‘Thanks.’ As I smiled at her she turned away, her cheeks reheating. I was used to girls blushing around me. Jasmine had once said that my good looks were deceptive and gave women the mistaken impression I’d be good in bed. She’d been mad at me at the time. Lately she was mad at me all the time but, with my constant driving back and forth to Wildham, we’d become like ships in the night. Despite what my girlfriend might think I got the feeling that this woman did not blush often or easily and I was pleased to have had an effect on her.
Mesmerised, I watched as she moved about the small kitchen area. I guessed she was a few years older than me. Her coffee-coloured hair wasn’t thick like mine but as delicate as finely spun silk, the undersides subtly streaked with silver where it had been hastily pulled back in an elastic band. Several long strands had escaped and hung down obscuring her face and my fingers itched to reach out and hook the tendrils back behind her ear.
Most of her body was hidden under ill-fitting clothes: a man’s long-sleeved, khaki T-shirt and jeans that hung from her hips, the denim frayed and worn thin. Though too big at the waist they were short in the leg, revealing tantalising glimpses of elegantly boned ankles. Now and again she smoothed her hands down over the apron whi
ch was tied tightly at her slender waist and hinted at feminine curves, concealed from view. She set two slices of buttered toast down before me and I felt oddly crushed by the sight of a simple wedding band on her left hand. She wore no other jewellery as far as I could tell.
‘Can I get you anything else?’
She met my eyes again and I saw that her irises were a soft grey-green, imbued with a rare iridescence and framed by long, fine lashes; requiring no make-up whatsoever. But there was a subtle guardedness there – as if she had already seen more than her fair share of bad things.
‘This is great, thanks.’ I wanted to say more; to keep her there with me; to find out something, anything, about her. But for once I couldn’t summon a single word; all the small talk I usually deployed had deserted me. She let slip a perfect, fleeting smile as she moved away to clear some tables.
Stirring milk into my coffee I glanced around at the cheap moulded-plastic furnishings, the outdated tiled walls and the worn lino beneath my feet. I even perused the sticky, laminated menu but my attention was inevitably, repeatedly, drawn back to the woman who’d served me, while she chatted cheerfully to other customers. She spoke plainly, her language peppered with London colloquialisms, but she was not as coarse as some of those she was conversing with and her voice was seductively warm and gentle.
I took a gulp of coffee and it scalded my tongue, despite the milk. The waitress returned to the other side of the counter to serve a new customer and her sudden smile somehow reached right inside my chest and winded me. Unnerved I looked down at my plate and took a large bite of toast, though my appetite had vanished completely. Who was this unknown woman? And why did she have me tongue-tied and completely turned on?
It was 10 p.m. by the time I’d finished at the office, driven back to the flat and let myself in. The forecasting meeting had gone well and I’d managed to identify some interesting trends amid the reams of dry analysis reports, despite my mind’s continual attempts to wander. I was shattered but, rather than sleep, what I was most looking forward to was a good hard wank. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the woman from the cafe this morning. Every time I closed my eyes those hypnotic grey-green eyes flooded my mind and I recalled the sound of her voice, her fleeting smile and the way she moved. For the first time in months I had a boner – in fact I’d been getting them all day, ever since I’d laid eyes on her. I wasn’t entirely sure why she had provoked such a strong reaction in me – she was a complete stranger after all and we’d barely exchanged more than a few words – but it was a relief to know my equipment still worked. I was aching for release.
‘You’re back late,’ Jasmine observed as I entered the living room. She’d spent the last three days in Manchester auditioning for various parts in a TV show but it would be at least a week before she found out if she’d been successful. Now she was draped across the settee, wearing a silk dressing gown but still fully made up, her fuchsia-pink fingernails clutching a cigarette. Apparently she’d given up all pretence of quitting.
‘I hope they’re paying you well for all this overtime.’
I didn’t comment; it wasn’t overtime; I was making up all the hours I’d missed. Jasmine and I had spoken by phone while she was away but she was unaware that, in her absence, I’d snuck off to Wildham to help get the garden centre ready for the spring rush. Admitting that now would just provoke an argument. Depositing my briefcase and jacket at the end of the settee I realised too late that the bulge in my trousers was now obvious.
Jasmine sprang to her feet before me, a devious smile on her face ‘Did you miss me, James?’ She kissed me and I tried not to grimace at the taste of tobacco on her lips as she cupped me with her hand. With a dazzling smile and a flutter of her eyelashes she took a step back, stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray on the coffee table and then shrugged out of her gown. It drifted to her feet to reveal a transparent, black baby-doll outfit, decorated with bright pink bows.
I laughed. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’
‘I just bought it; do you like it?’ She looked up at me through her lashes while posing with a hand on her hip.
‘Oh my god, are those crotchless pants?’ With undisguised curiosity I bent to get a better look.
‘Yes.’ She giggled slightly and I wondered how much she’d had to drink. As I straightened up, she stepped closer and started to unzip my fly. ‘Can I help you with this, big boy? It’s been a while…’
‘Jas, you don’t have to do that,’ I started to protest – I was uncomfortably aware that my state of arousal had been induced by someone else entirely. And yet, for the first time in weeks, Jasmine was happy with me – smiling at me; wanting me; reminding me of how things were when we first got together. If I refused her now she’d feel rejected and I was tired of hurting her; sick of feeling like a failure. Under the circumstances it was easier to go with it and give my girlfriend what she wanted, even if she was disconcertingly dolled up like a porn star.
We had sex right there on the sectional settee and, although I made sure she was satisfied, before I found my own release, it wasn’t enough to stop me from feeling ashamed afterwards. Sleeping with my girlfriend, while thinking about another woman, was wrong on every level and I hated myself for it. Could I sink any lower?
Climbing off her I staggered to my feet, awkwardly pulling my trousers back up and re-zipping my fly. With a smug, sated smile on her face, Jasmine rose up beside me, tipping her head in the direction of the master bedroom in silent invitation. But the thought of spending the night in her arms after the way I’d just betrayed her made me hesitate.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said, her eyes immediately narrowing with suspicion.
‘Nothing, it’s just, it’s late and it’s been a crazy week for me so far – I’m absolutely shattered. I might just –’ I was stroking her upper arms in an instinctive, placatory gesture but it did nothing to prevent the hard look that entered her eyes.
‘You selfish prick! Do you think you’re the only one in this relationship? You’re hardly ever here and when you are you barely even notice me! Would you rather just be alone? Because I can leave and then, trust me, you would be utterly alone – no one else would put up with all your shit as long as I have!’
She was right – I knew she was right – I’d never be able to give Jasmine the love and attention she deserved. The only reason I was still with her was because I didn’t want to be on my own – didn’t want to have to find another girlfriend and go through the same cycle of brief relationship and break-up over and over again. It was totally unfair to Jasmine. Was now the right moment for me to be honest and break up with her?
The words lodged like bullets in my throat and, though I opened my mouth, no sound came out. Unable to bear the pain and anger in her expression I closed my eyes.
With an exasperated sigh she shoved me hard in the chest and stomped off to the master bedroom, slamming the door behind her with an almighty bang.
Chapter Eleven
Little paper sachets of sugar went everywhere, skidding and scattering across the floor as if in competition to see which could go further: the brown or the white. They disappeared under tables, between people’s shoes and shopping bags, soaking up damp footprints and congealing on the lino. I swore under my breath, muttered a general apology and hastily started sweeping them up with a dustpan and brush. Such an idiot! Vic was going to be furious.
I’d been on tenterhooks all morning, all week if I was honest; restless with anticipation and a peculiar sort of hope that the handsome stranger would return. Not that I had any intention of trying to engage him in any way if he did turn up. I just wanted to see him again; he had brightened up my day. I couldn’t really understand why; we’d barely spoken and we had nothing in common. He wasn’t local – he was well spoken, refined, and exceptionally good-looking and made me strangely conscious of my own voice, clothes and lack of finesse – but the mere idea of him made me smile.
Sighing in irritation I tipped the
wasted sugar into the bin. At least Vic didn’t take sugar in his coffee. Everyone else would just have to manage without until his next trip to the cash and carry. The second breakfast rush was just about over now and the market outside was filling up with shoppers despite the cold and dreary weather, a complete contrast to last Thursday’s sunshine. As I cleared the tables by the door I noted that Gary had sold out of all the planted containers in just a week. Tomorrow was the start of the school Easter holidays. Surely the mystery man would be back today to deliver more stock in time for the weekend?
Mags came in and ordered a round of teas and coffees to take out to her fellow stallholders. She was busy relaying all the details of her daughter’s honeymoon – those details that were fit for public consumption anyway: the temperature in Tenerife, the size of the hotel swimming pool and the price of the cocktails – when mystery man pulled up outside, making my stomach tighten. He emerged from his van in a forest-green sweatshirt and combat trousers and gave a heart-melting smile. I fought to keep my eyes trained on Mags’s face, listening without hearing a word, excitement mounting in my body, as he gently unloaded his wares in my peripheral vision. Would he come into the cafe today?
At last he locked his van, turned and headed straight towards me and my pulse leapt into my throat. He held the door for Mags as she departed and as he approached the counter he held out a small terracotta pot filled with dainty yellow, lilac and purple flowers. I could not have been more surprised if he had held out a bomb.
‘I thought you might like this,’ he said. ‘I thought maybe it could sit on the counter.’
