Family Drama 3-in-1 Box Set: String Bridge, The Book, Bitter Like Orange Peel

by Jessica Bell

  “Oh, hi, Sein. I’m so sorry. I forgot you were coming with me today. If Kit hadn’t taken so long getting out of bed I might have left without you. I suppose you can thank your lucky stars.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I would’ve grabbed the bus.”

  “What did you want to talk to me about, Mum?” Kit almost cuts Sein off, her eyes drilling into the back of his head.

  Ailish dries her hands, and digs out a chunk of her own putty-textured moisturizer concoction from a little terra-cotta pot next to the sink with her middle finger. She rubs it into the tops of her hands while she speaks.

  “There’s a position available at Uni for an intern English tutor.”

  Kit opens her mouth to speak, but Ailish raises her right hand.

  “And before you say a word, I’m well aware that you haven’t studied literature. But I can pull a few strings, and I’m positive you know more about literature than half the students attending my lectures.” Ailish points her chin toward Sein, who is still messing about with the fridge magnets. He turns around and blushes.

  “Oh, dear me, I’m terribly sorry, Sein, I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were one of the incompetent ones, I just ... oh, never mind. I apologize.”

  “’T’sall right.” Sein zips open his bag to look for something. Kit can see the book now. It’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. One of the texts Ailish is lecturing about today. Although classes have technically stopped for the year, Ailish is re-lecturing a few topics for students who were unable to attend the first time, to help them with their final assessment tasks. Kit doesn’t answer. Ailish glares, clenching the back of her jaw and then sucking in her cheeks.

  Sein zips his bag shut. Holding his forefinger in the air as if suddenly seized by a bright idea, he says, “The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly-timed pause.”

  Oh no, not him too!

  “Sein, if only Kit’s pauses were so thoroughly thought through, then I might appreciate them as much as Mark Twain did.”

  Kit shoves her spoon into a big chunk of cantaloupe and takes a deep breath, trying not to snap at Ailish in front of Sein.

  “Why would I want to be an intern tutor? I wouldn’t get paid.”

  “I thought it might be interesting for you, regarding the teaching side of things. It might give you some insight as to whether you would like to pursue postgraduate studies in archaeology or not. If you don’t like ‘digging dirt,’ you might as well use your knowledge to teach others. And this will most certainly give you those skills, Kit.”

  “But you know I want to ... you know.” Kit scans Sein’s face. “I’ve got other things I wanna do first.”

  “Well, start looking for him now, will you? Get it over and done with. You need to make a decision about your future. You’re going to squander your life away like this.” Ailish raises her voice just high enough for Kit to know she means business, but not aggressive enough to make Sein feel uncomfortable. “And, I’m afraid, I refuse to house and feed a degenerate. So get cracking before I find a reason to throw you out.” Ailish blows a loose stand of hair out of her eyes. “In fact, now that I think of it, if you don’t take this internship, or apply for a postgraduate position for next year, or find a decent job in which you’re not degrading yourself to stacking supermarket shelves, you’re out. So”—Ailish takes a deep breath—“what’s it going to be?”

  Sein shifts the weight from one foot to the other, screws up his face, and scratches his neck. He seems to have spotted something outside the kitchen window. Kit, focusing and unfocusing on a loose thread dangling from the hem of her dress, runs her fingers through her hair trying to untangle a few matted bits near the base of her neck.

  “Got a lighter, Sein?” Kit asks. Sein blushes again. Only Kit knows he smokes. He reaches inside the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a black rubber-covered Zippo and hands it to her. He avoids looking at Ailish. Kit burns the thread loose and passes the lighter back. Ailish huffs, unties her apron, folds it animatedly, and hangs it over the rail on the oven door.

  “Sein, I’ll just fetch my belongings. You may wait by my car. I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Sure. No problem,” Sein replies with a keep-the-peace smile.

  Ailish runs up the stairs, and the bathroom door shuts with an echoing bang. Sein and Kit look at each other, motionless and at ease for the first time since she pinched his bum in front of his dad and everyone pretended it never happened. Kit smiles an apology. Sein winks, moves toward her, squeezes her shoulder, briefly but with affection, then heads out to Ailish’s car.

  Kit watches glittery-green Leila follow Sein out the front door, and wonders whether she might have a competitor.

  Ivy

  If only she knew how to skate, then maybe it wouldn’t take her so long to get home. Trying not to slip on the wet roads is proving more difficult than she’d expected. Step, slide. Step, slide. Arms out to the side.

  Ivy wonders if Gabriel has started a fire this time. Last time, she found him curled up in her duvet on the couch, shivering and waiting for the broken central heating unit to warm up on its own. As if opening the front door was enough to trigger a switch. It was the first time he’d spent a winter night at her “humble abode,” as Gabriel liked to say in his imitative Queen Elizabeth accent.

  Drizzle turns to rain. A crack of thunder causes Ivy to lose balance, and her legs give way. Lying flat on her back, she’s mesmerized by a sea of legs scattering around her. No one tries to help her up; they simply avoid stepping on her as if she’s a deep muddy puddle. Just as she gets back on her feet, the rain comes down in paperweights. Running for shelter toward the nearest bus stop, she curses for forgetting her umbrella—again. Within moments, a torrent of water comes gushing along the ditch and rumbles below her feet in the drain. A minute ago the street was full of strolling nomads. Now it is empty. She’s in a soundproof bubble. The rain becomes white noise, encompassing the world in a thick unwavering whoosssssh.

  Ivy’s eyes dart left and right trying to spot an indoor refuge. Every store and coffee shop along 15th is closed except for a tiny little bar where the world seems to have migrated. Creeping out of a very small window, into the blue moonlit street shrouded in rainfall, is an enticing yellow picture of soundless laughter. Ivy makes a run for it.

  A bell chimes as she pushes open the heavy spring-hinged door. The white noise slowly dissipates, and soft jazz fades in as the door inches closed behind her, chiming again. Ivy scans the room for an empty seat. The place is furnished with dark mahogany-coloured leather booths. Ivy imagines the place full of women in the early 1950s with their stunningly defined hairdos, cigarette holders, and smoke rings floating from their cherry-red lips.

  The wet customers have already received drinks. She expects to see a cascade of Chocolate Viennois or Irish coffees with temperatures like this, but instead, people are drinking whiskeys and vodkas on the rocks.

  Is that a Sex on the Beach? Talk about cognitive therapy.

  Ivy pulls off her coat and scratches her nose to relieve the tickling drops of water hanging from it. The patrons have already hung their coats and umbrellas on coat stands; they’re overflowing, and she can’t seem to fit hers on any of them.

  She stops an approaching waiter dressed in a chic black-and-white uniform by gently touching his elbow. “Is there anywhere I can hang this so that it’s near a heater to dry?”

  The waiter nods and leads her to the other side of the bar. “I’ll take that. You can collect it from over there.” He points toward the staff room entrance, where a portable heater stands.

  Inside, the bar is so much bigger than it looks from the outside.

  Why didn’t I look for a place like this to work in? Class, Ivy. What you need is class.

  The waiter returns. “Would you like to sit at the bar, or would you prefer to wait for an available table?”

  “The bar is fine, thanks.” Ivy smiles, gathering her wet hair. She was hoping to tie
it into a low knot, but she forgot it had just been cut. It hangs limp, the ends tickling her shoulders.

  “Great. There’s an empty stool right next to the gentleman in the dark-green shirt. Can I order you a drink?”

  “Ah. Yeah.” Ivy nods, squinting at the green-shirted gentleman’s back. “Um … hot Brandy Alexander?”

  “Certainly. Just take a seat, and I’ll let the barman know.”

  Ivy walks toward the empty stool. It looks like Brian. It is Brian. Shit. I look like shit. Shit! She contemplates turning around and walking home in the rain, but he notices her too soon.

  “Ivy, hey. What are you doing here?” He’s clean-shaven. He wasn’t in the coffee shop. Ivy scrutinizes his face. He has a small shaving scar on his chin.

  “Got caught in the storm. Unprepared as usual,” she says, pulling out the bar stool and almost tumbling over when she slips on the foot rail.

  Brian smiles. “See, I knew there was a reason I shouldn’t have gone straight home.”

  Straight home? But you shaved. Where did you shave?

  Despite her curiosity, she can’t help but feel flattered and smiles involuntarily in return, looking at her soggy shoes. She pushes her wet fringe from her forehead. Brian follows her movements with his eyes. Ivy remembers it’s wet and how stupid it would look sticking up in the air. She flattens it back down and shakes her head a little so it doesn’t look like her forehead has a slimy comb-over.

  “No, no. Comfort beats looks any time,” Brian says, gently pushing her fringe back up and caressing her scalp with his fingertips. His touch, although quite paternal, makes Ivy’s stomach tighten. “There. That feels better, right?”

  “Let’s just avoid feeling self-conscious for today, hey?” Ivy pulls a scarf out of her bag and wraps it around her hair like a headband. Brian gazes into his lowball glass, at the ice cubes suspended in amber bubbles.

  The corners of his mouth are fighting the urge to chuckle, and the bartender approaches with Ivy’s drink.

  “Here you go. Hot Brandy Alexander.”

  “Just a sec …” Ivy reaches her arm over the bar as if desperate for the guy not to leave.

  “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

  “Oh, no, no, of course not. It looks great. I was just wondering. Are there any jobs here at the moment?”

  “Oh. I’m not quite sure. My manager is a bit tied up right now, but you could fill out an application form if you like.”

  “Okay. That’d be brill, thanks.”

  “I’ll just get one for you.” The bartender wipes his hand on a towel and disappears behind a door.

  Brian frowns. “Who’s going to serve me my afternoon coffee?”

  “Are you serious? This place is so much nicer. You’ll just have to come here.”

  “I’m just playing with you. Of course, I’ll come here. I come here anyway. Some evenings. As you can probably already see.” Brian laughs nervously.

  They both look at the array of bottles behind the bar and take a sip of their drinks without toasting.

  “Mmm, that’s a good hot brandy.”

  Brian hums and nods, taking another sip. An ice cube touches his nose. “So, now that I’ve finally got you having a drink with me, why don’t you tell me all about what it is you do do?”

  Ivy snorts. “Well, I’m … well, I’m actually an archaeologist.”

  “What? You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “What are you doing working in a café?”

  “I needed a break. It was either this or finish my PhD.”

  “You can’t practice archaeology without a PhD?”

  “Well, yeah you can, but there are a lot more opportunities out there if you’ve got a PhD. Plus, I’d be able to apply for government grants and actually take charge of archaeological digs rather than assist someone else.”

  “So? What’s stopping you from assisting someone else in the meantime? Why did you have to choose this?” Brian’s voice raises a little and looks around the shop. “Surely one of your professors or someone could have scouted for some work experience for you, right?”

  I like talking to you without an electronic notepad in my hand.

  “Yeah, but …” Ivy smacks her lips.

  “You don’t look like the kind of person who would give up everything just to work in a café and play ‘Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick.’” Brian smirks. “There must be some other reason. Or am I entirely off course?”

  Ivy stirs her drink with her cocktail stick. She imagines bathing in it, immersed in a hot creamy bath. She rewinds her thoughts and plays them again with Brian in there too.

  “Oh. I just crossed a line, didn’t I? Sorry.” Brian looks away. He pouts his bottom lip as he scratches his chin.

  “No. No, not at all. I needed a break from the academic chaos. I’ve never taken time away from study since the day I started school. I needed to experience something new, something simple. I wouldn’t have been able to convince myself to take a break at the end of the PhD, that’s all.” Half-truth. That’s not a crime, is it?

  Brian narrows his eyes and swishes the remainder of his drink around his mouth before swallowing it. Ivy still hasn’t held Brian’s gaze for more than a couple of seconds.

  “Fair enough, I suppose.”

  “How about you? I mean, I know you’re an accountant and work across the road from Ditsy Daisy’s, but what do you do when you’re not at work?”

  “Drink Cutty Sark.” He laughs and puts his empty glass on the counter.

  “Really? You don’t have any hobbies?”

  “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “Of course.”

  “I make candles.”

  “Candles? You mean candle candles? Real candles or wax sculptures?” Please say wax sculptures.

  “Yeah, real candles. Scented, floating, tea light, votive, taper, pillar, gel. All sorts. And no, I’m not gay.”

  “Oh.” Ivy laughs, “I didn’t think that. Really.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve come to learn what that expression means.” Brian raises one eyebrow.

  Ivy shakes her head and flicks her hand. “Just not something I expected. Yeah. Sounds really great. Do you sell ’em?”

  “No. But my house is filled with them.”

  “Romantic type then?”

  “You could say that.” Brian puts his hand up to catch the bartender’s attention, but the bartender doesn’t see. “Enough about me. I want to know about you.”

  Damn. “Okay, what do you want to know?” Ivy silently cringes, wishing she had introduced a diversion to Brian’s life story quicker enough.

  “Well, so far I know you play drums, and that you like music, so what kind of music are you into?”

  Phew. Avoided the family question. “Well, you know the band the New Pornographers?”

  “Aren’t they in town?”

  “Yeah, they are. Would have loved to go and see them. Just can’t afford a ticket.” I shouldn’t have said that. Please don’t get all charitable on me. If only you knew.

  “That’s a shame. Maybe someone’ll offer you a free one.” Brian winks. The bartender finally responds to Brian’s hovering arm. “Could I have another?” Brian lifts his glass.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “It’s not often they tour, you know. It’d be a shame to not go,” Brian says.

  “Yeah, it would be a shame. My own choice though. My mother could have set me up with anything I needed if I’d wanted.” Shit. I did it again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Uh … long story.”

  “I’ve got time. And so do you by the looks of it. That rain isn’t gonna give in a hurry.”

  Ivy’s cell rings. “Sorry, Brian, just a sec. Gabe? You all right?”

  “’Course, sweetcakes. I was ringing to see if you’re all right. Did you get caught in the storm?”

  “Yeah, I did, but I’m fine. I slipped and fell over though.”

  Brian pulls a curious face. Ivy smile
s, rolls her eyes, and shakes her head in response.

  “Oh, you poor darling.”

  “Pft. I got back on my feet eventually.”

  “Well, sweetcakes, now that you know how to literally get back on your feet, do you think you can attempt to do it emotionally too?”

  “I bought a new dress and threw my drumsticks in the trash. That’s a start, right?”

  “Way to go, sistah. Let’s celebrate.”

  “Well, I’m sitting in a little bar on Fifteenth at the moment.”

  “On your own? Oh, honey.”

  “No, I’m with Brian actually.”

  “Oh, sweetcakes, about time. You go, girl.”

  “Yeah, they’ve got nice hot Brandy Alexanders here. We should come together one night.” The bartender brings Brian his drink.

  “Oh, Ive. Don’t be so shy. So what if he gets that you’re talking about him. Get some balls, honey. Hey, you can have mine. I don’t need ’em, and I don’t wan’ ’em.”

  Ivy’s jaw tenses and becomes temporarily mute. Why can’t I just be myself?

  “Okay, sweetcakes. Never mind. When do you think you’ll be coming home? Just so I know when to order the pizza.”

  Ivy can practically hear Gabe wink. The rain stops, and she cranes her neck to look out the window.

  “Um, looks like I’ll be on my way now.”

  Ivy steals a glance at Brian, who is looking into his glass. He brings it to his lips and swallows the whole thing down in one gulp. He pulls money out of his pocket, enough for both of their drinks, and slides the application form the bartender finally left on the bar toward Ivy.

  “Sweetness,” Gabriel sings. “What’ll it be? Vegetarian with jalapeños and pineapple?”

  “You got it.”

  Ivy flicks her cell closed. “Thanks for the drink, Brian. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know. But it’s my pleasure. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon then?”

  “Yep.” Ivy collects her coat while Brian waits for her at the entrance. He opens the door for her to exit first. Out on the street, he puts his hand out to shake, but Ivy, without hesitating, gives him a kiss on the cheek instead.