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

by Jessica Bell

  While Ivy scans the tables to see which ones need clearing, the elderly couple next to Brian signal for her attention.

  “Good morning, what can I get you?” she asks the couple. Ivy can sense Brian staring at her, masking his action by typing on his laptop, but she can’t find the nerve to turn around and see for sure. She scratches her left brow, at the little bump that remains under her skin from the eyebrow ring that lasted less than a week, attempting to hide her uncontrollable embarrassed smirk. She turns a couple of degrees to the right so she can’t see him.

  “Could you bring me another cappuccino, dear?” the man asks in a kind British accent, pushing his reading glasses up his nose.

  “Certainly, sir. Can I bring you anything, ma’am?”

  “Oh no, dear. I’m still sipping on my tea. But”—the lady lowers her voice into an almost whisper and leans forward—“I think the lad on your left might, dear.” She winks and slips back into her previous position.

  Ivy nods, trying not to smile, but she can’t hold it in any longer when the man turns to Brian and says, “She is quite a splendid specimen of a woman, if I might say so myself.”

  Brian looks up, turning quite red. “Thanks for pointing that out. I’m not sure I would have found the courage to say that myself.” Brian chuckles in an oddly feminine way. The man and woman nod in approval.

  Ivy slides her feet to Brian’s table. “Okay, Brian. What can I getcha?” Ivy asks, looking at Brian’s laptop.

  “A proper date?”

  The couple next to them pretend to ignore their conversation, but they are both smiling in what seems to be quiet satisfaction.

  Ivy looks up from the keypad. “A proper date? What’s a proper date?”

  Brian closes his laptop, puts it in his briefcase, takes his time gathering his belongings, and throws a couple of dollars on the table. He hadn’t even ordered anything. He stands as close to Ivy as possible without being threatening or indecent. Close enough for his briefcase to brush against her dress and send shivers down her legs and into her toes. He pulls a slip of paper out of his back pocket. As he slides the slip of paper into Ivy’s apron pouch, his hand hovers directly above her crotch. She holds her breath and his glare for just a moment, before he removes his hand, smirks, and walks casually out of the café.

  “I’ll be waiting,” Brian says, right before the door swings shut behind him.

  Ivy’s skin tingles with lust and fear as she watches Brian walk across the street through the front shop window and enter the high-rise building on the other side. He doesn’t even look back to see her reaction. Ivy envisions a victorious smile on his face.

  “Well, dear. What is it?” the lady asks, pouring the last little drop of tea into her cup.

  “Um, I, er …” Ivy puts her computerized notepad down on the table where Brian had been sitting, pulls out the piece of paper, and reads it out loud. “The Moore. 7:30 p.m. Tonight.”

  “What’s the Moore, dear?” the lady asks.

  “It’s a live music venue.”

  “Ah. Isn’t that lovely, dear? He’s taking you to see a concert,” the man says, pulling his specs down his nose a little to gaze over them.

  Ivy folds the piece of paper and puts it back into her apron. Her lips curl up at the edges, but it’s not really a smile. Is it?

  “Ivy,” Raquel calls. “Can you deal with table seven? Please.”

  Ivy’s head fills with guilt. If guilt could be heard, it would sound like hail. She’s supposed to be supervising Raquel, not the other way around.

  Kit

  It’s been quite a few years since Kit has stepped foot into Ailish’s office. Not because she hasn’t been invited, but because the smell of the wall-to-wall shelves of books prods at her subconscious, You should have studied literature. You should have studied literature. A voice she’s been trying to ignore.

  Ailish’s feelings and responses after reading these books are pressed firmly into the pages like dried flowers. The smell triggers some of Kit’s fondest memories, hours tucked safely behind many a hardback on the beanbag in the corner while Ailish prepared lectures at her desk, looking up every now and again with a proud smile. Before she started high school, she was convinced she would one day become a famous writer, but then puberty took over, and literature became a nuisance and a bore. She needed something more hands-on, adventurous, but in the end archaeology didn’t turn out to be much like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. She persisted with it though, and now it seems too late to turn back.

  “So now what?” Kit asks as she sits in the seat where Ailish’s students are often interrogated as to why they’ve failed to hand in their assignments. “Who’s gonna be my superior?”

  “Er … you’re looking at her, sweetie.”

  “Excuse me?” Oh shit.

  “I’m your superior. You are going to be my shadow.”

  “Mum, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding you?” Ailish puts her hands on her hips, smiling as if she’s just succeeded in executing the world’s best con.

  Kit nurses her forehead and stumbles and falls into the twenty-year-old beanbag. “I think I’m going to faint.”

  “Kit, stop overreacting. I’ll assign you to other lecturers as well. Don’t be so histrionic.”

  “I thought I was going to be completely assigned to another lecturer.” Kit flings her arms out to the side and waves them about as if she were a washed-up fish.

  “May I ask what is so bad about being assigned to me?”

  “Because I’ve been your shadow for, like, my whole life.”

  Ailish sifts through some papers on her desk, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. With a forced smile, she extracts what she is looking for.

  “Here it is. Fill out this form. Sign it, so I can take it to the dean’s office for him to approve.

  The dean! “Oh, okay, cool.” Kit jumps to her feet with a little too much enthusiasm, holding out her hand for Ailish to pass her the form.

  “That was a mighty quick change of tune.” Ailish takes off her glasses and lets them dangle from her neck, but her head is slightly bowed, eyes peering upward as if her glasses are still on her nose.

  “I’m just being cooperative. Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Kit replies, snatching the document from Ailish’s hand. “Got a pen?”

  “Yes.” There is a pen in a holder on Ailish’s desk that is clearly within Kit’s reach, but Ailish obliges and hands her one anyway. Kit signs her name on the dotted line without reading a word.

  “Okay. It’s signed. Where’s the dean’s office?” Kit asks, holding the form to her chest.

  “Oh, don’t worry, sweetie, I’ll take it.” Ailish holds out her stiff hand to retrieve the document.

  “No, I’ll …” Kit’s voice is a little desperate. She realizes so, and brings her volume down a notch. “I’ll take it. Anyway, I’d like to meet him.”

  “What’s the hurry? You’ll meet him eventually.” Ailish breaks eye contact and turns her computer on. For a split second, Kit is stricken with panic, triggered by guilt. Has Ailish caught on to her agenda? Unlikely. Especially since she doesn’t even know if Ailish is aware that the dean and Roger were friends.

  “Um, yeah, but I just want to show my appreciation for the opportunity, that’s all.” Please don’t have a red face. Please don’t have a red face.

  Ailish stands up straight, squints, puts her glasses back on and her hands on her hips. Kit gulps down a buildup of saliva.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not yet. Go get a cup of coffee or something. What is it that you young folks drink nowadays? Frappélatte?” Ailish shakes her head as if fending off an insect. “I’ll have your schedule finalized by the time you get back.”

  Kit wonders when Ailish is going to stop treating her like she’s twelve and holds back a frown.

  Ailish

  Ailish shoos Kit away and wonders when Kit is going to grow up—a speculation t
hat requires too much of her attention at this stage of Kit’s life. When Kit enrolled in the archeology course, Ailish thought she had finally taken control, finally assessed future possibilities and made a life-changing choice on her own, until she discovered Ivy had influenced her decision. The last thing I desire is to throw her out, but how else am I going to get the message across?

  “Mum, seriously, I think I can handle it. Where’s the dude’s office?” Kit asks, putting her hands on her hips, then instantly returning them to her side.

  Ailish huffs. “Well, for future reference, it’s left out of my door. At the end of the corridor is a flight of stairs. His office is the last door at the end of the corridor on the right on the next floor. The plaque reads ‘Dr. Harold Whittaker.’ And please, please, if you happen to cross paths, address him with some articulacy, will you? The last thing I need right now is for Harold to think I’ve hired an incompetent intern. He graciously agreed to overlook the fact that you are my daughter and hire you on the basis of your credentials and ‘apparent’ academic skills. Your grades are startlingly high, Kit. Why on earth you choose to pretend you’re so dense is beyond me.” Ailish protrudes her bottom lip and blows upward to remove a loose stand of hair tickling her nose. “Anyway, please don’t disappoint me. And do not call him dude.”

  “Chill, Mum. All’s cool.”

  “Kit!” Ailish raises her eyebrows. Gosh!

  Kit laughs. “The more articulate one is, the more dangerous words become.”

  Ailish tsks. “Okay, know-it-all, who did you just quote?”

  “May Sarton.”

  Ailish licks her lips. “Who was she?”

  “A poet?”

  “And?

  “A novelist?”

  “And a memoirist. What was the main theme in her works?”

  “Lesbianism.”

  “Where was she from?”

  “America.”

  “Okay, fine.” Ailish scratches her brow and cringes. “You can take Harold the form.”

  “Wicked.”

  Ugh.

  As Kit exits, Ailish walks over to the window. The window she has spent many a contemplative moment at, searching her soul, Roger’s soul. Their souls. She remembers the day Roger kissed her for the first time. Right here. By this window. Looking out over acres and acres of green—green that has now been replaced with the new Genetic Research Wing—commenting in imitative Danish accents about the black swan sitting at the edge of the duck pond below. Roger was Hans Christian Anderson, and Ailish his muse.

  Kit

  Kit reaches Dr. Harold Whittaker’s office. His door is open a tad, and she can hear him muttering to himself. She looks through the gap to spy before interrupting him and having to go in. He’s distributing sheets of paper evenly across his desk, click-clicking a pen on his teeth. He slips and grunts, dropping the pen on the desk. He gets up to inspect his injured gum in the brass-framed mirror on the wall. Hanging next to the mirror are army medals and photos of soldiers in military uniform.

  Oh my God. I knew it!

  Kit’s palms clam up. When Harold sits back down behind his desk, she taps on the door. If she knocked it properly, it might deafen her with its certainty.

  “Enter.” Harold has a London accent, his voice low and precise, like that of James Mason. Kit pushes the door open, and it brushes against a pile of papers a meter high by the door.

  “Hello, Dr. Whittaker?”

  “Indeed. That is what it reads on the door, is it not?”

  Great. I’ve already made myself look stupid.

  Harold looks at Kit over his thick brown-rimmed spectacles, his frown causing a vast array of wrinkles in his forehead. He rests his elbows on the arms of his chair and his wrists on the edge of his desk, holding someone’s postgraduate application form in one hand and his pen in the other. He looks like Gregory Peck, from To Kill a Mockingbird gone Crocodile Hunter.

  “Um, sorry to bother you, but I’m Kit.” Expecting him to recognize her name, she pauses. Harold clears his throat, still glaring at her over his specs, waiting for her to continue. “Er, right. Ailish Healy sent me to give you my details. I’m the new intern for the English department.”

  “Oh. Kit.” Harold stands and walks to the front of his desk, holding out his hand for her to shake. Kit wipes her palm on the back of her loose olive-green dress before shaking it, hoping the move was sleek enough to not be noticed. “Yes, your mother had nothing but praise to preach about you. I hope you can up the department’s reputation with your innovative and unique opinions about literature, just like she said you would?” Harold winks and scratches behind his ear.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t let her down. Or the department, for that matter.”

  “Marvelous to hear it. Would you like to take a seat?” Harold gestures toward the dark-brown vintage lounge chair that looks like it might weigh as much as an elephant. No beanbags in here. Kit takes a seat and pulls the form out of her bag. She hands it to Harold, and he looks it over briefly before filing it away at the bottom of his filing cabinet, the only relatively modern contraption, aside from the computer, in his office.

  “Rightio, Kit. I don’t think there is much to say at this moment, but welcome aboard, and we hope your experience here next semester is a pleasant one, and knowledge learned plentiful,” Harold recites with a nod.

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Kit smiles, hoping the twitch of her top lip isn’t obvious.

  “I hope Ailish has explained you will not be required to be here until the new semester begins next year? I suggest you use this limbo period, as I like to call it, to become familiar with the material you’ll be scheduled to teach. I will also provide you with a key card for the department’s entrance so you can take advantage of the facilities anytime you wish, which will also serve as an ID to get in and out of the security gates before and after hours. And please, do call me ‘sir.’ ‘Doctor’ is rather impersonal, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Okay. Thank you, sir.” Kit hesitates to get out of her seat, not quite certain if it’s her cue to leave.

  Just ask him, for God’s sake. What have you got to lose?

  “My pleasure. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.” Harold stands and holds out his hand, towering above her. For a moment Kit looks upward, feeling insignificant. Not an unusual feeling, seeing as she has a mother like Ailish to constantly compare herself to. Kit shakes his hand, stands, and hangs her bag over her shoulder so the handle crosses her chest.

  “Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  Last chance, till who knows when. Do it. Kit opens the door to leave. No! Just do it!

  “Um, I’m sorry,” Kit says, spinning around on her heel. “I don’t mean to hold you up, but I have a quick question.”

  “Of course. If I can be of any assistance to my staff, I’m always available.”

  Kit flicks her hair behind her shoulders and adjusts the position of her bag. “Well, it’s not literature-related, but you wouldn’t happen to know how my mother can contact Roger Price, would you?”

  “Ah.” Harold pauses for a moment to stare at the floor. “Yes, I think I still have his number somewhere. Ailish desires to contact him? May I ask what initiated such a decision?” Harold’s demanding posture weakens, and his shoulders slouch. The confidence and certainty in his voice depletes, assuming a more casual and concerned manner.

  “I’m not sure. She wouldn’t say.” Kit clenches the handle of her bag, praying this doesn’t get out of hand.

  “Hmm, doesn’t that make you just a little curious? Surely, you’d … oh, I’m terribly sorry—this is none of my business. One moment while I have a look in my address book.”

  Phew! “Thank you.” Kit loosens her grip and hangs her arms by her sides. She lingers by the door, biting the dry skin from her bottom lip and searching for someone who might resemble Roger in the photographs on the wall by the mirror. But she can’t see the soldiers’ faces. If only she could tak
e a closer look to see if he were in there somewhere. Not that she’d recognize him, but perhaps she might experience some sort of instinctual connection. Maybe if she shuffles a little closer …

  “Here it is.” Kit is startled by Harold’s uncharacteristic and enthusiastic tone. “I’m afraid I don’t have any direct contact with Roger anymore. Though, I do hold very fond memories of our time together in the Army. I do, however, have his sister’s contact details. Surely she will be able to steer Ailish in the required direction. Let me jot the number down for you. Here you are—Ms. Constance Price.”

  With Constance’s phone number throbbing beside the photograph in her handbag, Kit makes her way back to Ailish’s office. She walks quickly, glancing backward every few steps, as if Harold might be about to chase her down the corridor to retrieve the number, realizing she lied.

  Kit has never lied to anyone before, let alone a superior she is supposed to respect and one she has just met—not to mention one who is offering her an opportunity to learn for free. Of course, she’s kept secrets. But that’s not technically lying if you haven’t been asked, right? The realization that she has just betrayed her own mother hits her in the chest and burns, as if she has swallowed a chili whole, and it’s lodged itself in her airway.

  Innovative and unique opinions? Does she really think that about me, or is it just a ploy to get my foot in the door? Fuck.

  Ailish’s office door is completely shut, and for the first time Kit looks at the plaque with Ailish’s name on it. It’s not like all the others, though. It’s curled up at the edges, and yellow like aged sticky tape. Kit picks the right edge with her index finger, and it peels away with ease. She reveals the letters I-C-E before the sticker begins to tear and she thinks better of continuing. She pushes it back down with her thumb. She remains in this position, with her thumb holding the corner of the sticker firmly down, frozen, as name possibilities sift through her mind. I-C-E? … Price! What the …? This was Dad’s office? Kit clenches her fists and opens the door so hard that it ricochets off the wall.