Angel Avenue

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “When do you see your kid?”

  “Twice a week. Evenings mostly. Weekends are rare because he has football, a busy social life and… stuff… I don’t want to take him away from that.”

  He sounds despondent and I know it. It hurts him that this is his life. I take his hand and squeeze it, “Sorry.”

  “It’s alright.”

  He takes his hand back and a part of me judges it as a rejection. He is distancing himself from me.

  “It must be hard not being a part of his life, like you want to be.”

  He nods. I feel so sad for him.

  “Do you want a hug?”

  “Yep.”

  I crouch on the sofa next to him and put my arms around his neck, pressing my cheek against the back of his shoulder. He just holds his hand at my forearm. Much closer and I would be on his lap.

  We are still hugging when he asks, “Are you going to tell me about Laurie now?”

  “Okay,” I whisper, and move across the room to start the fire.

  I take my mind back and smile winsomely, remembering who I used to be. Yes, I was once like Warrick, this man with no vices or foibles, seemingly…

  “I was different, once. In many ways. I used to have hope, despite life throwing so much at me. I never gave up on hope. I used to walk to work with a smile plastered on my face, with a spring in my step, you know? Like all the happy people I now detest and despise. I wasn’t always like this.”

  I chew my lip as I twist newspapers and add coal on top, before throwing on a couple of logs as the fire really gets going. The smell reminds me of my grandma’s house.

  “Go on,” he encourages me.

  “This may take a while.”

  “Do I look like I have a party to go to? Or a place to be?” he sniffs, hands in the air.

  A wry smile crawls across my lips. “No. Not with that mop.”

  He laughs raucously. “I am ready. I shall listen.”

  “When you’re poor, motherless, with no hope, no chance of bettering yourself, you seek nothing. Expect nothing. I sometimes wished the social workers would finally take me away but my grandmother always vouched for my father and insisted she helped out and well, I think she was just scared that worse might happen to me if I fell foul of ‘the system’.

  “But one day, there was this old lady just staring at me, across the street. I was on a corner, just sitting on the pavement, avoiding my dad and trying to sort myself out before going back to see what sort of state he was in. I was eight. So, anyway, this woman comes up to me and says she knows of a better place for me to spend my time in and so I am escorted into a library and shown all these books, which are free, and she offers to help me get myself a library card. I whisper to her that I won’t be able to take them home because my dad might try to sell them so she says, ‘No matter, you can read them here. Might just have to find some hiding places for the ones you like that’s all, in case they get borrowed.’ So I started reading in the library every chance I got, to escape him, his misery and that house my mother died in.”

  “It’s Laurie I wanted to know about, Jules,” Warrick insists, as if he already realises I must have had a shitty upbringing.

  “I am getting there. Just listen. So, I found hope in my books, in my imagination, and I made a bad thing into a good. I became a teacher. I love teaching, or rather loved it, until that hope I had built was ripped down, torn to pieces and thrown away. You see, the foundation I had built that hope on was fragile. Very, very fragile–”

  “Foundation?” he cuts in and jolts my concentration. I do tend to run away with myself otherwise…

  “I always told myself I needed nobody. Wanted nobody. Didn’t want a boyfriend or a man, not really. I had my books, my escape, a career to strive for. My parent’s marriage had obviously been toxic and I didn’t want that for me. No. I mean, I did have a boyfriend in university but that was only to keep the gossipers at bay and it was only because he never asked questions, so that was good. Meant I didn’t have to tell him about my past because he never wanted to know. Sometimes, you know, people make such assumptions about who you are and where you’ve been without even asking, do you get that?”

  “Err, yeah,” he coughs, clearing his throat.

  “Then Laurie came along and shook those foundations, turning my world upside down.”

  “Oh,” Warrick says, and I delve much deeper into the story at hand…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jules’ Past

  Sixteen months previously…

  “Okay, okay!” I squeal. My stomach’s cramping, we’ve all been laughing so loudly.

  There’s a class of thrilled sixteen-year-olds before me, all eager to get out of their final English lesson in this school. It’s May and time for their GCSEs. I will see some of them for extra tutorials and late coursework hand-ins, but this is our official goodbye.

  This year, my top set has been pretty special. You expect your usual crop of swots, complete with your loudmouth lads, chewing-gum girls, quiet geniuses, class clown and class extrovert. Despite this, they all meshed so well this year and it’s been such a blast.

  My loudmouth lads are providing the backing vocals, a pretend ghetto-blaster of drum and bass rumbling from their throats, while the chewing-gum girls are stood in front rapping Carol Ann Duffy’s Stealing.

  The girls pretend they are holding mikes while the class extrovert stands alongside them wearing striped shades made from A4 paper and ‘DJ’ headphones we stole from the music labs. The geniuses are the giddy groupies breaking out shapes Madonna would be proud of. The class clown break dances. Everyone else just whoops, hollers and mashes along. I stand at the side with my hands clapped together, smiling.

  “Boredom. Mostly I’m so bored I could eat myself. One time, I stole a guitar and thought I might learn to play. I nicked a bust of Shakespeare once, flogged it, but the snowman was the strangest. You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”

  Everyone laughs raucously afterward and I whoop and holler like an American basketball fan. The kids all bump chests and hug one another. They move toward me to hug me and usually, I wouldn’t. Not just because we’re not meant to, but also because I hate close contact. Today, however, I let them swamp me and drown me in a large crowd and we all shout, “Hip-hip-hooray!”

  They are helping me celebrate my promotion. Whether it’s my relentless teaching methods or the luck of this one amazing class, I don’t know. I expect at least ten A stars out of this lot and nothing less. I expect a few may even surprise me and achieve the same. I am now Head of English, well acting, until September, when our incumbent Mrs Schultz, will have left the building.

  They all leave with heavy hearts, having seen out their last lesson of English in secondary school.

  I have a stack of cards and letters on my desk to read when I get home. I also have ten boxes of chocolates to work my way through. I am a happy girl.

  ***

  Yesterday, after work, I enjoyed some bucks fizz in the office. I am still woozy and high, with a bit of a hangover. I am only twenty-six! H of Y! My innocent colleagues asked me if I was going to call home and tell my mum the good news but I just smiled, keeping the truth to myself. My mum killed herself. I haven’t spoken to my father in several years.

  So, today as I step out of my house, I feel like the joys of spring and summer are all mine. There’s a bounce in my step and I am jovial, beaming, and unaware of anything untoward ever having happened in my life. Nothing can touch me today. I am wearing a short denim skirt, ballet pumps, a white button-up gypsy top and a thin cotton jacket.

  I like to have a gigantic hot chocolate and cookie at Jay Jay’s at the top of the Avenue before ambling down the street and diving into whatever independent shops take my fancy. Hopefully the charity shops and the second-hand store will be bulging with goodies at this time of the day and I lick my lips in anticipation.

  So with sugar swilling my gut and a small smile on my face, I head off shopping
and expect nothing out of the ordinary to happen that day. I do not wish for anything. The promotion will be painting a smile on my face for long enough. Perhaps it would be nice to share my success with someone, anyone, but hell, I have been alone so long now. What am I going to do? This is the way it is.

  I purchase a pair of purple corduroy jeans, a smart black dress for work and a tie-dye skirt. I also get a few scented candles from the herbal shop, a new henna kit for my hair and some of the weird pills that seem to keep me regular. I am near the estate agents and preparing to cross the road when I get derailed by a sharp gust of wind. My bags blow around and one of them splits. I drop the tub of henna and it smashes and splats all over the pavement. I grumble and curse. Brown gunk everywhere. I need the damn stuff. I started going grey when I was twenty-one, after…

  “Are ya okay ’dere?”

  At first I don’t see his face because I am bent down assessing the disaster. He’s just there hovering over me and I have no idea why he is wasting his time. He’s a blur above me until I face him and get knocked sideways.

  “Not really. The bag split, it’s…”

  “Not worth savin’,” he tells me.

  I nod in agreement.

  I transfer some things from the broken bag into the other ones and I notice he is staring. He is trying to see what I have been buying and without conscious thought, I defensively hide the contents from his prying eyes.

  “I ’tink ’dat dress will look good on ya lass. Ye can wear it when I take ya out tonight.”

  I stand up off my knees and straighten myself out. I get myself together, smoothing down my coat and hair, glancing at him.

  “Excuse me?”

  He is lovely. Very dark and with lots of stubble. An academic type with a grey woollen coat pulled up at the collars, chequered shirt beneath, stonewash jeans and Converse trainers. Irish, too.

  “I guess, I ’spose, I am askin’ ya out.”

  “This is a dress for work, mate,” I tell him curtly.

  “Wear ’dat. Wear anyting. It won’t matter. All I will be looking at is your eyes.”

  He grins and his crow’s feet bunch in the corners, while a cheeky little dimple appears in his left cheek. His hair resembles a yard brush, all coarse and sticking up straight in all directions. Honey-coloured hues in his brown hair match the yellow flecks of his caramel eyes and I guess I just… feel confused.

  I stand waiting for some explanation. I think I am rooted and my mouth is jarred shut. He dances on his feet and tries to get my darting eyes to fasten on his but they don’t.

  “I tink ’dere needs to be a bit of a burial?”

  His stare alarms me and I feel a small smile creep across my lips. It’s hard to ignore his confidence and charm.

  “I think I need to sit down.”

  He scoops up the remnants of the pot and its cracked lid and he gestures to a bin nearby and the iron bench right next to it. He ceremonially plants the ruined hair dye in with the other rubbish and sits alongside me.

  “Cheer up. Just buy anutha,” he laughs nervously.

  He’s astoundingly lovely.

  “What about, if… we get a drink? I think I need one.”

  “Right ye are, come on then!”

  He practically leaps at my offer, which came out of nowhere. From the very barren depths of my soul! What the heck am I doing?

  He’s affecting me so badly. I wouldn’t be able to push myself out of the door that evening if I was constantly thinking about having to sit in front of another human being. A full day of thinking time would give me too much opportunity to back out and I know myself too well. So I take my chance. I need a drink and he looks like he will buy me one.

  We find ourselves in the posh coffee shop at the bottom of the Avenue. Its large glass windows allow punters to stare at the world outside.

  I notice a variety of treats in a spinning glass refrigerator and I gawp. I want one. He’s standing at the counter asking me what I’d like, when I point and say, “I want that.”

  He grins and bares his teeth to me. Little sharp incisors, slightly stained. A smoker. He is really lovely. He’s… I can barely think straight.

  “Two portions of ya Mississippi mud pie and two coffees.”

  He halts himself. He turns and asks me, “Coffee?”

  “Uh-huh,” I grin.

  I need to sit down. So I motion to him that I am going to find a seat and I do.

  I don’t really drink coffee but I am too stupefied to disagree. I’ll drink anything as long as he’s there with me. He brings a tray over with the goods and I watch his hips in his baggy jeans. He’s too much.

  He hangs his coat over the back of the brown, buttoned couch we’re sharing. He takes a deep breath and asks softly, “So, can I get yer name?”

  He holds his hands out in front of himself and I feel turned on just seeing them. They’re fabulous. His fingers are long and he has calloused thumbs, working man’s thumbs, and I want to ask him what he does for a living. However, he is waiting for me to respond!

  “Jules, Jules Simonovich,” I tell him. I am nervous. I repeat, “Julianne… but Jules. I prefer that,” I say, looking down at my own hands.

  He reaches over and places his warm hand over mine. I can barely breathe. His knuckles are so strong. His presence right next to me is so affecting. He forces my clasped hands apart and twines his fingers with those of my left hand, the one closest to him. The sure rub of his fingertips is divine.

  “Beautiful, Julianne, to be sure.”

  His voice is hoarse and strangled and I know, this is the real reason why we exist. This feeling. I want more of it. I thank my A star class for getting me a promotion, putting a smile on my face, and finally getting me some attention from a half-decent bloke. I slowly drag my gaze up to his eyes and see a soft stare and a wide grin that is warm and welcoming.

  “Me name’s Laurie. Laurence Matthews. After Olivier? Me mum loves him. But friends call me Laurie.”

  He keeps hold of my hand and shifts closer in the couch we sit in. I can feel his body heat, he’s so vital. We stare at one another for the longest time, rubbing our hands together and smiling. He is just as shy as I. He brings the back of my hand to his mouth and kisses it. The rush of happiness in my chest is immense. His bristles tickle my skin and his silken lips skim my knuckles. I do something I really want to do. I move forward, a little further toward him. I gently unfurl the hand he has hold of and I hold his cheek with it instead. His hooded eyes, swimming now in desire, can barely look at me. He closes them.

  I move closer and feel his breath on my lip. I push forward and our mouths touch and I am holding my lips to his. So softly. Everything disappears and we are unaware of the world around us. Anyone watching us might think the world has frozen in time if gazing hard enough, because we are just holding our kiss there. His lips are full and red and my heart is pounding. He pushes closer just for a moment, for the briefest of moments, and my mouth opens and he slips his tongue under my top lip. My cheeks burn hot.

  I pull back but he urgently grasps my hand back and kisses the palm fervently, with his eyes shut. I could be in a movie. He’s ridiculously lovely. Romantic.

  He releases my hand and our eyes catch again. He’s bright-red too and he has the biggest smile on his face.

  “Too good… to be true.” He echoes my thoughts.

  We cannot stop smiling, the both of us.

  “I like your name, Laurie.”

  We’re outside my front door and his arms are around me. Laurie’s. We’re kissing frantically now and he’s beautiful. He’s gorgeous beyond words. I lift my keys from my pocket and shake them out while he continues kissing me. I tear myself away and struggle to open the door with the awkward brass key that never works in summer when the ancient, metal locking system expands. I start chasing upstairs and I hear the front door slam behind us and him leaping up after me. He’s amazing.

  I am desperately trying to get the key in the lock of my apartment door when
he’s behind me, squeezing my breasts and kissing my neck. I am aching all over. It’s been years since I have been with anyone.

  The door flies open and he’s on me, pushing me down on the thin carpet of the floor. I cry out and lace my fingers through his hair. His kisses are relentless and fired with pure passion. At the coffee shop, the Mississippi mud pies and the coffee were all foreplay. We couldn’t take our eyes off each other after That Kiss.

  “Laurie, wait, wait…” I ask him. I feel we’re moving too quickly.

  He whips his head up, “Jules, I t’ought ya wanted to. I t’ought…”

  His caramel eyes are full of anxiety and I reassure him with a kiss on his cheek.

  “I really do want you, but we did only just meet today.”

  My stomach does a turn when he pulls himself off me and into his arms. We stand facing one another and he smiles. He embraces me like I might fall down if he doesn’t hold me tight. His smile: it gets me. It gets me every time. We’re kissing furiously once more. Desire takes me for a few minutes before my conscience argues with itself again. I pull away out of breath and he lifts me into his arms so my feet leave the floor. He kisses my throat and I feel a happiness I dare not trust.

  “Have you got a girlfriend?”

  “Nah. Ye got a boyfriend?” he begs, with a raised eyebrow.

  “No, in fact, I haven’t had one in a few years. I’m rusty…”

  “Ye, rusty? I don’t t’ink so!”

  He laughs and walks us around the sofa in my living area. He plops himself in a seat and he pulls me tight into his arms.

  I cheekily ask, “How come you haven’t had a fag yet? You must be gasping.”

  I have never smoked. Never seen the point.

  “Nah, I quit three years ago. I still have the occasional one though.”

  He growls and nibbles my ear. Yet I still find the strength to say, “Laurie, I really think we ought to have dinner, or just, I don’t know, sit here and chat before we… you know… I am not without misgivings. If you knew more about me, you’d understand‒”