Page 4 of The Promise of Tomorrow
But no! Elena wasnotthat fearful person. She was successful, go-getting, a high achiever. Everyone said so – a resilient womanwho’d never taken a single day off sick in her whole career, not even when she’d had food poisoning or sprained her typing wrist; the optimist who lifted others up. She put herself out there, socially and professionally.
‘Come on. Let’s go. I need takeout and a large gin,’ she muttered.
The landlord came back, a paramedic and a police officer trailing behind him. ‘A group of young lads were messing about,’ he said and ran a hand over his bald head, cheeks an angry red. ‘They wanted to throw a firework into the bonfire to see what would happen, with no consideration for the explosion and flying debris it might cause. Damn idiots! One of them plays cricket, is apparently an ace fielder, so was chosen to do the dirty deed, but threw it too hard.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look. I can’t apologise enough. We had that far side supervised but his mates pushed through the cordon further up the field, to cause a diversion. Obviously, along with the police’ – he shot the police officer an embarrassed glance – ‘we’ll be investigating what happened and will take extra measures, next year, to make sure nothing like this ever happens again.’ He pushed a couple of ten-pound notes into Elena’s hands. ‘A full refund, of course.’
‘Luckily for everyone it looks like the firework was a dud. It’s been put in a bucket of water,’ said the officer.
‘Those fools soon shut up when I told them they could have been up on a manslaughter charge,’ said the landlord, looking momentarily pleased with himself.
The officer took out his notebook and turned the pages, as a server brought in two coffees. ‘We’ve already had several callouts tonight, with unsafe displays in back gardens and fireworks thrown at motorists. We’ve taken these lads down the station. Throwing fireworks is illegal, as is underage selling. You have to be eighteen to purchase. We’ll be looking into where theybought it.’ He asked Rory and Elena questions, gave her his number and then left the paramedic to examine them both. Elena insisted she was fine, even though her heart still pulsated, like a clock tick-tocking down to another potential tragedy. The paramedic dressed Rory’s hand, carefully avoiding his silver chain bracelet with a tiny compass hanging from it. She told him to get it checked out by the nurse at his GP surgery in a couple of days. She wanted Elena to go to hospital for a once-over, but Elena refused. Didn’t want a fuss.
The landlord came back. ‘Two free dinners is the least I can offer you. Let me find a quiet corner.’
‘I appreciate that but I just want to get home,’ said Elena, and Rory glanced at her.
‘But—’
Rory stood up. ‘Thanks for the offer, mate, perhaps another time.’ He ordered a taxi as they left the pub.
Elena didn’t say a word to him on the way back, pretending to scroll on her phone. When they walked into her house, Rory went to take her coat but she stepped back.
‘I’m all right. Thanks, though,’ she said, not used to leaning on someone else, instead always being the one who stood strong. ‘Nothing a ham and pineapple pizza can’t fix.’
Rory looked as if she’d suggested using the stick insects as a topping and laughter unexpectedly trickled out of her like a stream of treacle, softening and sweetening the accident that nearly ended so badly.
‘A million pounds couldn’t make me eat that,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’ve got trust issues now, so I’d better do the food ordering. The takeout’s on me, as a first little thanks for letting me stay.’
Elena locked the front door and pointed vaguely upwards, to his room. Rory picked up one of his suitcases and she went into the kitchen, moving slowly, still digesting what had happened.She ran a glass of water, downed it and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Elena sank into a chair at the marble-effect dining table.
I want to ring Mum. Her hugs are always the best, even now that I’m grown up. But I can’t worry her or Dad. I’ll tell them in a few days, joke about it. It’s no big deal. The firework wasn’t even live.
She stared at the glass tank in the middle of the table then got to her feet, took off the lid and put in her hand. Brandy – or Snap – lay on a twig. Gently, she picked the stick insect up and placed it in her palm, marvelling at its straight lines and sharp edges. A missing leg meant this one was Snap. She eyed its tank, not doubting it met the criteria for a big enough living space – going by human guidelines, that was. But what life was that, for any insect to be stuck in a cube of glass with no hills, no streams, no changing weather, no predators to hide from?
Did Elena’s life, like theirs, lack real drama?
Carefully, she placed the insect back on a twig, put on the tank’s lid and washed her hands. But drama was dangerous, everyone knew that, especially in the middle of the night, in the pitch black, wandering in your Disney pyjamas when you’re only aged ten, on your birthday – and bumping into an adult with whom you made a dreadful deal. She opened the freezer and took out a couple of lemon slices, frozen into ice cubes, and put them on a plate to carry them into the lounge. Once there, Elena took gin out of the drinks cabinet and poured two glasses, dropped in the cubes and placed them on the round terrazzo coffee table, in front of the sofa. Footsteps sounded down the stairs.
‘In here,’ called Elena, wishing she was on her own.
Rory appeared in a white shirt and patchwork cardigan, hanging loosely, emphasising his agile athleticism. He pointeddown to a pair of moccasins. ‘Bought them especially. Didn’t think you’d be a shoes-in-the-house type of person like me.’
Too right, she said to herself, wondering if he was making a point.
Elena indicated for him to sit down and pushed across his drink. She took another sip, hugging a cushion to her chest with the other arm. She hadn’t been playing it safe all these years – no, she hadn’t been playingat all, like an actor with stage fright who only went through with rehearsals and never truly got to fulfil their role.
‘I went into the wrong room first, upstairs… Your home office,’ said Rory as he skimmed the takeout menu. ‘It’s so tidy, with the box files and pen pots, the shelves with framed certificates of achievement, and stationery stacks. The blinds and minimalist décor really give it that office feel. There are zero distractions, what with the desk facing the wall. It would drive me crazy. I work best with music and a view – although there is that beautiful oil painting of a cottage made out of books.’
‘That room has been brilliant in recent years, when I’m working from home. It really gets me into the zone if a deadline’s looming.’
He looked up. ‘Thought I’d spot a pile of sneaky paperbacks in there but no, so why zero bookshelves in here as well? You’re always reading them during your breaks at the office.’
‘I’m not like you with the collection of trainers I spotted at yours that, placed in a line, would add up to the length of a marathon.’
He gave a little bow. ‘Guilty as charged.’
‘I give paperbacks to charity shops and use my Kindle at home.’
‘But don’t you booklovers hoard novels like nuts? Did youknow, a squirrel might hide up to three thousand acorns in the winter?’
