Page 40 of The Promise of Tomorrow
Elena got to her feet too. ‘You think I’ve lost it, right? It doesn’t bother me. I know what I know.’
He stopped in front of her. ‘I get that there are things in this life that we can’t always explain. I still leave Mum’s favourite chocolate bar at her grave and I swear she’s there, laughing in the way Dad says she used to when he showed his disgust at her liking peanuts in nougat.’ His shoulders bobbed up and down. ‘We need to look at the facts. Find out more about them. I like my statistics, my figures. I deep dive with research. Let’s do that. Track down evidence. Go right back to that night in… 2004, right? Let’s speak to your old neighbour first. I for one would also like to track down this fortune teller. If she did make that deal with you, I’d let her know how deeply she’s affected your life.’ He coloured up.
‘Visit Gayle? Try to find out more?’ A fizz, ever so small, ever so tiny, built in Elena’s chest in reaction to his practical attitude, him taking her seriously. Was that fizz… hope?
‘Does she still live next door to your parents?’
‘Yes, Gayle’s in her seventies now. Widowed.’
‘Let’s go over and see her, Monday after we leave the office.’
That would work. Her parents would be in Manchester city centre. For months they’d been looking forward to a musical set in the eighties and had booked the matinee, to be followed by dinner. She didn’t want them asking questions.
‘In the meantime, let’s research fortune tellers,’ continued Rory. ‘In fact, I’ve come up with a good first step.’ He took out his phone and tapped away. Scrolled for several moments, reading, then showed Elena the screen. ‘Apparently purple is a common colour worn by psychics and fortune tellers. It’s supposed to represent calm and spiritual awareness. It might mean nothing that the woman we just saw wore purple too. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a sign linking the present with twenty years ago.’
Elena exhaled and handed back his phone. ‘You’re really upfor doing this? We’ve not got long left, what with my birthday being two weeks today. December is such a busy time of year. You’ll want to shop for your dad and?—’
‘Hey, that’s plenty of time. You and I, we’re used to working late, to thinking out of the box and surfing the internet for relevant data.’
Elena looked up towards the Sacré Coeur, lost for a moment in its serenity, its understated grandeur. For over a hundred years it had stayed steadfast, despite the riots and wars; it had remained on this hill, peacefully overlooking the chaos.
Elena could do this.
They both sat down again. ‘Okay. Let’s enjoy tomorrow and then, Monday, get on with it. I trust in my heart that what ten-year-old me experienced was true, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fight for my future. I… I wouldn’t change a thing, though, you know? My life for twenty more years with Mum? I’d do it again in a heartbeat.’
They sat in silence for a while.
‘Sooo, I inspired you to be more careless – or perhaps adventurous is a better word,’ he said and gave her a smug look.
Elena groaned. ‘God, I’m never going to hear the end of this.’ The mime artist acted out being a marionette with broken strings, and she moved closer to Rory and bumped her arm against his. ‘I may be a broken biscuit, and I’ve fallen apart lately, but that’s okay. I’ll find my inner strength again by facing my fears and the past head on. Thanks for helping me do this.’
Rory got to his feet and went off to find a couple of takeaway coffees. Elena stared at the horizon before her, the man-made view, with its lit-up buildings, as beautiful as any sunset. She’d done it. Shared her secret. A weight lifted from her, like dense fog evaporating, water drop by water drop, taking with it the chill, leaving her bones and her heart to warm.
She turned round to watch Rory leave, coat collar up like an eighties band member. Elena smiled, but then she sat very still.
Huh?
Noooo…
Mum’s words came back to her, from the last Moussaka Monday evening.You’ll meet someone special and open up, and I think you’ll find that means you’re in love.
No, that would be ridiculous. Elena and Rory? They were like two completely mismatched biscuit ingredients, like chocolate and chilli. She’d never understood the appeal of that combination. Just because Elena had spoken her truth to Rory didn’t mean he was special to her – even though he’d brought a sense of stability into her home these last few weeks, with his cooking, his singing, simply with his presence. Elena had seen him through different eyes. His love for sharing facts represented a passion for knowledge; it actually wasn’t boasting or mansplaining, and he’d shown a vulnerability around losing a parent… When she was with him, Elena enjoyed a sense of calm and trust she’d not experienced with anyone since leaving home; not really enjoyed since she was ten. But she wasn’t in love with him. Imagine living the rest of your life with someone who wore your fancy dressing gown better than you; who treated condiments as if they – not the food – were the main attraction; who made you do a silly dance in the office, and sang the same song night after night, on repeat. And who liked pickles. Elena gave a giggle.
Christ.
She sounded about sixteen. Elena didn’t do giggles. Not unless she was drunk and listening to Gary sing karaoke. She sucked in her cheeks, trying to stop herself creating fantasies… of her fingers running through Rory’s wavy hair, then undoing one of his stylish belts, whilst looking into that caring face of his, that stared back with equal desire; of sensing that protective instinct he had that had made him take in Brandy and Snap – and that had saved Elena’s life three times.
The horizon became blurry. Her throat ached.
Mumwasright.
Elena had left it until two weeks before her death day to realise that the most precious gem of a man had been sitting in her office day in, day out.
Oh Rory.
Rory Bunker.
Her absolute nemesis at times!
