Page 13 of The Happy Hour
‘Need more of your envelopes?’
‘If you can wangle me a few, that would be great.’ One perk of living with a postman was that he could get her stationery supplies at a huge discount which, on her spreadsheet of business incomings and outgoings, barely made a dent.
‘No worries.’ Terence was staring at the brightly clothed presenters on the TV as if he had an exam on the subject the next day. He was in his mid-thirties, and Jess might have considered him a loner, except that he went to the pub with friends at least three times a week, which was more socialising than she ever did. She very rarely saw anything spark joy in him, rarely saw deep emotion of any kind pass through him – though he seemed content enough. As two people who lived in fairly close quarters, they didn’t share a whole lot, other than takeaway orders, milk, and a belief that Royal Mail was one of the country’s greatest institutions and was being systematically destroyed.
‘Thanks,’ Jess said. ‘And along with the beef chow mein I’d like some spicy chicken wings. Except – do you knowhowspicy they are? How long do you think they’d... linger?’
Terence looked at her as if she’d asked when he was next delivering mail to Mars. ‘I don’t get wings, so... no clue. Why? Have you got a hot date later?’ He glanced at his watch, as if to suggest she was pushing it fine if that was her plan.
Jess’s laugh was more of a manic titter. ‘No, I... you know. Sunday tomorrow. We’ll be busy at work. Who knows who I might encounter?’
Terence swapped his incredulous expression for a grin, and Jess was reminded that casual fibbing was not one of her skills. She was much better at staying silent, locking things away completely. She wished she hadn’t asked him about the chicken wings.
‘Who knows indeed,’ Terence said. ‘I reckon they won’t blow your head off. Want me to add them?’
‘Yeah. I’ve got some notes in my purse – let me get them.’ She hurried back to her room, her laptop screen glaring at her from the corner. No psychologist would sweat to interpret the meaning behind her newest quotes: the mention of a handsome stranger; the reference to stealing.
Last Sunday’s events would have played on her thoughts even if they hadn’t had lasting consequences, but she was seeing Ash again tomorrow and, even if she wanted to back out, there was nothing she could do, because they hadn’t exchanged numbers.
She dug in her handbag for her purse, and took out the crumpled notes. Ash had managed to knock down the defences she usually kept up around other people without so much as breaking a sweat. She had sat in a café with him, laughing at his stories about rogue pigeons and wondering what he was killing time until. His reluctance to tell her had only made her more curious, and she thought that maybe he’d done it on purpose, as a way to keep her on the hook.
‘It’s going to be an hour,’ Terence called. ‘Saturday night and all that!’
Jess went to give him the money, and told him she didn’t mind waiting. She didn’t want to be alone in her room any more, fiddling with her motivational quotes and thinking about tomorrow.
Terence was scrolling idly on his phone, the Saturday-night series still silent in the background.
‘What’s this, then?’ Jess sat on the sofa and pointed her foot at the TV.
‘Some shit,’ he said without looking up.
‘Let’s find something less shit, then.’
‘Good luck with that.’
Jess scrolled through the channels, looking for anything remotely interesting, and eventually found a Denzel Washington film that had only been going for three minutes, the cast names bouncing along the screen as a wide shot of an American city zoomed slowly in to find the inciting incident.
‘How about this?’
Terence made a noise that could have meant acceptance or indifference, but he put his phone down and asked Jess if she wanted a beer. Jess nodded and thanked him, and wondered if she really would be able to forget about seeing Ash again for a couple of hours, distracted by a good film and a Chinese takeaway. At least she wasn’t alone in her room on a Saturday night any more.
Chapter Six
At ten past twelve the next day, Jess decided Ash wasn’t coming, and her stomach settled like a popped balloon: no more nervous bouncing, but also fully deflated.
It was a sunny day, the first weekend in May, and the light shone through the glass roof of the market, alighting on the coloured, see-through hearts that reminded her of the stained-glass biscuits she’d made two decades ago at Brownies. It had been one of the activities her parents had encouraged her to do, though she had much preferred swimming club, which had been less about false fun and more about competition. She had spent so much time with her head underwater that it wasn’t a surprise when she hadn’t found any firm friends by the end of the first term.
‘I thought you wanted to head off for lunch,’ Wendy said, talking over the sound of Jess drumming her fingers on the counter. Beyond the shop the market was busy, laughter and chatter and the smells from the food court batting up against the window. A scream filled the air, followed by a bellow that could have been anger or hilarity, and Jess found herself looking for running figures, for Braden again, for Ash.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, and was surprised by how flat she sounded.
‘Roger told me about his saviour,’ Wendy went on.‘Theman who collared young Braden before you two got there. The one you went to coffee with.’
‘He was just some guy.’ Jess flicked through a supplier’s catalogue, and wished that she could dismiss him from her thoughts as easily.
‘Is that so?’ Wendy didn’t sound convinced.
‘I’ll be fine here for a bit.’ She put down the catalogue and rearranged the pile of tourist maps next to the till, feeling Wendy’s gaze on her. She was relieved when a large group of friends bustled into the shop, talking over each other and cooing at the display of cushions, and they were both kept busy answering questions, checking the storeroom for more stock of pomegranate room spray.
