Page 21 of The Truth About You and Me
Jack isn’t here.
12
JACK
I’m running late.
I got pulled into the book club discussion about Kazuo Ishiguro’sRemains of the Day, then I took over from Nell when one of our customers requested a refund because they didn’t like the paperback he bought last week after reading the whole book. I mean, who does that? It’s like asking for a refund of a tin of paint that you’ve decorated your lounge walls with only to discover that it wasn’t your thing after all. Nell can hold her own when it comes to complaints, but this guy was relentless and not listening to a thing she was saying. He’d calmed when I approached, a look of ‘at last, someone who will understand me’. Arsehole. And now here I am, on my way to Flicks, jogging in jeans and a new pair of brown boots that could as easily be used by the SAS to increase my tolerance for pain. Not exactly the cool, calm and collected entrance I wanted.
The trailers have already started as I take in our empty seats, my stomach tumbling towards my uncomfortable boots. I can’t see Maggie. No Henry either.
I scour the room.
A trailer of the next big superhero film is playing. My eyes bounce across the rest of the faces lit up in flashes of light while the sounds of superheroes landing their knees into concrete vibrates around the room. There is a row of four women in the middle, all chatting through thenot-on-my-watchdialogue. Towards the back is a couple in their forties, the man on his phone, the woman demolishing her chocolate as she glances angrily at her partner. Behind our seat are a pair of women in their late forties. Easy body language, and the way they are interrupting each other tells the story of a long friendship, both women accepting of each other’s habits, both talking animatedly, hands moving rapidly, laughter punctuating their conversation. Next to them a man is standing up and taking off his jacket – but I can’t see Maggie.
Shit.
That twat will never buy another book from my shop. I give the room another once-over. Still no sign of those heavy curls. The screen darkens, my eyes drawn to the symbols telling the viewers the age certificate.
Then I see her. She’s not in our seats, but further along the row in front of the man, who, now jacketless, has just sat down.
‘Excuse me?’ I say. ‘Is anyone sitting here?’ She raises her eyebrows, cat’s eyes sparking. I look up, taken aback once more by that unsettling feeling that came over me the first time I’d seen her, that sense of knowing her.
‘I was expecting someone, but it looks like he’s ditched me.’
‘My lucky night then.’
She shifts to the right, a cloud of her scent reaching out to me as I sit. She’s wearing a turquoise jumper, off the shoulder, a pink corduroy skirt resting above her knee-high navy-blue boots, a pair of soft grey gloves, the same type that she wore last week where the mitten part can be pulled back revealing fingerless gloves. Her hair looks softer than it did last week, curls bouncing as she shifts to the left. ‘So this guy who stood you up,’ I whisper. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Clever. Bookish. Nice’ – I tilt my head waiting for the end of her sentence – ‘teeth.’ She flashes me a grin.
I let out a snort. ‘I bet he had braces as a kid. Had a lisp for most of his early teens.’
‘Maybe. I’d say it was worth it though. The guy has a great smile.’
‘Well’ – I put a hand to my heart – ‘I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.’
‘You’ll do.’
The film has started and our conversation stalls for a few moments as Hugh Grant narrates, explaining that he lives in Notting Hill.
‘Hi,’ she says, eyes on the screen.
‘Sorry I was late. I’m normally annoyingly punctual.’
‘How can you be annoyingly punctual? Being on time can’t annoy someone, surely?’
I think of Vicky’s face when I would be pacing the floor, checking my watch as she finished an email that was urgent, or hunted for a necklace that the outfit wouldn’t be complete without. ‘Depends if that person is laid-back about punctuality.’
She meets my eyes. Hers look a little different, and I recognise the impact of an eyelash curler. Growing up with a sister and having a niece who likes to practise on you leave their mark. I wonder if Maggie opens her mouth when she uses it.
‘I get that.’ She sucks a chocolate, pocketing it in her cheek. ‘It kind of implies that their time is more important than everyone else’s.’
Without knowing it, she’s just summed up Vicky. My stroke and recuperation was quite the inconvenience, as it turned out. I’m being unfair, really. It turns out that it was the ‘in health’ part of our impending vows that she was committed to, the ‘in sickness’ part… not so much. And I guess, she was always going to break me, stroke or no stroke. I didn’t realise she was going to ruin me financially too.
‘I’d have understood, you know. If you’d had second thoughts.’ Maggie’s voice brings me back. It’s tender, cautious. Hugh Grant’s monologue about where he lives continues in the background as he strides along the streets of Notting Hill. The flirtatious atmosphere has dimmed, something like insecurity dipping her eyes before they meet mine.
‘Are you kidding? I’ve been looking forward to this film all week.’
