Page 107 of The Truth About You and Me
I have two options, to stand swaying and bumping against the other passengers, or to take the only seat next to a woman reading a book. I brace myself:
Why is she carrying a vacuum?
Should have got the earlier bus. I’m going to be late forEastEnders.
When I get home, I’ll make a to-do list.
Images of lives and homes bounce around my head, a collage of daily lives, love, regret, stress, tiredness, family, romance; the cacophony of emotions tap and snip and stroke at every part of my body. I’m holding my breath but take my seat. I nudge away from the woman. She’s young, dark hair pulled back, thick green coat wrapped around her. I sit. There is little space as her bags are sandwiched beneath the window, and my leg presses against hers. I close my eyes. Her voice is calm and rhythmic as she reads, her thoughts entirely focused on the plotline of her novel. I let her words conjure up the image of a woman riding on a dragon, high up above a fantastical landscape. But the images are blotted by my own thoughts, images of Riz, the pink pills, the pictures on her wall, the laughter and sparkle in her eyes as she told me about her life, her loves.
Gloria’s words that told me Riz is a private woman and it wasn’t for her to tell me anything Riz wasn’t happy to share herself. I should have touched her. I shake the thought away.
Nothing worse than dying on my own. Riz’s words crack open the images of the girl flying on a dragon and instead I’m filled with desperation.
She will not die on her own.
I will not let that happen.
The journey seems to take forever and I’m biting my nails; the driver glances at me in the rear-view mirror.
‘Quick detour!’ he shouts. I hear a collective groan and mumbles run through the bus. ‘Sorry, folks.’ I can feel eyes on me, but the girl on the dragon has landed and there is a battle ahead of her. The image snaps shut and the woman instead turns to me, a hand on my arm. I meet her eyes, wide, blue, and feel a wave of compassion, of kindness. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asks. I realise I’m crying. My cheeks and my throat wet.
‘I… my friend is dying and I don’t want her to be alone.’
I hear the kindness in her thoughts, a flicker of some of her own grief, an aunt, a call taken in the middle of the night.
‘I’m sorry too, for your aunt.’
Her brows pucker. ‘How did you?—’
The bus screeches to a stop. Doors whoosh open.
‘Here you are, love, as close as I can get you!’
‘Thank you,’ I say. The woman nods, still with a look of confusion.
I lift Henry, brushing past people, each with thoughts of kindness and concern as they watch me make my way out of the bus.
I don’t stop to think, I just run.
She will not die alone.
49
JACK
I get up from the reading chair, placing the children’s book about a magical eagle on the table. The author, Patrick Shaw, is coming to the opening in two weeks’ time. My progress is slow, but I’ve got to page five of twenty and only had to use the app six or seven times. Reading is a different experience now, filled with tastes of strawberry laces, music, the smell of rosemary or mint when I read the grapheme ‘sh’ and lemons, always lemons. Since getting all of my memories back, the pain has gone. Do I wish I could read like I used to? Of course I do, but there is also something… more in the experience now. I read books like nobody else and that is something to be grateful for.
The bookshelves around the shop are full, the paint on the walls fresh and clean. There is a separate bar to the side of the store, book-spined wallpaper behind dark wooden tables. I’m going to introduce open mic nights, and Nell’s idea of speed dating with a book is starting to feel more like a possibility, too. I hope it’s enough to make it a success. I make my way to the door, postcards as similar to Maggie’s as I could find, are tacked to the wall to the right, some the same places, and others are stills from films. Levin is standing outside. His dark hair is wild and his cheeks are flushed. I swing the door open. The street is lit up, and after the council grant came into action, there is rarely a night that’s not busy, even at this hour, but tonight it’s teeming with activity.
‘Thought you were going to leave me freezing my naughticles off.’ I bump an eyebrow as he steps through.
‘Naughticles?’
‘Had the snip years ago. My late wife named the boys naughticles.’
‘That’s too much information.’ I shake my head, closing the sounds of traffic and Valentine’s Day behind him. He unbuttons his coat, looking around.
‘No such thing. Well, what a place, eh? Looks great, Jack.’
