Ruth smiles her transforming smile. ‘That sounds lovely. There’s a café along here. Shall we go?’
A café. I’ve never been to a café. This day is one revelation after another, not all of them bad. I feel a thousand miles away from Emelia Raven, from her world of velvet and blood, of guards and golden staircases. Even Kyle, waiting in his dark room, seems distant, a link to a half-forgotten life. It’s hard to believe I’ve only been here a few hours.
Getting up, I follow Ruth to the stairs leading up from the beach to the road. The iron railings, once painted blue, are now peeling and rusted. I slide my hand along them, taken by the light bouncing from the metal.
‘C’mon.’ Ruth waits at the top of the stair, her head tilted, eyes slightly narrowed.
‘Sorry.’ I laugh, trying to cover my confusion. But everywhere I turn there’s something to see. The buildings along the seafront are a mix of tall houses painted different colours, and one that looks like a wedding cake, white and tiered. Letters on the front spell ‘rand Hotel’ – I realise the G is missing. There are several smaller buildings in a row, single storey, with bright striped awnings. All of the awnings are folded away except one, below a painted sign reading ‘Café’, a couple of white plastic tables and chairs set outside, optimistic in the November sunshine. As we draw closer there’s a delicious smell. My stomach growls.
Ruth pushes open the glass door and I follow her, trying not to stare at everything. But I can’t help it. The colours are so bright, the shadows so different to what I’m used to. I notice a small crack in one corner of the door windowpane, a piece of paper taped over it. Inside, the chrome and glass display case is gleaming. And it’s filled with food. Not people in cages, not strange plastic packages, but real food. Sandwiches, a few round buns with raisins. A big bowl of salad. Not a huge variety, but I remember what Ruth said, about how hard it is to get things. My own diet was as rich as I’d wanted it to be, my mother happy to indulge any whim I had, anything I saw in a film or read about and wanted to try, found and brought to the house. I bite my lip, looking again at the small display.
‘What will you have? There’s soup today, chicken and vegetable, if you’d prefer something warm. And they do lovely chips. I know I’m chilly after sitting on that beach.’
The man at the counter, an apron over his shirt, smiles at us. Behind him on the wall is a menu, written in chalk on a blackboard. The soup is on there, plus several types of sandwiches, salad, something called a pasty, and chips. Tea, milk and water look to be the only drinks on offer. I’m not that cold, though, and I think again about what Kyle said, as I look at Ruth in her padded coat, while I wear silk and leather, my jacket open to catch the sunshine. Still, soup sounds good.
‘I’ll have the soup, please,’ I say. ‘And some tea. Oh, and chips, too.’
Ruth orders and, when it’s time to pay, I peel off several bills, handing them to the man. He seems surprised, handing one back to me straight away. ‘That’s too much,’ he says. I watch, fascinated, as he puts the notes in the till, counting out my change. He hands it to me. A jar, a few coins in the bottom, stands on the counter. A faded sign on it reads ‘Really good-looking people leave tips.’ I drop my coins in before following Ruth to a table by the window, looking out at the sea.
Ruth is right. The chips are good. So is the soup, flavourful with herbs and meat. I dip my chips in it, enjoying the combination.
Ruth raises her eyebrows. ‘That’s a different way to eat chips.’
‘It is?’ I sort of smile, feeling awkward. I’ve never eaten with anyone before. Maybe I’m doing it all wrong.
Ruth grins. ‘Might try it myself.’ She takes a chip and dips it in her soup, then eats it. She laughs. ‘Not bad, actually.’
I laugh too, more from relief than anything.
Once I’ve finished, wiping my mouth with a rough paper napkin, I realise I need the loo. A sign above a doorway at the back, black lettering on white, points the way.
‘Back in a minute.’ I get up. The doorway leads to a small hallway, tiled white like the rest of the place. A boy is there, leaning against the wall. He’s waiting, just as I am, the white painted door closed with the lock flicked to engaged. He nods at me, a flash of grey eyes, chin-length shaggy blond hair pushed back from a strong jaw, high cheekbones. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, wearing black jeans and an oversized dark grey jumper, the long sleeves frayed at the wrists.
I nod back and lean on the wall, not too close to him, my arms folded. Then I realise something. I can smell violets.
I gasp, unable to help it. The boy turns to me.
‘You all right?’
‘Uh, fine.’ I look down, not sure what else to say.
There’s a pause. ‘So, hey. I’m Michael.’
I look up, surprised. ‘I’m Emel— er, Emily.’
‘Nice to meet you, Emily.’ He holds out his hand. As he moves, the light catches his eyes so they shimmer, iridescent for a moment.
I take his hand and shake it, like I’ve seen on TV. He laughs. So do I. The bathroom door unlocks, the door swinging open. A woman steps out, dark hair in a puffy cloud around her wrinkled face, bright pink lipstick smeared on her lips. She looks surprised to see us. I realise we’re still holding hands. Michael must realise at the same moment, because he lets go.
‘Ladies first.’ He indicates the empty room.
‘But you were waiting.’
‘It’s fine. I can wait.’ I bite my lip, unsure what to do. ‘Go on.’ He grins.
‘Well, thanks.’ I step into the small cubicle.
‘You’re welcome. It was nice to meet you, Emily.’
