At Halloween, Melissa decides to drive all the way from Watford to drag me to the corner shop (something about week-old tangerines not really cutting it on the trick-or-treating scene).
Over a week has passed since my drink with Callie in her flat. I’ve thought a lot about reciprocating, have rolled the conversation around my mind in the hope of making it smooth and seamless.
But then I remember all the reasons I have to resist whatever it is I’m feeling for her. To honor my commitment to noncommitment. Not that doing so is easy when you live on different floors of the same house. Callie’s unguarded and charming whenever I bump into her, and a far more considerate neighbor than I am. She sorts our mail, reminds me when I forget about bin day. Leaves the occasional cake boxed up on my doormat after her shift.
But my favorite thing about living in the flat below Callie is the power ballads that pelt forth from her shower most mornings. She’s a shocking singer, but I’ve discovered I don’t care. As it turns out, I love waking to the sound of her unique and strident discord.
I could stop going to the café, I suppose. But that seems extreme action to take on account of a crush. I’m a man in my midthirties, not a boy of fifteen.
“We should really terrify the kids tonight,” Melissa suggests, as we walk to the shop, “and send you to answer the door.”
“I’m very nice to children, actually.”
“Come on. You’re the least kid-friendly person I’ve ever met.”
“Inaccurate. I love kids. My nieces and nephew will vouch for that.”
“You don’t likeToy Story.”
“So what?”
She shrugs. “It’s weird. Everyone likesToy Story.”
“You know what I think’s weird? Grown-ups watching cartoons.”
Melissa brushes a strand of platinum wig hair from her face. The party she’d been going to in Watford has fallen through but, unsurprisingly, she’s sticking with her costume (Julia Roberts’s character inPretty Woman. Obviously. Earlier she produced a can of silver hairspray, asked if I wanted to be Richard Gere. I said I did not).
“Look, can you just walk behind me? I don’t want anyone to know I’m with you.”
“Ha.” She loops her arm through mine. “I love embarrassing you, Joel. You’re so uptight and twitchy.”
Well, I can’t really argue with that.
•••
I lose Melissa by the confectionery, grab a few essentials while I’m here. Baked beans, white bread, tomato soup, pizza. Maybe one day I’ll work out how to cook and do a Big Shop, like most people my age. But for now, cans and things in packets suit me fine.
“Happy Halloween, again,” says a voice, gentle as a breeze.
I turn, and it’s her. She made me a pumpkin spice latte this morning, brought it to my table with a little meringue ghost and a smile that still hasn’t left my head.
“You know,” she says, “we forgot to talk about who’s going to be on trick-or-treater duty tonight.”
I feign giving this some thought. “Well, actually I don’t believe in trick-or-treaters.”
“Interesting.”
“My theory is, if you pretend they don’t exist, they go away.”
Callie nods slowly. “My theory is, you’re closest to the outside door. Are you honestly going to make me run down a full flight of stairs every time?”
I tease her with a raised eyebrow. “I might.”
“All right. I’ll make it fair.” She holds up a couple of packets of Halloween-themed Haribo. “I’ll buy the treats. But we have to split the leftovers later.”
We share a look. It travels to my stomach, in long, lucid loops.
But now I’m tasting Melissa’s perfume, feeling her arms lasso my waist. My heart sags a little, which isn’t really fair on Melissa. Still, in my defense, she is dressed as a prostitute.
