Grace was allergic to avocado. It gave her cramps so severe she had to curl up in a ball.
Rubbing my leg with his foot, Joel fixes me with pitchy eyes. “Yep. Though she’s not a patch on you, of course. She’s a bit... brisk.”
I frown, breaking open a spring roll with my fingers. Grace so wanted the café to be friendly, a place without code for the size of your coffee cup, where you could wander in solo without feeling self-conscious.
Sometimes you could hear her laughter from the street, spilling into the air like confetti. She’d be outside often too, chatting to passersby as she wiped down the pavement tables. Grace gave her whole self to the world around her—like a lit window at night, you couldn’t walk past somewhere she was and not feel warmed through.
When Joel asks about my day, I tell him Fiona’s dog story. “She says you saved her German shepherd’s life, the week before you left.”
He refills our water glasses from the jug—mine first, then his own. “Fishhook?”
“That’s the one.” I find it highly impressive, to be honest, that someone could bring a fishhooked dog in here right now and Joel would know exactly what to do.
“Nice dog, as I recall.”
“She doesn’t normally like male vets, apparently.”
“Fiona or the dog?”
I smile. “The dog.”
“Oh, she was all right. Dogs like that are usually just afraid.”
“Perhaps she knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That you were one of the good guys.”
He shifts in his seat, uneasy as ever with being paid a compliment.
“Fiona told me to tell you not to take too long out. She said you were excellent—her words, not mine. Although I do happen to think you’re pretty excellent too.”
“Help yourself to chow mein,” he mumbles bashfully, gesturing with a chopstick. “Don’t let it get cold.”
40.
Joel
Callie and I have just emerged from our local garden-center-cum-department-store, after spending an hour under optical and acoustic assault from a winter wonderland more illuminated than Blackpool. The place was Christmas on hallucinogens, a psychosis of overstimulation. Tambourines disguised as sleigh bells, the latent fug of gingerbread lattes. An infantry of hard-selling elves.
I usually borrow my Christmas cheer from my sister. But when Callie discovered we could rent a tree from the garden center, who’d then return it to the growers for reuse next year, she asked if I fancied entering into the spirit of things.
I said I did. But that was before I agreed to help maneuver a fir tree through a packed car park three days before Christmas.
“So this is why people buy fakes,” I gasp.
“But the plastic ones are so joyless.”
I jerk my head back toward the garden center. “I have never in my life been anywhere more joyless than that wonderland. On which I think they’re overselling themselves, by the way.”
“I think you’re just upset you didn’t get to meet Santa.”
“I’m definitely not. He was wearing sunglasses.”
“Too many lights?”
I shake my head. “Too many last night. He was hanging, one hundred percent.”
