Elsie nods, hesitates, then shrugs again. ‘See ya.’
There’s a beat of quiet after the two girls leave, linking arms as they walk away. Lissa feels a pang of sadness – that Elsie so clearly would rather be anywhere than here, talking to her. Then again, whose fault is that?
‘So that’s your sister?’ Ash asks. ‘The curly-haired one, right?’
‘Half-sister.’ She immediately winces at the correction – the almost-justification. ‘Not that it matters,’ she says quickly. ‘I just … I had a sister. Another sister. She, well, she died.’
It’s out before she can think better of it, like she needs to explain that she’s not a terrible person, that there is a reason for the type of relationship she and Elsie have. But she regrets the words almost instantly, because of the sympathy that flashes across his face. This is why she never says it – because she doesn’t want the conversation that follows.
He lifts his hand, looking for a second like he might reach for her. Then he drops it to his side. ‘I’m so sorry.’
It’s funny, isn’t it, how no one has come up with anything better to say in all the centuries of experiencing loss. Sorry. She’s lost track of the number of times she’s heard that word – the number of times she’s said it herself.
She chooses to focus on the cheese stall instead of Ash. ‘It’s why I’m more “daredevil-esque” on the sixteenth of September. The day you met me. It’s the day she died.’
He baulks. ‘She died the day you—’
‘No,’ she says quickly. ‘No.’ She lets out a long breath. ‘It was a really long time ago.’ She hesitates. ‘I was twelve.’ Sometimes it helps for people to know that – it makes the grief seem less immediate, more manageable. It means they don’t worry as much about what to say. ‘I just … I still think about it every year. On that day.’
He nods, and although she doesn’t look, she can feel his gaze on her face. ‘Of course you do.’ It’s said sincerely, but she doesn’t think he can understand the full extent of it. She wonders, too, if he has the same assumption everyone else does – that because it was so long ago, she should have got over it by now.
And she finds herself opening her mouth, wanting to explain, to justify, before he can ask. ‘It’s not all the time or anything. I just, sometimes I remember her and I—’
‘Lissa.’ Her name is an interruption. ‘You don’t need to explain it to me. That kind of grief … it never really leaves you. I get it. Trust me.’ She finally looks back at him, his gaze waiting for her. And the way he is looking at her – she believes him. She wants to ask who he lost, because he is so clearly speaking from experience. But he doesn’t seem to want to elaborate, and she is not one to pry.
‘So,’ she says, ‘have you spoken to Mark recently?’ As far as changes of subject go, it’s not great, but it’s all she can come up with on the spur of the moment.
‘We speak every now and then, yeah.’ He looks down at her. ‘Have you?’
‘Well, I mean we work together, so …’
He nods thoughtfully. ‘Still broken up?’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘Yes. I mean, I’m not sure we had anything to break up, but still.’ She bites her lip.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. I just … Did you tell him you were meeting me?’
‘It hasn’t come up.’ His tone is easy, but there was enough of a hesitation that she feels sure he knows what she’s saying. ‘You’re wondering if I asked his permission,’ he states, confirming her theory.
‘No, I … Well, yes.’ Althoughpermissionfeels a bit strong to her. Permission for what, exactly?
‘I’m not deliberately not telling him,’ he says, pulling his hat off his head and rumpling up his hair. ‘I know there was something between you, I know he liked you – and I’m not trying to be a dick or anything.’
Not trying to be a dick. Permission.
She has to ask, she realises. ‘Ash, this isn’t a … date, is it? Because I’m not … I don’t think I …’ She’s trying to find a way to explain just what a bad idea it would be to go there, Mark or no Mark. That she has issues, that she needs to figure things out before she thinks about getting involved with another person. ‘It’s just I—’
He places a hand lightly on her arm to stop her talking. ‘Lissa, relax. It’s not a date. I just wanted to check you were all right, that’s all.’
‘Okay.’ She lets her breath out on a whoosh, though she can’t quite name the feeling coiling inside her. It should be relief, right? ‘Okay,’ she repeats. ‘Good.’
‘Ash?’ They both look around at the sound of a woman’s slightly high-pitched and definitely very loud voice. ‘Itisyou!’ The woman – blonde hair a shade darker than Lissa’s, wearing a hat that isdefinitelya lot more chic than the star hat, and heeled boots that would make Darcy drool – launches herself at Ash, pulling him into a hug, which he returns, patting her on the back.
‘Hey, Niamh.’
Lissa takes a moment to realise why she recognises the name, then remembers. Mark mentioned it at the pub quiz. She doesn’t knowwhyshe remembers, but the fact that she does makes her a little uncomfortable. Or maybe it’s more to do with the way Niamh is looking at Ash, kind of like she wants to eat him, and hasn’t yet acknowledged Lissa with so much as a glance.
