She looks like someone stepping off a ledge to escape a wall of fire. As if anything is better than staying where it burns.
Then she walks out into the rain, taking my heart with her.
Chapter 22
Ava
The handbrake of my dad’s silver Vauxhall grinds as he parks against the kerb. Outside, the grey afternoon light is already fading, leaving the street in a damp gloom. The engine cuts out, and the exhaust gives a metallic tick into the sudden quiet.
I survey the sandstone villa looming in Pollokshields. It’s grander than I expected but run down in a way that suggests it’s holding onto dignity by a thread. The street is wide and tree-lined with mansions that boast names like Thornhill but have seen better days. This one has bay windows, the skeleton of a climbing flower clinging to the stone like an exposed nervous system, and a front door painted in a bold high-gloss purple.
It has character and history. And it’s going to be my home for the time being, part of the company’s emergency accommodation pool – a network of former dancers or their families who house those of us who, for one reason or another, need a place to stay for a while. The rent is affordable, too.
‘This it, then?’ Dad sounds like a rusting hinge, unused to voicing emotional support.
I check the email again to have something to look at other than him. ‘According to the address the company gave me, this is it.’
I didn’t tell him everything, but enough. He knows about Nevin.
Dad releases a pressurised breath, a sharp exhale through his nose that I immediately catalogue as inconvenience. I unbuckle my seatbelt before the sound has even finished fading.
‘Right. Let’s get this done.’ He pops the boot and gets out.
I’m out the door a second later, rushing into the rain to beat him to the heavy stuff. It’s that nagging Glasgow drizzle that doesn’t patter – it permeates. I feel translucent, as if the wind is blowing right through my ribcage.
Nine days since I walked out on Scottie.
Nine days of Airbnbs that held the stale tang of bleach, paint, and heather-scented candles. Nine days of waking up and not knowing where the bathroom was. Of checking my credit card balance and watching the red grow darker.
I promised myself I wouldn’t do it. I’d rather sleep in the studio, curled up on the floor, than ask my father. But the deposit for this place required a chunk of cash I didn’t have, and the company’s welfare officer had looked at me with such professional pity that I’d cracked. I slipped into the one role I hate most.
Da, I need your help.
Tragic, I know. And I merely expected him to send money. A transfer and a text: Sorted. That’s our style. He pays, I don’t complain about the lack of a father figure, and we pretend we’re a normal modern family.
But for some reason, he drove down all the way from Aberdeen this time. No idea what prompted this strange demonstration of parental affection, but here he is.
He’s round the back of the car now, wrestling with the flat-pack bookshelf we bought from IKEA.
Dad nods at the cardboard. ‘Grab that end.’
I take hold of the packaging with stiff fingers.
‘Lift on three.’
We lug it out. The weight strains my shoulder. He lets me carry my half. I don’t know if that’s respect for my strength or negligence. With Dad, that line has always been blurred.
We walk up the path in sync, a sad procession of two.
The front door swings open before we reach it. A woman stands on the threshold. She’s small, but she creates a density in the air around her. Claire Carmichael, my new landlady. Sixty-four, according to the company’s info, but her posture is timeless. Spine elongated, shoulders down, chin level. She’s wearing a thick wool cardigan over a leotard and joggers, and her white hair is pulled back in a French twist so severe it looks painful.
I know that style. I’m looking into a mirror of my future self. Provided I survive the next forty years.
She audits me first – posture, exhaustion – then Dad. ‘Ah! You’ll be Ava.’ Her voice is crisp, but warm. ‘The attic studio is ready. Mind the third step on the first flight. It creaks.’
Dad shifts his grip on the box. ‘Kenneth MacKinney. I’m the furniture assembler.’
A smile crosses Claire’s mouth as she takes in the IKEA box. ‘Brave man. That brand’s instructions are written by sadists. Start with a whisky. I would.’
