‘Hey!’ Another follows. Squishy and brown, it hits the floor and bounces. A third banana splits at my feet, goo oozing out. Doodle starts to get excited, turning in a circle in search of more banana rain. ‘Now the sky has fallen in, and you are still fine. Walk under it again and show me you understand this.’
I close my eyes and go for it. But my foot skids on banana mush. I grab the ladder and Joe wobbles and shouts a warning at the same time the builder arrives with a Subway sandwich, trying to work out what’s going on.
Joe climbs back down looking sheepish. ‘Come back to mine,’ I say.
‘Only if you let me try something else. It’ll need a fair amount of trust.’ I look at him, unsure. Throwing bananas at me was maverick, and I’m not sure my nerves can take much more. ‘Close your eyes.’
Instinct makes me start arguing.
‘Just trust me, please.’
I reluctantly close them and he takes my hand. ‘Step out with your right foot– a medium-sized step. You know my parents called me Jonah? I could have chosen to think of it as a very unlucky name. Now a big step with your left. Hold it there! The biblical Jonah got stuck inside a whale for three days. And it’s a name used in sea shanties to signify bad luck. But by my reckoning, it’s connected with good fortune. Jonah was spat out. He survived and went on to great things. And sea shanties are the lifeblood of the sea. Luck is what we make it. Now another, slightly bigger step with your right foot. That’s it. If you keep going like this, you’ll be home in no time.’
‘But you don’t understand,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve been unlucky since birth. I killed my own mother. You don’t get away with that without punishment from the universe.’
‘How could you have killed her?’
‘I ruptured her insides when I was born.’
‘Not deliberately.’
‘She died because of me.’
‘She died saving you. Most mothers would consider that the best moment of their lives.’ He spins me round. ‘Open your eyes. Did you feel anything under your feet? You just walked all the way home, stepping only on the cracks. Did the universe demand retribution?’
‘No,’ I say quietly.
‘Because the cracks are just joins in the pavement, not bringers of apocalyptic doom. We’re going inside and I’m going to stay with you until you are confident there’s not going to be any punishment.’ As I let us in through my front door, I spot banana on my right shoe as well as my left. The mess transfers to Joe’s hand as he helps me pull off my knock-off Converse before removing his own shoes. Through the strategically placed hall mirror I see an unlucky child who may just have grown up into a fortunate woman. Maybe I don’t need the streaks in my hair.
‘Coffee?’ I volunteer.
He shakes his head.
‘Something else?’
Now he nods, pushing his hand under my jumper and running his fingers up my spine. Doodle disappears into the kitchen in search of a bone. Joe’s stubble skims my cheek, my neck, my breast. I kiss him back, fiercely, passionately, like he’s the air I need. And that niggling anxiety, that nagging voice in my head telling me to look up, look down, and look out, disappears. I look one way only, into his eyes, as we walk each other through what we want and need. There is no magic. And there is only magic. And I can’t believe my luck.
In the middle of the night, I’m woken by Joe feeling his way to the bathroom, but when I wake in the morning he is gone.
Chapter 34
Doodle acts like a guide dog as I shut my eyes and walk on the cracks. I hum Brucie’s ‘ThePromise’,my dad’s favourite song, to distract myself from the task. As we approach the van, Joe is hidden behind the doors, bending to fetch something from the ground.
‘Oh! You’re not Joe!’ The woman standing in front of me looks very extra. She has an Italian accent as she asks for my order.
I stutter out a request for a cappuccino. Can’t have her knowing I’m Brazilian Milky. ‘Where’s Joe?’ And why did he leave my bed in the middle of the night?
‘He’s poorly,’ she says, her long hair a black waterfall. ‘He came home late and was quite feverish in the early hours. He’d be horrified I’ve opened up for him but maybe once he knows he can trust someone else to do the round, he’ll give himself a day off. That man is a workaholic.’
‘I don’t think a couple of hours a day brewing coffee is all that taxing.’ For no reason I feel defensive about the strain we put on him.
‘He works from dawn till dusk, and when he’s not doing his regular coffee gigs, he’s working at festivals and shows. Christmas is packed– he’s barely given himself the day off to spend time with his family. He’s also working in a hotel near here and the man who owns it is doing nothing to help. And then there’s the projects in his spare time.’
‘Oh, please don’t tell me Saint Jonah runs a food bank,’ I joke, my heart sinking inch by excruciating inch as I try to figure out her role in all this. And what family? He’s not going to be pulling crackers with his dad given how he feels about him.
She looks up, blessed with dark lashes that match her hair for lustrousness. ‘He runs the charitable outreach projects for Really Nice Ice.’I know the company she’s talking about. Too kind to milk a cow and too caring to pump kids with E-numbers. They may even be vegan. But what’s ice cream if not milk?
‘It must be hard to step in for a friend if you don’t know the machinery.’ I try to make conversation while panicking inside, nodding at the van as she prepares the milk for my cappuccino.
