‘Not true. Blue eyes, black hair that’s almost blue. Like a magpie. And then if we add the whole tortured artist thing too… It’s very sexy.’
I should have a witty comeback, but the words are caught in my throat.
She straightens the ring on her finger. It’s small, silver, with a sapphire raised in the centre, so small it could be missed. ‘That surprises you?’ She frowns, moving closer. ‘Huh. Interesting. You don’t see it at all, do you?’
‘Hard to see beauty around here.’
She licks her bottom lip, a playful smile on her lips.
‘Are you any good? At drawing?’
‘Aye. I’m alright.’
Alice rummages inside her bag. ‘Show me.’ She rips off an A5 sized piece of chip paper and passes it over with her blue eyeliner.
‘What?’
‘We’ve got a few hours to kill, right?’
The corner of my mouth twitches at that. The certainty that I’m going to be spending them with her.
‘Aye.’
‘Well then. Let’s make them count.’
3
ALICE
The paper is brittle in my hand as I walk back into the centre of the room, sinking down onto the floor.
Dear Alice,
I feel a jolt, like the floor has shifted beneath me. Annie Lennox is still singing ‘Sweet Dreams’, her voice angelic and otherworldly in the background.
You asked me to write, so here I am, writing. After you left, I realised I hadn’t got your surname. Typical. Still, I reckon this’ll find you. Miracle workers, posties.
First thing I should mention is I have your ring; you must have dropped it.
I instinctively look at my bare ring finger. But I know my ring is packed away with the rest of my jewellery in one of the boxes being delivered later.
Don’t worry, I’m keeping it safe and will get it back to you. I didn’t want to risk sending it with this in case you’ve not moved in yet. Speaking of which, I hope you’re settling into your new place, your new everything. It’s not easy, is it, losing your job, ending up back home?
I pause and look around the room. Blood rushing in my ears.
I’m sitting here, wondering what it is I really want to say to you, and I’ve not got a clue, really. Still, there’s something freeing about scribbling this all down knowing I might never see you again. Nowt standing in the way of the truth, is there? Anyway, I know you’ve got a soft spot for history, so here’s a bit of mine.
Brace yourself. I lost my job a while back and I’m living back with Mam and Dad and starting next week as a painter and decorator. An apprentice. At thirty. Aye, not quite the tortured artist you thought you’d met, more Dulux than Dali.
I smile at that. He’s funny, whoever he is.
I do draw and paint, mind, it’s just not something I advertise. I’m not sure why I opened up to you about that. It’s not like anything can come of it. Funny thing happened, though. I’ve not been able to draw for a while, but it’s like meeting you has unlocked something. Maybe it’s like you said and you are my muse, after all? Or maybe it was the four pints and a bag of chips from Pete’s.
I lean back against the wall. There’s something about this guy that I like, a vulnerability in his words that makes me eager to read on, despite the unsettling feeling creeping under my skin.
Not much else is happening around here, right now. Glutton for punishment that I am, I’d promised to help Kate at the market today. Which pretty much meant me lugging boxes of fruit and veg while she clutched her head and necked a bottle of Lucozade – best thing for a hangover, I find. Well, that and a bacon butty.
She has grand plans, Kate. Wants her own shop one day. A Slice of Life. A greengrocer with a cafe in the back, cakes and the like all on sale. She’ll do it too. I have no doubt.
