‘Stop pitying me.’
‘I don’t pity you,’ he says. ‘I just—’ He looks for the words. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. About New York.’
Clara waves the apology away. ‘You don’t need me and my problems. You’ve got your own.’ A sad smile. ‘I presume. Or maybe you’re problem-free. I hope you’re problem-free.’
‘Well,’ Seb says. ‘Apparently I’ve got ghosts.’
They smile. Taking advantage of what seems like a truce, the estate agent suggests that they head upstairs and check out the venue room. Under high ceilings, Seb makes silent calculations. The little girl is spinning about across the dusty floor, her arms spread wide, her curls wild. Clara has taken a seat on an old chaise longue in the corner. Her eyes are closed. Seb watches her for a while. Then he crouches and gently catches the girl. The girl lets him.
‘What do you think, Nora?’ he says. ‘Could we host gigs up here?’
Nora frowns. It’s unclear if she knows what gigs are. She goes all shy, all of a sudden. So Seb stands, looks down at the floor, then stamps his foot. She watches him. He looks down at her.She stamps, too. He jumps. He jumps again. He’s jumping up and down, sending plumes of dust up into the air, and the little girl is laughing, and now she’s jumping with him. When they stop, while the air settles, a suspicious creak sounds beneath the length of the pitted carpet.
‘No,’ says Seb, out of breath. ‘I don’t think so.’
He hasn’t noticed that Clara is watching them.
A new ground-floor property, carefully designed with a commercial or bar function in mind. Licensed to play live music until almost midnight.
‘This isn’t it,’ Clara says.
Seb looks at her. ‘What?’
‘Do you really see yourself here?’
The room is a bright and airy shell, admittedly more appropriate for a coffee roastery or a Pilates studio than a haven for greasy-haired rockers. Nora is diligently searching the squeaky-clean corners for ghosts that aren’t there.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t.’
The estate agent exhales, shuffles some papers. This venue was the last good option on their books. Seb had said he was serious about his search, but all afternoon, he’s only had eyes for Clara.
‘What problems?’ Seb says, to her. ‘You said you had problems.’
Clara looks at him as if to ask if he really wants to know. His face says that he does.
‘I can’t work like I used to,’ she says. She looks down at herboots. ‘It isn’t easy, with Nora. Italy almost broke me, and the result was a half-baked film.’ She runs her fingers through her knotted hair. ‘I’m trying to direct the odd episode of TV now, and even that I can barely manage.’ She looks over at her daughter, as if to check she’s out of earshot. ‘Nora isn’t easy. Nursery is never going to happen at this point. It’s almost two years until she starts school, and the thought of that still terrifies me.’ She closes her eyes. ‘But she didn’t ask to be born. So what can I do? Give it all up?’ She opens her eyes again, looks to the wide windows. ‘If I let two more years’ worth of opportunities pass me by, I don’t think my career will ever recover. Just as I was starting to—’ Her voice cracks. ‘I’m so tired, Seb.’
Seb’s wrist twitches, as if he wants, more than anything, to reach out and take her hand. To draw her in, to hold her. The estate agent stares down into his binder, willing himself to become invisible.
‘You were right about one thing,’ Clara says, with a sniff. ‘I am a terrible mother.’ She stops herself. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. I’m not at my best.’
‘You look pretty good from where I’m standing,’ Seb says.
A blush reaches Clara’s cheeks. She waves at Nora, if only to avoid Seb’s eyes. On the other side of the room, Nora waves back. Then she returns to her search.
‘I knew you’d make me feel better,’ Clara says, to Seb. She laughs, apparently at the absurdity of it. ‘Maybe that’s why I came. We used to discuss everything, didn’t we? You were terrible at making decisions. But you’d always be the one to talk me up. To say I’d got this, that I was going to blow peopleaway.’ Her voice falters. ‘If anything goes wrong, you’re still the first person I want to tell,’ she says. ‘That’s weird, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not weird,’ Seb says. He’s the one looking at his shoes, now. ‘You ruined my life, and the only person I want to talk to about it is you.’
A former pub-venue in a beloved character building, this once-popular nightspot has a colourful history. In need of modernisation.
Last stop. They stand on the pavement of Hoxton Street, staring up at a place that clearly means something to both of them.
‘Well,’ says Clara.
‘I’ll be damned,’ says Seb.
The estate agent covers his mouth when they step inside. Wallpaper peels from the walls. Mouldy old newspapers hang from the windows. Rattling and scuttling suggests life in the old sofas, beneath the built-in tables. And yet, Seb and Clara walk as if in a trance, trailing the dust on a specific booth near the front, heading into the back room and looking up towards the hanging lights.
