‘Just,’ Clara begins, a blush spreading beneath all that eyeliner. ‘No.’
The Fish is confused. But, as the night goes on, she begins to wonder if she should have been Sherlock Holmes after all, magnifying glass in hand rather than fishbowl over stomach. She’s sober, so she notices things that perhaps even the raven and the monster themselves don’t. Like the way that Seb cuts every conversation a little bit short so that he can find his way back to Clara, or the way that Clara stares at Seb with something deeper than gratitude when she sees him twirling her daughter around on the dancefloor. Or this, after half theguests have gone home and the others have long since lost their ability to see clearly: Seb and Clara, close together by the long windows, talking like they’ll never run out of words to say, the twinkling lights of London beneath them. Clara’s fingers grazing the back of Seb’s hand, and Seb reaching up to brush a stray feather from the pale skin by Clara’s mouth. Holding his thumb there for just a moment. Leaning closer, no longer talking. Clara reaching upwards, Seb being pulled downwards—
And Pippi coming between them, the pair suddenly breaking apart and looking away as if nothing at all was about to happen. Clara scoops up her daughter, and the little girl rubs her eyes and nuzzles into her mother’s neck. Neither of them notices that Seb is already headed for the door.
a builder
There’s still a long way to go until it’s ready. The roof has been repaired, the broken and boarded-up windows replaced. The floors have been relaid, and he replastered the ceiling himself. Refitting the bar is his next project. It’s goodbye to the old booths and the old stage, too, but Seb is taking care of that. As capable a workhorse as he is a project manager, you’ll often see him lugging slabs of old tables or chunks of dividing wall to the skip out front. Usually, his daughter is right by his side. Stepdaughter? Nora doesn’t look much like him, but she’s just as stoic as he is, silent behind her dust mask as she stomps about the place. Smudge, the guy Seb brought on to help out with the sound, has taken to the whole thing like an overconfident crowd-surfer. Word has it that he sold his van to help fund the music-and-lighting grid system that was, only yesterday, hoisted into place over a new stage halfway through its assembly.
They still need to secure all the correct licences, to appease the right local councillors and soundproofing tsars. The place is still empty, devoid of décor, in need of some personality. A soft launch before Christmas might be just about achievable. Until then, the builder is hard at work, and Smudge is callingSeb’s name. Now they’re clambering on to the stage together, testing its sturdiness, treading the boards. They look out over an empty room, imagine a crowd filling it.
‘Hello,’ Seb shouts, testing the acoustics.
‘Hello!’ Smudge yells, louder, letting his voice echo around the walls.
‘Hello?’ says Nimesh, poking his head around the door.
This mate of theirs lives up in the Midlands, but once he caught wind of the project, he started visiting on all his spare weekends. His wife, Maisie, is with him this time, as well as their kids. And someone the builder has never met before. Someone short and blonde.
‘I still can’t believe how much it’s changed around here,’ Nimesh says. ‘They’ve closed down the feminist sex shop. It’s called Big Daddy Vapes now.’
‘Dad,’ says his son. ‘What’s a—’
‘Hey,’ Nimesh cuts in, quickly. ‘Nora’s going to show you where the rat king lives.’
The boy shares a look with Nora. She gives a short nod, then they scamper off in search of adventure. The lads are still up on the stage, staring down at their new visitors. The arms of Seb’s filthy T-shirt are rolled up. The blonde woman looks a little flustered.
‘Seb,’ she says, looking up at him.
‘Clara,’ he says, stepping down to meet her.
They share a brisk hug. He says something quietly, and she laughs a little too loudly. Nimesh and Maisie smirk at each other. The builder keeps on scraping old wallpaper. Smudge is still up on the stage.
‘Just like old times?’ Maisie says, bouncing the baby on her hip.
Smudge has a broad smile on his face. ‘Better.’
One thing about working in a place like this is that you’ll overhear a lot of conversations behind half-finished walls. The builder is lying behind the bar, screwing in some shelves, when Seb and Clara pause by one of the old booths. He can see them through a hole made for cables. Seb is holding a sledgehammer, still covered in plaster dust. Clara is looking him up and down.
‘You seem happy,’ she says.
Seb looks around at the thousand things still left to do. He nods. ‘I am. Thank you.’ He swings his hammer idly. He gives her a look. ‘And you,’ he says. ‘You seem happy, too.’
‘I am, I think.’ She puts a hand on his arm. ‘Thank you.’
Seb looks at the hand. His eyes track slowly up her arm. They make eye contact. Then they both break away, as if expecting to be interrupted. But Nora is still running around with Finn, and no one else is expecting anything of them. They linger, neither of them seeming to know what to do next.
‘You want him.’
That’s what Maisie says, afterwards, in the barren ladies’ bathroom. The builder is crouching behind the flimsy divider between what will soon be two properly functioning toilets, trying his best to fasten a pipe into place.
‘That is not true,’ Clara replies.
‘It is,’ Maisie says. ‘I can hear it in your voice.’ By the soundsof it, she’s changing her daughter’s nappy. ‘Please don’t shag him at the barbecue.’
‘Maisie!’
They both laugh. The builder stifles his own. Maisie hands the baby to Clara, begins washing her hands at the sinks.
