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I’m not even going to get the guy at the end of it.
7
Owen
On Monday morning, I find Alice in the Winchester kitchen rearranging the cookery books that line the shelves of the country-style units. This is one of my least favourite kitchens; with its copper pans, exposed wood, and utensils hanging from drop-down hangers, the whole thing feels like a messy autumn day. It’s not for me.
It’s eight thirty, and we’re due to open to the public in half an hour. I hate feeling rushed or pressured and always like to be ahead of schedule, so I’ve been here for forty-five minutes. I’m not sure when Alice arrived, but she doesn’t look like she just walked through the door.
Unsure as to whether to instigate the conversation, I hover by the range cooker and am relieved when she turns and sees me.
“Owen,” she says, and I’m instantly on the back foot.
This isn’t her normal singsong greeting. The cheery Alice I’ve become accustomed to over the past year is nowhere to be seen. She said my name like I’d crept up on her, or she hadn’t expected to see me, or she didn’t want to see me at all, and her face is awash with worry.
I don’t like it one bit.
“Good morning, Alice,” I say, sticking to the script.
“Yes, it is.”
Abandoning the books, she turns to me and begins to smooth her hands down the front of her trousers. I recognise this move. Nerves. Alice is nervous. But why? She’s never been a nervous talker, not even with new people or customers. She always seems to know what to say and never appears to be lacking in words.
“How did the meet-up go?” I ask, hoping this might settle her.
“Oh, it was good. Great, in fact. Sydney hasn’t changed one bit, and it was quite emotional, but I’m glad I went. It was so nice seeing her after all this time.”
There’s a glimmer of Alice here—the run of her words, the offering of information—but the anxiety remains. I wait a second to see if she’s about to follow up with anything, but she seems to have an attack of silence, something I’m all too familiar with.
“Great.” At this, there seems to be no reason for me to stay, and my natural reaction is to retreat to my office, but I sense a but, so I linger just a second longer.
“It was great to see her, and we had so much to talk about, but then she told me she’s getting married.” Alice laughs, but it isn’t one of her natural, carefree laughs; it’s forced, almost slightly hysterical, and I’m unsure how to read it.
“Is this good news or bad news?”
“Oh, it’s good news. Definitely good news. We talked for ages about dresses and hair and all the exciting stuff that comes with a wedding, and I’m really happy for her. She deserves this. They both do, her and her fiancé, Drew.”
“The guy who called you?”
“Yes, that’s him. He’s the one she’s marrying, and it’s so romantic.”
Her eyelids flutter, and I manage a small smile even though I’m grimacing inside. But there’s a quiver on the edges of her words, something she wants to say but isn’t, and I can’t stand it any longer, so I just ask her.
“Is something the matter?”
“Sorry?”
She’s all wide-eyed now and surprised, so I explain, “You don’t seem yourself.”
“I don’t? I mean, you’re right. I’m not, and….”
She’s pulling on a piece of hair, and I have the urge to take her hand and hold it by her side. As if reading my thoughts, she drops the strands, straightens her back, and stares at me with such intensity, I can almost feel it in my chest.
“Do you like dancing?” she asks.
“Dancing?” I’m used to Alice’s bizarre questions, things such as: Would I rather be chased by a pack of wolves or a swarm of bees? Or would I know the difference between a llama and an alpaca if one of them was in the staffroom? This one isn’t strange enough to be considered one of her usual lines of questioning.
“Yeah, you know, like swaying to the music, bopping on the dance floor.” She wiggles her bottom and does a jive gesture with her hands, which I’d find funny if she weren’t in such a strange mood.
