Flo seemed genuinely pleased. ‘Well, you’re welcome to borrow one whenever you like.’
‘Oh, I could never! I’d be too afraid of ruining these. They’re all so beautiful.’
‘Books are meant to be read, dear. Even the beautiful ones.’
Tempted, Beth turned back to the books, but a silver jewellery box sitting next to the stack caught her eye. An antique, by the look of it. It was badly tarnished and in need of a good polish. She lifted a hand and traced the etchings on the lid. An intricate floral design surrounded two letters.L.A.Initials, maybe?
‘A family heirloom,’ Flo told her, noticing her interest.
Beth had figured as much. As a child, she’d envied Annie, the little orphan in the movie she’d watched countless times, who’d clutched her locket and, filled with hope and confidence, sang about the day her parents would come to collect her. That battered piece of jewellery had held so much significance for her. It proved that she’d been loved. Treasured. It told her story. Was a testament to her history.
Every time Beth had watched that movie, her yearning for a connection to her own past had grown. Unlike Annie, she’d had her mother, of course, but she’d had no place, no stories, no family heirlooms, not even a photograph to connect her to her father or those who’d come before. It was just her and Rosie and their never-ending moving from one place to the next.
Realising she’d been silent for far too long—Flo must think her strange—Beth moved along the shelf and stopped to inspect a collection of framed photographs. One in particular caught her eye. It captured two women fishing on a riverbank, one with vibrant red hair that flowed past her shoulders, while the taller one sported a brunette bob. They’d been captured mid-laugh, neither of them appearing to notice they were being immortalised on film.
‘That’s me with the red hair,’ Flo told her, smiling sadly, ‘and the other is my best friend. She taught me how to fish that day.’
‘You both look so happy.’ Beth studied the photo a moment longer, then looked back at Flo. ‘Is this the same friend who made your shopping bag?’
‘It is, actually.’ Her eyes misted over and her words took on a nostalgic cadence. ‘From the moment we could toddle around our mother’s ankles, we did everything together. I lost a piece of myself the day she died.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be, my dear. I’d suffer that grief a thousand times over for all the happy times we shared.’
Beth glanced again at the photo on the shelf, wishing she could empathise, but it was impossible to comprehend the enormity of Flo’s loss. After all, she hardly remembered her father, and although she missed Rosie every single day, she’d gained a lot of independence and autonomy since her mother’s passing. Her choices were now her own, so rather than feeling as if she’d lost a piece of herself, it was more like she’d discovered one instead. And, of course, she had no experience of friendship like the kind Flo had just described.
After briefly perusing the remaining photos, Beth returned to her seat. Only then did it hit her—Flo had plenty of photos displayed, some from her childhood, some with her friend, but not one showed any evidence that she still had people in her life who cared about her. The shelves held no wedding photo nor baby pictures, none with Flo in her golden years surrounded by grandchildren. Was she alone in the same way Beth was alone?
Her musings were interrupted by several people walking past the living room window, their chatter audible even from inside the house.
‘Oh, it’s my craft group,’ Flo muttered, shifting in her seat. ‘Is it that time already?’
Beth’s muscles tensed. One friendly person she could handle, but groups overwhelmed her. It was simply impossible to keep up with the conversation; all her effort would go into following the exchange of dialogue, which left her with no capacity to contribute her own. Instead, she’d remain silent and feel awkward until it all got to be too much. At that point, she’d attempt to surreptitiously extricate herself from the group. These days, she tried not to end up in those situations in the first place.
‘I should go—Oh!’
In a rush to leave, Beth had stood faster and more carelessly than she’d intended. Her tea splashed over the rim of her cup and sloshed onto the carpet.
‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry!’ She looked at Flo, horrified. ‘What can I use to clean it up?’
‘It’s fine, Beth. No harm done. Just grab the tea towel from the kitchen. It’ll soak up the wet patch easy enough.’
‘What’s this, then?’ A middle-aged man sporting a dark blond moustache and a hot-pink bow tie walked into Flo’s living room carrying a rectangular case. He caught sight of Beth. ‘Ooh, a new member? Lovely!’
‘Sorry, I just need to …’ Beth left her sentence unfinished as she dashed to the kitchen. Yanking the tea towel from the oven door handle, she rushed to where she’d spilled her tea. In that time, the man had placed his case on the kitchen table and three more people had followed him into the room.
‘Did I hear someone say “wet patch”? What kind of shenanigans are you getting up to in here, Flo?’ A woman of about fifty, who wore an outfit that was entirely purple, right down to the silk gerbera in her hair, now occupied the armchair Beth had recently vacated. ‘Oh, hello.’ The woman glanced down at Beth, who was mopping up the spilled tea at her feet.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing untoward, Elsie. Something’s just been spilled, by the looks of it,’ said another woman, stating the obvious. She had a head of wild grey curls and a knitted scarf of beautiful spring colours around her neck. The curly-haired woman sat on the two-seater couch under the window where, Beth noticed, a third woman was already seated. She appeared to be about forty, had a black bob and was yet to utter a word.
‘That’s right,’ Flo confirmed. ‘Nothing to be concerned about. Just a little mishap. Everyone, this is Beth, my new neighbour. Beth, this is Trevor.’ She indicated the man at the table, who waved enthusiastically, then gestured to the woman in purple, introducing her as Elsie. The grey-haired scarf wearer was Carmen and the woman beside her was Hana.
‘Her name means “my favourite” in Korean,’ Flo told Beth.
Hana gave a hesitant wave, then pushed her red tortoiseshell glasses further up her nose.
‘Hello.’ Beth forced a smile and bobbed her head briefly at the newcomers but mostly busied herself with pressing the tea towel more firmly into the carpet.
