‘We’ll manage somehow.’
‘That’s not a plan, Jonathan. Do you even have your work visa?’
‘I’m covered for the Stratford run ofLove’s Labour’s Lostfrom April to June next year. That’s a start, right?’
‘But it’s not a promise that we can stay together, and it’s not a home we can share, and if I’d known you get seasick I might not have spent the past few days imagining us living on the barge together and…’
‘Kelsey, it’s OK. Just breathe it out. We’ll find our way. Just like we found each other. And all this waiting and insecurity? It’s temporary. Wewillfind our way.’ He said each word slowly and calmly and Kelsey pressed the phone closer to her ear, waiting for her anxiety to subside.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Tis one thing to be tempted [… ] another thing to fall’
(Measure for Measure)
Down at the Yorick pub on the riverside, Mirren – who had made her way into town along back street pavements dotted with giggling vampires and tiny spectres all clutching pumpkin buckets brimming with sweets – was ordering herself a double shot of Jack Daniels and wondering if she had enough money left in her bank account to pay for it.
She’d been sure to top up her mum’s gas payments before she left for England, and had put a little money by the washing machine, as well as filling the fridge so she could be sure Jeanie wouldn’t skip any meals – and she’d searched the house for twenty minutes before finding two whisky bottles secreted in the airing cupboard, tipping them down the sink before she sneaked out to the train station. Buying that last-minute train ticket from Edinburgh to Stratford hadn’t left her with much to live off this month but at least Jeanie had everything she needed to get by, once she’d got over the shock of Mirren’s sudden departure.
Today marked one week until her payday and she assumed she’d already forfeited that money by walking out, failing to work her notice period, and of course she’d prematurely aged Mr Angus by a decade with her home truths.
She stared at the words ‘transaction pending’ on the device in the barman’s hand and brazened out the moment of tension, followed by instant relief as she watched the payment go through. Her jaw sent a little pang of pressure to her brain reminding her to drop her shoulders and loosen her bite.
The busy barman bustled off to serve the white-bearded, rosy-cheeked barfly in the red cravat at the far end of the bar who had been watching her since she arrived. There was a full-sized plastic skeleton draped in cotton cobwebs on the barstool beside him. She briefly thought the pair looked like a Renaissancememento mori, a reminder that death is always near but she dismissed her morbid thoughts as the effect of All Hallow’s Eve and the worry of her increasingly dire financial straits getting to her.
She knew the barfly’s type instantly. It was only a matter of seconds before he’d start asking her if she was on holiday and where she was from. She’d subconsciously resolved to ignore his eyes boring into her the instant she became aware of them, an automatic response she’d instinctively developed, like so many of her friends, as a young teen and which was now second nature.
Lifting her drink she was relieved to see a group of four holiday-makers vacating a table partly set inside a tall inglenook chimney niche. She slipped inside the towering fireplace, all whitewashed brick and cosy with cushioned benches, and quietly set to work on her drink, keeping her eyes cast down on the striped paper straw. If she didn’t look at anyone, then no one could see her, she told herself, like a child hiding, eyes closed under the duvet, so the boogieman leaves them alone.
So Kelsey was feeling cooped up and tired too? Mirren had suspected as much all along of course and she’d done her best but her plan to get out of Kelsey’s hair hadn’t exactly worked out.
She checked her phone knowing what she’d find there. Nothing. Even her friends – fellow reporters at other papers – had stopped replying to her queries about job openings. They were probably too embarrassed to tell her that they had dutifully mentioned her predicament to their bosses and been met with incredulous looks. As if they’d hire the shouting, boat-rocking Mirren Imrie; the woman who’d accused a respected journalist of harassment. She’s a trouble-maker and a liability.
A thought crept in, unwanted and bitter; she’d have to go back to her mum’s and soon. How could she have fallen from being an award-nominated full time newspaper staffer with a home and a loving boyfriend to being skint, homeless, unemployable and single in the course of two months? ‘Ugh!’ the sound escaped her lips as she hunched over, arms crossed, head on the sticky table, her glass pushed aside and already empty.
‘Are,uh… are you all right?’
Snapping her head up, suddenly hyper aware there were tears in her eyes and that her mascara was filming over her vision in a greasy slick. The white cocktail napkin clung briefly to her forehead before detaching and drifting down to settle on her left boob. ‘I’m fine,’ she said hurriedly with as much dignity as she could scrape together.
It was not the cravat-wearing barfly at all, and not one of the tourists queueing for drinks either, but instead she was looking at the concerned face of someone not quite a stranger. She’d seen him before though only for a moment, and she hadn’t noticed then his deep, dark brown eyes or the muss of near jet-black hair falling over his forehead.
‘Adrian?’ His name came back to her and was in the room before she could contain it.
‘Yes?’ He cocked his head.
‘Oh, you don’t know me, I just know who you are. You’re from theExaminer, right?’
‘That’s right.’ His full mouth twitched into a half smile that spread in a flash to his eyes. ‘So,um,areyou OK?’
‘Well, honestly, no, but I’ll be fine. Thanks.’ The last word was supposed to tell him she was done talking, but he didn’t move.
‘See, I don’t want to bethatguy,’ he lowered his voice now, ‘but you had your head on the table and you seem upset. Is someone bothering you? Are you on a date from hell and you need a leg-up to get out the loo window? I can help with that.’
She begrudged the smile this prompted. ‘Don’t make me laugh, for God’s sake. I’m being miserable and self-sufficient all by myself over here, and I’m not trying to be rude but I don’t want to talk, OK?’
‘I understand, I’m sorry.’ He took a step back then turned away, having thrown her one last apologetic smile. Mirren had to admit she was surprised he’d backed off so readily.
He was sitting on a barstool now and she watched his back as she lifted the straw to her lips. He was all in black; a leather jacket and high-necked jumper, strapped leather boots and skinny jeans, all of which gave the impression of a French cologne model who lived off cigarettes and air. Even with his back to her, the neat stubble round his full Cupid’s bow lips and the slight hollow of his cheeks beneath high cheekbones stayed in her mind. He didn’t look like any guy she’d met recently and he certainly didn’t behave like any of them. He was writing in a notebook now and drinking from a freshly pulled pint.
