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Ish:Should I get used to this level of spontaneity from you?
Helen:Definitely not!
Helen dragged on some blue jeans, a white T-shirt and her beloved Converse trainers. The sun was still warm in the sky, she really should be working … The problem was that she had blogger’s block. Which she could probably re-name as Brody block. Every time she sat down to write a post, the words didn’t flow. She could focus for about fifteen minutes at a time (provided she had some Lindt chocolates or a Diet Coke on hand), after that her attention would drift off. Like some virtual reality simulator, her brain ran through a hundred different scenarios of what meeting Brody again could be like, helpfully zeroing in on any obscure eventualities (‘the festival loos don’t have proper locks and he walks in on me!’) that would leave her humiliated. With all that creative brain power on diversion towards anxiety, it was unsurprising she wasn’t feeling creative in her work. After an hour of trying, all she’d come up with was some woefully humdrum comments.
‘It’s delicious alongside sliced apples, carrots or even pretzels!’
‘So easy anyone can prepare it!’
She’d gone from being borderline cool, or at least a passable writer, to churning out lines that made her sound like some overly chipper, cardigan-wrapped judge on Bake Off Britain.
All her analytics told her that her follower numbers, engagement levels, social media reach were down with scary percentages like minus 276 per cent. Was that even mathematically possible?
If there was ever a time to meet Mr sixty-seven thousand followers (thank you very much) it was now.
Plus, Ish was just Ish: nice, non-threatening. He didn’t make her feel awkward. She didn’t have to worry they wouldn’t have anything to talk about. Or that he’d suggest a flimsy reason to go back to his place, ‘I have this samurai sword …’ He would just be pleasantly normal. He could even give her his man-pinion on the whole Brody drama. And mainly, Helen really felt like now was a good time to cave in and have a glass of wine.
Helen:Where do you want to meet?
Ish:Your first clue …
Helen:Ish I just want a drink!
Ish:Don’t worry I kept this easy for ya!
Difficulty level 4 at best …
Helen:Okay
Ish:Start where I left you a plaster for your foot,
Look across the river for something covered in soot.
Follow the sherbet houses down,
It’s in an Ivy House where I’ll be found.
PS Don’t use Google Maps – you got this! ;-)
Helen liked planning; Ish liked playing. Everything was a game to him. It wasn’t a bad characteristic, it was nice to hang out with someone who wasn’t prone to overthinking everything, but at other times Helen wished she could just have a serious conversation with him. Why had he written a riddle for a Monday night drink?
Helen set off to the bench on the canal where Ish had left a blister plaster the first night they met. Looking at the old towpath, Helen was pleased to notice she didn’t feel afraid. She didn’t remember the brown beanie guy lurking one foot out of the shadows; that memory had been obscured by the thought of Ish and his yellow bike. His jacket with too many pockets, and the plaster left at the halfway point between them. She sat on the bench and looked at the skyline, and felt her lips curving into a smile.
Loaning her the plaster was sweet of him … She felt a twinge of affection for Ish. With Sophie out of action on account of being in love, she could do with a new confidante. Someone to drink rosé wine with, and someone who would sit there patiently as she unravelled the whole Brody saga in front of them.
She saw The Shard in the distance. She’d met Jonathan there for dinner once, dressed up and excited to see him after he’d been blanking her for a couple of weeks. She remembered spending hours perfecting her make-up, and choosing the right dress, thinking that night would be their reconciliation … then they’d fought over dinner. He’d wanted to take a picture of them both to send to his family, Helen had felt too nervous to do it. After two weeks of not hearing from him, it felt forced, fake. He’d paid the bill, stormed out into a black taxi and left her standing on the street. She didn’t hear from him for another two weeks after that …
Had it been her fault? Had he picked the fight? Her memories of him were so muddled it was hard to tell. She felt a familiar pinch in her gut thinking about him, and an even bigger squeeze knowing he had found true love, and she had lost hers.
She shook slightly, hoping the memory would evaporate off her like drops of water. Helen looked back at the skyline: graffiti marching up old brick buildings, a skeletal gasometer, and a row of old factories across the canal.
Factories = soot?
That sounded about right, surely Ish wouldn’t make her walk all that far? Helen walked over the bridge and around the corner to a row of old factory buildings. They’d been painted teal, yellow, pink, and now housed trendy coffee bars, bike shops, and an Apple Mac repair store. She followed the corner around past the pink building to see a wall of Ivy. On the wall was a metal placard that read, ‘The Secret Garden’.
Helen pushed against a heavy metal door. She knocked and a slat opened.
‘Hi, is this the Ivy House?’
