Moving On

Exploring

Exploring

STRONG WAS ONE WORD FOR GLORIA. TACITURN, grouchy and disapproving were others. She only spoke when she needed to say something, and then she used as few words as possible, rapping them out like an order or an accusation, even if they were neither: Your lace open! Where you put sugar? Knife on floor! Ellen had a deep repect for Frances’ sharp tongue and fearless outlook, but if Gloria and her aunt ever went head to head, Ellen’s money would be on Gloria.

She did enjoy the job, though. She liked the bustle that made the hours fly, between the first trickle of customers soon after eleven and the latecomers who trailed in around two. During those peak hours she and Gloria worked like automatons, Ellen on sandwich-making duty – within a day she’d perfected her technique – and Gloria in charge of drinks and taking payment.

Best of all, it stopped her thinking about Ben. No room for anything else when you were continually slapping butter on bread, piling on fillings, cutting and wrapping and saying thank you before moving on, with a bright enquiring smile, to the next.

When things quietened down each day Ellen cleaned up while Gloria recorded the takings and made a list for Claudia of what food items needed to be replenished. These tasks were carried out mostly in silence, but after three hours of customer interactions, that suited Ellen too.

And living with Claire was great, as she’d known it would be. Their fridge was permanently full of the leftovers Claire brought home from work, saving them money that they spent on their shared time off. They explored the city together, quickly finding their way around the Tube network.

They walked through parks and strolled by the river. They visited the free attractions and discovered which pubs gave complimentary tapas with drinks orders, to save more money. Sadly, Marks & Co., the bookshop Ellen had longed to see on Charing Cross Road, had ceased trading over a decade earlier, but there were plenty of others to check out, some very old indeed, and all with the same intoxicating bookish smell.

When they ventured into the big department stores on the fancy streets it was mostly for a look, or to try out the make-up and perfume samples, pretty much everything on offer being beyond their budgets – but now and again Claire would produce something on the way home that she’d lifted: a tube of foundation, a pair of hoop earrings, a packet of joss sticks. Ellen lived in silent terror of her being caught – what was the penalty in London? – but Claire, as ever, knew no fear.

They went out on Claire’s nights off too, as often as they could afford. Sometimes to the cinema, buying bags of chips on the way home, other times splashing out on a happy hour cocktail or two which they washed down with cheap wine back at the flat. When they were broke – frequently – they’d go to The Laughing Lion, and Claire would wangle free drinks from her colleagues when the manager wasn’t around.

Ellen hungered for live theatre in a city renowned for it, but the prohibitive price of the tickets made the West End shows beyond her reach – until she discovered, to her great delight, the half-price ticket booth in Leicester Square. Still costly, but she resolved to treat herself to one show a month. Claire flatly refused to accompany her – ‘I’m not spending money on that’ – so on theatre nights she went alone, and didn’t care.

Within a week or so of their arrival, she and Claire had met all their neighbours. In addition to Jada from Barbados and her delightful boys there was an Australian musician and a pair of sisters from Manchester who worked in the market. There was a young couple from Offaly, both teachers, and a trio of French culinary students who once a week put out a general invitation to share whatever they had cooked that day. Supper tonight, 8.00pm , a notice on their door would proclaim, and Claire and Ellen would bring along a bottle of wine and try out their schoolgirl French.

It wasn’t long before Claire was dating. In the pub she had plenty to choose from, and more often than not, she fell into conversation on the Tube or in the parks too. Thankfully, she overnighted at her dates’ places: ‘I couldn’t put you through it,’ she told Ellen. ‘I can hear you when you turn over.’

‘And I can hear you snoring.’

It was a Saturday. They were washing up after breakfast. Claire dropped cutlery with a clatter into its drawer. ‘I’ll have to find someone for you. It’s high time you discovered the joy of sex. I can’t believe you haven’t done it yet.’

Ellen lifted a cereal bowl from the sink. ‘Actually, I have done it.’ There, it was out. Maybe now she could pack it away. Maybe now he would begin to leave her.

Claire laughed. ‘Doing it with yourself doesn’t count.’

Ellen pulled the plug. Water rushed away. ‘There was someone in Galway.’

‘What? There was not.’

Ellen looked at her, and Claire’s face changed. ‘Seriously? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Who was he? Where did you meet him?’ She stopped. ‘Was it Danny?’

‘Not Danny. It was my boss in the bookshop. He’s gone away. He went off to see the world with his brother.’

‘Was that why you came to London?’

‘Yes.’

Claire studied her. ‘He broke your heart.’

Ellen swallowed a lump in her throat. She hadn’t thought talking about it would still be hard. ‘Not on purpose.’

Claire set down the tea towel and put her arms around Ellen. ‘Oh, poor you. You should have said. Poor Ellen. Why didn’t you say?’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘You could. You can tell me anything, you know that. Anything at all.’

‘I do know that.’

She did – and still Frances was the one she’d chosen.