Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Thirty-Nine
For a moment, Ash thought he’d forgotten to turn his alarm clock off. He groaned, rolled over and flung an uncoordinated hand out, trying to find the offending item on his bedside table. It continued to squawk, and before he found the smooth, round button, he remembered. It was Sunday, and he had meant to get up this early, because today was the day he was turning over a new leaf. New horizons, new outlook.
He slid out of bed and into the shower, trying to wash away his weariness. He’d felt weary ever since his dad had gone; worse since that day with Jess in the park. But every time he had an uncharitable thought about Nico, or found himself staring at the TV screen, having watched a whole episode of Slow Horses without taking any of it in, or ignored messages from Dylan for longer than several hours, he was reassured that he’d done the right thing. He cared about Jess too much to subject her to all his hostility and vacant hours.
He dressed in jeans and a marl grey T-shirt, checked the time on his watch, and left the flat, jumping when Mack glared at him from across the corridor. He’d probably been waiting with a glass pressed against the wood, listening for the sound of Ash unlocking his door.
‘Andrea at number twenty-one is getting my paper today,’ Mack said. ‘Seeing as you told me you couldn’t do it.’
Ash couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’m sure Andrea will be more entertaining than me, and there’s somewhere else I need to be today.’
Mack’s face brightened. ‘Off to Greenwich, are you? Going to fix things with that woman of yours at last.’
Ash dropped his gaze to the horribly patterned carpet, his stomach twisting with guilt. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I told you. That’s over.’
‘Just because your dad’s gone, doesn’t mean you have to give up on life, too.’
Ash looked up, his neck prickling. ‘I’m not giving up on life.’
‘Sure seems like it.’ Mack leaned heavily against his doorframe.
Ash took a step forwards. ‘Is your hip—’
‘I’m having one of my better days,’ Mack cut in. ‘This is my thoroughly-disappointed-in-you stance. Have you lost your damn mind? That woman was miserable when she turned up here, she hadn’t heard a peep from you, and despite that, she had more sparkle in her than everyone on our corridor put together – right now, anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ash rubbed his forehead.
‘You used to be like that,’ Mack said. ‘It wasn’t an accident that I came to you for the paper and coffee on Sundays. Your company, your attitude. You hadn’t always had it easy, but you made it your business to find the positive in everything. And then that good-for-nothing father came back into your life, reminded you of how much he’d made you suffer, and then left for good. You’ve let him steal your joy again, just like he did the first time he left.’
‘Mack, I—’
‘Get it together, son. Before it’s too late.’ He stepped back and, before Ash could say anything in reply, he was staring at his neighbour’s closed door, the bang reverberating through his head like a warning bell.
Borough Market was, objectively, a great place to spend a few hours. Really amazing cheese, a huge vat of paella, ostrich burgers and creme br?lée doughnuts and other food options that Greenwich didn’t offer, all in the shelter of the stunningly Gothic Southwark Cathedral. Ash got there as the market was still waking up, with the echo of car horns on Borough High Street, delivery lorries beeping as they reversed into tight spaces. The sun streamed in, creating pockets of light and shade, and he tried his hardest to relax.
He strolled past charcuterie and bakery stalls, pastries glistening with golden flakes, and past huge, pungent wheels of cheese, their smell overpowering the aromas of chocolate and fudge. There were no hats to try on, no antique clocks or silverware to sift through, no shimmering jewellery. No Jess. He queued for a coffee, and even the act of getting a cappuccino in a takeaway cup was thick with nostalgia. Any moment now the memories would slow down, and his brain would wake up and be interested in this new place with all its possibility.
He watched a dad and two young children standing in line for the ice-cream stall, the little girl jumping up and down, her brown ponytail bouncing. He had done a lot of FaceTiming with Dylan recently, soaking up minutes in the company of his brother and his nephews, Sadie popping her head in to say hello and ask how he was doing, the modern lines of their Auckland house in the background.
Zack and Eli always had a ridiculous story to tell their Uncle Ash, about falling off some impressive play equipment, or the hidden lake they’d found on a weekend hike, or what piece of homework their dog, Scruffit – ‘like Stuff It, only more polite’, Eli had said – had destroyed. It always took Ash out of himself, until they wanted to hear his funny stories, what he’d been up to, and he had nothing to tell them because all he’d been doing was acting like a zombie at work, drinking too much in the evenings, staring at a picture of a kite on his living-room wall.
‘This is fucking ridiculous,’ he said aloud.
‘I beg your pardon?’
He spun on his heels, mouth open, and was met with the steely glare of a woman who, even on this balmy summer morning, was wearing a green jacket, and had a red umbrella hanging over her arm. Her hair was grey, her eyes sharp behind round glasses, and her lips were pursed in disapproval.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ash said. ‘I didn’t realise anyone was in hearing distance.’
The woman stared pointedly around her. ‘We’re in a market,’ she said. ‘One of London’s busiest, on a Sunday morning. Where did you think you were? The moon?’
Ash almost choked on his laughter. ‘Well, there is a lot of cheese...’ He gestured to the stall behind them, but the woman just glared harder. He cleared his throat. ‘As I said, I’m really sorry. I’ll be more mindful in future.’ He went to turn away.
‘Out with it, then.’
He angled his body back towards her. ‘Sorry?’
‘What is... flipping ridiculous. Your coffee? The size of that wheel of Black Bomber? The fact that the young woman over there thinks she can charge eight pounds fifty for almond butter, just because she’s slapped an artisan label on it?’
‘Uh, my coffee’s great,’ Ash said and, as if he needed to demonstrate, he took a sip, then gave a loud, satisfied sigh. He was, quite clearly, losing his mind.
‘What is it, then?’ The woman folded her arms. ‘I tell my grandchildren that there always has to be a reason for swearing. They’re high-currency words, not to be bandied about lightly.’
‘I would guess I’m older than your grandchildren,’ Ash said, wondering when he’d recover the brain power to extract himself from this awkward conversation.
‘They’re twenty-three and twenty-seven,’ she said, ‘so not by much.’
‘Right.’ He nodded, hoping that would be the end of it, but she continued to stare at him, and he thought that maybe her question hadn’t been rhetorical. ‘What is... flipping ridiculous,’he admitted, ‘is that I’m missing someone – a lot. She works at a different market, and I thought I could come here today and somehow banish her ghost. It was a stupid plan.’
‘Is she dead, then?’
Ash turned his shocked exclamation into a cough. ‘She’s not dead,’ he said. The thought sent an icy shiver through him. ‘She’s fine: alive and well. Working in her shop in Greenwich right now, I expect.’
The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t talk about ghosts, then. If you know where she is, why are you here and not there?’
‘Because...’ Ash floundered. He’d had enough of being interrogated by people who thought they were wiser just because they’d lived longer than him. And those unkind thoughts were the reason he had been right to walk away from Jess. But then... the woman’s question was so simple. Why are you here, and not there? If he told her that it was because he was too fucked-up, she’d probably hit him with her umbrella.
‘Well then,’ the woman said, when he didn’t finish his sentence. ‘You need to be purposeful.’
‘I do?’ He rubbed the back of his neck.
‘Yes. Whether your purpose is to enjoy this market, or to go to the other market where this woman is, or to sit on a bench next to the cathedral and drink your coffee, enjoying a tiny corner of London where the birds are singing, you need to own it. Right now, you’re floating around like a lost soul, swearing to yourself, stuck in between. Make a decision, then act on it.’
‘Even if it’s the wrong one?’
‘I think you know, almost as soon as you make it, whether a decision is right or wrong. Not everyone puts stock in intuition, but I believe in it. There’s a part of you that knows.’ She tapped her temple.
‘Right,’ Ash said again, and thought that maybe she was making sense. Walking away from Jess, leaving her on that bench in the park, had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done: harder, even, than going to see his dad, lying still and silent in the hospice bed. Every step away from her had felt like he was leaving a vital part of himself behind, but he had told himself he couldn’t backtrack; he couldn’t give her a speech about how he couldn’t be with her after all, despite their weeks together; be the cause of all her tears, watch as he broke the heart of the woman he was certain he loved – and break his own heart at the same time – then race back up the hill, make jazz hands and say, Just kidding! I love you more than I’ve loved anyone, so please put up with me through the shitshow that is my life right now because I’m selfish and I don’t want to spend another hour without you.
No, he couldn’t have done that. So he had stuck to his decision, and maybe it was the wrong one – surely if it was right, he would have started to forget about her by now, or at least stop dreaming about her – but he had made it, at least. But what had the woman said just now? That he was floating around, stuck in between. It didn’t mean anything, except that this morning had been a mistake. How had he ever thought Jess, everyone and everything at Greenwich Market, could be replaced?
‘Thanks.’ He gave the woman a quick, perfunctory smile.
‘No problem, young man.’ She tapped her umbrella on the ground. ‘Glad I could be of service. I somehow know when people need a snippet of advice – even if they’re complete strangers. You, with your obscenities and hunched shoulders, those sad grey eyes, were a prime candidate.’
‘Sort of like a sixth sense, then?’ Ash said. ‘Thanks again.’ Now he really was going to leave. Maybe find that bench, enjoy his coffee in peace – unless, of course, the birds she was referring to were pigeons. If they were, then they could fuck off: a pigeon would nail the coffin shut on this disaster of a morning. He flashed her another quick smile and turned away.
‘More like my own little superpower,’ she called after him.
His breathing stuttered. Slowly, he turned back round to face her. ‘What did you say?’
She shrugged, all her sternness evaporating. ‘It’s not earth-shattering, I know. Not like flying or being invisible, but I like to think of it as my mini superpower.’
‘A... a mini superpower?’ he repeated.
‘It sounds silly, but that’s how I see it. Are you OK? I know I was abrupt, but swearing really is—’
‘No,’ Ash said. ‘It’s fine. Honestly.’ He realised he was rubbing his chest. The ache had been there, dull but unforgiving, for the last ten days. It was undoubtedly psychosomatic, because your heart didn’t actually ache when you were heartbroken – that was reserved for serious medical emergencies like heart attacks. But now it was sharp, and it was telling him – this woman was telling him – that he’d got it wrong. He’d got it so, so wrong. ‘Thank you.’ He pressed his coffee into her hand.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I don’t want this—’
‘It really is great coffee,’ he called, already hurrying away. He turned to give her a smile – if she had thought he was a bit strange before, now she must think he was positively unhinged – and tripped, catching his hand on the brick wall. He kept going, hoping the woman with the umbrella would understand.
It was almost eleven o’clock: he had just over an hour to get there.