Chapter 15
It was a glorious afternoon, weather-wise at least. Simone leaned against the shelter’s wall and turned her face to the sun, squinting into its heat, pinpricks of sweat forming on her upper lip. She’d spent the last three hours scrubbing at grout with a toothbrush, so when home time swung around, she’d found herself doing something she hadn’t done for a very long time whilst sober: having a cigarette.
She inhaled deeply, welcomed the mild nausea and taste of burnt popcorn as the smoke hit her throat and lungs, then exhaled a spectral ribbon into the still air. She knew she shouldn’t indulge, but she welcomed the light-headedness and taut sensation of need, one drag propelling her to the next, nothing to do except relinquish herself to the inevitability of the cigarette’s conclusion, and the feeling of regret that would doubtless follow. She looked around, the world temporarily more vibrant than it had been a minute ago. Her gaze alighted on an old ?koda in the car park. It had flat tyres, and its windows were practically obscured with dirt and algae, as if nature was trying to reclaim the parking space. It was weird; this was valuable London real estate, where renting your driveway could bring in thousands, and it couldn’t have been hard to get it towed away. Still, that wasn’t for her to worry about. She took another drag and let the sun bleach her retinas once more.
‘So, you smoke, huh?’
She almost choked with surprise. Blinded as she’d been, she’d not seen Jasper approach.
‘Are you going to tell me that this makes me an addict, and therefore no different from any of the other addicts you work with?’
He regarded her blithely. ‘No, I was going to ask you for a light.’
‘Oh. Right. Yep, here you go.’
She reached inside her skirt pocket and held out the lighter she’d borrowed from the kitchen. He took hold of it, fingers tantalisingly close to hers, his nails like tiny ghosts. His hand lingered longer than expected.
‘And a cigarette?’
‘Wow.’ She let go of the lighter.
‘I’ve given up,’ he said.
‘Solid move. I don’t smoke either.’
She tossed the pack to him and angled her head so that a sliver of shadow fell across her face, enabling her to see the whole of him better. The sun was behind him, giving the effect of some heavenly interloper.
‘It’s interesting you should say the other stuff though,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing what you can reveal about yourself in the most innocuous moments.’
‘Are you psychoanalysing me?’
‘I’d need something stronger than a cigarette to attempt that.’
He lit the fag, holding it like a joint. He moved to the wall alongside her, put one foot up against it, and rested his free hand on his thigh. They watched in silence as sparrows flitted fitfully between the small, spindly trees that lined the building’s rear driveway. Jasper seemed entirely comfortable to stand there enjoying his cigarette, but she considered all silences around men to be awkward ones.
‘So are you a psychologist or a psychiatrist?’ she asked.
‘You know the difference?’ There was a note of surprise in his voice.
‘Isn’t it that psychiatrists can prescribe drugs to change the brain, whereas psychologists can only study it?’
‘That’s about it.’ He took a large drag and sent smoke rings into the ether. He turned towards her, a wisp of smoke still trailing from those full lips like it was clinging on for as long as possible; a straggler at a party. ‘I’m a psychologist.’
‘Which means you get to observe the action, but you don’t get to influence the outcome. Isn’t that like being an extra in a porno?’
He half-smiled, tiny dimples appearing at the corner of his mouth. ‘Also interesting you should mention sex so early on in the conversation.’
‘Is it? I don’t hold much store by all that Freudian stuff.’
‘He’s only the godfather of psychoanalysis,’ he said.
‘Yeah, but didn’t he claim all men want to bang their mothers, whilst banging a ton of patients who bore no resemblance to his mother, thus disproving his own theory?’ She’d come to the point in her cigarette where she should stub it out, but she continued to let it smoulder. ‘It’s a classic bit of misdirection. Hey, check out zis guy, he vants to bang his mutter! Then when everyone’s checking out that guy, Freud sneaks off and bangs a paying customer.’
‘I notice you’re also consistently referring to sex as banging. Is that indicative of something?’
‘Perhaps it’s indicative of the fact that sex with me is always banging?’
She shuddered inwardly. That’s right. Always best to double-down on sounding like a dick when you’re talking to someone who already thinks you’re a dick. Jasper stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it into a bin about eight feet away.
‘Am I meant to be impressed?’ she asked.
‘Funny. I was just thinking the same thing. Tell me, do you think everyone’s actions are done with the intention of eliciting a reaction from you?’
‘I asked first.’
‘No. I am definitely not trying to impress you. What I’m actually doing is trying to take my mind off the fact that one of my patients died this weekend.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Are you? People die all the time.’
‘Okay, I’m not sorry. What happened? Did you psychoanalyse them to death?’
He smiled, as she’d hoped he might.
‘Heart attack. But also booze which probably led to the heart attack.’
‘And you’re worried that you’re bad at your job?’
‘No!’ he said.
‘Other people are worried that you’re bad at your job?’
‘You can only try to help. It doesn’t always work.’
‘Would a psychiatrist have done a better job do you think?’
‘Jesus!’
‘I’m only asking what any self-respecting person would.’
‘And are you a self-respecting person, Simone?’
‘That’s a big question.’
He looked directly at her. ‘Only if the answer isn’t yes.’ He passed the lighter back to her and effortlessly pushed himself off the wall.
Her own cigarette was almost up to the filter, but she took a final drag anyway, noting the burn against her flesh. He was so infuriatingly on it. It was like her brain slowed down around him, and there was something in his bearing that made her doubt … well, everything. If this were a sparring match, the judges would almost certainly have awarded the advantage to Jasper for that one. She’d have to try harder next time.
‘There you are.’ Gayle had rounded the corner. ‘Any chance you can go and help Tasha serve dinner?’
She waited for Jasper to answer, but he was looking at her.
‘I think she means you.’
She checked her Fitbit. It was bang on six. ‘I was about to head off.’
‘I’m sorry, Cinderella, do you turn back into a pumpkin at one minute past?’ said Gayle.
‘My probation officer said I’m entitled to work set hours.’
‘Oh, I forgot about your entitlement. Perhaps you’d like to take it up with HR, get them to email a timesheet you can complete. You can pop your eight hours in, print it off for me, and then I suggest you jam it straight up your back pipe. Not all the way though; I want you to leave a little bit poking out. Then I want you to set fire to it. When, and only when, your ringpiece looks like a little asterisk drawn in charcoal, then you can still come and help Tasha with serving up. Does that sound agreeable to you?’
Jasper suppressed a smirk.
‘What finishing school did you say you went to again?’ said Simone.
‘Follow me.’
* * *
That evening, with a large glass of Pinot Grigio in hand, she reflected on the day. As she’d passed out plates in the dining area, she’d been surprised by the mix of residents. Some were exactly as she’d imagined, like the hunched-over man she’d bumped into that morning, while others could have been out for a casual bite to eat. There were also a few other regular volunteers. No one particularly interesting, but it was still surprising that people gave up their own time to volunteer. Where was the sense in inducing your own misery to observe the misery of others? Wasn’t the net effect simply more misery? She’d spoken to one woman, clearly religious, for whom the whole thing was probably some kind of afterlife insurance policy. But Simone didn’t believe in heaven. She didn’t even believe in hell, and she’d once spent a Sunday afternoon in Ikea.
The Tasha girl was a harder one to work out. She’d barely spoken when they were serving up, but after everyone had been given a plate of pasta, smothered in a rich deep red sauce whose sweet and smoky aroma filled the dining room, Simone had asked her how she’d learned to cook. By not having a choice in the matter, the girl had said. Eight words that spoke volumes.
Gayle had finally let her leave at 7:15, but not before she’d had to rinse off all the plates and stack them in the dishwasher. It was funny, she didn’t mind that Gayle was some OTT hard nut type – Tony had asked her to do far worse than touch a bicep – but it was her dismissiveness that rankled. She didn’t need to be liked, but she liked the level of liking to be on her own terms. She wanted to feel in control of the variables. It was the same with Jasper. There was no benefit in him fancying her – the guy worked in a homeless shelter after all – but it was a matter of principle that he should. She took a sip of wine and stretched her long legs out on her velvet couch. Still, she hoped he was working tomorrow. If nothing else, she now had a little side hustle to make the next three weeks more interesting.