Chapter 9
Ethan was already at the coffee shop when I arrived at nine o’clock on the dot the next day, as I kind of knew he would be.
I felt a little rough after last night’s drinking session, but also reasonably rested.
After some average burgers and another round of happy hour cocktails at the bar, we’d agreed it made sense to make a staggered return to the hotel so staff were less likely to realise there were three of us in a room intended for two, so I’d jumped at the chance to go first. I’d got back to the room at just gone eight o’clock, immediately climbing into bed fully dressed and passing out the instant my head had hit the pillow.
Mum and Anneka returned as midnight approached, and even after just four hours of uninterrupted sleep on a mattress, I’d felt like a freshly hatched being.
I’d moved into the bathtub a couple of hours later and had slept okay in there, too, eventually waking up when my alarm went off at eight a.m. I didn’t bother leaving a note for them this time: they’d made it clear when they’d burst into the room last night they’d be having a lie-in this morning.
I’d message them in a bit now I knew a Wi-Fi connection was waiting around the corner.
Ethan was sitting at ‘our’ table, reading a pocket-sized novella as if it was already an in-joke.
‘Hey!’ he said loudly but a little self-consciously, after spotting me. He stood up to greet me, his glasses now perched on his head, almost buried in his nest of thick hair.
‘Hi!’ I said, matching his tone exactly.
Now it was my turn for my glasses to steam up. I took them off as he helped me out of my coat and hung it on a hook by the door. I dumped my rucksack down and relaxed into the chair, cleaning my glasses on a napkin.
I felt suddenly shy as I admired his weekend outfit of loose-fit grey jeans and a hint of a vintage band tee peeking through a forest-green overshirt. The lower half of his face glittered with dark blonde stubble.
‘What can I get you? Same as yesterday?’ he asked.
‘Perfect, cheers.’
He grinned and joined a short queue at the counter to place the order with Cory, which afforded me enough time to extract a pen and the crappy pad of paper from the hotel and give my appearance a quick appraisal in my phone’s selfie mode.
None of my own make-up had made it across the Atlantic, but I’d found some Collection 2000 concealer and blusher in Mum’s make-up bag, so at least I looked less ghostly today.
Ethan slid back into his chair and rolled up each of his shirt sleeves in the most precise and entrancing manner I’d ever seen. I broke the spell by peering at his book, the open pages pressed face-down on our table.
‘You can’t even see the tear,’ I said, running my finger along the novella’s narrow spine. ‘Nice repair job.’
‘Thanks, I soldered it. Are you warm? I’m warm.’ He completed the final sleeve fold and took a sip of coffee as if to reward himself for the successful execution of his task.
‘I’m the perfect temperature.’
My coffee and croissant arrived, and I thanked Cory.
‘I can’t believe you follow me on Instagram. What are the chances?’ said Ethan.
I wanted to ask him so much about his cartooning, but I was also conscious that I needed to keep things as professional as possible.
‘I’m a big fan of The New Yorker cartoons,’ I said, as neutrally as I could muster.
‘Aww, and here’s me thinking I was special.’ He winked and blushed, which was an extremely endearing combination.
‘Don’t get me wrong, yours are up there with my favourites,’ I reassured him. ‘The funny thing is, I always assumed you were some Larry David-esque dude in his sixties, all bald and wrinkly and… New Yoik-y.’
‘But instead, I’m…?’
Was he fishing?
Sod it, I’m taking that bait.
I cocked my head to the side and locked eyes with him. ‘The opposite.’
Ethan raised his eyebrows and hooked a finger into the neck of his T-shirt and wiggled it up and down, as if to dislodge his fluster. I knew how he felt.
‘Ha, I’ll take that,’ he said, grinning widely.
I took a restrained sip of coffee, a welcome distraction.
‘Did you have a good day yesterday?’ Ethan asked.
A sliver of truth wouldn’t do any harm, surely?
‘I ended up doing a foraging tour in Central Park. It was… quite the adventure.’
‘Wow, I’ve heard about those tours but I’ve never actually done one.’
‘Did you grow up in the city?’ I asked, followed by a big bite of croissant and a lap-bound flurry of beige flakes.
‘No, I’m from Ohio originally – just outside Cleveland. A place called Shaker Heights.’
A couple of dormant neural pathways reconnected in my brain as I swallowed the pastry. ‘Isn’t that where Little Fires Everywhere is set?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one.’
‘Quintessential smalltown America.’
‘Right down to the white picket fences.’
‘And… little fires everywhere?’
‘Not been back in years, so the whole place could be ablaze by now for all I know.’
‘Haha. Still got friends and family there?’
‘Not really, my parents moved to upstate New York a few years ago since me and my brother both work here in the city. I didn’t really stay in touch with anyone after high school.’
You and me both, pal.
‘Must be nice to have your family close by?’ I asked.
‘Well closer – New York’s a pretty big state and they’re still a good five hours away by car.’
I did some silent calculations in my mind. ‘Shit, yeah, I guess that would be the equivalent of my family living in Paris.’
‘You’re based in London?’
‘No. Well, not anymore, anyway. I moved to Bath a few months ago.’
‘Bath, as in the Roman Baths?’
‘The very same.’
‘Woah, that must be amazing to live among so much ancient history. I can’t even imagine.’
I suppose he was right, not that I’d had the headspace to appreciate the magic of the place since living there. That’s what I should be doing right now. Although, at this present moment in time, sitting here wasn’t exactly a hardship.
‘It’s a beautiful city, that’s for sure.’
I stole a glance at my watch – it was already coming up to nine fifteen and we hadn’t even mentioned his speech yet.
‘So then, this speech,’ he said, having accurately read my social cue.
‘Yeah, I guess we should crack on.’
I clicked open my pen and smoothed out the creases on the unbranded notepad. ‘So, tell me about your brother.’
‘God, where to start?’
‘His name?’
‘I suppose that would help. Rick. Richard.’
‘Rickrichard. Unusual.’
‘You’re funny.’
I smiled but didn’t look up. ‘Survival tactic. Is he older? Younger?’
‘Older, but only by eighteen months.’
‘Any other siblings?’
‘Nope, just us.’
I nodded as I jotted down the info in shorthand, glancing up. ‘I’m the youngest of two as well.’
‘Brother? Sister?’
‘Sister. Well, half-sister. Anneka. She’s fifteen years older than me.’
If Ethan was intrigued by this, he didn’t show it, let alone ask about it.
Not that it would have been a simple thing to explain if he had.
I’d only found out the story of my conception a few weeks after starting secondary school when a bunch of nasty girls had interrogated me about why my sister looked nothing liked me.
When I’d returned home visibly upset that day, Mum had ignored my emotional state, as was her way. But I’d asked her the question anyway.
‘Who was my dad, Mum?’
She’d carried on what she’d been doing – bashing some chicken fillets with a rolling pin – without pausing as she replied.
‘We’re going do this now, are we? Gosh. Well, I promised myself I’d tell you if you ever asked, so even though you’re younger than I’d prefer, I’m going to tell you this once – but then I never want to talk about it again, okay?’
I’d nodded, fully understanding this would probably be the most significant interaction me and Mum would ever have.
‘When Joe – Anneka’s dad – died, I was very sad and very lonely.’
She’d bashed the chicken twice before continuing.
‘Anneka was just a teenager, and I didn’t have many friends to talk to about it. Joe had been my best friend, you see. So I used to go out on weekends to try and take my mind off it.’
Another couple of chicken bashes.
‘One Saturday night I was out in Bristol and I met someone, and we got chatting and we liked each other. And then two months later I found out I was pregnant. With you.’
I’d been just about old enough to fill in the gaps. ‘Okay. And who was he?’
A whole barrage of bashes before she’d finally answered.
‘All I know is that his name was Paul. He was in Bristol on a stag do with his friends. He was in his late twenties and he didn’t live locally. He seemed like a very nice and funny person.’
Paul. My dad.
‘So… you never told him you were pregnant?’
‘There was no way to track him down, love. I didn’t even know his surname.’ She’d put the rolling pin down and washed the raw meat juices off her hands, drying them on a tea towel.
‘So, he doesn’t even know about me?’ I’d asked, my voice getting smaller with every question.
She’d finally looked at me. ‘No. He doesn’t. I’m sorry, love.’
I’d stood there for a few moments, trying to make sense of everything I’d just learned, before asking the question that had been screaming inside my skull.
‘Do you wish I’d never been born?’
Mum had let the tea towel fall to the ground and bundled me into her arms. It was the nicest hug I’d ever had from her – it still was, to this day.
‘Absolutely not,’ she’d mumbled into the top of my head. ‘You’re the best thing that could have happened to this family after we lost Joe. You’re our little miracle, do you understand? Our little miracle.’
She’d held me for another few seconds, before releasing me abruptly and turning back to the sink, filling up the washing-up bowl with hot, soapy water. The conversation was over. Forever, according to her.
I’d tried to insert the mysterious Paul into conversations every now and then, but Mum had walked out of the room wordlessly whenever I did so. I’d asked Anneka about him once, but she’d just shrugged. ‘You know as much as me. Sorry.’