Chapter 17
17
‘Sorry?’ Octavia blinked repeatedly. ‘Could you just repeat that? You feel my wedding is a grotesque extravagance for the sake of satisfying my own ego?’
Fiona’s palms started to sweat.
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ she said hurriedly, sensing that perhaps she’d laid it on a little too thick, a little too soon. ‘It doesn’t. It’s just the way it is now?—’
‘The way it is now is the way I want it. It’s the way I’ve spent the last nine months looking forward to it being.’
‘But surely you can see it’s not necessary. Not all of it. One hundred white Christmas trees? For one day? Do you really need them?’
‘It’s not a case of what I need. It’s my wedding day. It’s the only one I’m planning on having. And I’ll have them because they’re what I want.’
‘For crying out loud, could you sound more like a brat?’
That was when she knew she’d blown it.
‘Octavia,’ she reached out to take her client’s hands, only to have her jump up, snatching them away. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Please, please sit down. Let me explain to you where I’m coming from.’
‘I think you’ve explained enough.’
‘Honestly, there’s a reason.’
‘Other than calling me in here to tell me I’m a grotesque, selfish socialite?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘Not in so many words.’
Octavia span around and plucked her handbag from the floor. Fiona’s eyes moved desperately from one side of the room to the other, searching for inspiration. They fell on the corner of the photograph, sticking out of her bag. She wasn’t wrong. Not about this. Martha needed her to be strong.
‘You have a choice here, Octavia. You could do something great. You could make a difference. You talk about wanting to help the anaemic dogs?—’
‘Arthritic dogs.’
‘What does it matter? It’s all bullshit.’
‘Pardon?’ Octavia’s mouth hung open.
‘Seriously. I mean it. You go to charity galas and have your friends over to discuss what tiny fraction of your money you should donate to people who have had their legs blown off in war-torn countries, or to the orangutans because their rainforest homes are being decimated, but you still keep millions squirrelled away in your bank accounts. Oh yes, I know you care. You just don’t care enough to give up your way of life. To give up some of your little luxuries. I mean, when it comes down to it, when it comes down to doing something that would actually make a difference, you won’t. And why? Because I’m right. You don’t care. You care about the image that caring about these things portrays.’
She was going for broke. There was no way back now. She might as well tell it like it was, through to the bitter end.
‘And do you know what? Sod whatever I said before. You had it right. You’re just an egotistical, selfish socialite. Enjoy your wedding. I sure as hell won’t be having anything to do with it.’
A second later, the door slammed.
‘What happened?’ Annabel appeared, bouncing as if she was standing on hot coals.
‘She’s gone, I take it?’
‘Practically ran out the door! She looked devastated.’
‘Good.’
‘What on earth did you say to her?’
Later, on reflection, Fiona felt sure that Annabel had asked this question in nowhere near the tone that she’d imagined at the time. And, given that she had never been anything other than the most loyal and helpful assistant anyone could have ever wished for, it would seem most likely that that was the case. But, right then, the words struck her eardrums like a spray of bullets.
‘What did I say?’ Fiona’s forehead compressed and reddened simultaneously. ‘What I said was absolutely none of your business. When precisely did you think you could just waltz in here, questioning my judgement? It’s my name on the door, remember!’
Annabel inched backwards, shoulders hunching.
‘I didn’t mean anything?—’
‘No, no. Only that it had to be something I had done.’
‘I just?—’
‘Screw this.’
Fiona grabbed her bag, swung it over her shoulder and marched out of the door. So much for trying to do the right thing. To hell with them all.
She was in the right, she reminded herself, as she marched furiously out of the building. She was trying to make a difference. Trying to make people see sense.
‘Argh!’ She pulled at her hair as she pushed past yet another person. How the hell did it end up like that? She was trying to help.
She carried on walking, barely checking if the road was clear before crossing. When did people lose the ability to think rationally? she asked herself. Beyond their own narrow agenda? Someone appeared out of the ether ready to block her path, clipboard at the ready, but she wasn’t in the mood. Practically growling, she barged through, causing the person to jump aside. They should be mad about what’s happening , she thought as she continued her rampage. Everyone on the whole damn planet should be hopping mad.
Only when the streets became quieter and her pace slowed just a fraction, did the whirring in her head also begin to die down.
Maybe she had gone a little overboard, she thought, starting to take stock of her surroundings. Perhaps she hadn’t worded things very diplomatically. But it wasn’t as if it wasn’t true. People like Octavia had the power to influence others, to really ignite change in a community. If Octavia wasn’t going to stick her neck out and do something, then who would? One hundred white plastic Christmas trees, for crying out loud. How had she even said yes to that in the first place? she wondered. She sighed, attracting the attention of a man in a biker jacket, walking beside her. Catching her eye, he nodded. No words exchanged. What she needed, she realised in that second, was someone on her side.
She’d try the restaurant first. Standing outside the door, she watched as people stared up at the blackboard, while tattooed staff took orders and brought drinks. Was there anyone left without a tattoo in this city? They used to be just for skinheads and ex-cons. Now it felt like every wannabe hipster had them.
After five minutes and with no sign of him, she remembered something he’d said to her on her first trip there, about the shop. Just over the road.
It didn’t take long to find the place. With its slate facade and minimalist window display, it certainly stood out among the sleek chain stores that surrounded it. She hovered, still contemplating whether or not she should head in, when the door opened from the inside.
‘We should really stop meeting like this.’
Given how intently she had been staring at the building she was surprised to be caught off guard.
‘Were you planning on coming in, or simply casing the joint? I’m gonna be honest, there’s a jewellers down the street you’d probably have much more success with. Unless you have a thing for artichokes. We’ve got a lot of artichokes in at the minute.’
Today, his sheepish grin was accessorised with a faded T-shirt and ripped jeans. The hair, so thick and wavy, any woman would be envious of it, was currently in a ponytail.
‘You seem to be pretty focused there,’ he said, realising that his quip was going to pass without so much as a smile. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
Behind them came the beeping of pedestrian lights. She turned towards them, and watched a woman cross, holding her child’s hand.
‘Actually,’ she twisted her shoulders back to face him, ‘I think there is.’
Given the myriad thoughts that had crossed her mind in the fifteen minutes it had taken her to walk there, she was surprised to find that, once she was sitting down with a coffee in her hand, she was struggling to find a single word to say.
‘Sorry it’s not as good as the restaurant,’ he said. ‘I only have a kettle here.’
She looked around the room, at the various jars, tins and bottles that filled the shelves.
‘And you own this place too?’
‘I do. This came first, actually. A long time ago now: nearly eight years.’
‘I’ve never noticed it.’
‘I don’t expect you were looking for it before.’
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. She blew at the steam coming from her drink. It felt bizarrely natural, the two of them sitting on the little tub seats in the corner of the shop. Almost like a shoe shop. But with no shoes, just a cup of coffee that was too hot to drink.
‘Was there something?—?’
‘How many customers do you get here?’ she interrupted before he’d had a chance to finish his question. ‘The shop I mean. How many people actually buy into this whole thing? Is it enough to make a difference?’
A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. ‘I guess it depends on what you mean by making a difference?’
‘I don’t know. Just a difference.’
‘How about I give you some statistics,’ he offered after a minute. ‘You seem to me to be more of a quantitative than qualitative type of person.’
‘Quantitative works well for me.’
His smile flickered again as he adjusted his position to settle in for a chat.
‘Okay, in numbers. We’re talking about waste, right?’
‘I guess. Plastic rubbish?’
‘Okay, good… Just so we’re clear, that’s what you want me to tell you about.’
‘Uh-huh.’ She felt like a child again, sitting in class, waiting for the teacher to explain something impossibly hard, that she didn’t really want to know about but, according to the curriculum, she needed to know.
‘All right. We’ll deal with the UK, because that’s where we are. Are you okay with that?’
She nodded.
‘Right. So, the average British person produces around half a metric tonne of waste per year. That’s five hundred kilograms.’
‘I’m aware what a metric tonne is,’ she interjected.
He suppressed a smirk.
‘I apologise. Lots of people don’t know that. Anyway, five hundred kilograms of waste a year. Now, say that an average bag of household rubbish weighs about five kilograms.’
‘Okay, but what about recycling? I recycle at least half of my rubbish.’
It was tough to tell if the look her gave her was pitying or patronising.
‘Yeah, I’m gonna be honest. You might want to look into recycling. It’s a bit of a wormhole.’
‘It is?’ She had already encountered more than enough wormholes for one week. Banishing that thought to the back of her mind, she prompted him to continue. ‘Okay, so around five kilos a bag,’ she repeated.
‘Right, five hundred kilos a year, means one hundred bags a year. One hundred rubbish bags going into landfill, where they will do nothing but pollute the planet.
‘Now, let’s say I can help people to reduce that by a quarter. No scrap that, say by just a fifth. Suppose I can manage to help people reduce their waste by a fifth. That’s twenty bags of rubbish per person that I’ve stopped going into landfill. Per person, remember. Twenty per year per person. Now I’m not exactly supermarket size here, so let’s say I have fifty loyal customers. Fifty people that will cut their waste by one-fifth. Then that’s one thousand bags that I’ve saved every year. Five tonnes that aren’t going to clog up the ecosystem. Can you imagine that? Five tonnes of rubbish that my little shop has prevented all on its own.’
‘That’s crazy.’ She really was surprised.
‘So,’ he said, taking a sip of his coffee, ignoring the cloud of swirling steam. ‘In answer to your original question. I would say, yes. Yes, it most definitely makes a difference.’
Taking a moment, Fiona tried to recap the numbers in her head. It certainly sounded impressive. There was no doubt about that. But then it could have just been the way that he said it. There was something alluring about the way he spoke. The way he drew her eyes to every part of his face.
‘And do you?’ she asked.
‘Do I…?’
‘Have fifty loyal customers? Fifty people who’ve managed to cut back a fifth of their waste?’
‘We didn’t at first.’ He had a refreshing honesty. ‘But now, we’re probably on our way to double that. I mean, this place is never going to make me millions, but stopping eight hundred buses’ worth of rubbish going into a tip each year… I’m happy with that. And that’s just the shop part, remember. The restaurant runs zero waste too. Honestly, the amount some of these big chains – well, most places actually – produce would make your eyes water. Don’t get me started on that. You’ll never get home.’ He paused to take another sip of his drink.
The door opened and a family – parents, children, and grandchildren – ambled in.
‘Can I just quickly ask you one more thing?’ she asked, realising the shoppers would need his attention sooner or later.
‘Go ahead, shoot.’
‘Do you ever get tired of it?’
‘Of what, this lifestyle?’
‘Of the struggle. Of the endless battle.’
‘With whom? With the government, you mean? Of course. I’m constantly infuriated with the lot of them. At least half the plastics used in packaging should have been banned years ago, and stricter regulations on restaurants brought in. And, honestly, I told you, don’t even get me started on commercial food waste.’
‘So how do you keep going? How do you keep yourself motivated? Wouldn’t it just be easier to give in? To live normally. Like everyone else does.’
‘How?’ He looked at her, bemused. ‘What other option do I have? Go back to throwing my rubbish away without a second thought and pray I don’t one day see my crisp packet turn up in the stomach of a whale that’s been washed up on a beach somewhere?’
Fiona gulped at her coffee, scalding the roof of her mouth.
‘Why would you say that?’
‘Say what?’
‘About the whale?’ She heard the hitch in her voice. ‘Why would you mention that?’
He frowned again. ‘You must have seen it on the news? You couldn’t have missed it. The whale in the Thames? Surely you saw how it died.’
‘But why did you need to bring it up? About seeing something in its stomach?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You were the one who was asking the questions. I was just giving you some context, that was all.’
Her pulse was racing and her legs began to tremble. Fighting the feeling, she stood up and handed him the mug.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine. I’m fine, I just need some air.’
She turned to see if there was a clear route through the family who had somehow managed to occupy every aisle in the shop. Realising that it was going to be a case of barging rudely past and upsetting them or staying put and experiencing what she was now almost willing to admit might be some form of an anxiety attack, she marched towards the door.
‘Hey, do you?—’
‘Air,’ she repeated. ‘I need air.’