Chapter 4
Chapter Four
F ifteen minutes later, I’m sitting on a park bench at the edge of the Meadows, sobbing over my heartbreak and cursing myself for not lifting a corkscrew. I pull myself together, trudge back up the path to a late-night shop on Forrest Road and quickly locate one. However, on taking it to the till, I find to my dismay that my purse is not in my bag. It must have fallen out in Dave’s apartment.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble to the shopkeeper, while rummaging through the pockets of my coat and handbag in a desperate attempt to raise the funds I need.
I’m about to give up when my fingers graze some coins buried at the very bottom of my bag. Hastily scooping them out, my lack of care sends them scattering all over the floor, causing me to make chase in a very undignified way.
Once I’ve picked them all up, I count them out in front of the shopkeeper. ‘…one fifty… one seventy… two twenty… two twenty-five… two thirty-five… two-eighty-five… two-eighty-seven.’
I check the price tag on the corkscrew and my face falls. It’s not enough .
Despite a valiant attempt to sweet talk the shopkeeper into a substantial discount, he’s unwilling to budge. Not even when I switch tactics and recount my sob story, between real sobs. The miserable sod – he’s obviously never had his heart broken.
‘OK, I give up. This really isn’t my day.’ My shoulders slump and I head for the door. Then, to my surprise, the-man-previously-made-of-stone finally takes pity on me.
‘All right, all right. You can use the bottle opener, but make sure it’s clean for the next customer. And put it back where you found it.’
I don’t have to be offered twice.
While I’m twisting the corkscrew into the top of the bottle, the shop door tinkles, but I’m so engrossed in my task, I barely notice the new customer. It’s only when I shamelessly haul out the cork that I become aware of someone watching me – a man around my age, with dark hair and eyes and an air of confidence about him. He’s dressed in casual office attire, his top shirt buttons undone, no doubt part of the corporate rat-race too.
‘Oh, sorry.’ I realise I’m blocking the till. ‘I’ll get out of your way.’
‘No problem.’ He smiles at me, then glances at my wine bottle and does a double take. ‘That looks expensive… and possibly vintage.’ He squints at the label.
Bewildered, I check the bottle. ‘Erm… is it?’
He angles his phone towards the label and lets out a low whistle. ‘It’s vintage all right.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says Google – I did an image search. I hope you’re sharing it with some very good friends for a very special occasion.’
I could lie, but I’m past caring what anyone thinks. ‘ Nope. I’m heading to a park bench in the Meadows to drink it – by myself.’ I take a long swig as if to prove it.
‘ OK …’ The man looks perplexed. ‘You do realise it’s worth about two grand?’
I choke mid-sip, spraying tiny scarlet droplets onto the row of crisp packets in front of me. Thankfully, the shopkeeper doesn’t see this.
‘Erm... no, I didn’t.’
The man eyes me with a look that I can’t quite decipher. Though he obviously thinks I’m nuts. Uncomfortable, I look away.
‘OK… well, you have a good time,’ he says.
‘I will.’ I focus my attention on reattaching the corkscrew to its packaging.
‘You do that.’
‘I… said, I will.’
There’s a short silence, during which my skin prickles from the weight of his appraising stare. Feeling distinctly awkward, I decide I should elaborate.
‘Look, if you must know, this bottle is to get me through the evening… after being treated like shit.’
‘I never asked.’ I catch him raising an eyebrow at the shopkeeper.
‘Don’t make out that I’m crazy.’ I also don’t care if I make a fool of myself. I’m never going to see this man again anyway. ‘It’s called self-preservation.’
‘I never said you were.’ He completes his transaction and turns towards me.
Shifting with unease, I’m suddenly aware that I must look a sight – all red, puffy eyes and tear-stained face. And who knows how far my eye makeup has travelled.
‘Don’t suppose you want some company?’ he asks. ‘I’m… intrigued by the wine – you could give me a taste. ’
Thrown by his question, I falter. Who is this guy? I’m not heading off into in the dark with a total stranger.
‘Um… no, I don’t, but… thanks for offering.’
To avoid any further awkwardness, I walk to the back of the shop to return the corkscrew, hoping he’ll be gone by the time I return. But he’s still there, talking in a low voice to the shopkeeper. He spots me and calls over.
‘Listen, I know this is none of my business, but… maybe you could consider sitting somewhere better lit, where people pass more regularly – like a bus stop?’
Still oversensitive from my fight with Dave, I feel utterly patronised. I’m not a child . Indignation flares within me, causing me to finally reach my breaking point.
‘ Will you sod off and leave me alone. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. You men are all the bloody same.’
The man scrutinises me once more. I want to stand my ground and stare him out but I’m spent, so I turn away and pretend that I’m interested in the magazine rack.
‘Change of plan.’ I hear him say to the shopkeeper. ‘Thanks anyway, mate.’
Then the door closes, and when I turn back around, he’s gone.
‘Sorry,’ I grumble to the shopkeeper. ‘I didn’t really mean that. I’m sure you’re very nice. As I said, it’s not my day.’
‘If you’re having that bad a day, you must be due some luck,’ he replies. ‘There’s a UK Lottery draw tomorrow with a huge jackpot. You could return the favour for the corkscrew and buy a ticket?’
‘I don’t play the lottery. And I never win anything, so there’s no point.’
‘Someone’s got to win.’ He shrugs. ‘But, fair enough.’
I decide I can’t argue with his logic. I have absolutely nothing to lose, and things can’t get much worse. What use is a couple of quid anyway? It’s as good as having no cash on me at all, as I’ve discovered.
‘Why not.’ I sigh.
Appearing pleased by the result of his mini sales pitch, the shopkeeper asks me to choose my numbers.
‘Oh, I don’t know…’ I’m struggling to think straight. ‘Maybe just let the machine decide?’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ He smiles at me.
‘No offence, but do I look like I want to have fun right now?’
‘What about using memorable numbers, then? Maybe special dates? Some people look for signs in their environment. Or do you have a lucky number?’
‘I definitely don’t have a lucky number.’ I give him a hopeless look while willing him to take pity on me, but he seems to be enjoying this too much. It must have been a slow night.
At a loss, I resort to looking around the shop in search of inspiration and spot a crumpled scrap of paper on the floor near the counter. Picking it up, I can see it that has what looks like a partial reference number on it. Bingo . I break it down into smaller numbers and relay the information to the shopkeeper, then hand him the piece of paper so that he can put it in the bin. He makes the necessary transaction and passes me my ticket.
On leaving the shop, I return to the Meadows, where, out of spite, I find a bench in the darkest, most isolated spot I can find, before sinking nearly a quarter of the bottle of wine without coming up for air. Then I cry like I’ve never cried before. A lost, broken howling that, had I been in public, I would never have allowed out my mouth.
As the wine reaches all the parts I need it to, I gain some composure and realise that I’m angry with Dave. What has gotten into him? He’s never behaved so cruelly before. I admit that I could have handled that situation better, but I certainly didn’t deserve to be ripped into like that. I think about what Amber said. Could she see something that I couldn’t? Is it possible that I don’t really know Dave at all – just the version of him that I wanted to see? Maybe he really is a selfish wanker and that means I’ve had a lucky escape.
But I love him , a little voice creeps into my head, and I start to sob again, my heroic indignation prematurely brought to a close.
‘Excuse me, are you OK?’ A voice suddenly breaks through my weeping.
I look up and find myself face to face with a girl of around sixteen years old. There’s also a small group not far away, obviously waiting for her.
‘Erm… oh yes… fine.’ I scramble to sit up straight, but misjudge things and over-balance, nearly falling on my face. ‘I’m… just having a night cap.’
‘Funny place for a night cap.’ She gives me an odd look. ‘You seem upset. And drunk. Would you like me to call someone?’
Since when have teenagers become the sensible upstanding citizens? When I was young, we were the ones up to no good. Though it’s not this girl’s fault that I feel completely patronised for the second time this evening.
‘What? Don’t be silly, I’m fine.’ I aim for a light-hearted chuckle, but it comes out as more of a high-pitched squawk. ‘I’m about to head home actually, and you lot should be doing the same. It’s late.’ I’m quite proud of my attempt to regain the moral high ground.
‘If you’re sure.’ She’s clearly not convinced by my act. ‘We only came over because we thought a cat was in trouble. I’ve never heard anyone make a noise like that before. I hope you’ll be all right.’
She turns and rejoins her group of friends, and I hear them whispering in an animated way as they walk off.
Great . Pity from a group of teenagers who thought I was a dying pet. And I thought things couldn’t get any worse.
I sit for a while, swigging my wine. The Meadows is so dark and peaceful, it does have something of a therapeutic effect. Eventually, I dig my phone out of my handbag and indulge myself for a moment, imagining I have a boatload of messages and voicemails from Dave, begging me to come home. And on illuminating the screen, my heart flutters. I do have a number of notifications. Only, on closer inspection, I see that they’re not from Dave. They’re all from Cat.
My heart sinks. She knows what’s happened. Which means Dave’s spoken to her. Which means this is real.
I consider not calling her back, but the tiny part of my brain not marinated in red wine realises that, if I don’t, she’ll panic and call the police. Or worse, my parents. Taking a deep breath, I put my phone to my ear.
Cat picks up on the first ring, which even in my drunken state, makes me feel slightly guilty.
‘ Emma, thank goodness ,’ she breathes. ‘Where are you, honey? I’m so sorry to hear about you and Dave.’
‘I’m at the Meadows, behind the playpark. I’m drunk and cold… and I’m homeless .’ I dissolve into tears once more.
‘Oh honey, don’t worry, I’m coming to get you. You can stay at mine for as long as you need, OK?’
‘ Okaaay …’ I snivel between sobs.
‘Stay exactly where you are. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. ’
She hangs up and I’m left once again to my feline yowling, not caring a bit if the animal protection unit turns up.