Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
PENALTY AND PEACE
Omar
She was twenty minutes late meeting me at Blackfriars. She sat talking to the artist so long past the end of the show that we missed our reservation time by almost two hours and couldn’t be seated. And then, we spent the next hour retracing our steps to search for her phone, only to find it at the bottom of her overly large purse.
All of that happened, and it’s still been a perfect night. We’re walking back to Brixton, all the way from Trafalgar Square where we sat eating kebabs we bought from a hole in the wall place in Leicester Square where they knew her by name and gave her double portions. We stumbled in, tipsy after the two rounds of shots we did at Zoo Bar to congratulate ourselves for finding the phone she never lost.
“Friends from my uni days,” she explained as we walked out of the kebab shop and onto St. Martin’s Lane with our hands full of food, and I made a note to ask more about that after we ate and were on our way home.
We sat on the steps of the National Gallery, eating and talking about the exhibit and the artist who brought it all to life and missed the last train to Brixton.
I wanted to order an Uber, but she wanted to walk until we could catch one of the night buses. I put my phone away, took her hand, and followed her lead.
It was obvious, as soon as we started down The Millbank, that as well as being an art lover, a bartender, a lawyer, and a ray of sunshine, she’s also a history buff. Every few blocks, she’d stop and point out a building or a statue and tell me why it was important.
By the time we reach the Lambeth Bridge, we’ve already missed two buses that could have taken us home because we’ve been so deep in conversation. We agreed that we wouldn’t talk until we were on a bus unless it was urgent. We’ve been walking in companionable silence for ten minutes when she puts a hand on my arm and slows her pace.
“This was a prison once.”
“Hmm?” I look down at her, and she’s looking to our left at a building with a Pantheon-like facade set back from the road.
“That’s the Tate Britain,” she informs me, and we come to a complete stop.
“Ah, I’ve always wondered where it was.”
“I’m surprised you’ve heard of it at all. It lives in the Modern’s shadow.”
“I’ve heard of it because I used to write donation checks to them.”
“A patron of the arts, are you?”
“Hardly. I just did whatever the team’s PR company said we should.”
“It’s got a narrower focus, but the painting of Ophelia by Millais alone is worth a visit. I sat and looked at it for two whole hours before I’d had my fill.”
“I’ll make a point to visit it before I leave.”
“I come here a lot,” she says, and her hand slips out of mine as she moves toward the building. “It was built to punish people, but now it’s a place of peace.”
It’s a warm summer night, but she stands with her arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold as she gazes at the building.
“What are you thinking?” I wonder aloud.
“About forgiveness. About my dad.”
I’m struck by the similarity of our thoughts. I’ve been thinking a lot about my father, too. I haven’t spoken to him in three months. He’s stopped calling and only communicates through email and only about work.
“I’d give anything to have him back. But I’m afraid he wouldn’t want me even if he was here. I was a terrible daughter most of the time. And when he needed me the most, I was too weak to help him. I didn’t set the fire that killed him, but it’s my fault he’s dead.”
I’m struck by several things at once: Her normally animated voice is completely colorless. And she’s telling me about her family.
She knows so much about me already, and I barely know anything about her. Unlike me, whose whole adult life is chronicled online, the only place she appears online is her chambers and Inn Websites and her Instagram account.
“It can’t be your fault.” Before I can add anything else, there’s a telltale squeaking of brakes and a gust of wind as the bus blows by us toward the stop at the end of the road. She turns and starts to run for it. “Come on, we can catch it,” she shouts over her shoulder. She’s running fast and reaches the bus a few steps ahead of me just as its doors are closing. “Wait!” She leaps from the sidewalk and onto the bus and uses her arms to stop the doors. When I catch up, she’s panting and grinning. “Slow poke,” she teases and dashes up the stairs.
My Gucci loafers are hardly made for walking and definitely not made for running, and when I drop into the seat next to her, I wince and stretch my slightly sore knee.
“And that’s why I always have trainers in my bag. Gotta be ready to run at any moment.” She turns in her seat and looks out of the window as the bus rambles off the bridge and swings onto Kennington Road. “Have you been to Vauxhall? If not, you should. It’s?—”
The light on the bus is harshly bright in contrast to the dark night lit only by the moon and an occasional streetlamp, and it takes me a minute to adjust. When I do, the redness in her eyes says what her lighthearted voice doesn’t. I put a hand on her arm to interrupt her. “You were saying something before the bus came, about your dad? What did you do that you feel guilty for?”