Chapter 11
Xavier
As soon as I catch sight of her, a multitude of emotions hit me.
Relief that I’ve finally tracked her down.
A stab of anger that the mystery woman who captivated me, intrigued me, so fleetingly the other night is here in the midst of this shitty, grimy reality.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, a flash of dissonance as my brain scrambles to transition between the version of Ivy who presented herself at my party—costumed, coquettish, performative—with the young woman standing at the other end of the room in a black t-shirt under baggy dungarees, her bright hair gathered off her face and some odd thing—is that a kerchief? —tied around her head.
And finally, an oh fuck moment. Because I’ve been hoping that seeing her in this milieu would swiftly disabuse me of the notion that I was attracted to her.
But the instant lurch of my stomach upon setting eyes on her tells me that is not the case.
I do my best to ignore the older bloke sitting in the corner in a hi-vis, gawping at me, and make a beeline for the counter towards the back.
This version of Ivy doesn’t look thrilled to see me.
Not by a long shot. If anything, the expression on her face is apprehensive.
Uncertain. I reach the counter and halt, aware that this is an unusual situation.
We’ve been briefly intimate, in the most cursory and unsatisfactory way, but we’ve never been formally introduced.
I hold out my hand. ‘Xavier. How do you do?’
She gives me a little smile before, reluctantly, it seems, proffering her hand. ‘Ivy.’
As my hand closes over her small fingers and we shake, my oh fuck sensation intensifies.
Because she may not be dressed up to the nines tonight or hiding behind some period persona, but she’s still incandescently beautiful, even without a scrap of makeup.
Beautiful, and also fragile, the violet shadows under her eyes lending her a sense of pathos that stiffens my resolve to help her in any way I can.
She doesn’t look like a sex worker—more like a primary school art teacher. If you disregard the quirky getup, though, she looks like an exhausted, genetically blessed young woman doing an honest day’s work in a dodgy caff for presumably not far off minimum wage.
I release her hand. ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet up. Is there a chance you’ll get some free time to chat?’
Before she can answer, a Deliveroo driver plods up behind me in full helmet and leathers and holds out his phone to her.
‘I get a break in about forty minutes,’ she says. She gives a stern little nod as though she’s willing herself to hold firm. ‘I can’t talk till then, but if you take a seat, I’ll come and take your order in a sec.’
There are few things I’d rather avoid more than having to eat here, but I drove up to London this morning expressly to have this conversation. If the lady wants me to wait, I’ll wait.
‘Of course,’ I say. As I turn, a woman in the open kitchen behind the counter gives me a suspicious glare.
She has to be well into her sixties, but she looks as though she was once part of a formidable eighties girl band and has never quit the aesthetic.
Her bleach-blonde hair is sprayed to levels that would make Whitesnake proud, while her dramatic eye makeup is heavy on purple shadow that doesn’t spare her eyebrows.
Perhaps this is the famous Jan. I hurry away and take a seat as far from hi-vis guy as I can.
I intend to interact as little as possible while I await Ivy’s break.
‘What’ll it be, then?’ Ivy asks as she approaches with a little notepad, having dispatched the courier with a brown paper bag.
Fortuitously for everyone, her incredible breasts in their tight t-shirt are mainly concealed under the top of her ghastly dungarees.
But, even with the kerchief thing going on, I’m reminded that her hair is the most astonishing, vibrant strawberry blonde.
She taps the end of her pen against her mouth, and I’m also reminded that even my most salacious memories from last week didn’t exaggerate the plumpness of her upper lip.
Hurriedly, I tear my gaze away to consult the laminated menu on the table at which I absolutely have not yet looked.
‘Ahh. Um… what do you recommend?’ I ask desperately, staring unseeingly at the list of offerings. I’m honestly not sure if I can get anything down.
‘Our house special is the fish-finger sandwich. It’s a really good one. We only use actual Birds Eye fish-fingers, no dodgy shit, and we use butter and mayo and ketchup, which makes it seriously gloopy.’
I laugh faintly. Not sure I’ve ever had Birds Eye used in a positive fashion in a food pitch. And I’m definitely not sure I’ve had a fish-finger sandwich since they were a Friday morning regular at Eton. But her earnest enthusiasm is so unutterably sweet that I find myself nodding.
‘Excellent. I’ll, ahh, take one of those then, please. And a black coffee?’
She nods approvingly. ‘Right you are. I’ll be right out with it.’
I sit back and watch her as she heads back to the kitchen. The blessed dungarees are too baggy to show much off, but the neckline of her t-shirt is somewhat scooped at the back, and some feathery tendrils of hair dance against her bare neck.
I wonder if she remembers how it felt to have my hands on her breasts.
I wonder if I made any impression upon her at all aside from being the dickhead who walked away.
Probably not. That Genevieve woman did mention that Ivy has a lot on her mind at present.
I’d give a great deal to know what form that burden takes.
She hands the page upon which she’s written my order to the terrifying-looking woman, who nods and sticks it up on a rack. They don’t seem busy in the slightest, which makes me wonder firstly why Ivy can’t sit down and speak to me sooner and secondly how much money she can possibly be making here.
Christ, no wonder she resorted to selling her body.
Ivy reappears at the counter, but a clatter behind me that sounds like someone actually falling through the front door has me turning around. A guy has entered the place, a guy with the unmissable features of a junkie: emaciated frame and jerky movements and blankly hard stare.
Nope. He has no business in here. I begin to scrape my chair back, but Ivy stops me.
‘No, Xavier. I’ve got this.’
I turn back to see her rounding the counter with an exasperated look on her face.
‘You got fifteen quid, love?’ he calls out to Ivy. ‘I need it for a hostel for the night.’
I roll my eyes. A likely story. He stops right by my table, and Ivy comes to stand in front of him. He fucking stinks.
She puts her hands on her hips. ‘I can’t give you fifteen quid, but I’m willing to call the closest hostel and book you in over the phone. I’ll pay.’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to protest that she’s not giving this fucker her hard-earned cash, but he beats me to it.
‘Why can’t you just give me the money?’ he whines.
Ivy doesn’t miss a beat. ‘I don’t have any cash on me.’
He huffs. It seems to me he’s growing more agitated. I white-knuckle the tabletop as I watch this little altercation unfold. If he’s as high as he looks, he could be seriously volatile.
‘You could take some from the till, couldn’t you?’ he tries in a wheedling tone. ‘It wouldn’t kill you. Even a fiver to buy a sandwich would be fine.’
For fuck’s sake. I’ve had quite enough of this.
This kind of shit is precisely why I avoid coming into town as much as possible.
I go to stand, but Ivy holds out her hand to stop me without breaking eye contact with him.
Behind her, a burly man with an impressive grey biker-style beard has emerged from the kitchen and is watching, arms crossed over his huge chest. It strikes me that he’s ready to intervene.
‘That’s not my money. Now, listen to me very carefully, mate.
’ Her voice is firm but kind. ‘I wish you all the best, I really do. But, the way I see it, you have three choices. You can let me book you into the hostel for the night, or you can wait around for a few minutes while I make you a cup of tea and a sandwich to go, because we can always find food for our friends in need, okay? Or you can respect the fact that I’ve told you I’m not willing to give you any cash and kindly clear off. Which will it be?’
Silence.
Then: ‘Fuck you, you stupid bitch,’ he spits, before turning on his heel.
I crane my head to make sure he actually vacates the premises, which he does in the same ungainly, clattering way in which he entered it.
When I straighten up, Ivy’s sauntering back towards the kitchen.
The big man puts a hand on her shoulder and mutters something, but she shakes her head.
I have to admit that not only did she not require my help at all with that guy, but that she was the perfect mix of respectful and resolute with him. She handled herself flawlessly, and I’m reminded of Genevieve’s comment that humans like her don’t come around all that often.
I assume there’s no shortcut for a young woman living in London to learn how to judge situations like that, how to marry self-defence with basic human compassion.
I assume you learn by seeing, by doing, by having to rub up against your less salubrious neighbours day after day. It’s education through exposure.
It’s no wonder my poor sister feels so out of her depth.
The fish-finger sandwich is enormous. It’s also bloody delicious.
As Ivy promised, the butter-mayo-ketchup trinity is epic.
I devour the entire thing with immense pleasure in less than five minutes, reminding myself to ask the staff to stock up on fish-fingers ahead of my next hangover.
I know I’m not imagining Ivy’s pleased smile when she drifts over to grab my empty plate.
By the time I’ve settled up and her lunch break has come around, I’ve played a few rounds of Sudoku on my phone and hatched one of those plans that feels impulsive in the extreme and yet intuitively sound.
It’s not like me to be spontaneous, but I do enjoy a pleasingly clean resolution to a puzzle, and this feels like one to me.
I’m expecting Ivy to want to sit down, but she brandishes something wrapped in silver foil that I assume is her lunch.
‘Fancy a walk? I’d like to get some air.’
I jump to my feet immediately and gesture towards the door. ‘Of course. After you.’
The awkward little smile she throws me tells me that, while she may be perfectly able to hold her own with the down-and-outs of this city, she’s far less familiar with genuine chivalry.