The Near Miss

Chapter 7

SEVEN

WREN

Wren parked up between a battered old Fiesta and a workman’s van and brushed herself down before heading into the Community Kitchen. She was wearing her standard-issue journalist outfit of a trouser suit and modest heels which, with the addition of some red lipstick and some bigger earrings, would double as an outfit for Libby’s book launch event that evening, which she’d promised to attend despite it being a bit of a rush. The bruise on her forehead had faded just enough to be disguised with make-up, so thankfully she’d been able to ditch the embarrassing hat.

She took a few pictures of the outside of the building then went inside. The dining area, with it being mid-afternoon, was sparsely filled, and there were a few volunteers milling around the tables, chatting to the diners. One young member of staff was scrubbing at the floor beside a table. Was that… blood?

She scanned the room for Edie. The place was both familiar and unfamiliar – she remembered the general layout from when she volunteered years ago, but the tables themselves looked new, the decor had changed, and there were artworks and photography framed on the walls. It looked fresh and invigorated – this place was most definitely a thriving concern.

She spied Edie behind the counter, chatting to another member of staff while they checked over the trays of warm food, shifting chips and pasta around under the heat lamps.

‘Oh, Wren, pet! Here you are,’ said Edie, beaming.

She noticed Wren glancing at the bloodied floor. ‘Don’t you worry about that. Not an unusual thing to happen here, as you can imagine. Now, would you like a cuppa before I show you around?’

‘Oh. Yes please,’ said Wren. ‘Actually, can I just pop to the loo before we get started?’

‘Of course, pet – oh, hang on. Cath, are the boys still in the staff toilets?’

A woman standing by the ‘Staff Only’ door shook her head. ‘No, they’ve headed off to the hospital now.’

Wren’s eyebrows twitched upwards.

‘Like I said, nothing to worry about,’ said Edie breezily. ‘It sounds like the facilities are all yours. I’ll put the kettle on.’

Wren nodded and headed for the door she was directed to, which led to a staff area and a loo marked with the male and female stick figures of a unisex bathroom. She went inside, had a hasty wee and washed her hands, noticing an open first aid kit on the vanity unit and a few rolls of bandage strewn about. ‘The boys’ clearly hadn’t tidied up after whatever kind of first aid had been administered here.

She took a step back from the mirror, smoothing her hair, and looked down to see a puddle of white cream on the floor, and a squashed tube of antiseptic nearby.

‘Well, that would be ironic,’ she murmured as she bundled up some paper towels and bent down to clean it up. Slipping and breaking your neck on something that was designed to improve your health would be very unfortunate indeed. She bundled up the paper towels and put them in the bin, then turned on her heel towards the door.

She put one heeled shoe on an unrolled strip of crêpe bandage, and the next thing she knew she was flat on her back with a searing pain in the back of her head. She’d clipped the edge of the toilet seat as she’d gone down.

Edging up onto her elbows, she winced at the pain in her skull and also the mortifying feeling of lying flat on her back on a public toilet floor. Nearby, she could see a pair of slim metal tuff cut scissors from the first aid kit that must have been under the sodding bandage. Her face glowed with shame at landing flat on her arse, even though there was nobody to witness it, and she got up.

The mirror revealed a rush of blood to the cheeks but thankfully none exiting the body. She tapped the back of her head gingerly. Another lump to replace the one that had only just disappeared at the front. She thought back to Alex insisting she should get head injuries checked out. Not another visit to the walk-in centre , she thought, giving herself a shake. I am not falling to pieces; I’m just having some bad luck. It is perfectly normal for a human being to suffer mild injury from time to time. Isn’t it?

Pushing her shoulders back, she took a deep breath, gathered up the bandages and scissors into the first aid kit, and headed back to the dining room.

Edie was waiting for her, having taken her apron off and emerged from behind the counter, and she was wearing quite a suggestive T-shirt. It was enough to take Wren’s mind off her tender skull, and her eyebrows rose for the second time that afternoon.

Edie gave an impish smile and handed her a mug of tea. ‘Excuse the T-shirt, pet. I like to indulge my grandsons’ sense of humour. Even if they don’t realise it.’

‘Ah.’

She brushed at the rhinestones. ‘Besides, I like the jazzy bits, and as long as my pinny’s covering the message most of the time, then none of these fellas will get the wrong idea.’

A bearded man in a beanie hat looked up from his plate of pasta and winked.

Edie narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at him. ‘It’s fellas like you I’m talking about, Lenny,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Come on, Wren – I’ll give you the tour.’

Wren sipped her tea as she followed Edie around, listening as Edie described the updates they’d made, the donors who’d bequeathed them money for renovations, and the volunteers who’d given their time to clean, paint and decorate. Not once did she pat herself on the back for any of it – it was always down to the efforts of someone else.

They passed by a wall decorated with a collage of photos, protected and framed by a rectangle of Perspex. There were pictures of various vintages, smiling faces, young and old. Wren’s eyes rested upon a picture of Edie looking younger, with an even younger woman beside her and two little boys in front. The slightly older child was dressed as Buzz Lightyear and grinning with his eyes shut, and the littler one had his arms crossed in a pose reminiscent of boy bands from the nineties. She touched it with her finger. ‘Are these your grandsons?’

Edie beamed. ‘That’s right. And that’s my daughter, Tracey. You might meet the boys if they come back later. But Tracey’s out somewhere in the Caribbean right now. She’s been doing the cruise ships for nearly twenty years now. I’m very proud.’

Wren did some quick maths. ‘Your grandsons must have still been very young while she was away.’

‘That's right, pet. They lived with me.’

‘Wow. So you were running this place, bringing up two… teenagers, would they have been?’

She nodded. ‘That’s right. But I wasn’t doing it alone. Now come on, Wrenata , and you can meet some of the people who really keep this place afloat.’

Wren laughed. ‘I told you, it’s just Wren.’

‘Well, I suppose that isn’t out of the question. Being named after a bird isn’t that unusual – our milkman’s called Robin.’

Wren smiled and shook her head. She went to change the subject but paused. Maybe it was Edie’s natural warmth or her years of caring and counselling, but Wren felt she was one of the rare people to whom she could give an honest answer. ‘Okay. Full disclosure, and I’m only telling you this because I like you. My full name is Serenity. But nobody calls me that anymore.’

‘Serenity!’ Edie clapped her hands together. ‘See, I knew it must be something. Do you know, I’m sure I met someone once whose daughter was called Serenity. You don’t hear it much. I’m sure it was here, in the Kitchen.’ Her eyes went a little hazy as she seemed to search her memory.

Wren looked at her in surprise. No, you didn’t hear it much. At all. In fact, she’d never met anyone else who shared her name.

‘When was that?’

‘Oh, it was years ago, pet.’ Edie still seemed to be filtering through her recollections, and her expression was briefly troubled. Then it cleared like a break in the clouds, and she smiled. ‘I might be mistaken, of course. In fact, maybe it was Felicity – or Serena.’ She chuckled and avoided Wren’s eye.

Wren’s journalistic senses piqued, fuelled by a sudden curiosity that was much more personal than professional.

‘It’s an unusual name, isn’t it?’ she said carefully. ‘My family’s lived around here our whole lives. Can I show you something?’ She reached into her handbag, retrieving one of the few photos she had of her family – her mam, dad and herself as a baby.

‘Do you recognise anyone? Not the baby obviously – that’s me. But my mam or dad?’

Edie scrutinised the picture, narrowing her eyes and lips. She seemed to think for a long time.

‘You know, I think I might remember. I think I recognise your dad’s face. Yes, I see it now. I could have met him anywhere, of course.’

‘But you said before, you thought it was at the Kitchen. Do you think that might be it?’

‘It might well be. Why don’t you ask your dad, pet? I’m so sorry I can’t remember more.’ She smiled over-brightly. ‘Now, come with me, I’ve saved the best bit ‘til last.’

Wren followed Edie, slotting the photo back into her bag. She would definitely ask her dad about this – it would be such a strange coincidence if he’d been here too, and odd that he hadn’t mentioned it when she’d volunteered here herself.

‘We added this on a few years back,’ said Edie, ushering Wren through a door. ‘Sometimes people need more than just hot dinners.’

It was a spacious room with various zones – comfy seating areas with colourful cushions, a desk with a display of leaflets and resources for help with accommodation and financial assistance, and two computers. There was a station for making your own tea and coffee, and an area that had information about jobs and opportunities. The room had a few visitors, all women, other than an older man at one of the computers, and the atmosphere was both peaceful and studious.

‘We found that some folk, especially people newly homeless, would know how to find us but didn’t have a clue where to go next. So we put all this together. An education suite, if you like.’

‘I get it. So this can point people in the right direction to start getting back on their feet.’

‘That’s right. Some people have got enough on their bloody plate – pardon my French, and the pun – without having to do the circuit of municipal buildings trying to figure out where they can get help. So at least we can give them a starting point.’

Wren nodded.

On the sofa were two women, talking quietly but intensely. Other than their state of dress – one slightly shabby, the other smarter – they mirrored one another in their body language, and they looked like they knew each other well. The conversation seemed to come to an end, and they stood up and hugged, then the more down-at-heel woman pulled a rucksack over her shoulder and said goodbye to Edie too as she passed.

‘Ta-ra, pet,’ she said then turned to Wren. ‘Come and meet Ailsa.’

Ailsa, the smarter woman, sat back down on the sofa. Her hair was cropped short, and she was wearing leggings and a black jumper.

‘Ailsa, this is Wren. She’s writing a piece on the Community Kitchen for the paper.’

Wren shook Ailsa’s hand. ‘Lovely to meet you. Edie’s being modest – the piece is about her really.’

Edie waved her hand. ‘Nonsense. Like I said, none of this is just down to me.’

Ailsa rolled her eyes good-naturedly. ‘Wren, you’ll never get her to admit otherwise. Many have tried and failed.’

‘ Anyway ,’ said Edie loudly, ‘I’m introducing you to Ailsa because she’s one of the regular counsellors we have coming to the Kitchen to talk to people if they want it. We try to have someone on hand most of the time.’

‘I see,’ said Wren, taking out her notepad. ‘So, do you find you’re quite busy, Ailsa?’

Edie and Ailsa exchanged a wry smile. ‘I’d say. In fact, I’ll have to make my excuses, I’m afraid.’ She gestured to the doorway, where a member of staff had ushered in a young woman, dressed in a stained puffa jacket and with eyes like a frightened animal.

‘It’s a very short journey,’ Ailsa said to Wren. ‘When you’re struggling, life gets very small. The bad things that happen feel much worse, and the good things feel much more significant. So when you’re treated kindly it leaves more of a mark.’

Ailsa got up and touched the girl’s arm gently, leading her towards another seating area. She looked no more than a teenager and shied away a little as the woman who’d brought her through handed her a mug of hot tea. Wren could see Ailsa talking gently to her, radiating warmth.

‘This is amazing, Edie,’ said Wren. ‘It’s a safe haven already, and to have professionals on site too…’

‘Do you want to know what’s really amazing?’ said Edie, giving her a sideways look. ‘Ailsa used to come here when she was homeless.’

Wren blinked. She looked at Ailsa, well put together, self-assured, a professional counsellor. Helping others, when she’d once come here for help herself.

‘She wanted to give something back, and to help others in her situation. And she’s not the only one. We have Farida who was coming here for a while for help – now she has a job and a flat, and comes here a few times a week to run a book club. Some of the serving staff used to be diners here too.’

Wren looked around. So many of these volunteers were women and girls. Maybe she didn’t need to worry about casting her net so wide and finding hidden gems all over the North East for her series. It seemed like she’d found a treasure chest right under her nose.

‘Edie? Do you think it would be okay if I came back a few more times? I think it might be good if I could speak to a few other people too.’

‘I thought you’d never ask. As it goes, we’re having a little do at the Kitchen this Friday. It’s our fortieth anniversary. So you can get your glad rags on and do a bit of mingling at the same time.’

‘Amazing, I’d love that.’

Edie smiled, her eyes twinkling. ‘And I’d like you to meet my grandson, too. He’s a smashing lad, and I don’t see a ring on your finger.’

‘Oh! I’m taken,’ Wren said, her face warming up. ‘Although I’m sure he’s lovely.’

‘Well, that’s a shame.’

Wren opened her mouth, almost ready to say, ‘It is,’ and then snapped it shut again. Where had that come from?

Wren half ran up to the bookshop where Alex was waiting outside, leaning up against the window and scrolling on his phone. She’d only just had time to run into the coffee shop next to the Community Kitchen to grab a sandwich before heading over. She’d been too starving to skip dinner, and the book launch would only have a handful of cupcakes and bowls of crisps to soak up the wine, so she’d run in, bought a sandwich, thrown a pound in the direction of the tip jar to thank them for assembling it so quickly and hoofed it out of there, cramming it into her mouth.

‘Have I got mayonnaise on my face?’ she asked Alex by way of greeting.

‘Nice to see you too,’ he said, tilting his head to one side.

‘Sorry. I’ve just had a mad rush to get here.’ She pecked him on the cheek.

‘No mayonnaise that I can see,’ he said. ‘Listen, can we make this quick? An in-and-out job? I’m knackered.’

Wren’s face fell. ‘We’re here for Libby. I don’t want her to think we don’t care.’

‘I know, but it’s a bit boring, isn’t it? At least we’ll show our faces.’

Wren tried to keep her expression passive. It wouldn’t bode well to get into a fight before they’d even arrived. Maybe he would get into it once they were inside.

‘Okay, well, let’s just see how we go?’ She pasted on a bright smile and led the way inside.

The shop was bustling with more guests than available chairs, and Jenson, Libby’s assistant bookseller, was being dispatched to the off-licence for some more bottles of white wine. Libby saw Wren through the throng and waved excitedly over the top of a sea of heads. Wren could just make out the author holding up his book for people to take photos.

Alex shoved his hands into his pockets and declined the offer of wine from a passing helper with a tray of glasses, and Wren considered taking two.

‘We’re supporting Libby most of all,’ she said. ‘She’s our friend. And the book looks really interesting, to be fair.’

Alex snorted and picked up a copy from a nearby table. ‘ In Pursuit of Boyhood ,’ he said disdainfully, reading the title of Max Pearson’s debut novel, then flipped it over to read the blurb. ‘Blah blah, discovery of a childhood secret, blah blah, semi-autobiographical. Sounds like self-indulgent shite.’ He tossed the book back onto the table, and Wren snatched it up, feeling heat in her face as she glanced to check nobody had seen.

‘Don’t be so rude,’ she whispered. ‘I’d better buy this copy, since you’ve dog-eared it, throwing it about.’

He rolled his eyes and retrieved his phone from his pocket, as if he had better things to be doing. ‘It’s just a book, Wren. Don’t be so precious.’

Wren’s nostrils flared. ‘Just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean it isn’t important to other people.’ She was about to add that he wouldn’t take too kindly to someone slagging off the selection of protein shakes at the gym but noted the twitch in his jaw muscle and let it go. Before he had a chance to reply, there was a parting of the crowd, and Libby emerged, looking gorgeous in a boldly patterned maternity wrap dress, her red curls like an explosion on her head.

‘Guys! Thanks so much for coming. I can’t believe how busy it is.’ She looked shiny-eyed with excitement, and Wren felt a swell of happiness for her friend. She deserved all of this and more.

‘It’s amazing, Lib,’ she said, hugging her and kissing her cheek.

‘Yeah, well done,’ said Alex, sounding, to Wren’s relief, reasonably sincere. Alex, for all his misgivings about literature and ‘self-indulgent’ writers, was fond of Libby.

‘You have to come and meet Max. He’s just lovely, and he really deserves all this attention. The book is… mwah .’ She mimed a chef’s kiss and dragged Wren through the crowd, Alex loping along behind.

He hovered impatiently while Wren was introduced as a fellow writer, and she asked a few questions for a small piece that she’d write for the paper. She took a few photos of him with her phone, posing with his book and with Libby, then asked him to sign the copy she was about to buy.

Max signed it happily, and they stood for a while chatting about the concept of the book and his experience of writing it. Alex continued to hover nearby, oozing irritability. Eventually, at a polite juncture, Wren wrapped up the conversation and turned to Jenson, who was taking payment for Max’s books. He was wearing a tweed jacket and a bow tie, and had waxed the tips of his little moustache for the occasion.

She fished around in her purse for some cash and noticed something was missing. A souvenir penny from her dad’s lighthouse; the kind you put through a penny press to emboss the tourist attraction’s logo on. She’d had it for years. After a moment’s thought, she realised she must have thrown it in the tip jar at the cafe. She felt a pang of guilt, not just for the poor barista who would go without a tip but for her dad, who had given the penny to her. It was too late to get it back now, but, on the upside, she thought the penny might at least bring in a new visitor to the lighthouse.

‘All done?’ Alex asked, face stony as he bore her away from the book-signing table.

Wren nodded, tucking her purse away, and took another sip of wine. ‘At least for work purposes anyway.’

‘Let’s go then.’

‘We’ve only been here for half an hour, Alex.’

‘Yes, and you’ve got what you came for, so let’s go.’

‘But we’re here for Libby too. We can’t leave yet – she’ll be offended.’

‘Libby won’t mind. We’ve shown our faces, so we’ve done our bit.’ He took her hand and started to lead her towards the door, but she pulled back.

‘Alex, she’s our friend.’

At that moment, Jenson appeared at her side. ‘Wren, are you off? I just wanted to ask if you’re taking those flowers or if you want me to throw them out. They’re looking a bit tired.’

‘What flowers?’ said Alex.

‘From the glazier?’ said Jenson. ‘After the incident .’ He had a habit of saying most things in an arch way, and in this context, the word sounded vaguely lascivious.

‘You mean the bump to the head? You didn’t say he’d bought you flowers.’ Alex’s voice was light, but his smile was tense.

Wren could sense where this was going. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d questioned her intentions where other men were concerned. When they’d first got together, she’d thought of it as protectiveness – a sign that she meant so much to him. A little part of her had liked it. But as time went on, she’d begun to suspect that he wasn’t putting her on a pedestal anymore. Instead, it felt like he was trying to put a cage around her.

‘Um, thanks, but you can throw them away,’ she said, and Jenson shrugged and walked off. She pinched the bridge of her nose, took a deep breath and turned her attention to Alex. ‘I didn’t not tell you about the flowers. I just didn’t remember.’

He said nothing for a moment. ‘Right. And you forgot to bring them home too.’

‘Alex, I wasn’t trying to hide them,’ she said, her voice becoming reedy with frustration. ‘I didn’t bloody want them.’

‘Mm-hmm.’ He looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Anyway. It’s getting late. And I’ve got work in the morning.’

Wren faltered. She considered all the times she’d gone to awful events at the gym – ‘parties’ full of hard-bodied health freaks, ignoring the buffet and droning on about macros and spirulina. She’d stood there for hours at a time, pretending to be interested in the latest generation of kettlebells. Why couldn’t Alex just give her one night in return?

‘No,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll stay.’

Alex’s face was neutral. He looked over at the crowd hovering around Max and waited a beat before saying, ‘Fine. I’ll see you at home.’ Then he turned without kissing her and left.

Trying to ignore the leaden feeling in her stomach, Wren downed the remainder of her wine, picked up another glass and headed back into the party.

Some time later, Wren’s phone vibrated in her bag. She didn’t notice it as she was having such a nice time circulating and talking to people. But she would read the message later.

If you think I didn’t see the way you looked at that ‘writer’ twat, then you’re wrong. I’ll know if you’ve slept with him.