CHAPTER FOUR #2
Mirren’s words were sharp, but he heard the vulnerability beneath them and he reached out to squeeze her wrist. She looked so like their mother, neither of them needed to voice why the cancer story had felt so personal.
He wanted to tell her that it was all for their family.
Every takedown, every victory. It was for them and what they’d all lost.
But.
‘Call Dad,’ was all he said. ‘He wants you to have fun, and he doesn’t want to bother you. But he worries.’
She let out a noise of frustration but nodded. ‘If you’re not going to buy anything, fuck off.’
He laughed and was about to head down to menswear when he spotted her.
Raina Lewis.
She stood in the vestibule of the department store, a room filled with flowers. He could hear Mirren gently calling his name in a confused voice as he moved towards the floral entrance.
Raina was holding a large red vase that was sculpted to look like a woman’s arse.
She hadn’t noticed him. Her long hair was pulled into a messy bun and she was wearing dark glasses and glossy red lipstick. She laughed with the florist as he arranged a bouquet for her. A rose here, a sunflower there. She wore a pale-pink trench coat, and the vase definitely looked like an arse.
Raina’s mind was happily occupied with the smell of the roses when she looked up and started at the sight of Tom Branimir.
‘Are you following me?’ she demanded, clutching her newly purchased vase.
‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘My sister works here.’
They stared at each other. The florist glanced between them, a little bewildered. The silence was broken by a mature woman in a raincoat bustling by and stopping to look pointedly at the red vase.
‘That vase is shaped like a woman’s derrière,’ she said plainly, before exiting the building.
‘It is,’ Raina said sheepishly. ‘I like it.’
‘It’s very’ – Tom gestured towards the vase – ‘striking.’
‘Yes, that’s how I prefer arses to be. Striking.’
‘Well. It is.’
She sniffed, looking him up and down. ‘Game recognizes game, I suppose.’
He scowled. ‘Are you implying that I’m an arse?’
‘These will be thirty pounds,’ the florist said in a high-pitched chirp, the kind that signalled to Tom and Raina that he was due a paid break, and if they could move along, that would be appreciated.
‘Here, let me,’ Tom Branimir said, fishing for his wallet.
‘Oh, no, thank you,’ Raina said, not unkindly. ‘I can pay for my own flowers to put in my own arse vase.’
When the florist finally had his money, Tom opened the door for her. She smiled awkwardly and stepped out into the street, where the two of them hovered for a few seconds.
‘It was . . . interesting to see you again,’ Raina finally said.
She hated small talk more than just about anything. She could barely manage it with people she vaguely knew, let alone Tom fucking Branimir.
‘Can I buy you a drink? I wanted to run something by you.’
‘Oh.’ Raina desperately tried to think of a polite excuse. ‘I should really get home and put these in some water.’
It was one of the worst things she’d ever said but it did technically make sense. At least until a big drop of rain landed on her forehead. The dark clouds opened and the two of them were suddenly standing in a downpour.
Tom somehow whipped a newspaper out of his inner pocket, holding it over Raina’s head, weakly trying to save her from the storm.
‘Well,’ she shouted over the torrent of rain. ‘I suppose I could wait with you until this stops.’
Tom Branimir nodded and steered her gently towards the first pub on Carnaby Street. He ordered a half pint of lager and Raina asked for a lemonade. She fussed and busied herself with the flowers, putting them in their butt vase.
Tom just watched her, until she eventually met his gaze. ‘So?’
He sat across from her and splayed open his hands. ‘I was wondering if I could profile you for something.’
Raina arched a wet eyebrow. ‘You want to expose me?’
The words hovered in the air and Raina was surprised by how breathy they’d sounded. The writer’s eyes dropped to her collarbone, which was dotted with raindrops, and then shot back up to meet her gaze.
‘No,’ he exclaimed. ‘Sorry, no. It wouldn’t be one of those articles.’
‘Then what?’
‘Well. I guess, until recently, I thought there were ten podcasts for every single subject you could ever think of, but there actually aren’t a lot like yours.’
Raina watched him steadily.
‘I listened,’ he admitted. ‘It’s good.’
‘So, what’s your angle?’
He shrugged innocently. ‘I don’t know yet.’
‘How inviting.’
Her sarcasm made his lips twitch. ‘It’s just a profile for now. On spec.’
Raina considered him. He was handsome. A little too handsome. He wore dark circles, but his eyes were sharp. His whole face transformed when a hint of a smile appeared. Raina had thought about him more than she would care to admit in the past few weeks.
‘I’m not overly enthused about being studied,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve had enough microscopes on me.’
‘Understandable.’
‘Is it?’ she said, putting a little steel into her voice. ‘If you’ve really listened to my stuff, you’ll know I’m a little tired of allistics categorizing people like me. Why would I want one more?’
He looked mildly taken aback.
‘I get it, all right?’ she said to him. ‘Autism. Neurodiversity. They’re scary words. You’re flashing back to twenty years ago when there was vaccine panic and all of the brainwashing that came after.’
She took a sip of her drink.
‘Or’ – she squeezed a slice of lemon over her rocks of ice – ‘you think, Good Lord, there really is a label for everything these days. Who does she think she is, wanting attention? She seems perfectly normal; she should just shut up. Aren’t we all a little autistic, huh?’
She watched him digest her words.
‘Pick your horse now,’ she whispered. ‘Terrible, tragic, awful thing or woman who wants attention. Both are widely circulated. You’ll read fifty stories about each before an autistic person will ever be asked to comment.’
There, she thought. That will scare him off nicely.
‘Raina,’ Tom spoke quietly, ‘it’s okay. You don’t have to be so tough with me. I fucked up at the museum, but I hear you. No stereotypes. I’m not interested in what anybody else has written or said or thought. I’m not interested in whatever has come before. I’m interested in you.’
Raina was stunned. She’d wanted her defensiveness to make him back off, not press closer. This was unheard of. No one had ever tried to soothe the anger that sometimes bled out of her.
He cleared his throat and added, ‘Professionally, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Tell me about the nuances,’ he finally said. ‘That’s what I try to write about.’
Raina wondered if she should admit to reading his entire portfolio of work since their last meeting. He was right, he did include nuance. Yet his pieces always ended the same way, with the subject exposed and laid bare for all of the world to see.
He just wants a story. He just needs you to be a story for him. A specimen. You’ve sworn off being a specimen to people. Remember?
She was terrified of Tom Branimir splashing her across glossy pages, telling everyone to look at the failed neurotypical. Never could fit in, no matter how she tried. Never could walk the line of saying or doing the correct thing. The popular thing.
The journalistic equivalent of the birthday party she’d had when she was nine, with thirty invitations. She wrote everyone’s names with her special sparkling gel pen that smelled of cinnamon.
No one came.
‘I’m not that mysterious,’ she concluded. ‘It’s all there in the podcast. It wouldn’t make for interesting reading, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, why did you start the podcast?’
The question threw her. No one had asked her that before. Most people didn’t think twice about a millennial starting a podcast; it seemed as inevitable as joining a gym.
Of course, there was an answer to his question. An unspoken, salient thing that she knew, that her community knew. It was unnecessary to explain it to someone who was like her, but difficult to reveal to someone who was not.
‘I just wanted to.’
She met his gaze, daring him to call her on the lie by omission. He looked as if he were thinking about it, but something settled behind his eyes and he didn’t push the subject.
‘I know oversharing is the currency of today but . . .’ She shrugged and smiled widely. ‘I don’t feel like spilling. So, thanks but no thanks. I don’t want some guy following me around, pretending to be interested in me for a story. Appreciate you paying for the drink, though.’
She downed the last of said drink and looked out of the window.
‘The rain’s stopped.’ She swept up her coat. ‘Goodbye, Tom Branimir.’
She walked swiftly down Carnaby Street. She told herself to keep moving.
He was after something, something she couldn’t quite predict, and that was always dangerous.
That’s how you ended up alone at the party or humiliated at the dance or laughed out of the work meeting.
She should keep walking and forget she ever met him.
‘Raina!’
But she paused at the sound of her name. And turned. And laughed.
He was carrying the butt vase, filled with the flowers she wouldn’t let him buy.
He jogged to catch up to her, holding out the vase like an offering.
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem,’ he replied. ‘Don’t reckon you’re a woman who gets her arse handed to her very often.’
‘Bravo.’ She shook her head and let out a small, bitter laugh. ‘Well, have a nice life.’
‘You said if I moved in the right circles, I would be able to find you.’
‘I did.’
‘I obviously don’t move in the right circles. Maybe you could show me them? For the piece?’
She took a step towards him. ‘Sorry?’
‘I’m not, uh . . .’ He was stammering a little as he stepped closer himself. ‘I’m not used to having to beg a potential subject. Or beg for anything, really. But I’d like to write about someone witty for once. Someone I have to keep up with.’
Raina shook her head, smiling despite it all. ‘Are you sure you weren’t stalking me earlier? You seem absolutely relentless. Any more pitches you want to throw out?’
‘Nah, I like this one,’ he said. ‘You can be the white rabbit to my Alice.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Raina said silkily. ‘I’m more of a Red Queen.’
This is bad, the voice of reason whispered. This is reckless. You know what insiders always end up thinking about outsiders. They never understand. And then they get everyone else to agree with them. One crack in that mask and it could be goodbye to everything you’ve built.
But Raina’s fascination in other people always won out. She wanted to see behind every eye-roll. Every sarcastic quip. There was a small steely piece of ice in Tom Branimir’s heart. She could see it, tucked into the corner of his mouth and in his eyes. She wanted to know what had put it there.
‘I’ll let you profile me, if you must. You can see my London. But if I find out you’re using me or my community . . .’
Be brave.
She took out a pink and silver business card, slipping it into his hand. He held onto her for a moment but she pulled free and set off down Carnaby Street, hugging her vase.
‘. . . it’ll be off with your head, Alice!’