Chapter Two #3
‘I left you clues everywhere, you daft sod. What was the only film on at every cinema in London the first time you wanted to sack it off and watch films?’
‘Oh. I did think it was odd that there was a Beauty and the Beast marathon on everywhere …’
‘And those pub quizzes—’
‘Always a Disney princess round, and the answer was always Belle!’ I started to think I’d been an idiot.
‘And everything else you saw and missed,’ Gabe said, while peeling off Post-its emblazoned with ‘VISIT HER’ from his walls. I thought he was putting off seeing his mum or something.
So, it was Belle. Of course it was Belle.
Gabe went back to his needlepoint and gave me a year. I spent eleven of those months watching 300 more movies and then decided I should probably give it at least a try before being damned for eternity.
So, I’ve spent the past month standing outside Belle’s house in Hackney.
Not stalking, I’m not a creep – just researching.
Gabe said I need to put right what I did wrong and the first step is obviously research to …
you know, make sure she’s still alive … and hasn’t become a serial killer or something.
I saw she looked good, happy even. One afternoon I followed her and some swanky bloke to an overpriced French bistro down Bermondsey Street.
The woman I watched walk into that bistro wasn’t Belle.
Not the same Belle I fell in love with. The Belle I knew wore Crocs with socks without a care of what others thought, and nicked cigs from her dad’s secret stash in his glovebox.
The woman in front of me had a handbag she was so precious about that she carefully placed it on its own chair rather than on the floor.
I left before the starters arrived.
I walked towards London Bridge, through Borough Market, around the overpriced cheese vendors, under the hanging Christmas wreaths and past the guy selling tins of fancy fish in boxes that looked more like collectable cards than sardines.
And then I was outside the greengrocer’s – her greengrocer’s, where I’d spotted her in the week – and I stopped like an idiot.
She’d been browsing artichokes. She used to hate artichokes.
How do you even cook an artichoke? She’d put them, two of them, in a reusable tote – a fancy one, with a designer’s name on that probably cost a tenner, alongside other fruit and veg: a plump red pomegranate, a yellow courgette, those cartoon-looking carrots with their tops still on.
This girl, whose favourite dish used to be hedgehog mash – literally, a mountain of mashed potato with little cocktail sausages stuck in like spikes – now shopped for her five a day in a market instead of Asda, in a trench coat and cashmere scarf, all big smiles and red hair, humming along to Christmas carols …
in high heels. Could she now walk in those, then?
I didn’t even know you could buy yellow courgettes. What’s wrong with a green one?
I’d followed her back to her house – three stories, attic conversion, kitchen island, a hot tap instead of a kettle – and I left once I started feeling like an estate agent rather than a ghost.
That was twenty-five days ago and so now here I am, with approximately eight hours left to figure it all out, in Whitby, so close to the seaside arcade games I can’t even play, ready to watch my ex get married to some random posh bloke who, according to a framed article on their kitchen wall, is an ambassador for caviar.
Twenty-five days of wondering when and how Belle became a literal alien.
And then she looked right at me.
Which means Gabe was right … not that I’m going to tell him that.
‘ANSWER ME, YOU SHIT, WHY ARE YOU HERE?!’ Belle continues to scream.
This should be easy, I thought – turn up, make awkward small talk, do the memory lane stuff, and then fuck off to the afterlife – but now she’s raging at me and we’ve barely said hello. I dodge her again, hands in my pockets. I’ve been trying not to let her bother me, but she’s testing my patience.
‘You need to confront your past, Belle …’ I say this in the sing-song way I know she hates.
I had planned to be honest with her, but I’m not sure she deserves the truth now.
Does she really think that I want to be here?
That I’m excited to watch my ex get married to some posh bloke called Timothy in this stuffy manor?
She used to be so effortless, so chaotically herself, that being around her felt like a relief.
Now it seems she’s had a complete personality transplant.
‘What are you talking about?’ Belle growls.
I pause, thinking, stuffing my hands deeper into my pockets. ‘I’ve been sent here by someone powerful … to help you put something right, to save your soul … but if you don’t want my help …’ I say, shrugging, and take a step towards the door.
‘Wait, wait, what?’ Belle rushes after me, pure panic on her face.
There she is.
I knew she’d bite. Gabriel didn’t say that I need to share exactly why I’m here.
‘I’m here to take you on a trip down memory lane. It’s for your own good, Belle.’