Читать книгу Chance - Alex Hines - Страница 8

Chapter Four

Monday, 29 August

Monday. A fresh new day, except it didn’t really feel like it after a muggy, restless night’s sleep. Ava struggled through the morning as if she were wading in treacle. All of the usual tasks seemed to take twice as long; part of the Dutch flower delivery was wrong when it arrived so they were swimming in an extraordinary amount of tulips. A small child, momentarily unwatched, had silently pulled the petals off several hydrangeas within the first hour of Dunne’s being open. She felt stifled in her own shop, her safe place, of which she was usually so proud and felt so at home in. Today it felt too hot, too small for her – it was as if summer had suddenly decided make its final effort.

By eleven o’clock, Ava had dropped a tin pail filled with stale flowery water. She watched with resignation as it spilled out onto the shop floor and all over her feet. The plimsolls she had on seemed particularly inappropriate footwear as she felt the water seep in, knowing they would now stink for a day or two. She remembered standing in front of her wardrobe only a few hours earlier, too tired and defeated to wear anything more sophisticated than the jeans and stripy T-shirt she had opted for. Why bother, she remembered thinking, no one will notice what you’re wearing. Now she regretted not putting on her patent leather ballet pumps.

With her soggy feet and her sour attitude, Ava was less than a ray of sunshine for the customers. She was usually cheered to see Mrs Lambert, an adorable old lady who lived alone in one of the town’s smarter houses and often came by to cheer herself up with flowers. Though old enough that she walked with a stick and her voiced had softened with age, she was always smartly dressed with her hair in neat curls and her jewellery on display. Unfailingly polite and always interested in Ava herself, she was one of her favourite customers. But today she dithered a little, apparently as tired as Ava was. She changed her mind once or twice about what she wanted in her bouquet and Ava would usually make suggestions and tell her what was fresh in but today she was forced to bite her tongue to avoid snapping at the old lady and hurrying her along. Flustered by the change in tone, Mrs Lambert dropped her wallet on the shop floor and Ava realised with a jolt that her impatience was not unnoticed.

‘Oh, let me get it, Mrs L …’ she bent down on the shop floor, her younger hands scooping up the coins from the slate tiles at twice the speed of Mrs Lambert’s arthritic fingers.

‘Thank you, dear,’ she said quietly.

‘I’m so sorry, here we go.’ Ava put the coins into the wallet and handed it to Mrs Lambert. ‘Don’t worry about the rest. I feel I’ve been rude this morning and I’m so sorry – I barely slept in this heat and I can hardly think straight.’ She waved her hand away as Mrs Lambert tried to pass her the few remaining pound coins.

‘Really, dear, that’s very kind but I’m perfectly happy to pay full price.’

‘Of course, please accept my apologies.’

‘I was wondering if you were feeling alright – you’re usually such a happy soul.’

‘One of those days but I’m sorry you bore the brunt of it.’

‘Don’t you worry,’ said Mrs Lambert, taking her flowers and standing as tall as she could. As Ava held the shop door open for her, she turned and looked at her. ‘Just you remember your worth, dear. Don’t go letting anyone take you for granted.’

Ava stood in the doorway, looking out across the square as Mrs Lambert walked away. How did she know to say that? Was she starting to look like a woman who was taken for granted, one of those who settled out of fear of being left alone? Despite the heat she shivered at the thought, then noticed Matt making his way back from the bank, having deposited some cheques.

‘Hello you, all done!’ he announced, as he headed into the shop with her.

‘You feeling better?’

‘Yes, thanks – Mrs Lambert’s so sweet. She’s so dignified, isn’t she?’

‘She’s a class act, boss, no mistake.’

‘Isn’t she just! I could do worse than end up like her.’

‘I don’t think you have to worry about that just yet, do you? Anyway, what about old Rob-o?’

‘Hmm …’ Ava stared into space and Matt quickly looked away.

‘Listen, do you want to go early again if I take a bit of a longer lunch break?’ she continued. She was suddenly keen to take a walk and clear her head, to be outside for a while and feel the breeze by the river.

‘Sure thing! I’ll give Amy a text now and see if she’s up for another driving lesson.’

‘Great! How’s that going, by the way?’

‘She’ll get there.’

‘I see – it’s like that, is it?’

‘Yeah, but you know, patience …’ Truly, Matt seemed to have a boundless supply of it.

‘She’s a lucky girl, I hope she knows that.’

‘Aw, she’s a doll!’

Ava smiled and reached for the canvas bag under her desk. ‘Right then, see you later.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

Ava walked out into the market square and took a deep breath, determined to turn this suffocating day around. She crossed the square and headed to the Marshall’s, the deli. The husband-and-wife team who ran it were about her age, but had two small children yet they still seemed to work all hours, run a great little business and be astonishingly chirpy to each and every one of their customers. She had a ruddy, rosy, classic English complexion and a sturdy, earthy kind of sexiness. He was of similarly generous proportions – clearly they were a couple that enjoyed consuming their produce as much as selling it. Ava doubted she had ever seen either of them not smiling, and she had caught him pinching her bottom more than once. There was something of a modern-day Ma and Pa Larkin about them.

‘Morning, Ava!’ boomed Jeff Marshall as she entered the deli. ‘Glorious day, gorgeous! How can we help?’

Ava selected some fresh pasta as a bit of a treat, knowing she wouldn’t feel like proper cooking when she got home in this heat, and asked for a box of eggs from the Marshall’s hens, as well as a bunch of enormous-leaved basil.

‘How’s business then?’ asked Sandy in her soft West Country burr, as she bustled up to the till with Ava’s goodies all wrapped in neat paper packages.

‘Not too bad, it’s been a lovely summer. You?’

‘Yeah, can’t complain. And that sister of yours has her wedding coming up?’

‘Not for a few months yet – it’s exciting, though. We’re off to meet the dressmaker in a few days.’

‘Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?’ asked Sandy with a small frown.

Ava gave a small wince. ‘Well, yes. But you know Lauren, nothing but the best for her. She has a fancy dressmaker doing her dress and mine – she works on telly stuff like Bishopstone Park and this is her last wedding dress slot of the year. We’re very lucky, apparently.”

‘Goodness! And what about you? Been waiting a while!’ Just as Sandy spoke, it seemed the rest of the lunchtime hubbub in the deli went quiet. For a moment even the air seemed a little more still. Why did people care so much? Just because Lauren was engaged, or did they think something was wrong with her because she’d been with Rob for five years without them so much as living together, let alone getting engaged? For a moment Ava longed for the anonymity of London. She blushed and ran a hand through her hair.

‘Oh, you know. No rush!’ Her voice, intended to be breezily casual, sounded shrill and insincere.

‘Right you are, then.’ Sandy seemed to realise that she had overstepped the mark and gave Ava a big wink as she handed over the goods.

Ava left the shop and headed for one of the benches on the riverbank, looking forward to sitting in the sun with her sandwich. So what was the Marshalls’ secret? Why did they always seem so delighted by one another? Their youngest was easily four, which meant they must have been together for at least as long as Ava and Rob. The chances were they had been a couple for significantly longer and yet they behaved like newly weds. Had they ever collapsed into a rut, or did they genuinely find each other deliciously gorgeous every single day? Were their standards lower, were they more realistic, or did they simply manage to put on a better show in front of their customers?

These unanswerable questions swum around Ava’s head as she sat by the river, sticking her feet out in the sun to dry off. What was making her feel so paralysed was the nothingness of the situation with Rob: he had committed no great crime, no unforgiveable acts of cruelty, but neither had he done anything to convince her that theirs was a romance worth sticking with. Were they going anywhere, or were they simply, irrevocably, in the doldrums? Time for action, she told herself. Something has to be done. She took another bite of her sandwich and watched a family of ducks eating some bread crusts thrown by a passing toddler and her exasperated-looking mother. As she wondered what to do, Ava’s phone buzzed in her handbag. She pulled it out and saw a text from Mel.

[Display]

Applied for Strictly tickets first thing – am beside myself with excitement. Cannot WAIT to hear! Am also convinced Emma is having an affair with Damiano, she’s like a different women. Polish your dance shoes, babe, we’re heading to Strictly. I know it! xxx

[Display ends]

Ava was thrilled when she saw the message. The idea of getting to see Strictly Live seemed impossibly glamorous compared to her current humdrum daily routine. Seeing the dances up close, and as for the dresses … it was impossibly exciting! She was halfway through a reply when her phone rang – it was Lauren from her car, clearly bored.

‘Hi, Sis!’ Ava could hear the crackle of the in-car speaker system. Lauren had a habit of calling when journeys were longer than 10 minutes, or if she found herself stuck in traffic. Ava found it endearing that it was conversation she turned to in those instances, not music.

‘Hello, you.’

‘I wanted to check that you were okay – you seemed a bit down yesterday. I couldn’t tell if you were just tired or what and I know we talked about the wedding for ages so I thought I’d check in and find out about you.’

‘Okay, I am a little down but nothing major. No specific thing has happened.’

‘But what’s up?’

Ava explained a little about Rob – the rut, the sense of nothingness. ‘I suppose we need to decide to move in one direction or the other,’ she concluded.

‘Why are you so “we” about everything?’ asked Lauren.

‘Ha! Hark at the woman getting married in a few months!’

‘It’s not that. It’s just … well, you don’t do enough for you. Do you know why Rory tries so hard to please me? Because I please me the most.’ Listening, Ava knew she was right. ‘You need to do something for yourself, stop making your happiness dependent on Rob.’

‘I know …’ began Ava.

‘I know you know! But sometimes you need someone to say it out loud. Don’t forget you’re a successful, creative, romantic woman. Rob’s lucky to be with you and maybe he needs to remember that, too. Has he stopped making an effort with you? I’ll kill him if he has!’

‘I suppose he has a bit, but now I find myself wondering if I …’

‘If you’ve stopped making the effort with you too? Stop making your life so much about him and pleasing him! Remember what you’re proud of in your life.’

‘Urgh, stop getting so motivational speaker on me! I just want my business to do well, to be kind to people, to get on with things without feeling as if I’m being a bit left behind by life – you know what I mean.’

‘Your business does do well, but the worst thing you can do is to start moping around in that shop. Who wants to buy romantic gifts from someone who looks as if she has a heavy heart? No one. No. One! You know what? At this point I think the kindest thing you can do, for you and for Rob, is to be good to yourself. Take a little of the pressure off. Do something you like doing – he clearly does, what with his squash matches and Formula 1.’

‘I suppose …’

‘Yeah, yeah, and if you want to win points for still being a good person you can do something nice for him too. Cook him a bloody pie or something! Jeez – relax, Sis!’

Sometimes standing in the full force of Lauren’s advice was a bit like standing under a power hose on a warm summer’s day – refreshing and exhausting in equal measure.

‘Okay, okay, you’re right. Thanks, doll. Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that Mel and I have applied for tickets to see Strictly Live. Can you imagine, we might get tickets and go up to the studio – the works! Anyway, how are you? Aren’t you supposed to be the stressed one?’

‘I’m fine and I really must talk to you about the flowers for my wedding, but I’m sitting outside of a property now so I can’t chat any longer. I do want to hear all about this Strictly business, though. It sounds amazing! Let’s have coffee before we go to see the dressmaker, shall we?’

‘Sounds great! We can hatch a plan for maximum efficiency.’

‘Oh, relax! We’ll just have coffee.’

‘Okay, okay!’

She could hear Lauren laughing as she said goodbye and hung up. For every inch that was terrifying about her sister’s personality, there were two of good-heartedness. Ava wriggled her toes, noticed her plimsolls seemed to have survived their dunking and headed back for the shop.

As soon as Ava was back behind her desk with a smile on her face, Matt popped out to get himself something to eat. Typically, the moment he left there was a sudden flurry of customers and then Ava had the shop to herself once more to do a little tidying up. She was standing inelegantly on a chair, trying to reach into one of the highest pails, when she heard the tinkle of the doorbell and looked down to find out who it was. The sun beaming through the shop front meant that she could only see a figure in silhouette, but she knew who it was in an instant. That curious combination of leather and vetiver drifted over the scent of the flowers again: it was the man from last week, the Argentine Tango man. As she stepped down from the chair, she brushed the hair from her face and for the second time that day wished that she had made more of an effort with her outfit. She swiftly dismissed that thought, however, remembering Lauren’s wise words that she should do more for herself, not other people.

‘Hello there,’ she said with a smile, brisk and professional.

‘Hi. Me again, I’m afraid.’

This time Ava noticed that he was not as young as she had thought him last time. He looked crisp and fresh, though, and carried himself with none of the defeated slouch that Rob had lately acquired but he was unmistakably her age, or maybe even slightly older. This time he was carrying a classic Harris Tweed overnight bag. An umbrella was lying across the top of it, along the zip between the two soft leather handles.

‘How can I help?’

‘I’d like something gorgeous again.’

Ava blushed and quickly looked away.

Stop it, she told herself.

‘Last time, you did a perfect job.’

Why did everything he say sound so outrageous? She must stop thinking like this.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. ‘You liked the cabbage roses, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, and those sweet peas are rather lovely too. Where are they from?’

‘They’re local, from a farm near Alvediston.’ Ava was proud to have been asked – and also relieved that for once the sweet peas had actually arrived when she’d been told they would.

‘It’s wonderful down there – I love that valley.’

He had taken a bunch of sweet peas from the pail and was now holding them up to glance at them against the light of the window. The petals looked translucent, almost glowing.

But Ava wasn’t looking at them.

He probably had a little more girth than he should beneath that bright blue shirt and while in profile she could see that his dark, slightly curly hair was greying a little at the sides, just the beginnings of salt and pepper. His hair was perhaps an inch longer than someone her dad’s age would have approved of and it certainly wasn’t a cut that Rob would have deemed businesslike, yet he carried it off. His clothes, especially his brown leather shoes, were pretty smart and his bag was clearly expensive. He had a lovely nose, and as he turned back to her she could see how dark his eyes were, almost black.

‘That’s where I grew up,’ said Ava – at exactly the same time as he asked, ‘Could you do me something with these, then?’

There was a confusion of apologies and gesticulation while each did their best to let the other be heard.

‘You …’

‘No, you …’

‘Go ahead …’ and eventually, ‘So, you grew up there? Me too – well, Bower Chalke.’

‘Really?’

Suddenly the shop felt extremely hot again. Why had she told him this? She took a fresh posy of sweet peas from the pail and started on the bouquet.

‘Yes, I used to go to ping-pong club in your village hall.’

‘So did I! Well, I did ballet – just after the ping-pongers.’

She looked away. Stop telling him this stuff …

‘Oh, those ballet girls! The 12-year-old me used to dream of catching a glimpse of them on our way out of ping-pong. Wow, I was a real dork! I’m sorry, you don’t need to know any of this.’ He laughed sheepishly. Was he embarrassed too? ‘It sounds like it!’ Ava laughed. ‘We ballet girls were not impressed by the ping-pong dorks! We thought we were the bee’s knees. In fact, I’m pretty sure I thought I was Ola Jordan at the very least. By the way, we could see you looking in the window at the end of our lessons – none of you were very subtle.’

‘Busted!’ As if wounded, he put a hand to his chest. ‘So cruel, the ballet girls! And it turns out even today they remain heartbreakers. That’s my childhood you’re trampling all over.’

Ava giggled again. For a moment she was unsure what the noise was before realising with sadness that she had become unaccustomed to the sound of her own happiness.

‘Suck it up, Dork – the ballet girls rule!’

Her exuberance was bubbling over, she had to catch herself and remember he was there for flowers. Now she set about making the bouquet, carefully selecting the stems, greenery and the twine. She put it together deliberately, concentrating on each movement, proud of her art. The man watched as she did so, silent as last time. There was no sulky tension here, though – he seemed perfectly comfortable without speaking, happy to watch her work without needing to comment on it or to make polite chit-chat. It was a sort of collaborative concentration. Ava remembered the silences that she and Rob had shared over the weekend, how they seemed so leaden, as if their words had been locked in an airtight room. This silence was very different: the longer it lasted, the more nervous she became about saying the wrong thing. All weekend she had been afraid the wrong words would appear too heavy and crush the mood, now she was afraid words would be too ephemeral, too unknowable, fizzing with uncertain electricity.

Whatever else, she mustn’t ask who the bouquet was for.

When he came to pay Ava, the man patted down his trousers and realised his wallet wasn’t in one of his pockets before bending down to search for it in his overnight bag. Ava made a point of looking away, not wanting to see a flash of his boxer shorts, or an intimidating scrap of some other woman’s silk negligee. Then she looked back immediately, eager to see exactly that. Her desire for clues as to who this mysterious – yet local – charmer was now consumed her. But she saw nothing, and he paid for the bouquet in cash. Denied a glimpse of either his name on a bankcard or the contents of his bag, she was none the wiser. Should she ask?

She picked up the bouquet, ready to hand it to him and by now convinced there might be an actual crackle if they touched.

This is a man with an overnight bag, who regularly buys flowers for someone else. Don’t ask, she told herself. Just don’t!

‘Thank you,’ he said, with a gracious sincerity that unnerved her more than the lighthearted flirting ever had. He took the flowers but there was no crackle. ‘They’re beautiful,’ he told her. He looked up, smiled at her and then left, quietly.

Ava watched him go, noticing how broad his shoulders were, really lovely and broad. Not in an ironic super-hero way, just capable looking.

She sat at her desk, staring ahead and strummed her fingers a couple of times. Something good, for me, she thought to herself. It had been so long since she had considered this that she really didn’t know what she wanted. She glanced down at her nails, stared around the shop again, uncomfortable with this moment of deliberate self-examination then looked for something else to do.

Anything. She reached for the pile of junk mail that had been below the door when she had opened up and idly flicked through it. Just like last week, there was a flyer for the local arts centre. She plucked it from the pile and turned it over, knowing she had thrown away an identical one last week. They were advertising dance classes: one week Latin, another ballroom, 12-week courses.

Uptight, judgmental Emma, who had made Mel’s life such a misery at times, crossed her mind. She remembered Mel’s exasperated reports after discussing Strictly with Emma at the school gates – always she had some arch comment about how she could do better than the celebrities, they just weren’t training hard enough. ‘Why can’t she just enjoy it like the rest of us?’ shrieked Mel one evening.

Always keen to impress some imagined external adjudicator, Emma had apparently bitten the bullet and was now by all accounts a model of relaxed womanly confidence, whether or not she was up to no good with her dance instructor! Ava remembered the fun she’d had with Mel over the years, so much of it on a dance floor. She thought of the times she had tried to dance with Rob at various weddings or Christmas dinners but he wasn’t at all interested, thought it faintly ridiculous. Ava realised that for as long as she’d been with him she had barely danced. This was it, this was what had to change: her ladder out of the rut.

She glanced at the website address running across the top of the flyer, above an image of a tanned man swirling a blonde, smiling woman round on his waist. Eagerly leaning in towards the screen, she typed it into her laptop. The website was very bright. Couples dipped and twirled across the page, while boxes with times and prices opened and flashed. More information than it was possible to absorb but she quickly realised that she would have to start as a beginner; the embarrassment of trying to keep up with lithe young dancers might be too much. Ava chewed her lip in a moment of hesitation – did she really want to do this? Of course she did! She imagined herself floating across the dance floor, supported on shoulders as wide and capable as those belong to the sweet pea man. Or dancing a Samba, out of her dreary jeans and T-shirt, wearing something short and bright, her skin glistening with tan and sweat, thighs like Beyoncé. She thought of the jaunty Strictly theme tune and how it brought a smile to her face even when she was entirely alone in the house.

These images alone were enough to cheer her up. She brought up the music selection on her laptop and changed the track in the shop to a CD of something Brazilian sounding – as close to Samba music as her personal collection could provide. Then she whacked up the volume, grabbed her wallet from her bag and started to fill in the details for the course. Grinning and jiggling her legs in time to the music, she bent over her desk, tapping away at the laptop. The door to a world of possibilities had just been thrown open, it seemed. I will force a large spoke of dance into my Wheel of Tedium, she chuckled to herself. She flicked the music another notch louder, fingers almost tapping the keyboard in time to the beat now.