Читать книгу The Trouble with Rose - Amita Murray - Страница 12

When Simon and I first met it wasn’t at all romantic. We met at the police station, that was the scene of our first meeting. Wait, I know what you’re thinking. You’re saying to yourself, Ah, another one of those times. But it wasn’t one of those times, because I wasn’t the one in handcuffs, Simon was. I was only there because my fellow philosophy students had decided to volunteer some time with underage kids in custody. I was the first one frisked and I was waiting for the others to finish their turn and join me. Into the waiting area came a constable, leading a man in handcuffs. You guessed it, it was Simon. The constable was trying to establish what to do with him, so there was a lot of waiting about. No one could figure out what to do with the man and everyone had a different point of view about it.

I was leaning against the wall, looking at the floor. There is no point looking a hardened criminal in the eye, even a dead sexy one, so I was determined not to look at him. Nicely fitted jeans, a shirt the colour of mushroom soup, those deep blue eyes and hair that fell onto his forehead. No, it would definitely be a mistake to look at him.

‘I’m completely innocent, I promise,’ he said.

I smiled politely. He gave me a charming smile, so I quickly looked away again.

‘I can see you don’t believe me. But you see, the thing is, I just happened to be at the wrong taco stall at the wrong time.’ He made a face. ‘It just goes to show.’

I looked up after ten seconds. I couldn’t help it, there was something about those eyes.

‘Goes to show what?’

He smiled again. ‘That just because a man makes the best fish tacos in London, it doesn’t mean he isn’t a crook. The man was handing me a bag of tacos, my mouth was watering, my heart was racing. I had been waiting for that bag all morning. No, wait, all my life. And then guess what happened?’

I couldn’t not ask. ‘What?’

‘A copper turns up out of nowhere. The fish taco man – Paolo – who I thought was my friend, I really did, handed me another bag. Free nachos, I thought. On the house, made in the house, this day can’t get any better. Though at the time, of course I didn’t know I was going to meet you.’

I gave him a crooked smile and, to save my life, I couldn’t stop myself from twirling my hair behind my ear and placing a foot jauntily behind me on the wall. What was the matter with me? I was going to end this day in a body bag at this rate.

‘But the bag wasn’t full of nachos. Nope. It was – you guessed it – a bag of coke.’

‘Coca cola?’ (I’m not proud of it, but I said it. So there it is.)

He stared at me. ‘Cocaine.’

‘That makes a lot more sense.’

‘That is the only reason I’m in here and Paolo isn’t. Anyway my lawyer is going to come and get me out any time. And then I can take you to dinner.’

I smiled.

‘I’m Simon, by the way.’

‘Rilla,’ I said reluctantly. He was a very charming drug dealer; he must be very good at his job. I really should be careful not to talk to him, or even look at him. Anyone whose arms look so sexy and muscly with folded-up shirtsleeves deserves to be behind bars, I thought sternly. We were standing in a bland corridor, with police officers walking to and fro and there was still no sign of my fellow students. I pretended to look at my mobile.

‘What are your three worst things in the world?’ Simon asked.

His hands in handcuffs, he was now leaning against the wall opposite to me. His hair fell all the way to his eyebrows and his eyes were deeply set.

I thought about it. ‘Vomit. Slug slime. People who smile all the time for no reason.’ I meant the last one to be pointed and cruel but he didn’t take it personally.

‘Mine are snot, religion, bigots and One Direction,’ he said.

‘That’s four things! Anyway … what’s wrong with One Direction?’

He stared at me with round eyes. ‘I knew you couldn’t be perfect. What is wrong with One Direction? Where would you like me to start? What is wrong with them is exactly the same as what is wrong with the world. For instance, have you ever looked at their—’

At that moment, the door opened and the constable basically dragged Simon through it. ‘I’ll wait for you,’ he called as he disappeared.

The next two hours are better forgotten. Three of us led a workshop in ‘Using Philosophy to Make Better Life Choices’ or some such bullshit. The youth offenders who had been bullied, coerced or bribed into being there mostly ignored us, sent an occasional paper aeroplane our way, munched endlessly on gum, and didn’t hesitate to laugh in our faces. One of them farted throughout the whole thing. Only it turned out that he hadn’t been farting, but had in fact done a crap in his pants. The smell was unbearable, especially since it had leaked through his clothes onto the chair he was sitting on. This led to our workshop coming to an early finish, but then the room had to be locked down – with all of us still in it – until the matter was cleared up. Those were two hours of my life I was never going to get back and no one could convince me that I had made a jot of difference in the lives of these damaged young people. Never again, I was telling myself, never again.

I walked out of the police station filled with rage and loathing for all young things. Someone peeled themselves off the wall outside and I screamed. It took me several moments to recognize him. Yes, beautiful as his eyes were, I had forgotten all about Simon. A body bag, for sure, I thought now. That is how this day is going to end.

How, then, we actually ended up with my legs wrapped around his hips against the toilet wall of an Ethiopian restaurant in Kentish Town later that night, I have no idea. Probably because when he saw me come out of the station, he handed me a tissue. I hadn’t realized I had tears in my eyes. Tears of rage because the young gentleman of the doing-a-shit-in-your-pants fame had, as we were about to leave the room, come up to me and written an X on my notebook. With excrement.

If Simon had been nice, given me a platitude about how though it was difficult to work with young offenders, it would change their lives, I probably would have walked away. But he said, ‘The little shits. The only thing we can hope for is that they’ll kill each other in prison.’

That really is the only way I can explain it.

There is something about Simon – there was something about Simon! Simon is no longer in my life – I have to get this straight in my head! There was something about him, something assured, something sure of its place that I have never had. For example when I walk into an unfamiliar room, with unfamiliar people in it, I scan it. Is there anyone there I know? Are there groups of people who all know each other who won’t want to talk to me? People who maybe have known each other for years, people who went to school together, who have common references? People who seem to know what to say and how to say it, people who can talk about anything or nothing and it makes sense to them. I wonder, will someone come up to me, an older woman probably, talk to me kindly and extra clearly because – given my brown skin – I’m probably a foreigner? And yet if there is a group of Indian people in the room, they will think I’m not Indian enough. These are the thoughts that go through my head when I enter a room.

But Simon, he’s probably thinking, what’s on the menu, is there anything more substantial than salmon and horseradish canapés? He could talk to people about anything really, but he didn’t seek people out either. He was comfortable in his own skin.

There are two kinds of people in the world. Room-scanners like me, and people like Simon, who never worry about things like that.

For a while, with Simon, it had started to seem like I could be more carefree too. Less troubled by my place in the world, by the rivulets in my past that refused to find a home. Less troubled, more assured, more able to navigate the world.

Yes, it had seemed like that for a short while.