Читать книгу A Miracle on Hope Street: The most heartwarming Christmas romance of 2018! - Emma Heatherington, Emma Heatherington - Страница 13

Nora is already sitting in my favourite snug at Gloria’s Café, the one with the deep-purple, crushed velvet sofa by the window with its street view, and waiting on me is a steaming mug of hot chocolate and marshmallows, just perfect for this cold, miserable weather. I take off my gloves and rub my hands together to try and defrost.

‘Hey, Ruth,’ says Michael, the new head waiter and I raise my hand in a hello to him, where he stands behind a puff of steam at the counter. I can just about make out a shy smile from beneath his navy baseball cap. Michael may not say much, but I know that Gloria trusts him deeply as she rents out the apartment above the café to him and when she talks about him she positively glows. Gloria adores all her staff, come to think of it, and she loves to give people a chance. There’s Suzi, the law student from New York who is wiping down tables and who also shouts her greeting as does Gloria’s husband, Richard, as he kisses her cheek before racing out the door, back to his office now that he’s fed and watered.

Old Archie, the former postman, stares out the window over what might be his fourth cup of tea of the morning, Bertie the barrister and his charming wife Majella are discussing what to order in the far corner and a few other familiar faces sit around in bunches, discussing the news of the day or barely speaking at all and just scrolling through smartphones or typing on their laptops.

The mood of the café is as homely as ever, but even cosier than usual with the hundreds of twinkling fairy lights around the ceiling and bushy Christmas trees, decorated in pinks and purples, that glow in every possible spare space. A few men and women sit scattered around one of the larger tables, chatting across to each other, and a young mum with a baby on her hip joins in on a conversation which I overhear is based on whether Gloria’s famous hotpot is better than her new, freshly baked gingerbread men. There’s a sense of warmth about this place that is almost tangible, and everyone who comes here, no matter from what corner of the city – or further beyond – will always feel like they belong.

One of the revellers catches me looking and they do a double-take and then whisper to each other.

‘That’s her from the newspaper,’ one says to the other. ‘You know, the girl who solves the problems.’

‘Is it? Are you sure?’

‘It looks like her. Ask her.’

‘It’s definitely her. Dare you to ask for a selfie!’ says another.

They indulge in their playful banter and I bow my head, feeling totally undeserving of their attention, and then snuggle into the familiarity of the velvet-cushioned booth by the window, across from Nora who looks a bit like death warmed up in her fingerless gloves and beanie hat.

‘When will I ever learn, Ruth?’ she whispers to me. Her pale face and dark eyes look pathetic even in the warm glow of the café and I shake my head. ‘I got home at 2.00 a.m. and my Phil went bananas. Oh, and I wasn’t sure what to order for you to drink so I just got some hot chocolate, is that okay? I don’t even know if you like hot chocolate. I don’t know anything today.’

‘It’s perfect, thank you,’ I tell her. ‘I love hot chocolate, especially when it’s snowing. Who doesn’t?’

Nora rubs her forehead. The stress of her marriage problems is starting to take its toll but I don’t want to push her to say any more about it than she wants to.

‘I’m so sorry for being such a wuss last night and avoiding the night out that we’d planned,’ I tell her, trying to divert her from her own misery. ‘We should have just gone to the restaurant and I’d have pulled myself together eventually, because let’s face it, home measures and a wailing mourner like me are not good company ever, so you can blame me if it helps. It was my fault you were out so late.’

Now it’s Nora’s turn to look a million miles away and I know she has the weight of the world on her shoulders but I would never dare to pry unless she wanted to open up and tell me her problems. Every dog on the street knows that she is going through hell in what should still be the honeymoon period of her marriage, but one thing I have learned in my years of serving as the city’s most well-known agony aunt is to listen first. Nora is a closed book and if that’s how she wants to keep it for now, that’s fine by me . . .

‘Well, if it isn’t two of my favourite customers in here at the same time!’

I look up to see Gloria, a festive red tea towel strewn across her shoulder and a beaming smile on her welcoming face, automatically shifting our mood and bringing a much-needed glow into the doom and gloom. Gloria, with her Caribbean roots, is a larger-than-life figure with universal maternal instincts and a charitable nature. She just looks like one big personified hug and I adore her to bits.

‘You don’t have to pretend I’m your favourite, Gloria,’ says Nora, trying her best to appear normal and not a shivering hungover shell of a human she currently is inside. ‘We all know Ruth is everyone’s favourite everywhere she goes. She just has to flash her pearly whites and the nation swoons.’

Nora says this with a smile, but there’s a slight bitterness in her tone that makes Gloria cast me a wondering glance. My face goes pink at the reminder of my reputation of ‘she who can do no wrong’, a reputation that has been carefully managed and nourished by those who hire me on the newspaper, but one that I definitely do not feel worthy of today. I should be working up to my image by replying to some of the more poignant emails in my Inbox, but instead I’m nursing my sorrow in the only place where I feel like I can escape from it all. I can’t deal with other people’s problems today, especially when I think of some of the desperate, lonely cases who have messaged me in dread of Christmas and all the pressures it can sometimes bring. I shudder at the thought, glad of Nora and this distraction of our meeting, even if it seems like venom drips off her tongue when she speaks of my popularity.

‘Ah, I just know Ruth a very, very long time,’ says Gloria, placing her hand on my shoulder. ‘We go back a long way, don’t we, darlin’? We go way, way back, when this beauty was just a little girl in here with her dear papa and her little sister. My, how time flies. Are you holding up okay, my love? It’s a hard time for you, I know it is.’

I bite my lip and hug the mug of hot chocolate. I try to speak. I can’t.

I shake my head.

‘She’s fine,’ says Nora. ‘She’s used to solving problems so I’m sure she can solve her own, can’t you, Ruth?’

I go to reply but Nora doesn’t give me a chance to.

‘Plus, she had to watch all of us getting hammered last night, so everything seems a little bit worse this morning and we need to be treated like fragile little eggs. Hungry, fragile little eggs.’

‘Well, you’re in the right place for that,’ says Gloria. ‘Now, what can I get you? You two look like you could eat a hearty breakfast.’

Nora takes over as she usually does in company and, although in most circumstances it gets on my nerves, for now I am glad of her decisiveness as I can’t seem to think straight lately.

‘Can I get some muffins and syrup and, actually, can I get some fried bacon please with that, Gloria? I need some soakage for definite.’

I manage to nod in agreement and Gloria writes down our order on her little notepad with the pen that sits permanently behind her ear.

‘I’m here if you ever need me,’ Gloria whispers to me, her eyes filling up in reflection of the agony she knows I am going through at the moment.

I look up at her and say the words that we always chant to each other when the chips are down, ‘Even an agony aunt needs an agony aunt sometimes,’ and at that she is off to cook us breakfast.

‘Do you think Gloria has ever overindulged on a night out?’ asks Nora. ‘Do you think she has even ever sinned? I bet she hasn’t. I bet she grew up with a sweet Gospel choir and the smell of home baking and wholesome Sunday worship and she’s never as much as sipped alcohol, the lucky duck.’

I shrug. ‘I’m not sure of her background or why or how she ever came to this place, but I’m glad she did,’ I tell Nora. ‘I’m not hungover at all, actually. I’m just sad, Nora. I’m really sad today. Sorry to burden you with it all. I just miss him terribly, especially at this time of year. Getting over the hurdle of that first anniversary was a toughie, I can tell you, but hopefully now I’ll be able to turn a corner.’

Nora fidgets uncomfortably, looks around her, then changes the subject entirely to talk about an article she is writing on celebrity culture and I’m reminded that, outside of work and booze-ups, Nora and I really don’t have that much in common at all. She has no idea about my sister Ally, who lives at the other end of the country, and how much I miss her being closer to home; she has no idea about how I’m killing myself to run that big empty house all on my own and how huge a decision it is for me to sell it, or how lonely I am or useless I feel now that I don’t have my dad to visit at the care home, or how much I have lately hated attending hollow events full of air kissing ass kissers which don’t fill my soul any more. I’m not sure they ever even did. She has no idea how I’m suffocating in this existence, how every day I long to run away to somewhere I don’t even know and where no one knows me, and she has no idea how much I really need to make some major changes in my life before it all becomes too much to handle. She has no idea about me at all.

In fact, none of them do. Not Gavin, not Bob, definitely not Nora. They are acquaintances through work; they are just like the thousands of social media friends who look up to me as if I live a perfect life judged on posed photos and shiny profiles.

‘Thanks for asking me to come here,’ I tell Nora when she pauses for breath during her rant about celebrity marriage compared to reality marriage, where money is tight and bills need to be paid. ‘I needed to get out of the house and it’s always nice to come here to Gloria’s and just forget the world. Sometimes I miss the office banter and the company that comes with it, but coming here helps. Isn’t this just the most magical little den? I love it here. I always have.’

Although Nora and I may not know a lot about each other under the surface, I think it’s nice to acknowledge her kindness on thinking of me this morning and inviting me here, plus my dad always taught us to see the good in people so I’m going to focus on that rather than let any negative thoughts fill my already overflowing head.

‘Margo thinks I’m meeting you here to get advice on how to sort my shit out at home as it’s affecting my work,’ she says, sniggering, stirring her drink.

‘Oh, does she?’

I sit up and Nora laughs.

‘She really does believe you can change the world, Ruth,’ she continues, looking totally unconvinced. ‘Like, why is that?’

‘Sorry?’

I have no idea how to answer her question. How am I to know why Margo insists on creating this angelic profile of me? I didn’t create it. It’s all just media hype and Nora should know that.

‘Well, it’s probably because you cared for your dad and the whole “my mother abandoned me” story that comes with your background,’ she says, in a quick summary of my life to date. ‘Then there’s the fact that men fall for you but you don’t even see it; the charitable work you’ve done through the radio station; the “overcoming obstacles” attitude that empowers women who look up to you so doe-eyed, not to mention the butter-wouldn’t-melt Italian face that has everyone going gaga. It’s a lot to live up to for the rest of us, yet in reality you’re a bag of misery.’

Nora is tearing me to pieces and I have no idea what to say. Not that I could get a word in if I wanted to. She has me very well summed up and she hasn’t finished. She bows her head and drops her voice to tell me the rest.

‘It’s so funny,’ she snorts, ‘but I knew that Margo would never have let me leave the office this morning unless I said I was meeting you, so I kind of made it up that I needed some advice and she fell for it, hook, line and sinker. It’s not everyone she’d allow me to meet when she knows fine well I’ve a stinking hangover.’

Nora takes a sip from her hot drink and I can hear the deep bitterness drip again from her tongue as she swallows. So, she didn’t really give a toss as to how I felt this morning after all. She just needed an excuse to get out of the office and that excuse was me. I am dizzy with all her revelations, not to mention her ulterior motives.

‘And are you looking for advice?’ I ask her, clutching at straws to save my own pride.

‘Hell no, I don’t need any.’ She laughs, knifing me once more. ‘I’m hardly going to spill out my shit to you, am I? As if you need that on top of everything.’

‘On top of everything?’ I say to her. So she does acknowledge I’m going through my own hard times at the moment?

Nora looks around her and then back to me.

‘No harm, Ruth,’ she says, ‘but you’d be better investing in your own life, instead of worrying about mine or anyone else’s right now.’

I gulp.

I manage to splutter, ‘Are you suggesting I’m incapable of doing my job?’

Ouch, that stung. No matter how much understanding I am hoping for from my so-called colleagues, I would hate that Nora and the rest would ever think I was losing my ability to offer advice when it was needed, even if I’m having my own inner doubts. She really isn’t helping.

‘Oh, come on, Ruth,’ she says. ‘I’m a real person, not one of your silly fans who write to you because they can’t remember how to change a lightbulb. You just . . . well, maybe you just need to focus on yourself for a bit instead of poor Peter whose pet goldfish just died.’

She laughs at this, to make it all seem lighter but I’ve gone off my breakfast and I’ve gone off . . . well, if I needed to any more, I’ve gone off some of the people in my life a lot right now.

‘I actually do deal with some very serious problems,’ I tell Nora, determined not to let her undermine my job and position. ‘I’ve shelled out advice on everything from coping with miscarriage, to addictions, to relationship breakdowns and not to mention—’

‘Okay, I know, I know, I’m sorry,’ says Nora, clutching her forehead again. ‘But it’s only words on paper at the end of the day, isn’t it? If only a few words were enough to change the world in real life, eh? I think you should really be focusing on yourself just now, Ruth. You don’t need to fix everyone else right now. Take action. You need to focus on fixing you.’

I fidget with my napkin as Nora’s words swirl around my head. I am trying to deal with my life and all the changes that the past twelve months have brought my way, but do I need to be fixed? I don’t understand . . . Okay, so I don’t have any big responsibility now that my father is gone and maybe I’ve been down in the dumps but I’m grieving, right? I only have to worry about holding down my job, making sure there is enough food in the fridge for me to eat and that the beautiful four-storey stone Georgian townhouse I’ve inherited is just about kept warm considering the time of year. I’ve a few people I can call on when I need to fill a gap in my overflowing diary of social events, so why I am so miserable then? Maybe Nora’s right. Maybe with all that I have I shouldn’t still feel so down and empty inside?

‘I don’t mean to be rude, Ruth, but you don’t even look the same any more,’ Nora whispers.

I look down at my jumper. It’s black, like most of my clothes these days are. It’s also stained, like most of my clothes these days are. It’s also far too big and baggy and does virtually nothing for my frame, like most of my clothes these days. As much as I hate Nora’s brutal honesty, I can see she has a point. I look like shit and I feel even worse – and it’s nothing to do with last night. This is what I’ve been looking like for the past year and people are obviously talking about it behind my back.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ I say to her. ‘Sorry if I’m not as glamorous as you expected.’

Michael, the waiter, brings us the food and I don’t want to insult Gloria’s cooking despite my sudden loss of appetite, so I push it around the plate as Nora changes the subject and we engage in small talk about office politics and print sales versus online clicks. Nora pretends to listen, but I know that she can’t wait to get away now that her headache is lifting with the help of a good breakfast and being away from under Margo’s nose.

‘Hot waiter,’ says Nora, tucking in with her fork.

‘I didn’t notice.’

She makes a noise like a snort, as if she isn’t surprised, and wolfs through the rest of her breakfast as fast as she can, giving me the impression that her work here is definitely done.

‘I’d better get back,’ she says eventually, downing the remainder of her fizzy drink that she pre-ordered when she first arrived, it seems. ‘I’ll get this. In fact, it’s on the office as it was meant to be kind of a staff meeting, so I’ll stick it on expenses. Look after yourself, Ruth, yeah? See you Tuesday for Gavin’s birthday drinks?’

Gavin’s birthday? Tuesday? I’m about to say I can’t because it’s my father’s bingo night but then I remember he’s not here any more. He hasn’t been here for a full year. I really do need to get my own shit together and seek some fulfilment in life instead of rattling around killing time and pretending that it’s enough to feed my hungry soul.

I’m a caring person. I care for people. I’ve looked after my dad for as long as I can remember and now I don’t have to any more and it feels really . . . it feels like I’ve a huge void and I have no idea how to fill it.

‘Yeah, sure,’ I mumble. ‘Gavin’s birthday. How could I forget? See you then and thanks for the very honest chat, Nora. Tell everyone in the office I said hi.’

I know, and she knows, that there is no way I will make Gavin’s birthday party. I haven’t shown my face socially in months and months and last night was further proof that I’m just not ready yet.

And at that, Nora is gone and I watch, moments later, as she crosses the road outside, her skinny legs dancing across puddles and her nimble, fingerless gloved hand apologising to traffic that has to stop in her honour.

Nora may have spoken the truth about my appearance and how I really need to ‘fix’ myself, but she has no idea of how much pain I am in right now inside. I don’t think anyone does. Not the people I work with, not the people who write to me. How can I help them when I can’t even help myself? I fear I might be letting a lot of people down right now, as I just can’t seem to muster up the confidence to reply to their pleas for help at such a poignant time of year for so many.

Paul Connolly

Paul Connolly hadn’t taken drugs for ten days.

That mightn’t seem like a very long time to the outside world, but in the hostel he lived in, it was a good record because drugs of all sorts were only ever a heartbeat away when you needed them and the ringleader, Screw, was always hovering in the corridors morning, noon and night, making sure everyone was well topped up when they needed to be.

Paul needed drugs, but he wanted to be off them even more than he needed them, so this time, this Christmas, he was going to celebrate being drug-free and in the New Year he was going to get out of this shit-hole and start again in a new part of town where the sewer rats like Screw, who tempted him by dangling their life-crippling carrot before him, would be just a distant memory.

Paul had made a to-do list of things he wanted to do before he turned twenty-one in March of next year. He’d pass his driving test at long last, he’d get a really good job and he’d save up for a car of his own, he’d treat himself to a whole new look from the inside out and he’d swap energy drinks that got him through the day for a proper diet of fruit and vegetables and he’d join the gym and get a new haircut that suited him better. In fact, he’d actually grow his hair just like he’d always wanted to because it reflected more on the new Paul, leaving the old Paul far behind.

How he wished he could press fast-forward and make it all happen more quickly.

‘One thing at a time, Paul,’ Julie had told him and he was really trying to heed her advice.

Julie was his therapist, a drug counsellor who had become his lifeline and who’d helped him make his lists and plan his future. Paul really liked Julie and he was sure she liked him too because she always talked to him for much longer than she’d scheduled him in for. She wasn’t like the others before who talked to him like he was just another one of the sewer rats, a hopeless case who didn’t mean anything he said. Julie believed in him. Paul loved that someone at long last believed in him.

But now, Julie was gone. She had moved to another city and Paul was struggling to make it through each day. He was struggling so badly that he even sat down one night and sent an email to that agony aunt from the newspaper who seemed to be able to help so many people who turned to her. Ruth Ryans, yes, that’s the one. She reminded him a bit of his big sister, Margaret, who was always so full of wise words and who everyone loved to talk to. But Margaret didn’t speak to Paul any more. Nobody from Paul’s family spoke to him any more. They were tired of trying, tired of giving him chances, tired of picking up his frail, white body off the ground when he’d collapse after a weekend bingeing.

Paul was tired too. He was so tired of hearing his mother cry for him, he was tired of watching her light candles and pray for him to get clean and to just come home and be the way he used to be. He was so tired of letting his darling mother down.

Paul’s mum always said he could have been anything he wanted to be in life. He was picked for the national soccer team when he was just sixteen and was tipped for the top. He was good-looking and super-skilled and the world was his oyster – but that all changed when he met Keith.

Keith was jealous of Paul, but still wanted to be his friend. He showed Paul what it was like to be in the spotlight and all the things that playing professional football was going to attract his way. Keith showed Paul what a good night out really was when you added a few lines of cocaine into the mix, and soon those nights became full weekends and then those full weekends became every day.

Paul didn’t play soccer any more. He didn’t do much any more, only focused on staying away from Screw, trying his best to save his money and make lists just like Julie showed him, to help him get out of here. Julie told him to write down all the positives in his life and to read them and add to them every day.

Paul had two positives on his list so far. He had the roof over his head in the hostel, and he had a new friend called Terence who made him laugh. Best of all, Terence wasn’t a drug addict. That was a huge bonus.

The hostel where Paul lived was clean and the lady on the desk, Sonia, always said hello to Paul by name, but apart from that, he didn’t really talk to anyone these days. Apart from Terence. Terence was cool, but sometimes Paul was afraid that Terence didn’t really understand what he was getting into with the whole drug thing. Terence didn’t know anything about drug culture and his parents would never have accepted the like of Paul into his life because Terence’s family didn’t know yet he was gay. No one knew Paul was gay, either. Maybe someday they could make it happen, but Paul had a feeling it was going to take a long time.

He looked at his watch. It was going to be a slow morning and he felt that old familiar itch again. Oh no. It was almost time for Screw to start his morning rounds.

He covered his ears and waited for that everyday sound to come his way.

And then it started. Bang, bang, bang.

Paul’s heart skipped a beat. His head dropped and he concentrated on his breathing.

If only it wasn’t so easy to say yes. If only it wasn’t so hard to say no.

Bang, bang, bang.

But he wasn’t going to answer. They’d keep coming though, they’d keep pushing. If he could only get to the other side of Christmas he’d be able to make that fresh start he’d been dreaming of, the one he’d made on paper, thanks to Julie. Focus on that, he reminded himself as the knocking and the banging continued. Focus on taking one day at a time.

Bang, bang, bang.

Paul closed his eyes and pictured his mum’s face when he’d turn up in just a few month’s with his new clothes, his longer hair, his skin and eyes clear and fresh and his new car in the driveway.

The banging on his door in the hostel got louder.

He closed his eyes again, tighter this time. He saw his mum’s smile, her arms open, and he felt the warmth of her body, the smell of her lavender perfume, the tears she would cry of pure joy at her baby boy coming back home. Margaret would be there too and he’d apologise for all the horror he’d put them through over the past few years. Margaret would forgive him and she’d finally let him see his baby nephew who he would teach how to kick a ball as soon as he got on his tiny feet. They’d have a great Christmas next year and he wouldn’t have to hear the knocking which was now getting louder and faster.

Paul put his hands over his ears tighter now.

Maybe the woman from the newspaper, Ruth Ryans, didn’t reply to everyone like she said she did. Maybe she was just busy and he was next on her list. He liked to think that might be the way. He was next. Everyone was busy at Christmas, and someone like Ruth Ryans had probably got hundreds of messages from hundreds of people like Paul.

The banging kept banging. The itch kept itching.

‘It’s almost Christmas, you little ponce!’ he heard Screw shout from the other side of the door, his voice like someone scraping their nails down a blackboard. It made Paul wince. ‘Be good to yourself, young Paul. Ho, ho, ho, Santa is here. Open the door, you wee shit. You know you want it. Come on!’

The girl from the newspaper would know what to say to Screw. She would know everything, if she would only just reply. Paul had listened to her on the radio. He had read her replies in the newspaper. She seemed like she was a really nice person. As well as his Margaret, she also reminded him of Julie.

If only she would hurry up and reply. Maybe he was next on her list.