Читать книгу A Miracle on Hope Street: The most heartwarming Christmas romance of 2018! - Emma Heatherington, Emma Heatherington - Страница 15

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s Michael,’ he replies. ‘My name’s Michael.’

‘Sorry?’

I look up, but the waiter is gone already, too far across the busy café floor to hear any sense of apology I may have to offer. I didn’t mean to be rude but I barely made eye contact with him when he served me my cinnamon latte as I’m so lost in thought.

Now I’ve offended Gloria’s precious new waiter. Brilliant.

Gloria is right. My self-belief is dwindling away and I’m not sure if my words are enough to help anyone any more. In fact, I seem to be doing the opposite these days. I stir the creamy top of my drink with a long spoon, staring out the window as I think of some of the clients I’ve tried to help down the years and I wonder if my advice even made any difference to their lives at all. I wonder if Agatha, the shop manager from Ballydoo, ever did run away with the sailor she fell in love with online. Or did Deirdre the hairdresser manage to dump the rat who maxed out her credit cards and ‘forgot’ to pay their rent for almost a year and almost left her homeless? Or poor old Ernie, whose wife was going to die and who desperately needed someone to talk to about his fears but didn’t know where to turn. I wonder did he ever go to the support group I advised him to check out? I really hope he found a friendly ear.

And most of all I wonder about Bernadette from Dublin who, after many years of battling severe mental illness, wanted desperately to get in touch with her adult children who she’d lost contact with a long time ago. It took me a while to think of what to say to Bernadette as her words hit me right in the heart, reminding me of my estranged relationship with my own mother that has torn me apart all this time. I wanted to help her so badly, and I really hope that I did and that someday she’ll get the courage to finally make that move and reach out to them, reminding her that it’s never too late to make that move and try again.

I often wish I could tell my own mother the same thing.

Old Arnie is ordering more tea, the barrister Bertie and his wife seem to still be arguing, the bunch of youths have got fed up stuffing their faces and have moved on. No one is even looking my way as I sit here, tears rolling down my cheeks and, despite the warmth of the glass that nestles in my hands, I can’t even bring myself to drink the coffee in front of me. I don’t want to go home to that empty house, I don’t feel strong enough to do my work and I’m absolutely exhausted with all this pretending that I’m coping when I’m absolutely not. I’m tired, I’m crippled with loneliness and it’s almost Christmas when families and friends get together in celebration and I have no one. My sister and her own family are miles away, my dad is gone and my mother abandoned us, and no matter how much I deny it and try to paint on a smile, I’m crumbling inside. My throat hurts with the ball of stress that sits there, choking me and making my tears squeeze out and the heat in this café is suffocating me. I need to get out of here. I shouldn’t have stayed so long. I lift my phone and keys, then reach down to get my handbag quickly, determined to slip out without making a fuss.

Just as I’m getting up, my head collides with an elbow and soon there’s a crash and a mess and I’m covered in someone’s lunch while Michael, the waiter, stands frozen beside me, his apron soaked through with fruit juice, and a gravy boat drips hot brown liquid onto the sodden floor.

‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry!’ I gasp, feeling dozens of pairs of eyes on me, then I hear them whisper when they recognise who I am and see the state that I’m in.

Michael is stunned, too stunned to speak and I don’t know what he is muttering as he makes an attempt to fix up what was on his tray as Suzi brings a mop to soak up the puddle on the floor.

‘I didn’t see you, I was in another world, I’m really so sorry,’ I say again, taking napkins from a nearby table and dabbing up the mess, trying to help, but clearly I’m making things worse judging by the look of horror on Michael’s face.

‘You never do see me,’ he mumbles, and his words hit me like a punch in the stomach.

‘I beg your pardon?’

The onlookers have had enough of staring and have gone back to their own lunch as we fuss and clean and talk under our breath to each other. I’ve never really spoken to this man before, apart from a friendly hello or a polite thank you so what on earth does he know about me to say such a thing?

‘I’m soaked through,’ he replies. ‘I’d better go and get changed. Excuse me.’

I stand there in the middle of the floor, feeling naked and exposed as Michael walks away, almost bumping into Gloria who comes out from the kitchen, totally unaware of the commotion, and Suzi fetches a ‘wet floor’ sign, asking me gently to step aside so she can put it in its place. I want the ground to open up and make me disappear.

‘Oh, look at you, are you all right?’ asks Gloria, shuffling past tables and chairs to make a short cut to get to me. ‘What happened?’

‘I need to go home,’ I tell her, feeling fresh tears prick my eyes.

Gloria senses my despair immediately and remains calm and practical as always.

‘I’ll get Michael to drop you home in his car,’ she whispers, causing me to go into further panic. The man clearly doesn’t have time for me so why would he want to leave me home?

Just at that he reappears with a fresh T-shirt and apron on and I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment and wonder again at what his problem with me is.

‘No, please, I’ll walk, Gloria. The fresh air will do me good. I’ve created enough havoc for one day here. I’ll see you soon.’

I walk away before Gloria can even respond and when I step outside into the bitter cold, I bow my head down against the drizzling rain, gulping back tears that I can’t decide are from sorrow, loneliness or my utter humiliation.

‘Miss Ryans! Wait there!’

I hear his voice from behind and my urge is to keep walking and never show my face in Gloria’s café again but instead I stop to hear what he has to say.

‘I’ll take you home,’ he says, his voice muffled against the rain. He is wearing a navy duffle jacket and a woolly hat and he holds up his car keys. ‘It’s nothing fancy, but it has four wheels and will get you there a lot quicker and a lot drier if you want?’

I shrug, unable to challenge anyone any more, and I follow him back down the street, around the corner of Gloria’s and onto a side street where a small, quite battered and clapped-out navy Ford Fiesta sits waiting for us. He opens the door and I quickly climb into the passenger seat, where I’m met instantly with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and a tree-shaped air freshener that ironically says ‘new car scent’ on it.

Michael starts up the ignition and the car chokes and spits, then he tries again and we’re off; he weaves through traffic out onto the main road and out of town.

‘Thank you. I live on Beech Row,’ I say to him, sniffling still from the cold and the tail end of my meltdown.

‘I know you do,’ he says, putting his window down a little then changing his mind and putting it back up as a cold blast of wind and rain comes in round us.

I want to ask him how he knows, but he isn’t exactly conversing with me as he concentrates on the road, his brow scrunched and his dark-brown eyes taking in every inch of the road ahead.

‘It gives more snow, I think,’ I say, scraping the barrel of small talk to try and mask over the silence. If he would maybe turn on the radio . . . there is no radio, I then notice.

‘Yes, just as well you’ve a nice big house to keep warm in,’ he says and my eyes widen in shock at the sharpness of his tongue for the second time today.

‘Excuse me, do you know me?’ I ask him.

‘Everyone knows you,’ he says, unimpressed. ‘Well, everyone in this city anyhow, which is why I just don’t get why you walk around with such a long face these days.’

I knew I shouldn’t have taken this lift. Is this ‘batter Ruth when she’s down day’ or what?

‘Oh, so just because I’ve a well-known face it means I should be smiling constantly, does it? You know nothing about me.’

He smiles at my reaction, like it was just as expected, still not looking at me, only at the road.

‘I know that you have a very nice lifestyle and you don’t really want for much,’ he says, and I’ve a feeling that he is deliberately pushing me.

I sit back and fold my arms and my eyes widen, staring ahead as my blood boils in my veins at his cheek. He indicates onto Beech Row and makes some sort of gesture towards the houses, as if further illustrating his point.

‘Just because I live in a big house—’

‘Which you are selling?’

‘Which is my business!’

‘And you have a big job, and have absolutely everything else that most people would give their right arm for.’

I sit up straight and look at the side of his face.

‘Have I done something to annoy you, apart from accidentally spilling gravy and juice on your apron?’ I ask him.

He parks the car and pulls up the handbrake. I take off my seatbelt, eager to get away from this stranger who is meant to be showing some kindness by helping me home but is totally contradicting his actions by being so horrible.

‘I just hate seeing people who don’t know real hardship look so damn miserable,’ he says to me. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like to really struggle in life?’

‘Hang on,’ I spit back at him. ‘Are you actually suggesting I’ve had it easy?’

‘From where I’m sitting it looks like you have it very easy,’ he says. ‘Fancy car, big inherited house, the city drooling over your every move and every word you write from your ivory tower – and yet you look like you’ve the worries of the world. It’s just a bit – a bit sickening to see someone who has it all go around feeling sorry for themselves. Lighten up a little, Ruth. Smile a bit more and see what the world has to offer. Or do something – yes, do something that makes you feel like you’re making use of your life because maybe writing words of wisdom isn’t fulfilling you any more.’

My mouth drops open and I try to open the car door to get out, determined not to be analysed by a waiter who I’ve barely drawn breath to before but the stupid door of his stupid car won’t open.

‘You don’t know shit about me!’ I say to him as I lift my handbag from the passenger side footwell, still wrestling with the door handle. He gets out and runs around the front of the car, then opens my door from the other side.

‘I keep meaning to get that fixed,’ he says. ‘Pain in the arse – on a rainy day especially.’

I stand face to face in the miserable darkness of the afternoon, looking him right in the eye for the first time. He is taller than I am, a lot more handsome than I ever noticed and he looks so smug that I would love to slap his face for being so judgemental.

‘You have no idea about me or what I’m going through,’ I say to him. ‘But thanks for the lift! It was a real pleasure!’

I slam the car door closed and march away from him, muttering obscenities to myself as I stomp through puddles across the pavement and up the steep steps that lead to my father’s townhouse which yes, I inherited, but that’s hardly my fault. I didn’t ask for it and I certainly don’t need the expense of keeping it warm, not to mention the massive overhaul it’s going to need to bring it into the twenty-first century. In fact, after my chat with Gloria today and now this judgement from a stranger, I’m really thinking of selling it.