Page 11 of Don't Fall in Love (and how to break the rules)

“Morning, bab,” said Rebecca, whose warm and rasping Brummie accent was the inevitable result of sixty years in the UK’s second city, alongside twenty cigarettes a day.

“Morning, Rebecca. You ok? Shall I sort out the bowls and stuff?”

“Rae’s already onto that, but I am sure they’d appreciate your help,” said Rebecca, who was somehow buttering multiple slices of bread at the same time as making vast quantities of soup.

“Roger,” said Chrissie.

“Morning, lovely,” said Rae. “I missed you at yoga yesterday.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. We had a meeting that ran late. The last thing I needed!”

“No need to sweat it. I hope you’re taking it a bit easier today, though. It is Saturday, after all!”

“You know me,” said Chrissie, “I like to keep busy.”

“I know, but you need to stop sometimes,” Rae replied, a serious expression on their face.

Chrissie didn’t answer immediately, feigning interest in the cutlery drawer. She didn’t want to have this conversation again. Stopping was scary. She wasn’t sure what might happen if she did. The closest she got to stopping was in Rae’s yoga class.

“I know, I do,” she said, before changing the subject to the new restaurant that had opened up on the high street. Rae raised an eyebrow, but said no more.

“Ready?” said Rebecca, who had left the soup to bubble away and the mountain of buttered bread under copious amounts of cling-film. Chrissie sighed; she’d tried so many times to get Rebecca to abandon cling-film in favour of a more environmentally-friendly reusable covering. “Don’t give me that look, bab,” said Rebecca, adjusting her bright yellow apron. “I know you think I am single-handedly destroying the planet, but it’s the most sanitary way to do it.”

“I said nothing,” said Chrissie, with a small smile.

“Mmm hmm. You didn’t have to. Now then, let’s get cracking.”

It was almost a repeat of breakfast club at school, with a diverse group of people – this time adults as well as children – arriving for their meal. They paid what they could, and many of them couldn’t pay at all, which was fine.

The chatter in the room made Chrissie feel warm inside. This was so much better than the hungry days she’d endured herself. Hers weren’t due to poverty, but rather down to disastrous judgement and decision-making. She recalled the cold, empty days in a Welsh cabin with the others, abandoned by a man Chrissie could now see had been abusing them all along. Thecharismatic, benevolent leader who’d turned out to be anything but.

Lucian had left them without food or supplies for days on end, in order to ‘test their faith’. She thought back to the darkness and despair that had enveloped her, and how she tried to wrangle her brain into believing this was a good thing. She knew now, through hours of counselling, that it had never been a good thing. It was control, coercion and abuse. She looked at Rebecca, the community minded cling-film warrior, making people’s lives better, one fag at a time. Never once had she mentioned her faith to Chrissie, but it was clear how she tried to live it – in the service of others. There was no talk of tests, or of faith through suffering. There was enough of that in the world without adding to it deliberately.

She often found herself watching the portly older woman with admiration. Rebecca never sought plaudits or power. She just did her thing. Maybe the planet wouldn’t thank her for the added plastic, but Chrissie was sure the people she helped would.

“Hiya,” said a voice, rousing Chrissie from her musing.

“Nisha!” she said, in slightly more shocked a voice than she would have liked. Nisha wore her hair in a ponytail and was dressed in a football shirt, shorts and muddy shinpads that poked over a pair of equally-muddy socks. There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead which made Chrissie wonder how warm the teacher was underneath. She shook herself slightly. No.

“Yep, that’s right. Nothing wrong with your vision today,” said Nisha, grinning and appearing much more relaxed than she had in the week.

“Been playing football?” asked Chrissie.

“You don’t miss a trick do you?” said Nisha, with a warmth alongside the teasing. Chrissie laughed, her cheeks going pink. “Yeah, I’ve joined a local women’s team and there was aninformal kickabout in Kings Heath Park earlier. I thought I’d come and get some soup – if it’s still going?”

“Everyone’s welcome,” said Chrissie, and served Nisha a generous bowl with a couple of slices of bread. Nisha dropped a tenner into the bowl. “It’s quietened down a bit. I’ll come and join you,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“Great,” said Nisha. There was that grin again. And the dimple.

Oh, the dimple!

Chrissie walked over, trying to silence the voice in her head that had started bellowing out “Oh, Ms Rajan’s dimple” to the tune of Seven Nation Army. She needed her journal, and she needed it the moment she got home.

“I’m just popping out for a fag, Chrissie,” said the vicar, sweeping past clutching a packet of Silk Cut. Chrissie smiled and waved, knowing that during the course of her cigarette break, Rebecca would end up chatting to a few hungry or lonely souls and bringing them back in for soup and bread.

“So, tell me, what’s been happening with you in the last twenty years? I mean, it’ll have to be the edited highlights, as I need to go to Holland and Barratt in a bit,” said Chrissie.

“Touche,” replied Nisha. “Well, I went to uni and studied French and Maths.”

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