Page 15 of A Face in the Crowd
There’s a moment in which I could be honest, say I’m not sure I’m ready for all this. And yet, if I don’t believe in love at first sight and all that, then it follows that it would take a few meetings to get to know someone.
‘I suppose you could come to mine,’ I say, instantly panicking that he’ll see my one-room bedsit and figure out that I really am a lost cause.
‘I don’t want to intrude,’ he says.
‘It’s fine. We can figure out a day later in the week.’
‘Great! I’ll bring dessert…’ He pauses. ‘And wine!’
The waiter chooses this moment to return with Harry’s cherry-chocolate thing and the two requested spoons. Harry forces me to try a bit and it’s hard not to feel a stupid sense of longing that this is the kind of life I’ve not been able to lead. It’s not much to ask for, is it? The odd meal out without hyperventilating over how much it might cost.
By the time we finish eating, the restaurant has almost cleared. Hours have passed and I’ve barely noticed. I ask Harry to tell me more about the states he’s visited and it’s nice to listen to someone else talk. He claims he drove through a place called Bald Knob in West Virginia – although it sounds suspiciously made up.
The spell is broken when the waiter arrives with a bill.
Perhaps Harry’s one of those gentleman-types who wants to pay for everything, or maybe he senses the intake of breath I take.
‘I’m paying,’ he says firmly, reaching for the leather card.
‘I should pay my half,’ I reply.
He picks the paper out from the little booklet and waves the waiter back. ‘I insist.’
I should let it lie. Not everything has to be a tug of X chromosome versus Y. Of feminism against patriarchy. Sometimes, one person can buy another a meal and that’s the end of it. I can’t stop myself, however. I know I’ve only spent fourteen pounds on the pasta, but before Harry can get his credit card out of his wallet, I’ve plucked a twenty-pound note from the envelope in my bag and dropped it on the table.
‘That’s my share,’ I say.
He frowns at the money and then at me. ‘You’re not going to let me pay, are you?’ he says.
‘No.’
Chapter Eight
It’s gone eleven as I make my way down the stone steps of Hamilton House in my socks. I’ve always done my laundry late, mainly because it lowers the chances of running into anyone else. There’s also a strange, melodic peace about the rumble of the machines that makes me feel tired enough to sleep.
I’m not even on the ground floor when the thumping beat of someone’s terrible music infects my ears. Why is it always the people with appalling taste who feel the need to crank up the volume?
It’s coming from the door at the opposite end of the corridor from the laundry room, so I sigh in my very British way and ignore it.
The laundry room itself is more of a large cupboard, with two washers, a single dryer and twine that’s been looped around the light fittings to create something close to a washing line. There’s not really room for more than one person, which is why there’s a small yelp of alarm as I push my way inside.
‘Oh,’ a woman’s voice says, ‘it’s you.’
Vicky is a single mother who lives on the ground floor. She has short blonde hair in a pixie style that I’d never be brave enough to try to pull off, as well as a ring through her septum. She’s so tiny that it’s hard to believe she gave birth relatively recently. We’ve occasionally played cards together or shared well-thumbed paperbacks.
She glances across to where a crib is blocking the dryer. ‘Sorry,’ she adds. ‘I didn’t think anyone would want to do their washing this late.’ She yawns and it’s immediately infectious as I find myself doing the same. We smile through watery eyes to one another.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
Vicky rubs her eyes and fights another yawn. ‘Mark’s having a party next door to me and Yasmine can’t sleep. I brought her in here. I think she likes the hum of the water going through the pipes.
I peep towards the crib, where Yasmine is bundled under a series of blankets, her eyes closed, chest slowly rising and falling. It’s hard not to envy the peace and beautiful unawareness.
‘Do you think she’d mind if I put the washer on?’ I ask.
Vicky laughs and it’s so wholesome, so full of charm, that it’s hard not to join in.
‘You can ask her if you want,’ she replies. ‘ButIdon’t mind. The clocks go back tonight anyway, so we all get an extra hour’s sleep.’
