Page 2 of A Face in the Crowd
He shrugs, which is something I hate. It’s hard to say why, other than that it doesn’t suit him. It’s like when I try to do something left-handed. There’s a lack of coordination; a general sense that the action isn’t quite right.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he replies. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you, too.’
A reflex.
Bang.
I love you?I love you, too. I’m pretty sure I do love him. Sometimes I’m certain, other times I wonder if I know what the word means.
‘See you later,’ he says. He’s being kind today, going through the whole routine. He doesn’t always say goodbye. I sometimes leave for work and he doesn’t look up from his computer. Sometimes, I say I love him and he doesn’t reply at all.
‘See you later,’ I say, parroting him. ‘You’ll do brilliantly today.’
He steps outside, leaving a hand on the front door.
‘Yes,’ he says, not sounding convinced.
‘Good luck,’ I add.
There’s a second in which I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. As if I’m doubting his ability by implying he needs good fortune. Luck shouldn’t come into it, after all. Luck is what people need if they aren’t skilled enough to get the job done.
A flutter tickles my heart, but he doesn’t pick up on it.
‘Thanks,’ Ben replies. He checks his pockets and wrist one final time –keys, wallet, phone and watch– then he pulls the door closed.
I stand alone in the hall for a moment, watching through the rippled glass of the front door as his silhouette shrinks its way to the end of our driveway.
‘See you later,’ I repeat, this time to myself.
Chapter One
Friday
I’m not sure if there are many things more humiliating than looking at a rolly-eyed bus driver and saying, ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ He has tufty gingery hair and is wearing the weary expression of a man who can’t wait to finish his shift. I get on this bus twice a day, five days a week. He drives it three or four times of those ten journeys. We do not know one another, but there’s still indignity in that I recognise him, while he’s sure he’s never once set eyes on me.
‘It’s two-twenty,’ he says with yet another roll of the eyes. I can practically hear his thoughts.Not another nutter…
‘I’m not trying it on,’ I reply, ‘I really do have a monthly pass. I use it every day. I was hoping you’d know me…?’ I tail off, knowing I’ve lost the argument.
The person behind me in the queue to get on shuffles and sighs. I’m one ofthosepeople. The ones who can’t simply get on a bus without causing trouble.
My purse gives no clues as to where the pass could be. I always leave it in the front window section, precisely so that it’s impossible to lose. It’s not there and neither is it in that compartment.
‘Two-twenty or you’ll have to get off,’ he says.
I half turn, ready to get off, but it’s at that moment the rain starts to thrash the windscreen like a kid playing whack-a-mole at the fair.
Losing something is surely one of the worst feelings in the world. I’ve known real loss and pain, but there’s something about the way a person’s stomach sinks when a valued item has gone astray.
I start to fumble through the coin part of my purse, but this is about more than the two pounds and twenty pence. By the time I’ve paid rent and all the other bits and pieces, there’s so little left that everything else is brutally budgeted. This extra £2.20 means I’ll probably have to miss a meal. It’s a straight choice: Food – or a six-mile walk home in the pounding rain.
‘I’ll pay.’ It’s the man behind me in the queue. No, not a man. A teenager at most. He’s probably fifteen or sixteen, clutching a backpack.
I start to say no, but my heart isn’t in it because everything about me must be screamingyes. Before I can make any sort of fake protest, he’s passed a five-pound note to the driver and told him to take it out of that.
I mutter a ‘thanks’, but it doesn’t feel like enough. A wave of relief slams into me as if the bus itself has thundered into a wall. I try to take a step, but my knees wobble.
