Page 44 of The Winter of Second Chances
Yours sincerely,
John Granger
The note seemed innocuous enough and yet Annie couldn’t help feeling it was somehow critical of her being out when he called.Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself.You’re just feeling oversensitive after your run-in with Max.
They spent the day amiably pottering around the flat. Annie sat in the armchair, with her feet on the footstool, readingThe Woman in Whiteuntil her eyes began to cross. Tiggs catnapped in various locations until she found the afternoon suntrap on the window seat and settled down until dinner time. When the sun began to set, turning the sky to ripe apricot as the great orb disappeared down below the waves, Annie and her housemate had dinner together: Mrs Tiggy-Winkle on the floor and Annie on the sofa, watchingAntiques Roadshow. For the first time in more years than she could remember, Sunday felt like a magical precursor for the week ahead.
Annie pulled up next to the picket fence and hauled the bags out of the boot. She’d gone to the nearest town to pick up supplies ready for the first book club meeting on Wednesday; she liked to get ahead of the game. She had bought scented candles for the tables and two seaside-inspired lamps, with puffins and crabs printed on the shades, so that they wouldn’t have to use the flickering strip light which gave off grisly crime scene vibes.
Since Gemma was keen to bring wine, Annie decided to make a non-alcoholic hot apple punch as a complement, reasoning that the smell of cinnamon and mixed spice heating on the little hob would also create a sense of warmth in the chilly room. She was planning to cook some mini pesto tartlets to have hot, along with antipasti and a big bowl of fancy crisps. Preparation, planning and list-making were some of Annie’s greatest joys and starting a new life required a whole new level of rumination which she was only too happy to embrace.
It was late in the afternoon. It had been chilly all day, the pale sun masked behind smoky cloud, and now even that scant light was starting to fade. The air was clammy and she could feel it clinging to her hair as a woolly grey fog slipped over the rocks and blotted out the landscape. Annie shivered and felt grateful for the little waft of smoke spiralling out from the chimney of Saltwater Nook signalling warmth within. As she hauled her bags of shopping up the garden path, she saw a wicker hamper sitting on the top step in front of the door. She climbed the stone steps and stooped to read a paper parcel tag tied to the basket handle:
With love, Max
Eternally sorry
Oh, for fuck’s sake, thought Annie,what now?She hoped it wasn’t some bizarre love token, like his severed finger. She unlocked the door and pushed her shopping inside, then crouched down and undid the leather straps which fastened the hamper and lifted the lid. Inside were two beige plastic baskets made to look like wicker, a DVD ofThe Lost Boys, a sachet of southern-fried seasoning and a small cool-box containing a pack of six fresh chicken drumsticks and a bag of frozen French fries. A bottle of cream soda lay in the bottom, along with a packet of butterscotch flavour Instant Whip and a pint of milk.
Oh, he’s good, she thought to herself.He’s pulling out the big guns this time. She tried to remain unmoved by the gesture but it lit a scene in her mind from a long time ago. It was her friend Claire’s seventeenth birthday. A few friends gathered in her lounge to watch a rented video ofThe Lost Boys. Annie was sat on a cushion on the floor. Max was next to her. Max wasn’t her boyfriend but she fancied him in that desperate way that only teenagers can: all-consuming, breath-stuttering, electric passion that torments and exhilarates. She remembered the intoxication of his nearness. How she thought her heart would explode out of her chest as his warm hand reached for hers and held it. Her friends whooped and shrieked as Corey Haim speared a vampire through a stereo on the TV. But Annie didn’t care aboutThe Lost Boysanymore because Max Sharpe, the hottest boy in the sixth form, was leaning towards her. In that moment she felt her whole life had been a mere prelude to French kissing Max on Claire Smith’s living room floor. As the credits rolled, Claire’s mum served up southern-fried chicken and chips in baskets, washed down with cream soda and a good helping of butterscotch instant whip, and Annie and Max became an item.
Shit, thought Annie,how does he do that?
‘Hello!’
Annie jumped, startled, and almost lost her footing, clinging to the handrail to steady herself.
‘Holy shit!’ The memory bubble popped and Annie suddenly felt the cold mist seeping through her clothes.
‘Sorry!’ Paul laughed. He was grinning up at her from the bottom step. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Annie. ‘I was lost in my own little world. How are you?’
‘I’m good,’ said Paul. ‘You?’
‘Fine,’ said Annie, still distracted by the hamper.
‘I’ve brought friendship flowers,’ said Paul. He waved a bunch of late-flowering hydrangeas. ‘I don’t want things to be awkward between us. I think we get on really well.’ He paused. ‘It would be a shame for one night to stop us hanging out as friends.’
Annie smiled.He’s such a grown-up, she thought.How refreshing.
‘I completely agree,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, how would you like to have dinner with me?’
‘Great!’ said Paul. ‘When?’
‘Tonight,’ said Annie. ‘Come on in and I’ll make a start.’
‘What’s on the menu?’ Paul asked.
Annie held aloft one of the plastic baskets.
‘Chicken in a basket,’ she said.
‘Whoa,’ said Paul. ‘How could anyone refuse an invitation as retro as that.’
It seemed to Annie that the best way to tamp down the flame of an old memory was to recreate it with someone you had absolutely no desire to have sex with. She guessed – as she coated the drumsticks in their bright orange southern-fried crumb – that Max was parked in a layby up in the village, waiting for Annie to call him and ask him to share the hamper with her for old times’ sake. The thought of him poised, phone in hand, gave her no malicious pleasure but neither did it make her feel guilty.This is progress, she thought.
‘I haven’t seen this in years,’ said Paul, making smacking noises with his lips as he licked the sticky coating from his fingers.The Lost Boyswas playing in the background and had reached the scene where Michael was being traumatised by a carton of Chinese noodles which had inexplicably turned into worms.
