Page 17 of A Miracle on Hope Street
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 ismybusiness!’
‘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 itveryeasy,’ 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’mreallythinking of selling it.
‘You need to get back to what you do best, Ruth,’ he shouts after me. I stop, my foot balancing on the step in front of me. I turn towards him.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I ask him. ‘Who the hell are you?’
I stomp back down the steps, careful not to slip yet with enough speed that makes me get to him before he gets back into the car.
‘Who are you and what do you know about me?’ I ask him, looking right into his brown eyes – and then my heart skips a beat. Ihaveseen him somewhere before. But where?
‘Hope Street? This time last year, almost to the day?’ he says, answering my inner question.
‘Hope Street?’
‘You don’t remember me? I thought as much.’
I picture Hope Street in my head, a street I know like the back of my hand. There’s the launderette, the cinema, a Chinese takeaway, a kids’ soft play centre . . . what is he talking about?
‘Outside the cinema,’ he tells me.
‘The cinema? When?’
I try and remember his face. Did we go on a date? I feel my face flush. How embarrassing!
‘On the street.’
‘On the street . . . you’re going to have to just tell me, Michael. I don’t remember, sorry.’
