Page 16 of A Miracle on Hope Street
Michael is stunned, too stunned to speak and I don’t know what he is muttering as he makes an attempt to fix up what was on his tray as Suzi brings a mop to soak up the puddle on the floor.
‘I didn’t see you, I was in another world, I’m really so sorry,’ I say again, taking napkins from a nearby table and dabbing up the mess, trying to help, but clearly I’m making things worse judging by the look of horror on Michael’s face.
‘You never do see me,’ he mumbles, and his words hit me like a punch in the stomach.
‘I beg your pardon?’
The onlookers have had enough of staring and have gone back to their own lunch as we fuss and clean and talk under our breath to each other. I’ve never really spoken to this man before, apart from a friendly hello or a polite thank you so what on earth does he know about me to say such a thing?
‘I’m soaked through,’ he replies. ‘I’d better go and get changed. Excuse me.’
I stand there in the middle of the floor, feeling naked and exposed as Michael walks away, almost bumping into Gloria who comes out from the kitchen, totally unaware of the commotion, and Suzi fetches a ‘wet floor’ sign, asking me gently to step aside so she can put it in its place. I want the ground to open up and make me disappear.
‘Oh, look at you, are you all right?’ asks Gloria, shuffling past tables and chairs to make a short cut to get to me. ‘What happened?’
‘I need to go home,’ I tell her, feeling fresh tears prick my eyes.
Gloria senses my despair immediately and remains calm and practical as always.
‘I’ll get Michael to drop you home in his car,’ she whispers, causing me to go into further panic. The man clearly doesn’t have time for me so why would he want to leave me home?
Just at that he reappears with a fresh T-shirt and apron on and I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment and wonder again at what his problem with me is.
‘No, please, I’ll walk, Gloria. The fresh air will do me good. I’ve created enough havoc for one day here. I’ll see you soon.’
I walk away before Gloria can even respond and when I step outside into the bitter cold, I bow my head down against the drizzling rain, gulping back tears that I can’t decide are from sorrow, loneliness or my utter humiliation.
‘Miss Ryans! Wait there!’
I hear his voice from behind and my urge is to keep walking and never show my face in Gloria’s café again but instead I stop to hear what he has to say.
‘I’ll take you home,’ he says, his voice muffled against the rain. He is wearing a navy duffle jacket and a woolly hat and he holds up his car keys. ‘It’s nothing fancy, but it has four wheels and will get you there a lot quicker and a lot drier if you want?’
I shrug, unable to challenge anyone any more, and I follow him back down the street, around the corner of Gloria’s and onto a side street where a small, quite battered and clapped-out navy Ford Fiesta sits waiting for us. He opens the door and I quickly climb into the passenger seat, where I’m met instantly with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and a tree-shaped air freshener that ironically says ‘new car scent’ on it.
Michael starts up the ignition and the car chokes and spits, then he tries again and we’re off; he weaves through traffic out onto the main road and out of town.
‘Thank you. I live on Beech Row,’ I say to him, sniffling still from the cold and the tail end of my meltdown.
‘I know you do,’ he says, putting his window down a little then changing his mind and putting it back up as a cold blast of wind and rain comes in round us.
I want to ask him how he knows, but he isn’t exactly conversing with me as he concentrates on the road, his brow scrunched and his dark-brown eyes taking in every inch of the road ahead.
‘It gives more snow, I think,’ I say, scraping the barrel of small talk to try and mask over the silence. If he would maybe turn on the radio . . . there is no radio, I then notice.
‘Yes, just as well you’ve a nice big house to keep warm in,’ he says and my eyes widen in shock at the sharpness of his tongue for the second time today.
‘Excuse me, do you know me?’ I ask him.
‘Everyone knows you,’ he says, unimpressed. ‘Well, everyone in this city anyhow, which is why I just don’t get why you walk around with such a long face these days.’
I knew I shouldn’t have taken this lift. Is this ‘batter Ruth when she’s down day’ or what?
‘Oh, so just because I’ve a well-known face it means I should be smiling constantly, does it? You know nothing about me.’
He smiles at my reaction, like it was just as expected, still not looking at me, only at the road.
‘I know that you have a very nice lifestyle and you don’t really want for much,’ he says, and I’ve a feeling that he is deliberately pushing me.
