Page 108 of The Happy Hour
‘Just because your dad’s gone, doesn’t mean you have to give up on life, too.’
Ash looked up, his neck prickling. ‘I’m not giving up on life.’
‘Sure seems like it.’ Mack leaned heavily against his doorframe.
Ash took a step forwards. ‘Is your hip—’
‘I’m having one of my better days,’ Mack cut in. ‘This is my thoroughly-disappointed-in-you stance. Have you lost your damn mind? That woman was miserable when she turned up here, she hadn’t heard apeepfrom you, and despite that, she had more sparkle in her than everyone on our corridor put together – right now, anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ash rubbed his forehead.
‘You used to be like that,’ Mack said. ‘It wasn’t an accident that I came to you for the paper and coffee on Sundays.Yourcompany,yourattitude. You hadn’t always had it easy, but you made it your business to find the positive in everything. And then that good-for-nothing father came back into your life, reminded you of how much he’d made you suffer, and then left for good. You’ve let him steal your joy again, just like he did the first time he left.’
‘Mack, I—’
‘Get it together, son. Before it’s too late.’ He stepped back and, before Ash could say anything in reply, he was staring at his neighbour’s closed door, the bang reverberating through his head like a warning bell.
Borough Market was, objectively, a great place to spend a few hours. Really amazing cheese, a huge vat of paella, ostrich burgers and creme brûlée doughnuts and other food options that Greenwich didn’t offer, all in the shelter of the stunningly Gothic Southwark Cathedral. Ash got there as the market was still waking up, with the echo of car horns on Borough High Street, delivery lorries beeping as they reversed into tight spaces. The sun streamed in, creating pockets of light and shade, and he tried his hardest to relax.
He strolled past charcuterie and bakery stalls, pastries glistening with golden flakes, and past huge, pungent wheels of cheese, their smell overpowering the aromas of chocolate and fudge. There were no hats to try on, no antique clocks or silverware to sift through, no shimmering jewellery. No Jess. He queued for a coffee, and even the act of getting a cappuccino in a takeaway cup was thick with nostalgia. Any moment now the memories would slow down, and his brain would wake up and be interested in this new place with all its possibility.
He watched a dad and two young children standing in line for the ice-cream stall, the little girl jumping up and down, her brown ponytail bouncing. He had done a lot of FaceTiming with Dylan recently, soaking up minutes in the company of his brother and his nephews, Sadie popping her head in to say hello and ask how he was doing, the modern lines of their Auckland house in the background.
Zack and Eli always had a ridiculous story to tell their Uncle Ash, about falling off some impressive play equipment, or the hidden lake they’d found on a weekend hike, or what piece of homework their dog, Scruffit – ‘like Stuff It, only more polite’, Eli had said – had destroyed. It always took Ash out of himself, until they wanted to hearhisfunny stories, what he’d been up to, and he had nothing to tell them because all he’d been doing was acting like a zombie at work, drinking too much in the evenings, staring at a picture of a kite on his living-room wall.
‘This is fucking ridiculous,’ he said aloud.
‘I beg your pardon?’
He spun on his heels, mouth open, and was met with the steely glare of a woman who, even on this balmy summer morning, was wearing a green jacket, and had a red umbrella hanging over her arm. Her hair was grey, her eyes sharp behind round glasses, and her lips were pursed in disapproval.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ash said. ‘I didn’t realise anyone was in hearing distance.’
The woman stared pointedly around her. ‘We’re in a market,’ she said. ‘One of London’s busiest, on a Sunday morning. Where did you think you were? Themoon?’
Ash almost choked on his laughter. ‘Well, there is a lot of cheese...’ He gestured to the stall behind them, but the woman just glared harder. He cleared his throat. ‘As I said, I’m really sorry. I’ll be more mindful in future.’ He went to turn away.
‘Out with it, then.’
He angled his body back towards her. ‘Sorry?’
‘What is...flipping ridiculous.Your coffee? The size of that wheel of Black Bomber? The fact that the young woman over there thinks she can charge eight pounds fifty for almond butter, just because she’s slapped anartisanlabel on it?’
‘Uh, my coffee’s great,’ Ash said and, as if he needed to demonstrate, he took a sip, then gave a loud, satisfied sigh. He was, quite clearly, losing his mind.
‘What is it, then?’ The woman folded her arms. ‘I tell my grandchildren that there always has to be a reason for swearing. They’re high-currency words, not to be bandied about lightly.’
‘I would guess I’m older than your grandchildren,’ Ash said, wondering when he’d recover the brain power to extract himself from this awkward conversation.
‘They’re twenty-three and twenty-seven,’ she said, ‘so not by much.’
‘Right.’ He nodded, hoping that would be the end of it, but she continued to stare at him, and he thought that maybe her question hadn’t been rhetorical. ‘What is...flipping ridiculous,’he admitted, ‘is that I’m missing someone – a lot. She works at a different market, and I thought I could come here today and somehow banish her ghost. It was a stupid plan.’
‘Is she dead, then?’
Ash turned his shocked exclamation into a cough. ‘She’s not dead,’ he said. The thought sent an icy shiver through him. ‘She’s fine: alive and well. Working in her shop in Greenwich right now, I expect.’
The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t talk about ghosts, then. If you know where she is, why are you here and not there?’
