I scan the lotion, the noodles and the porridge oats; then hold my hand over the barcode of the formula as I pass it directly into the shopping bag. There’s no beep.
The total is a little under £15 and we both know it’s not right.
Another customer slots in behind the girl, talking on his phone, and neither of us pay him any attention. She’s shaking as she counts the notes and coins out of her tatty purse into my hand. The amount is correct to the final penny – and I suspect much of her budgeting is done like this. Pennies count and pounds certainly do.
I lean in, so the man on the phone can’t hear, even if he was listening. ‘Use the small door by the magazines,’ I say, ‘You can squeeze around the scanner no problem.’
Her eyes widen a little, but she nods to say she’s heard. I don’t know about her, but my own heart is racing.
She shuffles away, switching the nappies from the trolley to her bag and then heading in the direction of the smaller door without risking a backwards look. I watch her go before turning to the man who is still on his phone.
Sometimes life isn’t black and white and, as I nudge the bag at my feet, I figure not everyone can be given envelopes full of money.
Chapter Six
It’s only as I’m getting off the bus close to home that I get a message from Harry asking if I’m still on for tonight. With spotting Melanie and spending a day at work, it had fallen from my mind. I can’t stop thinking about the girl at the checkout, wondering if she’ll eat today; or how the baby is getting on.
I wait until I get home and have given Billy a quick walk before replying to Harry. I’d rather have an evening in with my dog – but that describes almost every other night of my recent existence. Instead, I send back ‘of course!’, spending almost ten minutes agonising over whether to include the exclamation point. I go for it in the end, figuring it can be part of the new me. Old me would go without; new me is way more fun.
That done, I try to figure out how I’m going to make myself somewhat presentable given my lack of options. I don’t have many choices, especially considering one of my two pairs of shoes are taped together. I go with my ancient school shoes and my job interview clothes of a dark skirt and white blouse. Not that I’ve had an interview in years. In an attempt to lessen the office worker appearance, I dig a floaty blue scarf thing from the bottom of my drawer and tie it around my neck. It’s still a bit low-rent airline attendant but it will have to do. Beggars and choosers and all that. It’s almost a relief that I have so little. In the old teenagery days, I’d have spent hours figuring out what to wear and changing my mind dozens of times. Sometimes, it was like that when I was with Ben. Now, it’s as if that worry has been taken from me. If these clothes, if my appearance, isn’t good enough, there’s not a lot I can do about it. I should be nervous and yet this realisation gives me a strange calmness.
I get to The Garden Café fifteen minutes before the time Harry and I agreed. After asking the waiter for some tap water – being very specific about the word ‘tap’ – I spend time looking through the menu again. There are a few differences to what was online and, because of the prices, I rule out almost eighty per cent of everything listed. It’s automatic now, not only with food, I check the prices first and the actual item afterwards.
‘Lucy?’
I turn at the sound of my name and then stand to meet Harry. I’m not sure what I expected. We’ve swapped photos, but there’s still something of a shock that he looks like his pictures. He doesn’t have three additional chins that he’s been hiding with flattering lighting, or a bald spot that is far more than simply a patch. I don’t necessarily mind any of those things, it’s more the deception of using old pictures or selective lighting. It’s been years since I was on anything close to a date and the world has moved on. I’ve read stories of sexting, ghosting and all sorts of other ‘ings’ that weren’t around a decade ago.
Harry and I shake hands and it feels fine and normal. We’re not into the hug territory yet; even the bums-out, lean-in kind of hug.
He’s refreshingly ordinary. Shortish dark hair, jeans and a jacket – which is forgivable in this instance, especially given my own clothes. He’s average height, weight, and whatever else.
There is something about the way he looks at me, though. It’s hard to place at first, but then I realise he reminds me of Billy when I wake him up unexpectedly. There’s a sideways tilt, a glimmer of recognition.
‘Do I know you?’ I ask. ‘You seem like you know me…?’ I tail off, not quite sure how to phrase it. We’ve only met seconds ago and, already, I’m blowing things.
There’s a pause. I first think it’s because he’s considering it, but then it seems clear that he has no idea how to reply. Of all the things I could have said to him, this would have been somewhere at the bottom of the list. Level with, ‘So, Genghis Khan. He was a bit of a rascal, wasn’t he?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Harry replies, hesitantly. ‘Perhaps I have one of those faces?’ He cracks a smile and strikes a comedy catalogue pose, pointing and gazing off into the distance. From nowhere, I’m giggling and everything is fine.
Harry motions to pull my chair out to allow me back in, but I tell him not to be so daft and then we’re sitting opposite one another. He has one hand on the menu but doesn’t open it and there’s a moment in which we simply look at one another. Size each other up, I suppose.
It’s broken by the waiter arriving with the timing of a red light when someone’s in a hurry. He rattles on about the specials and then recommends half-a-dozen wines. Harry eyes my water and then orders a pint of some lager whose name he rolls his tongue around.
When the waiter has gone, he leans in. ‘You’re not one of these wine people, are you?’
‘What counts as a wine person?’
He pokes out his bottom lip. ‘Someone who talks about different types of grapes and can spend an hour banging on about weather patterns in certain Mediterranean regions.’
Harry has an infectious smile which spreads as I reply: ‘I am definitely not a wine person.’
He nods approvingly. ‘That makes two of us.’ He nods at the menu that’s open on the table in front of me. ‘What sounds good?’
There’s a moment of panic that’s hard to push away. I don’t particularly think of things as being ‘good’, more ‘cheap’. I can’t stop eyeing the tomato and basil soup, because it comes with bread and a salad – and costs less than a fiver.
‘I’ve not really looked yet,’ I lie.
He nods acceptingly but doesn’t open his menu, instead nodding at my drink. ‘Are you sure you’re okay with water? I was only joking about the wine. If that’s what you’re into, we could share a bottle…?’
It’s a question I’ve been asked before when ordering water, as if not getting trolleyed on a dozen pints of Danish lager is the weird option.
‘I’ve got uni work to do tomorrow,’ I reply – which is true, but not the reason for my choice.
He taps the side of his head. ‘Of course. I forgot you’re a student. It’s Childhood and Youth Studies, isn’t it?’
There’s no way he’s remembered that off the top of his head and I wonder if I should have done some revision on him based upon the information we’ve swapped and his profile. Is this another one of those ‘ings’ that have appeared in dating since I was with Ben? ‘Revising’, or something like that.