Something Good (4 page)

“Yes, I know about Hannah.”

Jane felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. Max was pretending to examine the contents of a wall cupboard, even though it appeared to house only an iron.

“Yes, well, she's at a friend's, but she'll be home soon, and I really must—”

“Doesn't she have her own key?” Veronica asked.

“Yes, but I like to be there.” Jane stood up and swiped her coat from the chair. She gripped it before her like a shield.

“You work at a day care, don't you?”

Christ, Jane thought, what other details did she know about her life? Why not rattle off her bra size while she was at it?
A 34C aren't you, Jane? Yes, thought so. Perhaps you could do with a bra that would offer a little more support, hmm?

“Yes, that's right,” she said.

“I'm in nutrition,” Veronica announced, as if desperate to impart this vital nugget. “If you ever need any supplements…you are a bit pale, Jane, maybe a touch of iron deficiency? Not anemic, are you?” Veronica arched an overplucked eyebrow.

“Actually, I feel fine. I feel
great
.” Jane grinned ferociously.

“Ever get dizzy when you stand up?”

“Never,” Jane blurted, even though she was, in fact, feeling dizzy right now; something to do with this blasted woman's overconcern with her mineral levels and Max's bodily sustenance.

A cell phone started trilling inside Veronica's bag. She marched out of the kitchen to take the call. Jane tried to make eye contact with Max but he'd turned to the counter and was stirring Veronica's tea with great vigor. “Want to show me where you'd like this window?” Jane asked quickly.

“Silly girl,” Veronica snapped, clacking back into the kitchen and thrusting her phone back into her bag. “Zoë,” she added, glancing at Jane, “my daughter. Brain of a flea. Trapped at the hairdressers, silly kitten.”

“Trapped?” Jane pictured a child held hostage by fierce stylists brandishing hair dryers as weapons.

“Had enough to pay for the cut but not the color. I'll have to nip over to Upper Street, sort her out. Lovely to meet you, Jane. Heard lots about you. Max has filled me in on his past.”

Has he?
she wanted to ask, but Veronica had already swept out of the kitchen and was letting herself out of Max's house—a house that, clearly, she knew intimately—and clattering down the steps.

Jane looked at Max. “My neighbor,” he murmured. “Come on, let me show you the window.”

Max led her to the living room, which he'd omitted from his initial tour of the house. Tucked away at the back, it was shrouded in shadow. The graffiti—enormous aerosoled letters—shone like ghosts through thin white emulsion. “It's this one,” Max said, indicating the smaller of two windows: a skinny rectangle overlooking an unloved garden.

They took measurements and talked colors and shapes. Veronica's gleaming smile shimmered in Jane's mind, like a gaudy flower it was impossible to ignore. “You know it'll take me a few weeks,” she said

“Yes, of course. There's no rush.”

He kissed her goodbye at the door, his customary peck on the cheek. “Good to know she's making sure you're eating properly,” Jane teased him.

Max frowned. “What's up with you?”

“Nothing!”

“She's just a neighbor…”

“I know, she said…three doors down.” Jane bit her lip.

“All right,” Max said, “she's weird, but what can I do? She shows up with these meals and cakes and some kind of flapjack with sunflower seeds in…”

Jane spluttered. “It's not normal behavior.”

“What's normal, Jane?” Max sighed.

“Well,” she said, aware of the words tumbling out before she could stop them, “no man's ever thought, ‘Oh, look, poor single mother, better pop round with a roast chicken dinner…'”

He chuckled softly. “Maybe you don't look like you need feeding up.”

“You're saying I'm fat,” she teased him.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Next time I come,” she called back, heading down the front steps, “I'll bring you a casserole.”

“You can't cook,” he yelled down the street.

 

What was it, Jane thought as she strode home, about single men living alone that had women fretting about their nutritional intake? The rain had come on again, and was becoming steadily heavier. Veronica's darling daughter's new hairdo would be ruined, after all that expense and a mercy dash to Upper Street. Spotting the bus at the stop, Jane pelted toward it and clambered on, plopping herself in the only space available.

Beside her a man was coughing vigorously into a stained hankie. Trying to shut out the hacking noise, she figured that Max had moved barely two weeks ago. That woman was a bloody fast worker. A terrible image formed of her heather-colored suit cast onto the floor of Max's front bedroom.
I thought,
Veronica was saying—no, purring—
that if I pretended to leave—made up that crap about Zoë at the hairdressers—then we'd get rid of her quicker
. How they'd laugh as she ran those long elegant fingers all over his smooth chest and—

“Got a spare hankie?” the man asked, thrusting his bulbous face into Jane's airspace. He smelled of lager and cheese and onion crisps.

“No, I haven't,” she replied quickly.

“Rotten day. Coming for a drink at the Blue Parrot—cheer yourself up? You don't half look pissed off if you don't mind me saying.”

“I'm fine,” Jane said firmly, rummaging through the chaotic assortment of receipts and scribbled notes to herself that crowded her bag. She was aware of the man's stare as she pulled out a pen and her notebook. She flicked to the page where she'd jotted down Max's window's dimensions and a jumble of notes:

“Curvy and loose?” the man read aloud. Jane snapped her notebook shut. “Just how I like my women,” he leered. “Is that a camera you've got? Not a tourist, are you? If it's the Tower of London you want you're on the wrong—”

Jane stood up and lurched to the front of the bus. This was the breed of man she attracted these days: drunk with oniony breath and foul hankies. “Hey, love,” he called after her, “I'll be in the Blue Parrot, seven o'clock. Write that down in your little black book.”

Were women like Veronica hassled on buses? Of course not, Jane thought bitterly. They didn't “take” buses.

F
or several hours now, Max had been working like crazy to finish painting the smallest bedroom. He often worked like this—urgently, without thinking—and didn't mind when his arms ached and his shoulders hurt. He worked this way at the shop, switching to mundane jobs in the evening that he could tackle without engaging his brain. Stuff like fixing punctures or attempting to clear space in the workshop. Work was useful. It stopped his mind from wandering toward other, more troubling territories.

Now his energy had withered, leaving him stranded with a three-quarters-painted room and a throbbing callus on his thumb. At least Jane had approved of the house, which made him feel marginally better. He'd known she would. She loved bright, airy spaces; it saddened him that she'd gone from one tiny, dingy house to another, when her work—at least her stained glass work, which Max considered to be her proper job—was all about light. The moment the estate agent had shown him into the house, Jane had popped right into Max's head. It was pathetic, after all this time, the way she invaded his thoughts. He'd have to get a grip on himself.

Max rested his roller in the paint tray and rubbed his hands across his jeans. What about Veronica, barging in and ranting on about Jane's iron levels? He wasn't accustomed to bargers. It had unnerved him at first, the way she'd invite herself in, presenting him with a carton of milk and a wholemeal loaf before he'd even started unpacking. She was attractive, of course. Model-attractive, if you liked that sort of thing. Why the interest in him—a skinny bloke with an overly large nose and decrepit house, not to mention an ex-wife and daughter? “We've all got baggage,” Veronica had told him a few days after their first meeting. “They're part of your history, Max. Your past makes you what you are today.”

It had amused him, her habit of talking in self-help soundbites. Of course, Jane wasn't history. She was anything but. “I guess you're right,” Max had said. He'd thanked her for the bread and milk and wondered when she might leave. She'd arranged herself prettily on a kitchen chair. He hadn't fancied her exactly, but there was something about her inane chat and frequent bursts of sparkly laughter than made him feel lighter somehow. Which, after four hours of unpacking his sorry array of belongings, was precisely what he'd needed.

Max picked up the roller and dunked it into an old paint can which he'd half filled with turpentine. He couldn't face applying one more stroke of paint to the blasted wall. In fact, as he examined his handiwork, he wasn't sure that he even liked blue. Where colors were concerned he was beyond hopeless. He'd allowed that young salesguy with vinegar breath to convince him that Hazy Dawn was the perfect shade for a boxroom. “It's soothing and neutral,” he'd insisted, but on the walls it looked bleak. It matched the way Max felt inside.

It was occasions like this—following casual meetings with Jane—that reminded him how dismally he'd failed as a human being. There wasn't even anything decent to eat in the house. He headed downstairs, grateful to escape from the paint smell, figuring that he'd toast the remains of some aging bread. He found himself wishing he had butter or even margarine to spread on it, which struck him as particularly tragic.

He opened the kitchen cupboard and grabbed a packet of biscuits. They were a brand he'd never heard of, purchased from the nearest corner shop where the depressed-looking owner had been smoking and scattering ash all over a word-search puzzle. Jane and Hannah never opened a cupboard to find only a sole packet of biscuits called ‘Coffee Time.'

It pained him, as he ripped open the packet, to admit to himself that he'd bought this house fueled by some ridiculous notion that it might bring Jane back to him. As if these huge, light-filled rooms might draw her in like some home-coming bird. He must have been out of his mind. Now he was stuck with a walloping mortgage and three times more rooms than one person required, all requiring major repair.

A sharp rap on the front door gave Max a start. By the time he'd reached the hall Veronica had let herself in. “Hi,” she said through her perfumed aura. “I'm back. Hope I'm not intruding, Max, but I ordered this Thai chicken salad from the new organic take-away and there's too much for me. I wondered—” she flashed a pearly smile “—if you'd like to share it.”

He thought of his stale bread and Coffee Time biscuits. “Thanks,” he said, “that's really thoughtful of you. Come in, have a seat—I'll find us a couple of plates.”

She carried the foil tray to the kitchen. He placed two plates on the table and she divided the salad between them. She had changed from the suit, which had made her look rather scary, into a floral summery frock and pale blue cardi. Over her potent fragrance Max could smell chili and lime from the salad. His mouth watered. Veronica opened the cutlery drawer and took out two forks. “I hope I'm not imposing,” she added.

He glimpsed the biscuits' cheap-looking red-and-yellow wrapper on the worktop. “Of course you're not. This looks great.”

The first forkful tasted delicious. Veronica looked up at him across the table, widening her eyes as if to say,
isn't this good
? “Hey,” Max said, “there's a bottle of wine in the fridge. Why don't I pour us a glass?”

“That would be lovely.”

Max found two tumblers at the back of the cupboard, poured the wine and took a large gulp. Veronica sipped hers daintily.

He glanced at her, and a surge of warmth fluttered through him. She wasn't remotely his type, and he had zero intention of getting involved on any intimate level. Yet sitting here, drinking wine and eating Thai salad, he'd begun to feel better. Better, in fact, than he'd felt in a long time. Max was sick of painting, sick of Hazy Dawn, and sick to the pit of his stomach of being alone.

W
henever Ollie Tibbs was around, Hannah was aware of every cell of her body, every nerve ending and hair on her skin. It was as if she'd morphed into an incredibly lifelike android, and the most instinctive of acts—walking, blinking, sipping Coke from a can—now consisted of hundreds of separate, minutely connected movements. No wonder she hadn't been given the part of Audrey in
Little Shop of Horrors
when Beth had announced the leads at theater workshop tonight. She was ungainly, embarrassing—a robotic fake.

“It's not fair, Han,” Ollie was telling her as they wandered along the towpath beside the murky canal. “You deserve a main part. You're really good, you know that? You should say something to Beth.”

Hannah forced a laugh. “I'm not bothered. Anyway, she's already decided—there's no point in arguing and making a fuss.”

Ollie cast her a quick glance. “You really don't care?”

“It's just a crappy little club,” Hannah murmured. Why had she said that? It sounded as if theater workshop was some dumb activity she involved herself with solely to while away Monday afternoons. In truth, she loved it; it was where she could lose herself, be whoever she wanted—though not Audrey in
Little Shop of Horrors,
obviously.

It had rained while they'd been inside the church, and their footsteps were mushing a thin layer of mud. Hannah was conscious of slowing down her natural pace. Ollie strolled, rather than walked. He had an angular, rich boy's face, and a rich boy's accent—faintly posh, but stopping short of the kind of laughable plumminess that made Hannah think of polo matches and shooting pheasants. He managed to sound confident, yet warm and interested.

Ollie's fair hair flopped around his finely sculpted face. He had pronounced cheekbones, gray-blue eyes fringed by long, curving eyelashes and full lips, which made Hannah think of them pressing against hers as she breathed in the scent of his skin. Despite the fact that they'd being hanging out after theater workshop for the past few weeks, he hadn't kissed her or even held her hand. All they'd done was talk.

Since Ollie had joined a couple of months ago, Hannah had found herself becoming ridiculously excited about Mondays. On Sunday nights she'd lie awake with her belly fizzling and her brain swishing with lurid thoughts. How could he possibly not know that she'd been thinking those things about his lips and his skin? In an effort to compose herself, Hannah fixed her gaze on a lone duck that was pecking at a floating milk carton on the canal.

“What I think,” Ollie continued as they climbed the steps to the bridge, “is that the classes should be more structured, don't you think?”

“Um, yeah,” Hannah said, even though the lack of structure was precisely what she enjoyed. Why did she feel the need to be so
agreeable?
“It helps though,” she added, “because you feel more comfortable with yourself and get to know the others in the group. There are enough rules at school—‘Do this, stop that, is that eyeliner you're wearing, Hannah Deakin?'”

“Is
that eyeliner you're wearing?” Ollie asked, making her laugh.

“No, I was born with these incredibly dark, smoky eyes….”

“Well,” Ollie offered casually, “you look good to me.” Hannah's earlobes singed. He'd never complimented her before. “And freezing,” he added quickly, pulling off his coat and draping it around her shoulders, a gesture that felt kind and sweet but oddly old-fashioned.

“Thanks,” she said, feeling the warmth of his body all around her. She wished she didn't feel so shy; that she was capable of asking pertinent questions about his life, his family, what he got up to when he wasn't at college or theater workshop. Trying to formulate coherent sentences felt like plunging her hand into a bag of Scrabble letters.

“Want to go to the park, see who's there?” she asked, even though she didn't fancy running into Emma or Georgia or any of the others who hung out at the bandstand after workshop. Those girls always seemed to have some boyfriend on the go. They'd often show up with their necks decorated with lovebites, which they'd make a big performance of trying to hide with pasty concealer. One snog was all Hannah had had, with Michael Linton, a horrible fuzzy-chinned boy who'd ground his chapped lips overenthusiastically against hers round the back of Angie's Bakery. It was an episode she'd rather forget. If the kissing hadn't been bad enough, the bakery boys had come out with their giant trays of loaves, and laughed uproariously as they'd loaded the van. Hannah couldn't smell baking bread without being haunted by the spectre of Michael's undulating mouth.

“It's too cold for the park,” Ollie said. “I'm starving—fancy getting something to eat?”

“Okay,” Hannah said. She checked her watch; just gone five thirty. Jane wouldn't expect her home from Amy's for another hour or so. They could get chips, or a sandwich from Bert's Bagels.

“Let's go to the Opal,” Ollie said.

Hannah wanted to ask, “What's the Opal?” and, “How much does it cost to eat at the Opal?” but he'd already turned swiftly down a side street and was sauntering, more purposefully now, along the narrow lane that ran alongside the canal.

The Opal's sign swung idly from its spindly support. Hannah hadn't known this place existed, and why would she? She and her mother ate out around twice a decade. Ollie stopped outside the restaurant, fished out his cell phone from his pocket and read a text. As he tapped out a reply, Hannah glanced at the framed menu on the outside wall. Ollie probably came here all the time for grilled haloumi, whatever the heck that was. His mum, Hannah had decided, would be one of those women whose handbag toned with her shoes, tights and nails—every detail carefully thought out and matching. She wasn't sure that her own mother owned a single accessory. Jane stuffed her purse into the pocket of her jeans, her hair usually looked like she'd taken about one second to tie it back into a ponytail, and her nails were always clipped short. Despite her age—thirty-six, thirty-seven or thirty-eight—she could be quite decent-looking, if only she'd make something of herself. Ollie's mum would be groomed, Hannah was certain of that. Their house would have a massive flat-screen TV. There'd be a conservatory, one of those patio heater things in the garden, and no embarrassing shed. Not that Hannah cared what Ollie did or didn't have. She'd already decided, when he eventually invited her round to his house, that she'd manage to look totally
unimpressed
.

The Opal felt warm and smoky as Ollie pushed open the heavy glass door.
Café*Vins*Petit dejeuner*Diner
was etched across the pane in ornate writing, as if this were some tucked-away place in Paris—not that Hannah had ever been to Paris—and not a gloomy side street in Bethnal Green.

“Hope there's a table,” Ollie muttered. Hannah glanced around at the gaggle of drinkers crowding the bar. The Opal seemed to be the kind of place where everyone fitted in. A man was perched on a bar stool—he looked about a hundred years old—reading a damp-looking newspaper. A bunch of studenty types were tightly packed around a table, picking at bread from a basket. Everyone seemed happy and relaxed. Even Ollie, who was just two years older than Hannah, knew how to
be
.

Hannah threaded her way between tables toward the bar. The music was jazzy, the air thick with garlicky smells. She caught sight of herself in a tarnished mirror, grinning inanely, like an idiot who'd stumbled in by mistake. Her bulging schoolbag, stuffed with the school uniform she'd changed out of before theater workshop, thudded like a boulder against her hip.

“Glass of wine?” Ollie asked from the space he'd miraculously discovered at the bar.

“I, um—”

“The house white's good, or there's a decent sauvignon or a sancerre…”

Did he have to refer to wines by their French names? Hannah had dropped it last year, incapable of grasping the concept of ordinary things like chairs or suitcases being a “he” or a “she.” She blinked at the bar. The Opal's drinks menu depicted an elegant girl with ridiculously thin limbs perched on a stool. “Malibu and Coke please,” she said quickly.

Amusement flickered across Ollie's face. Hannah silently cursed herself. She'd had alcohol plenty of times before—at Granny Nancy's sixtieth birthday do, and at Amy's when her mum had been out and they'd helped themselves to vodka and orange, which they'd sucked noisily through bendy straws.

This was different. She was in a bar—a place that sold
vins
—when she should have been immersed in biology homework at Amy's. While Ollie ordered, she found a space to stand by the cigarette machine where she willed herself to turn invisible. “Hi, Han!” someone called from the students' table. The girl had rod-straight hair, which was pulled back from her face by a confusing array of glittery clips.

“Hi,” Hannah mouthed back. Panic rose in her like a fluttering fish. Who was that? Hannah was sweating; she could feel moisture pricking her forehead and upper lip, and—worse—her underarms. She felt trapped inside too many layers of clothing and feared that her face was blazing red. No one else had burning faces in the Opal. They were
normal
. At some point she'd have to take off Ollie's coat and her jacket, and there'd be stinking damp patches under her arms. Her sweat was probably soaking straight into Ollie's coat right now. She could smell something meaty, although that might have been coming from the kitchen.

The straight-haired girl beckoned Hannah toward her table. Hannah took a few tentative steps. “Here with some friends?” the girl asked. “Never seen you in here before, Han.”

Hannah could place her now. She worked with her mum at Nippers. Christ. “Just some people from theater workshop,” she replied. She swung round to face the bar and cut that girl from her line of vision.

“Here you go,” Ollie said, handing her a drink.

“Guess what,” Hannah hissed. “I've just seen someone who works with my mum.”

Ollie frowned. “Not going to be in trouble, are you?”

“No, of course not.” She took a desperate swig of her drink. It tasted like Coke with sweets dissolved in it; she could barely detect the Malibu at all.

“You don't look underage so maybe she won't think to mention it to your mom,” he added. “Come on, let's see who's here.”

She felt foolish, trotting behind Ollie like a puppy. The cigarette smoke was making her chest hurt and her breathing feel tight, but no way was she pulling her inhaler out. A waitress squeezed past her with some kind of towering open sandwich on a tray. Ollie had already joined a table at the far end of the restaurant. She checked her watch; just gone six. A wave of sadness came over her. Ollie was bantering with his friends as if he'd forgotten she existed. One of the girls threw back her head and laughed theatrically.

If she stayed to eat she'd be horribly late. Her mum would start calling her cell—“I'm not hassling you, love, just wondered when you'll be home”—and it would be so cringey and embarrassing and end up with Hannah withering inside. She couldn't have her mother phoning her at the Opal.

Ollie turned round from the table and smiled at her. Ollie, with those lips and those cheekbones, surrounded by rich boys and girls who looked gleaming and golden as if they'd all been on holiday together. More than anything, Hannah wanted to belong.

The girl from Nippers had turned back to her friends, seemingly forgetting that Hannah was there.
Stuff it,
she thought, fishing out her phone, switching it off and plunging it back into the murky depths of her schoolbag.

Taking a deep breath, and gripping her Malibu and Coke, Hannah sauntered over to join her vivacious new friends at the Opal.