Butterfly (4 page)

I snort. ‘No.’

She slaps a hand to her
forehead. ‘Oh, yeah, silly me. It was a latte, wasn’t it?’

I laugh and wonder what I’m
going to do without her here. She’s the only bit of saneness in my
world. I tell her about the hospital. ‘I was so scared, I thought
it was Jack.’

‘God.’

‘No, it wasn’t God. His name’s
Ben.’

She tilts her head, giving me a
knowing look. ‘Was he hot?’

My face flushes. The timer
sounds in the kitchen. Saved by the bell. I turn around and walk
into the kitchen. ‘I didn’t notice,’ I call over my shoulder.

‘So, is he OK?’ She follows me
in and puts on her apron. ‘I mean, he’s not seriously injured, is
he?’

‘Well, he was talking when I
left. Had a massive lump on his head, though.’

She studies me for a while as I
pull some brownies out of the oven, but I pretend I don’t
notice.

‘Hmm. So, are you going to go to
the hospital and see him again?’

I shake my head.

‘Why?’ Her hand rests on her
hip.

‘Because I don’t even know him!’
I turn my back to her.

‘But you said he was hot.’

‘No, I didn’t. You did.’

‘Well, you didn’t need to say
it. I can see it in your eyes.’ She waggles two fingers in front of
her eyes then falls silent for a few minutes, waiting for me to say
something. I know she can’t hold back and stay silent for long.
‘I’ve worked here almost a year, and you never go out on a date or
with any friends. All you do is work like a maniac. This is the
first time I’ve seen you excited in all that time, so I know
there’s something you’re not telling me.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I load up
a tray with cookies and macaroons and walk into the shop, arranging
them under the glass counter. ‘I’m not excited. I was just telling
you what happened.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’ She waves her
hand through the air and shoots me a look of disbelief.

I walk back into the kitchen and
notice a puddle of water on the floor in front of the sink. Opening
the cupboards underneath, I discover the pipe dripping.

‘Urgh! Stupid bloody building!’
I cry.

‘What’s up?’ Lisa’s in the
doorway behind me.

‘Don’t come in here ’til I clear
this up. I don’t want you slipping over.’ I make flapping motions
with my hand to keep her back as someone knocks at the front
door.

Lisa walks off. ‘I’ll open up
while you sort that out.’

I find a bucket in one of the
cupboards and place it under the leaky pipe, then clear up the
water on the floor with a towel. Looks like I need a plumber sooner
rather than later.

~~~~

By the end of the day, I’m
frazzled, and I’ve completely forgotten about the leak. Lisa and I
clean up, and I pack away the leftover food in a box to take to the
homeless shelter.

‘See you tomorrow, then, hon.’
Lisa hangs up her apron and gives me a wave as she heads out the
door.

‘See you.’ I lock it behind her
and go back to the box. Before I know what I’m doing, or why, I
take out a chocolate chip cookie, a brownie, and a cinnamon bun and
put it in a separate box.

It’s rush hour, so it takes me
thirty minutes in nose-to-tail traffic to reach the shelter. I park
the Ford in the brightly lit car park. It’s too early for the
homeless to arrive for their evening meal, but Christine and her
friends will be here, cooking up soups and stews. Carrying the box
of cakes, I go to the side entrance and knock.

The lock clicks undone, and
Christine stands in the doorway. She’s in her early fifties with
long grey hair tied in a messy bun.

‘Hi, Grace. How are you?’ She
gives me a wide grin and steps back to let me inside. I follow her
into the industrial kitchen and smell something like beef stew
wafting its way towards me. My stomach growls.

‘I’m OK, thanks. I’ve brought
some leftovers.’

She opens the box and peers in.
‘“Leftovers” don’t do them justice. Yours are the best cakes and
cookies I’ve ever tasted. These won’t last long. Thanks, sweetie.
Do you want a cup of tea?’

I usually stay for one; anything
to delay going back to a soulless flat, but tonight I want to drop
the second box off. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got another errand to
run.’

She rubs my arm. ‘OK, well,
thanks again. You’re an angel.’

An angel?
If she really
knew me, she wouldn’t think that.

I suddenly remember the dodgy
brake light. The last thing I need is to have an accident like Ben.
If I can’t work, I can’t pay Aunt Imogen, or my bills.

‘Could you do me a favour,
Christine?’

‘Of course, what do you
need?’

‘I just need to check if my
brake lights are working.’

She puts the box on the worktop.
‘Come on, then, let’s have a look.’

I get in the car, leaving the
door open. I turn the ignition on and press my foot to the brake
pedal as she stands behind.

‘Yes, they’re both working OK.’
She rounds the car and stands at my open door.

‘Great, thanks a lot.’

‘No problem. Hopefully I’ll see
you tomorrow if you have anything left.’

‘Absolutely.’ I smile and drive
away.

Maybe it’s an intermittent
problem like Ben mentioned. I should really get a mechanic to check
it.

Damn! The plumber!
I slap
a hand to my forehead as I remember the leak. Everything seems to
be going wrong at once. What was it they said? Bad things happen in
threes? I wondered what the next thing would be.

As I pull out of the shelter and
head towards the hospital, I seriously question my mental state.
Why am I going to see him? I don’t have a rational answer, but then
I don’t think rationally anymore. Irrational is my new norm.

I find a spot in the car park
and turn off the engine, watching people coming and going for ten
minutes. Some of them wear frowns of worry, and I try to work out
from their faces what’s wrong with their loved ones inside.
Appendicitis? A tumour? A broken leg? A couple appear, holding
hands, their faces radiant like they’ve just been given some
terrific news.

Before I know it, half an hour’s
gone by. I can’t procrastinate anymore. All I can think about are
his eyes and the way they studied me intensely, as if he saw
something inside me that no one else does.

Fumbling for the door handle, I
look up at the fifth floor windows and wonder for the millionth
time exactly why I’m here. But then I’m on autopilot, and I walk
through the hospital and get in the lift that’s crowded with
visitors.

I press myself into the corner
and clutch the box to my stomach. The floors light up on the dial
as we climb higher. When I reach the ward, no nurses are at the
desk, so I retrace my steps from last night along the corridor, my
heartbeat fluttering nervously like a humming bird’s trapped
inside. When I get to the bed, it’s empty. I look around the ward.
The beds that had curtains around them last night now house an
elderly man who’s asleep, and a man in his mid-fifties who’s
reading a book. I walk towards him.

‘Sorry to bother you, but there
was a guy called Ben here last night.’ I point to the end bed. ‘Is
he OK?’

The man pushes his reading
glasses up and the book drops to his lap. ‘Oh, he was discharged a
couple of hours ago. Are you a friend of his?’

My mouth won’t work because I
don’t know what to say. I’m not a friend. I’m not anything. So why
do I feel a flood of irrational disappointment rush through me?

But then I get it. I know why I
came here tonight. It’s because I think he has the answers I need
to know.

He’s a counsellor, and maybe he
can help me before I go completely insane.

6

BEN

I can’t get her out of my head.
I stare at the walls of the ward and think about what she tries to
hide beneath the surface. I’m in over my head, though. I don’t know
if she bought my lies, but instinct tells me she did. As a fighter,
I’m good at reading my opponents. It’s a skill that works well in
counselling, too. It means I can second-guess what might help
people before they even know it themselves. I can read her in the
same way, however much she tries to cover it up.

The clock ticks annoyingly as I
wait for the doctor to do his rounds. I’ve got a mild concussion,
and other than a gigantic headache, I’m fine. Being here is doing
my head in. Training or teaching will be out of the question for a
couple of days, but I need to move. I feel claustrophobic in here,
and it brings back memories of being cooped up inside.

A doctor who looks barely older
than me arrives. He picks up my chart hanging from the end of the
bed and examines it.

I fidget with the covers.

‘How are you feeling?’ He sits
on the edge of the bed and shines a torch into my eyes.

‘I’m OK. I’ve just got a bit of
a headache, that’s all.’

‘Follow my finger with your
eyes.’ He moves his finger up and down, side to side. ‘Good. Any
nausea? Dizziness?

‘No.’

He stands and jots something on
the chart. ‘Well, you just have a mild concussion. We wanted to
keep you in last night for observation, but I’m happy to release
you today.’ He hands me a sheet of paper with instructions on it.
‘If you have any of these symptoms, come back in as soon as
possible.’

I study the instructions and
nod. ‘Thanks.’

‘You take care now, Mr Hardy.’
He gives me a brief smile and hurries to the man in the next
bed.

The other people in the accident
are apparently OK and escaped with no injuries, just some damage
that my insurance company will sort out. My own car’s wrecked. It
was only a cheap, old banger anyway, but now I have no wheels. I’ve
been in Cambridge two years—ever since I got out. A new place, a
new job, a new start. Somewhere away from the memories. But I don’t
know the bus system, so I take a cab back to my flat. It’s dark and
cold when I step through the door. I bend down to pick up the post
from the doormat and dizziness overtakes me. I press my hand
against the wall, steadying me as I wait for the black and white
stars to disappear from my vision. When satisfied I’m not going to
keel over, I cross the open plan lounge/kitchen and sink into the
two-seater sofa, the post still in my hand. I flick through the
letters. Two are replies from recent job applications.

I hold them in my hand for a
moment, wondering if they’re yet more rejections. Of course, I have
to disclose my criminal history to them, and even though I’ve paid
for my crime, I know how they’ll see it. I told Grace it was hard
to get a full time job as a counsellor, but I didn’t tell her the
reason why. Not many people want to take a chance on me. I was
lucky to find the part time work I have so far, and that’s all
thanks to my parole officer going out of his way to help me. The
last two years I’ve been counselling under supervision, working
towards my British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy
accreditation. It’s proved I’m good at my job. I just need an
employer to see that, as well, but maybe that’s asking for too
much.

I open the first letter and scan
it.

We regret to inform you that
we’re not taking your application further.

I stop reading and chuck the
letter on the floor. I rub my pounding head then open the next one.
It’s from The Clover Project, a drop-in women’s centre.

Thank you for your application.
We’d like to invite you for an interview on…

I raise my eyebrows and smile.
Maybe things are looking up.

Maybe Grace is the piece of
sparkling light in all my shit that I need to put my life back
together.

7

GRACE

‘Haven’t you found a plumber
yet?’ Lisa asks after she finishes serving a customer.

I’m scanning the yellow pages,
going through adverts. How difficult can it be to find one? But so
far, every person I’ve called is either engaged, doesn’t answer, or
can’t come out for ages.

I take the pen out of my mouth
and sigh. ‘Nope.’

The door opens, and I look up.
I’m staring into dark chocolate brown eyes, and my skin
tingles.

Ben.

The breath catches in my throat,
and my lips curve upwards as if they have a life of their own. I’m
sure it makes my face look odd, because a real smile doesn’t happen
often and it’s strange, awkward, as if someone’s arranged it for
me.

‘Hi. How are you feeling?’ I
ask.

The bruising on his forehead is
a rainbow of colours, and the black eyes are darker than before.
He’s wearing well-worn jeans and a black T-shirt. His shoulders are
broad, arms strong, the muscles flexing as he holds the door open.
His thick dark hair is layered in a choppy style that looks like
he’s just got out of bed. And then I remember he has. His chiselled
jaw is covered with a few days of stubble, and I notice for the
first time his nose is slightly crooked, like it’s been broken
before.

‘I’m good, thanks.’ His eyes
crease at the corners as he smiles back.

It seems like the doorway isn’t
big enough for him. He’s taller than I thought when I saw him lying
down, and more solid.

He walks towards the counter and
stands in front of me, blocking out everything else around him. ‘I
just wanted to say thanks for coming to see me in the
hospital.’

I don’t mention I went last
night. I’m sure I already seem like a complete nutter without him
thinking I’m desperate or attracted to him, or anything. I’m only
interested in his professional abilities. ‘Oh…that’s OK. I thought
you were someone else.’

He cocks his head. ‘Someone
else?’

‘She thought it was my husband
who’d been in an accident,’ Lisa pipes up with a grin. I’ve almost
forgotten she was there.

‘Right.’ He nods.

We stand there, staring at each
other. I’m trying to think of something to say, but no words spring
to mind. I look away, unnerved by the calm way he’s studying
me.