Wilf comes into the shop clutching his Jo Nesb? but then he doesn’t mention the book, or say that he’s looking for another one to read. Instead he just stands at the counter, focusing on the reserved-items shelf above my head. I study his arms. He has rolled up his shirtsleeves, and I inspect the dark red hairs on white skin, the square tips to his fingers, the dirt under his nails. I’m about to do my “Can I help you?” knowing I’m being way too formal—it’s Wilf after all—but before the words come out, he says, “I was wondering, Callie, would you like to meet for lunch today? At the Albany?” I’m not sure that I’ve heard right, and I mumble, something like, “What? Did you say lunch?” But I had heard correctly, and we arrange to meet at one o’clock.
I glance at Daphne, who’s monitoring us from her viewing point at the front door, swinging back on her chair for a better view. I half expect a wink, or a thumbs-up, and when Wilf leaves she says, “Romance?”
“Of course not.”
I’m not an obvious love interest for someone like Wilf. For a start, I don’t dress for it, and I don’t wear makeup.
“Don’t give me of course not,” says Daphne. “You’re perfectly matched. Both as shy as badgers; he just covers it up better than you. And look at you! All those curves, that luscious hair, no wonder that boy’s always in here. . . . I can’t believe he reads as much as he says he does.”
“He’s not a boy.”
We go back to our jobs. I feel humiliated by her intimation that the lusty rolling forms of my (too large) breasts and backside should act like a beacon to local menfolk. While she chews on her e-cigarette, staring at her keyboard, I decide to sort out the stationery section.
? ? ?
At one o’clock, the pub is packed and noisy, like lunchtime is an excuse for a party. Wilf and I inch through the crowd and squeeze onto high wooden chairs at the end of the bar, beside a group of shrieking young women who erupt every time a new girl joins them. On our other side, an older guy sits alone, not drinking his beer because he’s playing a game on his phone. A builder, I guess, since he’s covered with dust.
“I’m having the ploughman’s,” Wilf says unceremoniously. “What do you want?” I order a cheese-and-Marmite toasted sandwich, the same as when I came with Tilda, but this time with cider. He has a pint of lager, which he gulps, smearing his mouth with the back of his hand, and he eats his food with huge hungry bites. I watch, feeling uncertain about what to do or say, trying to figure out what’s going on, not sure whether this is a date. I’ve not had a date with anyone for nearly a year, and I’m so nervous that I can’t eat my sandwich. That, and it’s too hot.
Shouting to make himself heard, Wilf says, “Daphne seems okay. As a boss.”
“Yes. She’s fine,” I yell back.
“What is she up to all day, writing . . . ?”
“She’s a novelist.”
“Oh yeah. I did know that. What sort of stuff does she write?”
“Crime.”
“Oh. Fine.”
We sit together for a bit, a vortex of silence in the commotion. Then: “I was just trying to make conversation, Callie.”
I don’t say anything, just sip the dregs of my cider and worry about my ability to communicate with people without alienating them. Wilf tries again: “It would be nice to know something about you . . .”
“I don’t see why; I’m very ordinary.” Oh God!
He looks almost angry, and I sense he might give up trying to talk to me. I can’t blame him, and I feel like explaining—I can’t help it; I’m doing my best—then he has another go:
“Just tell me something about your life. What’s it like having a famous sister?”
“Not that again!” I’m screeching over the din.
He puts down his lager and leans his head on his hand in a way that suggests For fuck’s sake. I think, This attempt at meeting up is going really badly, and I want to say something to repair the situation, but I can’t think what, so I gaze at my empty glass while Wilf examines the multicolored drinks bottles behind the bar, the whiskies and brandies and vodkas, then he turns to me and I see that his eyes are dark blue, with green flecks.
“Shit. I didn’t mean to pry. I guess everyone asks about her. . . .”
“Yeah, they do. . . . It does get annoying. Actually she’s more than a sister. We’re twins, and we’re close. We look out for each other.”
“Good. Let’s change the subject.”
But I’ve decided to make a superhuman effort to match his attempts to close the gap between us, and I say, “It’s okay. The problem is people always want to know about her career and her love life and what she’s like, but for me she’s my sister and ‘what she’s like’ is private; I don’t want to tell any old stranger. In fact she can seem mean and self-centered at times, but she’s not really. She helps with my rent, and she practiced my interview technique with me when I applied for the job at Saskatchewan Books, so she does nice things. And she used to buy brownies and bring them to my flat and we would watch old movies . . . The Postman Always Rings Twice and Fatal Attraction and The Silence of the Lambs. We like classics.”
“You make it sound like you don’t do that anymore.”
“No . . . it’s different now. She has this rich boyfriend who comes between us and I don’t trust him. He has a controlling personality and doesn’t like her seeing me, and doesn’t like her working. Actually, I’m worried that he’s violent.”
“Bloody hell, that sounds ominous.”
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it? Sometimes I think she’ll never work again. Sometimes it seems . . .”
One of the shrieking girls leans over and asks me to pass a menu. The interruption jolts me into thinking that I’ve gone from being the silent type to splurging and being indiscreet. Luckily, Wilf changes the subject and we start discussing books. I tell him about my favorite Scandinavian crime writers, like Henning Mankell and Camilla L?ckberg, and he talks about Jo Nesb?. I learn, also, that he lives in Kensal Rise in a flat share with two guys called Josh and Frank, and he doesn’t see himself as an estate agent employee forever. He wants to start his own business designing gardens. I splutter into my cider, “Gardens! If you’re so interested in gardens why aren’t you working in a garden center or something?”
“For a start, the pay’s rubbish. And there aren’t any garden centers near here anyway. Anyhow, the estate agent suits me for now—I’m on commission, and I’m saving my money.”
“Don’t you miss gardens?”
“Oh, I have a couple of projects on the go. I do them on my days off and at weekends. I’m pretty professional about it. I studied landscape gardening at college. How about you?”
“Oh, I didn’t go to college. I messed up my A-levels and I worked in a supermarket for a year or more, and then the bookshop while I figured out what to do next. Whether to re-sit my exams, or not. But I’ve been working for Daphne for six years now. Six years! I don’t know how that happened.”
After making such an effort, I retreat into profound embarrassment about myself, and my featureless life. I’ve never had a boyfriend who has lasted more than a few weeks. Boyfriends find me too intense, I think, and I’m sure my lack of a past must be obvious to Wilf, like a bad smell.
“Do you have a dream?” he says. “Something that you secretly want to do, as a career?”
“No.” I look away at the builder guy, at the noisy girls, and I mumble, “I mean, sometimes I think I’m better at observing things than doing them. I like watching. You’re lucky. You have something you really care about.”
“It’s one of the many things I like about you,” he says. “You notice small things that other people miss.”