When I first met Harry, or should I say when Harry first came and spoke to me in the Student Union bar, I was finishing off an essay about intellectual property rights that was due the next day. We went out for a drink that same night; I don’t think Harry even finished the beer he had bought on the way over, and I know that when I went back to my room to dump my laptop and papers, I didn’t even give myself time to change or check my reflection. I just followed him. Later we continued chatting obliviously while pub staff stacked chairs around us and gradually turned the music down, then actually came over and told us they were closing. We scooped up our coats and bags without interrupting the flow of conversation and moved on to the nearest bar. I couldn’t tell you which bar it was or what we drank, I just remember the feeling of being totally captivated by this man, his stories of people and places I had never heard of, his smile and his laugh and his confidence. As we finally stumbled back across the campus lawn in the early hours, clinging to each other in a dizzy flurry of laughter, a feeling of wonder began to spread though me. Wonder that this funny, dynamic, well-travelled man, who could date anyone at the university (and, I reflected later, probably had), ultimately chose me.
I floated back to my room on a cloud of disbelieving elation and, as it grew light, hammered out the rest of the essay in about two hours then showered, changed and walked straight to the law department to hand it in. Over the years at university I’d watched several friends stay up all night to finish work at the last minute, and always considered it very short-sighted and disorganised. But now I didn’t care. Even as I performed these tasks a part of my brain was already elsewhere, focused on higher things, whizzing away, planning the next months and years of my life, certain in the knowledge that after tonight nothing would ever be the same.
Now, as the first pale rays of daylight filter through the blinds behind me and I finally push the laptop away from me in exhaustion, the translation of Naomi’s sentence and other documents finished at last, I look over through the open bedroom door to where Harry is sleeping and try to evoke those feelings. I had been only twenty-two yet filled with an utter, guileless certainty that this was the person finally worth dating, the person I wanted to build a life with. At the time it felt very grown-up, set against my friends’ many dramas and indecisions over dates and boyfriends, to feel such complete certainty about spending your life with another person; only now, so many formative years later, do I realise how very young indeed I had been.
I stare at the soft rise and fall of Harry’s chest, the form of his shoulders silhouetted against the wall. His features are just coming into focus as the Quito dawn explodes around us.
‘It doesn’t last, you know.’ My mother’s voice creeps into my mind, and I can even picture her pursed-lipped expression as she gears up to deliver her well-known lecture.
‘That ‘honeymoon’ feeling. It doesn’t last.’
I knew it off by heart. Chloe and I had been subjected to it at regular intervals since we were old enough to know the difference between boys and girls. Only now, thinking back to my mum’s words on the phone yesterday, can I really begin to understand the reasons behind the sermon.
‘REAL happiness comes from working at a relationship. Staying together through thick and thin. If you go off in search of passion and excitement, nothing will ever last.’
Of course Mum would say that; she had brought up a child completely on her own. It was only natural for her to value stability and consistency over romance. It wasn’t easy, you know… all I wanted was for you to grow up without it spoiling your childhood. Mum’s words from last night echo in my mind, the extent of her dedication and sacrifice over the years really sinking in. I rub my eyes and gaze out at the first rays of sunlight glinting off the cathedral roof far below us in the city centre.
It seems incredible I’ve never properly realised any of this before. Never stopped to think about what it must have been like for Mum during all those years of just scraping by, being both mother and father to me, somehow coping despite the infrequent visits and only sporadic contributions from my father. How could I have been so immature? To have spent years wrapped in growing resentment towards my father, but never really thought about the effects on my mum.
Only now, with the time and distance afforded by being on the other side of the world, can I really appreciate what it must have been like for her.
I stare down at the bulky document of Naomi’s sentence and feel an even stronger sense of empathy with her. After so many years imprisoned far away from her family, how she must desperately yearn to see them again and give them a hug… I’ve not even been gone for a full month, but would give anything to see my mum right now.
I think back to all the times I’d endured her lecture about relationships, and wonder at how much I have let it shape my decisions over the years without even realising it until now. How her voice would ring in my ears whenever I got asked out on a date. How it had both taught me to be cautious and sensible, yet also sown seeds of fear.
For all her melodrama, I know Mum always had the best intentions. She didn’t want to see her daughters left in the same position she was, barely in her mid-twenties and bringing up a child alone. She always made sure to remind me that Dad left when I was small, for another woman. Always made sure to inform me when another of his relationships failed after that. Even before the age of social media she somehow managed to receive the information before I did, every time, and on one occasion I even got home from school to find her discussing his latest relationship break-up with our neighbour Mrs Bunn over coffee. It was like she had some kind of internal radar for his failures.
She had been deeply cynical that first summer at the end of university when I arrived at the front door, beaming, with a tanned, grinning Harry in tow, and the news that we were moving in together. Only as the years passed and Harry duly showed up to every family meal did she start to relax.
And it hadn’t lasted. What my mother described as the ‘honeymoon’ feeling. That sense of yearning to see the person, of shivery excitement at the sound of their voice, of wonder and amazement that they are with you. I had thought it was normal. As the years passed and Harry and I intertwined our lives with increasing determination, I never stopped to ask myself if it mattered that we didn’t stay up late talking any more, or that with increasing frequency during an argument I would find myself staring at him from across the room and finding the same incomprehension mirrored back at me in his eyes.
For years, our life together never felt like anything less than a success. We were together, we had made a home, and above all I had stayed with the same person. The person I chose. I was not becoming my parents. Just that knowledge alone was enough to fill me with relief, and a form of contentedness, as I considered my life and arrived home to our little house and woke up beside Harry every day.
Looking over at Harry now, I feel a stirring, uncomfortable conviction, an uneasy sensation that has been with me since we arrived in Ecuador, and perhaps even before. Deep down, over the last few years, I had known something was not quite right. I stare at Harry’s sleeping form and finally admit to myself that I came on this trip hoping it would bring us together again, back to that simple, enchanting certainty of our first years together. Instead, being in a foreign country has somehow magnified everything I was feeling before and brought it into a horrible, vivid new focus. I ask myself whether I would still feel this way if it were not for Harry’s strange behaviour and secrecy over the past nearly three weeks since we arrived in Quito, and realise with a shiver that I do not know the answer.
My thoughts turn to the experiences I’ve had and friendships I’ve made since we arrived here. I think of Liza and Roberto, Ray and Gabriela… they all seem happy. My mother may have drilled it into me my whole life to value stability and consistency over romance. But… what about having both?
Harry turns in his sleep and makes a low murmuring sound. Something inside me clicks and I realise that now is my chance – to try one more time to fight for what we have… or, at least, what I know we used to have. To confront him about the phone calls that have been eating away at me since I stumbled upon his Skype account. I could ask him now, or I could get up quickly and slip out of the apartment before he wakes… I watch him stir again, then slowly rub his eyes and sit up.
I stay put.
‘Oh, morning, Kirst,’ he mutters, hauling himself out of bed and stumbling past me to switch on the coffee machine, stopping briefly to plant a kiss on my cheek. ‘You’re up early.’
‘I’ve been up all night,’ I tell him, nodding at the documents and laptop splayed out around me on the kitchen table. Suddenly filled with a surge of determination, despite my exhaustion, I scrape my chair back and turn to look at him.
‘Harry, I need to talk to you.’
Something about my tone makes Harry put down the box of cereal he’s just taken from a cupboard, and turn to stare at me.
‘Okay… is it something that can wait until after coffee?’
I ignore the attempt at a jovial tone in his voice. ‘Actually, no. Look – I was using Liza and Roberto’s computer the other day to print something.’ I pause and watch him, half expecting him to clasp his hands over his mouth in horror, to begin stammering and pleading for forgiveness as he realises he has finally been discovered… but he doesn’t. He just carries on standing there looking at me with a mildly confused, indulgent expression.
‘…and when I switched on the computer, your Skype account opened automatically.’
Harry’s face remains blank, but he comes around the breakfast bar to sit down at the table beside me.
‘Who were you phoning, Harry?’ I make myself meet his eyes straight on, and force my voice to remain even and firm, despite the adrenaline shooting through me. What if this is all a terrible mistake and I’m making a fuss over nothing? A doubtful inner voice presses me. Or… what if I’m completely right to be suspicious, but the answer is something that’s only going to hurt me?
‘There were rows and rows of calls, all to the same number, always when I’ve been out of the apartment,’ I press on, knowing I can’t go back now. ‘What’s going on, Harry? Is there something… up with you? Something you need to talk about?’ My voice fades out as I watch Harry’s facial expression gradually change from blank and enquiring to frowning and defensive, then annoyed.
Before I’ve even finished speaking he’s pushed his chair back impatiently and turned away from me back to the kitchen.
‘Seriously? That is what you wanted to talk about?’ He begins loudly removing plates and cups from the cupboard. ‘A few phone calls?’ Crash. A cereal bowl is put down heavily on the worktop. ‘A few phone calls for work that I chose to make when you were out, in order to have more time with you when you’re here?’ Bang. The fridge door is slammed shut. ‘That didn’t occur to you, did it?’ he asks crossly, still not looking at me. ‘That I was busy working?’ He stops for a moment, glaring down at the box of cornflakes on the counter in front of him.
Smarting, I stare up at him. ‘Harry, why are you being so…’ I can’t even find an appropriate word. ‘It seemed weird to me, that’s all. It seems weird to me, still. I mean, we have a laptop here, with Skype on it… why would you always use Liza’s computer, and only when I’m out? Or, even worse, when I’m up here waiting for you and you tell me you’re downstairs chatting to Liza?’ I make a real effort to keep my voice pleasant, conciliatory, even as I stand firm and face Harry. ‘And I think I have every right to ask you this. To try and…. Understand.’
‘Do you have the right to go snooping through my call list?’ Harry hisses, shrugging off my outstretched hand and turning away from me. ‘And confronting me like you think I’m doing something wrong?’
‘I’m not… I wasn’t… oh God, this is hopeless… Harry, where are you going?’ I stare in disbelief as he turns his back on me and marches towards the bathroom.
‘Anywhere, away from here, okay?’ He mutters crossly. ‘Away from the bloody Spanish inquisition.’ Then the bathroom door is shut abruptly in my face.
I stare at it, my eyes stinging and a lump rising in my throat. The sound of running water, closely followed by vigorous, angry tooth-brushing reaches me from the other side of it. Fleetingly I consider going after him, pushing the door open and yanking the toothbrush out of his hands and demanding that he gives me a proper answer. But eventually common sense and dignity prevail and I turn away, blinking back my hurt, indignant tears.
Harry may not realise it, but all he has achieved by this unprovoked outburst is convincing me further he is up to something. And that if I am ever going to get to the bottom of it, I am going to have to bloody well find out for myself. Actually talking to each other seems to be beyond us now.
Suddenly feeling almost overwhelmed by sadness and tiredness, I turn back to the kitchen table and the open laptop and pile of paperwork staring back at me from it.
All my hard work.
Naomi’s future.
Not for the first time since we arrived in Ecuador, I find myself overtaken by a feeling of defeat, of wanting to curl up and dissolve into tears, because of Harry… closely followed by the knowledge that I can’t, at least not yet, because there is something far more important, something bigger than me, depending on me for success.
With a surge of determination, and one last glare at the bathroom door, I yank the USB out of the laptop and gather the papers together, striding towards the door and the welcome sanctuary of Liza and Roberto’s apartment.
Whatever happens with Harry, it will have to wait. Because now, finally, after so much hard work, I have something very important to do.
Liza is at the kitchen worktop, noisily massacring a pineapple. When she hears me let myself in behind her, she stops hacking and puts the knife down to come over and wrap me in a hug.
‘Kristie! How lovely! What’s got you up so early?’ She beams, then starts fussily brushing a smudge of pineapple juice off my pyjama top. Then she steps back and frowns at me. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yes, absolutely fine, Liza,’ I say firmly, aware my cheeks are probably bright red and my eyes are still shining with unshed tears.
‘I’ve finished translating Naomi’s documents,’ I inform her, hearing the triumph creep into my voice. ‘So I was wondering if I could use your computer to print them off.’
‘Well, of course, sweetheart! What great news, you must have worked so hard.’ Liza glances at the USB stick dubiously. ‘We must tell Sebastian immediately – shall I phone him?’ She eyes the USB stick and mobile phone in my hand again, with the suspicion one might view outlandish gadgets from a future era. ‘Unless you want to… contact him that way.’ She waves at the phone. ‘You youngsters have your ways, I’m sure. And meanwhile, you must sit down and have some breakfast. No, I insist. Señora Perez from next-door-but-one gave me this pineapple yesterday. She brought a batch of them from her daughter’s villa on the coast. It’s perfectly ripe. Go on, sit down.’ She turns back to the counter and lops off the last of the pineapple’s outer skin with a decisive thwack.
I sit down helplessly at the table and stare at my mobile phone.
7:15 a.m. Is that too early to phone someone to tell them you’ve finished translating the documents for the person in prison whom you are both trying to help return to their home country? What kind of social rules apply in these situations? Finally, unable to bear it anymore, and telling myself that the sooner I give Sebastian the papers the sooner Naomi will be able to go home, which more than justifies any unhinged behaviour on my part, I fire off a text message:
Translations finished! What next?
I stare at it, wondering too late whether I should have thrown in a smiley face or something to make it sound friendlier, then my phone starts flashing with an incoming call. Oh my God.
‘Good morning, you!’ Sebastian’s warm voice fills the kitchen as I realise my phone is on loudspeaker. ‘That’s amazing news! Have you really finished the whole sentence?’
I glance over at Liza, noticing the sudden absence of thwacking sounds, and realise she is standing with her arms folded and eyebrows raised, listening openly.
‘Um… let me just…’ I stumble to my feet and go to stand a little way outside the kitchen doorway, turning my back on her. ‘Yes, the whole thing is done. I actually finished about an hour ago… It was a long night.’
‘Oh, wow! You pulled an all-nighter? I haven’t done one of those since university… hope it wasn’t too tedious for you?
‘Tedious? No way!’ I remember the vivid, emotive descriptions of Naomi’s arrest and the transcript of her subsequent court hearing, in which she’d sobbed and begged the judge to think of her children before sentencing her, and how tears had flowed from my own eyes in compassion for her as I read. ‘It was fascinating, actually. And moving.’ I stop, wondering too late whether Sebastian will consider me a bit mad. ‘I would appreciate a second pair of eyes though. To proofread, you know. Check the grammar, verb endings, that kind of thing.’ I close my eyes, realising I’m rambling but somehow unable to stop. ‘It was actually quite fun, once I got stuck in. Looking up all the legal terms and finding the best way to phrase things.’
‘Wow, a fellow nerd.’ There’s a warm chuckle in Sebastian’s voice. ‘Well, it’s great news that you’ve done it. I’ll check through everything for you and submit it to the Ministry straight away. When do you want me to collect it? I can send a driver this morning if that’s convenient.’
‘Oh… of course. The sooner the better, for Naomi’s sake.’ I suppress a pang of disappointment at the thought of handing the documents to an unknown driver. I don’t know what I had expected – a candlelit dinner invitation, Sebastian poring lovingly over every word of my translation, our heads edging closer as we sat huddled over a bottle of wine, highlighting and underlining… Get a GRIP, I tell myself. This is a professional relationship – the only thing you have in common is the desire to help Naomi.
‘Kristie?’
I realise the phone has gone silent and look up to see Liza standing in the doorway, where she seems to have been shamelessly eavesdropping the whole time, still holding the knife dripping pineapple juice and wearing a businesslike expression.
‘Tell him we’re going to the handicraft shop in an hour to deliver some products,’ she says bossily. ‘He can send a driver to collect it from us there. Now for goodness’ sake stop chatting, I’ve made you English Breakfast Tea and it’s getting cold.’
***
Unlike the prison, the handicraft shop is very much how I imagined. A tiny whitewashed store squashed between a laundrette and a shabby-looking Chinese restaurant, its one small window out to the street crammed with carved statues and picture frames and chess sets, and more of the brightly coloured woven hammocks I recognise from my first day in Liza’s kitchen. During the short fifteen-minute drive we’ve descended into the southern end of Quito where the streets are narrower and dirtier, the buildings more crowded together, and the people carry weary, resigned expressions as they trudge past us to work or school. Liza pulls the car up on to the very narrow pavement and looks carefully around her before going round to open the boot and unload our cargo.
As I get out, another vehicle skids to a sudden halt a few feet in front of us. My heart catches in my chest as I recognise the dusty blue Land Rover, the diplomatic plates, and the bouncing black dog pressing his nose energetically against the rear window.
‘Hey – let me help with those!’ Sebastian bounds out of the driver’s side and presses a button to lock the car behind him with a beep and flash of lights. He lifts the first box effortlessly out of the car and follows Liza to where she is fussing to get the shop door unlocked.
‘Hey, Kristie,’ he throws me a wink over his shoulder, and I can’t help but giggle at his use of my ‘Ecuadorian’ name in Liza’s presence. As Sebastian hauls the remaining boxes into the shop, refusing any help from Liza or me, I go over to his car and push my hand through the slightly open window, stroking Lewis’s ears. He rests his head on the back of the seat, closes his eyes and makes a little huffing sound.
‘Wow, he doesn’t usually let people do that,’ Sebastian says, coming up behind me. ‘Too hyperactive. Look… I hope you don’t mind me dropping by in person to collect the documents. But all our drivers were, well, really busy, and it seemed easier this way.’
Mind?
‘No, course not! I’ll go and get them now…’ I hurry back to the car, conscious that Sebastian is on work time at the moment and must already be in enough of a hurry if he has had to drive all this way to the south of Quito to collect the documents himself, in the opposite direction to the embassy.
We go inside the shop and I hold out the carefully stapled folder to Sebastian, feeling suddenly hesitant. Lewis follows us and settles down on a cardboard box in the corner with a contented sigh, his eyes never leaving his master.
‘It’s all in order… the certificates are first, then the sentence…’ Sebastian moves to take it from me, but, ludicrously, I find myself clutching it back to my chest, my heart rate suddenly quickening. ‘Look, I won’t be offended if it’s no good. Really. Or if you need to hire someone else to edit it all. I used a legal dictionary and everything, but, you know, my Spanish isn’t…’
Sebastian’s quizzical expression melts into a smile and he sits down on the table opposite me, his legs swinging from the edge. ‘Kirsty…’
I look up from the folder where it is still clutched to my chest. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m sure you’ve done a great job. Really. From the first certificates you translated I was left in no doubt about that. Now, if I could just…’ He reaches his hand out and gently prises the folder away from me. ‘I’ll check through it all myself this afternoon. Then I just need you to sign a declaration before a notary… I’ll let you know where to go and how… and they’re all ready to be submitted to the Ministry.’ He looks down at the folder, breaking into a smile. ‘And with all the supporting documents I’ve prepared – medical reports from the UK about Naomi’s father and his condition, petitions from all her family members to consider the case on compassionate grounds – it won’t be long at all before they call her final hearing.’
A shot of adrenaline jolts through me, as I realise all over again the significance of what we are doing. ‘And that’s when they’ll decide whether Naomi’s sentence is reduced… whether she might go free?’
‘Yes. In principle, if they decide in the hearing to reduce her sentence, it’s just a case of sending a formal notification to the prison and issuing her release warrant… then she’s out.’
I briefly squeeze my eyes shut, not knowing how to voice the whirlwind of emotions churning inside me. Again, I remember Naomi’s spontaneous tears and heartfelt hug when I offered to help her. To think I might actually have managed to get her home sooner… why had I ever doubted my ability to do the translations?
‘I know – pretty intense, isn’t it?’ Sebastian’s voice is gentle. ‘I’ve already been through this process with three others, from the men’s prison… but no one, I think, has affected me like Naomi. What with her dad and everything.’
‘God, is there any news on that?’ I hadn’t dared ask Liza or Gabi if they’d heard anything.
‘Yes… he’s still in the hospice. Her mother calls me every few days now. Hanging on by a thread, it seems. They’re all convinced he’s waiting for her… oh!’
Sebastian jumps up guiltily at the loud, irritated, throat-clearing sounds coming from the other end of the room. I look up to see Liza, arms folded, standing by the small cash register at the far end of the shop, all the bags we unloaded from the car in a disordered pile at her feet.
‘Am I going to get some help unpacking all this?’ The tone of her voice leaves no room for argument.
It takes Sebastian and me about twenty minutes to unwrap the various items and find room for them on the shelves lining all four walls of the tiny shop. We work away in companionable silence, Sebastian only pausing every so often, to throw a treat to Lewis, or intervene, laughing, just in time to stop him destroying a cardboard box or ball of newspaper. For me, the methodical, manual work is a perfect distraction from Harry’s angry outburst this morning. We hadn’t exchanged a single word before I left the house with Liza, and I only went back upstairs to grab a change of clothes then stomp back out again, ignoring Harry’s searching gaze as I close the door behind me. If he thinks he can speak to me like that…
As we work, Liza fusses and grumbles to herself at the till.
‘Oh, I wish Gabriela was here,’ she mutters. ‘I can’t make head or tail of what she’s written here…’
Sebastian and I exchange glances and roll our eyes as we take one end each of a large, bright-purple hammock to unfold it from its packaging.
‘Are you sure you don’t have to be at the office?’ I ask guiltily. ‘Not that I… want you to go or anything.’
He raises his eyebrows at me. ‘They won’t miss me for an hour or so. It’s not like I haven’t been putting the hours in…’ After we’ve draped the hammock artistically from one end of the shelves, he bends to unwrap a wooden photo frame. ‘Hey, Liza, is this one of Marta’s?’
Liza looks up distractedly from tapping on the till keys, and squints at the frame. ‘Yes, I think so. Everything should be labelled underneath with the prisoner’s initials.’ She looks over at me. ‘So we know where to direct any proceeds from selling the items, you see.’
I step closer to Sebastian to admire the detailed carving all around the edge of the rectangular frame. It’s just bare wood, rough and unvarnished, but the intricately carved pattern of interwoven vines and flowers must have taken hours of work.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ I gasp, wondering at how something so simple and perfect could be produced inside a place so bleak. ‘Is that the Marta… that Naomi knows? The older lady?’
‘Yep.’ Sebastian turns the frame over in his hands and carefully places it on a shelf, right in the front window. ‘She doesn’t take part in the workshops much. But when she does, everyone can see she has talent. She used to sew as well… giant colourful tapestries that took months to complete.’
I remember the diminutive, quiet lady, and Naomi’s story of how she was forced to carry the drugs which put her in prison.
‘How much would that frame cost?’ I ask Liza, realising at the same time I left the house with nothing more than the folder of documents for Sebastian, and have no money on me at all.
‘Oh, I expect we’ll charge about twenty dollars for that, tops,’ Liza replies. ‘One of the higher-end products, for sure.’ She sees my horrified face, and explains, ‘Don’t forget – everyone knows these things are made by prisoners. They know we’re not here to make a big profit. People come here for cheap gifts, or tourists occasionally drop in for the sheer novelty value. We have to keep the prices low in order to have something at least to send back to the girls at the end of each month.’
I make a mental note to find my way back here and buy the frame for twice the asking price.
Sebastian has gone over to the back of the shop to arrange some big wooden carvings of famous people and cartoon characters, painted in gaudy colours.
‘I recognise these a mile off – the two French girls do them, right?’ He’s dusting off a waist-high statue of Michael Jackson. ‘They always try ambitious projects. I’ve got to admire them for it. Although… not sure I’d want this in my living room.’
‘What about these? Who makes them?’ I hold up a carved tree-shaped object, full of little holes along its rudimentary branches. ‘And what actually is it?’
Sebastian comes over and takes the object from me, then stands it up on the end of a shelf. ‘It’s an earring tree – see…’ Then he reaches up and gently unhooks my own earring from my ear, before looping it through one of the holes on the tree. ‘Naomi used to make these, actually. And her cellmate, Victoria. This might even be one of hers… yes, look.’ He turns the tree over to show me the little red sticker bearing the initials ‘V.R.Y.’ ‘This is one of hers.’
My hand automatically goes up to my ear, tingling from Sebastian’s unexpected touch. ‘Pregnant Victoria?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. Sorry – didn’t mean to steal your earring.’ He looks suddenly embarrassed.
I smile awkwardly, a strange, warm feeling spreading through me as I realise
Sebastian seems to recognise all the handicrafts and their creators. I turn away hurriedly to continue unpacking the box of earring trees, hoping he doesn’t see the expression on my face.
‘So…how’s your father getting on? Did they make it to the Galápagos okay?’ Sebastian finally breaks the silence.
‘Oh, yes, thank you – he let me know as soon as he arrived that it all went smoothly, they had no problem travelling without a passport once they showed the police reports and that letter you did… thank you so much again for that.’ I smile at him in what I hope is a convincing way, not wanting to tell him that all I have heard from my father since he left for the Galápagos two days ago was a one-line email, saying ‘We’ve arrived. It’s too hot, and the internet keeps going down. I’ll be in touch soon about our return date to Quito. Love, Dad.’ At least he’d stopped signing off his emails ‘best wishes’, but even so, it felt like a bit of an anticlimax after his warm farewell hug in the hotel lobby. I’d replied as cheerfully as possible, sending him a few links to restaurants and museums we might go to once he’s back in the city. I’m determined to make our last few days together in Quito unforgettable…
Sebastian is holding my gaze for a little longer than normal, and turning over another earring tree in his hands. ‘That’s… great,’ he says finally. ‘You must be looking forward to seeing him again.’
Just then my phone buzzes to life on the table and makes us both jump.
I see Harry’s name pop up on the screen and immediately reach out and cut he call off. After this morning, the last thing I want to do is talk to him… but the phone immediately lights up again, buzzing insistently. Oh God, he’s not going to give up. I can feel Sebastian watching me as I watch the phone.
‘Excuse me a moment… I’d better get this,’ I mutter, grabbing the phone and marching to the far corner of the room, hunching behind a large wooden statue of Bart Simpson, feeling Sebastian, Liza and Lewis all watch me go.
‘I can’t talk right now,’ I hiss, as soon as I pick up the phone. Harry ignores me.
‘Kirsty, I’m so sorry about this morning.’ His voice is solemn, hoarse – if I didn’t know Harry better I’d even think he had been crying. But I’ve never, ever known Harry to cry.
‘Can you forgive me?’ he pleads. ‘I completely overreacted. I know you were just asking, but they really were work calls…’
‘Harry, I can’t talk right now,’ I repeat firmly, glancing back at the shop floor where Liza is unashamedly watching me from across the shop. Sebastian is, at least, focusing his attention on arranging one of the shelves at the far end of the room, but I’m still conscious the space we’re in is potentially small enough for everyone in the room to hear my conversation, Bart Simpson or no Bart Simpson.
‘Please, babe, I was just feeling stressed, I didn’t mean to overreact like that. They were just a few calls I was doing for Luke. He asked me to phone a student who hasn’t been showing up lately. You have to believe me.’
Do I? I keep the phone clasped to my ear but have no idea what to say back. The truth is too hard to voice… I don’t think I can believe you.
‘Look, Luke’s given me the day off today. Why don’t we go out for lunch or something when you get back? Somewhere nice?’
‘I can’t talk now,’ I repeat numbly. ‘I’ll see you when I get back.’ I determinedly end the call and fix a nothing-to-see-here smile on my face before heading back over to the handicrafts, dropping my phone on the nearest surface.
But no sooner has my phone hit the table than it starts ringing again.
I whirl round impatiently, not looking at the screen before snatching it up.
‘Harry, I just said let’s talk when—’
‘IT’S NAOMI!’ She cuts me off, yelling through the terrible signal. ‘I’VE BORROWED SOMEONE’S PHONE – don’t tell anyone!’ I sink back into a chair, exhaling in surprise and relief.
‘Naomi… hi. Is everything okay?’ The line is crackling and stuttering and I can barely hear her reply.
‘Dario, my eldest, just got his A-level results! I’m so happy, he’s done it, he’s really done it!’ The joy in her voice is contagious. My shoulders relax and I find myself forgetting Harry and allowing the smile to spread across my face. ‘Guess what? He got two Bs and a C! That’s enough to get into uni… he’s really done it…’ Her voice trails off, and as I hold my phone away from my ear to check for a signal, I hear a sob.
‘Naomi, that’s wonderful!’
I listen to her blabber incomprehensibly, making out snatches of words such as ‘first-choice university’ and ‘so proud’ and, finally, through a choked sob, ‘all I could ever ask for’.
Something in my throat catches as I try to imagine what it must be like to love another person that much, to feel their every success and failure alongside them, as intensely as or even more so than if it were your own. Yet again I find myself yearning to experience that selfless love as a parent, to make another person my centre and my reason for being. As Naomi continues to cry in my ear, I find my own eyes are damp as well.
I hold the phone against my chest for a moment and wave at Liza and Sebastian. ‘Hey, Liza, Seb, it’s Naomi!’ I call across the room. ‘Her son just passed his A-levels and is going to university!’ They both look up from the unpacking and beam, calling out their congratulations.
‘Are you with Sebastian from the embassy?’ Naomi’s voice is suddenly sharp, all trace of tears gone.
‘Um… yes?’
‘Right. Good. Now listen to me, Kirsty.’ I hear a loud sniff followed by the sound of Naomi noisily blowing her nose. ‘Seriously, just listen. He totally has a crush on you.’
‘Er, what the – !’ I let out a strangled, high-pitched laugh, feeling my face instantly catch fire, and notice both Sebastian and Liza glance up at me again.
‘He does. Honestly. He phoned me already this morning to tell me about the translations – shit, thank you, by the way! – and he was all like Kirsty this, and Kirsty that, and isn’t Kirsty amazing. He absolutely wants to shag you!’
‘Er, oh my God, Naomi. I am not having this conversation with you.’ I glance over at Liza and Sebastian again, who are both doing a very poor impression of being completely engrossed in unwrapping a large wooden statue of a racing car. ‘You’re being completely inappropriate. You remember I came here with my boyfriend, right?’ I try to keep my voice low and ignore my wildly pounding heartbeat. ‘Anyway, don’t you have somewhere to be? Roll call or cleaning duty or something? God…’
Naomi is cackling away wickedly. ‘Yeah, I’d better go. This woman is going to have a litter of kittens if I don’t give her phone back soon.’ There’s a rustling sound and I hear her shout something impatiently behind her in Spanish. ‘But… I just wanted to share the news about Dario. Seriously, I’m just overjoyed.’
‘I know. Me too. I’m so happy for you, Naomi… and thanks for phoning me. It… it means a lot that you wanted to share that with me.’
‘Yeah, whatever – just remember what I said, okay? He definitely wants to—’
‘Ohmigod! Hanging up now!’ I click off my phone, still chuckling to myself in disbelief, and look up to see Sebastian standing alone in the middle of the shop, watching me.
‘Oh! Where’s Liza?’ I have to actually bite the inside of my cheeks to force my features into a serious expression and control the ridiculous, inappropriate grin threatening to spread across my face.
‘She went out to move the car – neighbours complaining. Naomi have much to say?’
I study Sebastian’s face, trying to work out if he heard anything, but he’s wearing an expression of polite curiosity.
‘Oh… she was just being… her usual self. And very happy about Dario, obviously.’
‘Yes, well, I’m glad. She needed some good news.’
There’s an awkward silence.
‘Hey… look, Kirsty.’ Sebastian looks up and I am met with those green eyes. ‘I just wanted to say, I’m so sorry if I upset you the other day. Telling you all that stuff about…’ His eyes flick to the doorway then back to mine. ‘…About Liza, and everything. It was insensitive of me to tell you. You seem to have a lot going on in your own life and I never meant—’
I reach out and gently touch his arm to stop him. My hand rests there on the soft navy fabric of his jumper and we both stare down at it for a moment. I feel like a tightrope-walker taking their first step out on to the line. ‘Seb, don’t apologise. You might not believe this but finding that out actually really helped me. It made me… re-evaluate a few things.’ I’d barely spoken to Sebastian after the conversation with my mother the other day, just hastily handed his phone back with a hurried thank you then dashed upstairs to have dinner with Liza and Roberto. I feel I owe him at least a brief explanation now.
‘This whole trip… to be honest, everything… Liza and Roberto and the prison and Naomi – especially Naomi – are helping me realise a few things that I needed to, um, realise.’ Noticing my hand is still on Sebastian’s arm, and that he is making no effort to remove it, I take it back, but dare myself to give his arm a quick squeeze first. Our eyes meet again. Then he does it. The hair-tuck. I’ve seen it so many times in Jennifer Aniston films, and it always seems like such an insincere gesture. Just reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind a girl’s ear… really? But now, Sebastian’s hand leaving a burning trail of fire across my neck and down to my trembling knees, I don’t think any gesture has ever affected me so much in my life.
‘You’d better have your earring back.’ I look down and realise it’s been in his hand all along.
‘Right… thanks.’
‘And I’d better get back to the office.’
‘Yes.’
‘And drop off the crazy mutt at his morning exercise class.’
‘I see.’
‘Have you… got any plans for this afternoon?’
I look at my feet, feeling uncomfortably as if I am betraying someone, without even being sure who. ‘Yeah, I’m… I suppose I’ll… Harry and I will probably do something.’ I scuff my feet against the table leg, feeling ludicrously like a teenager again. ‘That was him on the phone before,’ I add unnecessarily. ‘He’s got the day off today.’
‘Right, yes. Of course.’ Sebastian flashes me a smile that, for the first time ever, looks somehow forced, then leans and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll be in touch then – about Naomi.’ With that he waves at Liza, and I hear the little bell of the shop door as it clangs shut behind him.