Home > The Bench(8)

The Bench(8)
Author: Saskia Sarginson

I startle. ‘This inscription?’

‘Yeah, it’s got the same bit in it, about the person still sitting beside you. I like that idea. Someone who’s gone, their spirit just sitting there, the memories of them keeping you company.’

‘That place you said? Hampstead Heath?’

‘It’s in London. North London. It’s this big open space with hills and trees and woods. Ancient land.’ He pauses and looks at me, smiling. ‘I think you’d like it. It has lots of benches. Lots of inscriptions.’

‘Maybe I’ll get to go there one day. I’ve always wanted to go to London. I’ve read all of Dickens. And one of my favourite novels is 84, Charing Cross Road.’

‘About the old guy in the bookshop and the woman, writing letters?’ He looks at me. ‘I liked that too. So how come you’ve read so many English novels?’

‘I’ve always had a thing for them. Especially the classics. Way back, Dad’s side of the family were from England,’ I tell him. ‘According to him, we’re descended from Normans. Dad likes to boast they settled in Buckinghamshire, became landed earls and lords.’

There’s blue blood in our veins, Kit-Cat.

I gesture towards the boardwalk. ‘How about I tell you what there is to see?’

He shakes his head. ‘How about we just wander?’

He stands up, putting out his hand. I take it, and his fingers close around mine, warm and certain. As I stand, we lock eyes. My stomach lurches, and we both glance away.

He nods towards the expanse of camel-coloured sand and spiky grasses. ‘Must have been beautiful before it got built up,’ he says. And then his voice softens. ‘Hello, kitty.’

For a second I think he’s getting inventive with my name, but an actual cat is slinking from the gap beneath the boards. I squat and hold out my fingers towards her. She sniffs regally and turns her head away. ‘There are dozens of them living wild under here,’ I tell him. ‘They’re a kind of fixture. There’s a programme to catch them and spay them, but there are always kittens.’ On cue, a tiny creature totters out of the shadows, meowing. The mother gives its rear end an efficient licking before picking it up by the scruff of its neck and removing it from sight.

‘I swear she just rolled her eyes,’ Sam laughs.

God. He likes animals, too. Could he get any more perfect?

Shut up, I tell Frank. Not now.

We walk on, the bustle of the boardwalk fading away. It feels like we’re the only people here: his arm brushing mine, our steps keeping time.

‘So what do you do?’ he asks. ‘I mean, for work.’ He puts his head on one side. ‘I’m guessing it entails wearing black?’

I swallow. Here it is: the million-dollar question. I remember Mom’s warning. I hesitate. ‘I work in cosmetics,’ I tell him.

‘Selling them? Or … making them?’

‘Um. Neither … I just use them to make people look their best – even if they’re …’ I cough, ‘kinda off-colour.’

‘A make-up artist?’

I make a non-committal noise, clearing my throat. ‘It’s not that interesting,’ I say quickly. ‘Not like being a singer.’

‘Actually,’ he frowns, ‘I’m not. I’m really a lawyer. Only … I’ve begun to think I made a mistake, you know, going down the safe route. Pleasing my parents, when I always had this dream of being a singer-songwriter.’ He stops and rolls his eyes. ‘Sounds clichéd, I suppose.’

I don’t know if this is the famous British self-deprecation or genuine humility. He must know how great he is. ‘You should be singing,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not just my opinion. The club went wild for you. All the girls, anyway,’ I can’t help adding.

He rubs his nose, looking bashful. Then he pushes a hand through his hair. ‘Hey – do you want to come to another of the shows? I could get you a backstage pass.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Sure.’ There has to be a catch. And then I remember: he’s leaving soon.

‘Where are you from in England?’ I ask, thinking wouldn’t it be funny if he was from Buckinghamshire too.

He looks down. ‘We lived in the countryside, but I was away from home a lot when I was a kid.’

‘Oh … why?’

‘Boarding school.’

‘Holy shit! You went to boarding school? I wanted to go when I was a kid,’ I tell him, unable to contain my enthusiasm. ‘I found some Angela Brazil novels in the library. They made it sound so cool, you know … midnight feasts and playing pranks. The characters all said “golly gosh” and “jolly good show”. I began talking like that for a while. People actually thought I was some weird kid from England.’

He laughs.

I fiddle with a strand of my hair. I used to think that going to a school like the ones in the books would solve my problems, that I’d get to sleep in the same bed every night, have real friends.

I don’t want to ruin the atmosphere, so I don’t say any of that. I smile instead, and notice where we are – right outside Ripley’s Believe It or Not! ‘This is where all good tourists go,’ I tell him. ‘But I’ve never been.’

‘Tourist heaven? First time for both of us then.’

As we look at a wax model of the world’s tallest man, I ask, ‘So now you’re aiming to be a musician, not a lawyer?’

He nods. ‘Not an obvious career move, but …’ He shrugs. ‘It’s who you really are,’ I say quietly.

‘Yes.’ He rubs his chin. ‘That’s it. Whether I’m successful or not, it’s only when I’m singing my own stuff that I know I’m me.’

‘You will be successful. I have a good feeling about it. Hey – maybe you’ll even be famous.’

‘I don’t know about being famous,’ he says slowly. ‘But the stakes seem higher because I’m older. I’m not a kid any more. But of course,’ he opens his arms, and his mouth splits into that wide, crooked smile of his, ‘I want as many people as possible to hear my music.’ He nods at me. ‘What about you? Any ambitions for worldwide fame and domination?’

I shake my head, laughing. ‘I’m not good at anything. There’s nothing I could be famous for, even if I wanted to be. Which I don’t.’

‘I’m sure there’s something you’re good at … You’re just being humble. Unlike me.’

I can operate a retort, make a corpse look respectable for the relatives. Not exactly talents to shout about from the rooftop. I’m not going to mention my scribbled stories – that would be embarrassing. Sam has a real gift.

‘What do your parents think of your new career path?’ I ask.

‘My parents?’ He stares at me. ‘They’re … they’re dead.’

‘Oh my God!’ My hands fly to my cheeks. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ he’s saying. ‘But if you don’t mind, I … I can’t talk about it …’

‘No,’ I say, flustered. ‘Of course.’ My gaze flails about for a distraction. I notice two wizened brown balls behind glass. Black hair sticks out at jaunty angles. ‘Look,’ I say brightly. ‘It says here that they’re ancient shrunken heads from an Amazon tribe.’ One sports a substantial moustache, and is wearing a kind of funky patterned headband around his mop of hair. ‘John McEnroe style,’ I say.

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