Innocence. Kathleen Tessaro
the stillness of my son’s room, with the soft, sighing rhythm of his breathing for company, the thought enters again, uninvited.
Would I do it differently?
If I had to make the choice again, is this the fate I would choose?
I look out at the silent street below. At the daffodils bowed by the wind and rain.
It’s a fragile, temporary universe.
And always has been.
‘This is it,’ Robbie says.
We’re standing outside a pub in Camden Town called the Black Dog. The throbbing bass of the music inside pulses each time the door opens.
I waver.
‘Come on,’ she says, swinging the door wide. She’s a New Yorker; nothing can scare her. She gives me a little smile and I follow.
It’s crowded, heaving. A Friday night mix of drunken Irishmen and City boys straight from the office. Jesus and the Mary Chain are wailing on the sound system. The bar is three deep. We find a corner at one of the low round tables.
‘Do you mind if we join you?’ Robbie asks. It’s a group of girls, mid-gossip. They nod and wave their cigarettes at us. ‘Go ahead.’ We perch on the edge of our stools; I’m clutching my handbag in front of my chest like an old lady waiting for a bus. Robbie pushes it down on to my lap.
‘I’ll get us a drink. What will you have?’
I fumble for my wallet. ‘Ah…I don’t know…a beer, I guess.’
She puts her hand over mine. ‘How ’bout a pint? On me.’
And then she’s gone, engulfed in the crowd. I smile at the girls across the table. They ignore me. Can they tell I’ve never been in a pub before? Does it show that I’m American? I readjust the embroidered vintage cardigan Robbie lent me and my Guess? Jeans. Everyone else seems to be chicer, more convincingly put together. With bigger hair, shorter skirts and sharper shoulder pads. I’m the only one with a ponytail. Slipping the band out, my hair falls round my shoulders. I check my Swatch. Almost nine o’clock.
Robbie comes back, carrying two overflowing pints. ‘Here.’ She hands me one. I take a sip and almost immediately spit it back out.
‘Jesus, Robbie! It’s warm!’
The girls across from us stare at me like I’m a freak. Robbie giggles. ‘Yup,’ she says, settling onto the stool next to me. She whips out a compact and reapplies her lip gloss. I marvel at her poise. This is probably the sort of thing she does all the time back home in the Village.
I take another sip of my warm beer. ‘How will we recognize them?’ I feel childish and stupid even asking.
‘Well’—she pouts at herself in the mirror—‘Hughey will be wearing a white shirt and carrying a copy of the Evening Standard.’
I look around the bar. All the men are wearing white shirts and carrying copies of the Evening Standard.
‘Robbie…’
‘Just kidding.’ She slips her compact back into her bag and crosses her legs. ‘He’s bringing me a bunch of flowers, so all we need to do is spot the sap with the bouquet and we’re in business.’
I’m impressed. ‘How romantic!’
She makes a face. ‘I told him to. Start as you mean to go on, Evie. I may be easy but I’m not cheap!’
I laugh and we sit, side by side, staring at the door. It opens and closes. More men in white shirts. More copies of the Evening Standard. Not a single petal in sight.
The girls across from us are laughing loudly, opening a fresh pack of cigarettes, flirting with the guys at the table opposite.
‘How ’bout another?’ I’m feeling brave.
‘Sure.’ Robbie hands me her glass and I weave my way towards the bar.
‘What it’ll be?’ the barman asks.
‘Two more pints,’ I say, proud that I’ve mastered the lingo.
‘Yeah, what kind, luv?’ He points to a vast array of pumps.
I blink.
‘Are they all the same temperature?’
He frowns. ‘Yeah.’
I choose the pump with a picture of a harp on it. That seems pretty. ‘I’ll have that one, please.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Suit yourself.’ And begins to fill the glasses.
It’s black.
I panic.
‘It’s black,’ I say.
He hands me the glasses. ‘It’s what you ordered.’ And removes the fiver from my hand. I wait for change but he turns to the next person. I guess that’s it.
I walk back to the table with the drinks.
‘I’m sorry, Robbie. It’s black. I think it may have gone off.’
‘It’s Guinness.’ She takes a sip and wipes the white foam from her upper lip. I hold mine warily. Warm and yellow is bad enough. ‘Don’t worry’ She nods encouragingly. ‘It’s sexy. And Irish.’
We wade through the Guinness. The music gets louder and so does the crowd. I go to the loo and come back. Then Robbie goes. She buys a pack of cigarettes and we bum a light. A couple of spotty city boys try to pick us up. The girls across from us leave with the guys at the next table. It’s 10.10.
I look at Robbie. ‘Well…’
She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I’m not worried.’ And she lights another cigarette, even though she has one burning in the ashtray.
At 10.20 a man appears in the doorway. He’s stocky, wearing a pair of round John Lennon glasses and sporting a shock of spiky, sandy-coloured hair. He’s carrying a slightly crushed single rose in clear plastic wrap.
Robbie spots him and stands up. Walking over, she takes the rose from his hand. ‘This is not a bouquet, Hughey, is it?’ She lets it drop to the floor, where it becomes a chew toy for someone’s dog. ‘Now, are you going to buy me a drink or what?’
He smiles and wraps an arm round her waist. ‘I’d have come sooner if I knew that you were going to look like this.’
‘You should’ve seen what I looked like an hour ago.’ She shoves him in the direction of the bar. ‘By the way, we’re drinking champagne.’
He whistles under his breath and saunters up to the bar.
Robbie winks at me. ‘I told you it would be OK.’
That’s when I notice the guy behind him. Tall and slender, dressed in a faded suit and T-shirt, he stands, lingering by the door, running a hand through his long black hair.
He looks up at me, tilting his head sideways. ‘Hey’ His voice is quiet but deep.
‘Hey’ My voice has gone quiet too.
He holds out his hand. ‘Jake,’ he introduces himself. He has soft dark eyes and the longest lashes I’ve ever seen.
‘Raven,’ I say, holding out mine.
He wraps his fingers round mine. He holds them just a moment too long.
And I let him. As far as I’m concerned, he can hold them as long as he wants.
‘No!’
‘Well, what about some toast, then? Most of the superheroes I know have toast for breakfast. Often with a little peanut butter and banana on it.’
Alex crosses his arms in front of his chest. ‘Mummy, nobody knows a real superhero!’
‘I