husband.
I gave her a sheepish smile, flapping my hand to cool my cheeks. ‘Have you got the time? I’m worried I’m really late.’
My rush accounted for, she glanced at her watch. ‘Five- thirty.’
‘Thanks. Yeah, I’m late.’ I gave her a parting smile and began to speed walk past the square concrete planters brimming with summer blooms.
Yves had given me fire-flowers. No one had ever thought to do that for me.
Phee, tell us where you are, please! We’re not angry with you— we just want to help you.
I wasn’t going to answer in case he sensed my direction from a stray thought.
Phee, please! Don’t try this!
The Barbican Centre lived up to its name, appearing like a modern fortress of brown-grey concrete, so completely miserable that I couldn’t understand how an architect could get away with designing it. Cities were dispiriting enough without the buildings slumping into a deep, untreatable depression. The interior was better: wide foyers for mingling with the marks, discreet corners to check what you’d lifted out of a handbag— it was very well organized for those in my profession. I’d overheard the visitors remarking that the theatres and concert halls were excellent but that wasn’t the kind of place people like me got to see. For us, all the drama happened offstage.
Phee, don’t give up on us before we’ve even had a chance! Yves’s pleas were becoming more desperate.
I followed a sign down a flight of stairs to the Ladies and ducked inside. A cheap retreat perhaps, but I doubted they would break in unless they were sure where I was. Standing at the sink I gazed at my reflection. A wild-eyed frump stared back. I needed a serious make-over if I wasn’t going to turn heads for the wrong reasons. I’d abandoned my bag at the Benedicts’ flat so had to do my best with soap, handtowels, and my fingers. I smoothed my hair down and splashed my face. I then remembered I had a stub of eyeliner and a tube of lip gloss—one of the advantages of frumpy clothes is capacious, line-destroying pockets. With a dab of make-up, I began to look more myself. Then, retreating into one of the cubicles, I unzipped my skirt and wriggled out, to reveal my shorts underneath. I unbuttoned my white shirt and reknotted it under my breasts. I felt like one of those circus ‘quick change’ acts—ta-dah, no more Wimpy Wendy, now we have Slinky Phee rising from the ashes. I rolled the skirt up and tucked it under my arm, planning to swipe the first plastic bag I saw to put it in.
Checking my appearance for a final time in the mirror, I was pleased with my transformation. A couple of elderly ladies came in and frowned disapprovingly at my display of midriff. Yep, I’d got it right.
Phee, we know you’re in the Barbican Centre.
How did they know? Or were they just guessing and hoping to catch me out? These questions mingled with my doubts as my brain went into spin cycle. Was I doing the right thing running like this? Did I have another choice? Leaving my soul-finder, even if it was for his benefit in the long term, felt like sawing off my own arm.
Look, cut messing us around and meet us. I’m standing by the shop on the ground floor.
Yeah, yeah, and his brothers were staking out the other exits. I wasn’t born yesterday.
Do you want me to beg? He was getting angry with me—I couldn’t blame him. I had hit him where he was vulnerable, striking at his confidence dealing with girls, and I was sorry for it. He was perfect as he was and didn’t need to be shy. But he couldn’t be mine. Can’t you just give me one little chance?
Sorry, no can do. Not in my world. His only chance was to keep away from me so my life did not infect his.
I took a final look at myself in the mirror. I could do this. Leaving the Ladies to head straight for the exit on the lower ground floor, I sent a final wish.
Be happy, Yves.
Big mistake. I stopped in my tracks. Yves was standing with his arms folded, his brothers either
I gave her a sheepish smile, flapping my hand to cool my cheeks. ‘Have you got the time? I’m worried I’m really late.’
My rush accounted for, she glanced at her watch. ‘Five- thirty.’
‘Thanks. Yeah, I’m late.’ I gave her a parting smile and began to speed walk past the square concrete planters brimming with summer blooms.
Yves had given me fire-flowers. No one had ever thought to do that for me.
Phee, tell us where you are, please! We’re not angry with you— we just want to help you.
I wasn’t going to answer in case he sensed my direction from a stray thought.
Phee, please! Don’t try this!
The Barbican Centre lived up to its name, appearing like a modern fortress of brown-grey concrete, so completely miserable that I couldn’t understand how an architect could get away with designing it. Cities were dispiriting enough without the buildings slumping into a deep, untreatable depression. The interior was better: wide foyers for mingling with the marks, discreet corners to check what you’d lifted out of a handbag— it was very well organized for those in my profession. I’d overheard the visitors remarking that the theatres and concert halls were excellent but that wasn’t the kind of place people like me got to see. For us, all the drama happened offstage.
Phee, don’t give up on us before we’ve even had a chance! Yves’s pleas were becoming more desperate.
I followed a sign down a flight of stairs to the Ladies and ducked inside. A cheap retreat perhaps, but I doubted they would break in unless they were sure where I was. Standing at the sink I gazed at my reflection. A wild-eyed frump stared back. I needed a serious make-over if I wasn’t going to turn heads for the wrong reasons. I’d abandoned my bag at the Benedicts’ flat so had to do my best with soap, handtowels, and my fingers. I smoothed my hair down and splashed my face. I then remembered I had a stub of eyeliner and a tube of lip gloss—one of the advantages of frumpy clothes is capacious, line-destroying pockets. With a dab of make-up, I began to look more myself. Then, retreating into one of the cubicles, I unzipped my skirt and wriggled out, to reveal my shorts underneath. I unbuttoned my white shirt and reknotted it under my breasts. I felt like one of those circus ‘quick change’ acts—ta-dah, no more Wimpy Wendy, now we have Slinky Phee rising from the ashes. I rolled the skirt up and tucked it under my arm, planning to swipe the first plastic bag I saw to put it in.
Checking my appearance for a final time in the mirror, I was pleased with my transformation. A couple of elderly ladies came in and frowned disapprovingly at my display of midriff. Yep, I’d got it right.
Phee, we know you’re in the Barbican Centre.
How did they know? Or were they just guessing and hoping to catch me out? These questions mingled with my doubts as my brain went into spin cycle. Was I doing the right thing running like this? Did I have another choice? Leaving my soul-finder, even if it was for his benefit in the long term, felt like sawing off my own arm.
Look, cut messing us around and meet us. I’m standing by the shop on the ground floor.
Yeah, yeah, and his brothers were staking out the other exits. I wasn’t born yesterday.
Do you want me to beg? He was getting angry with me—I couldn’t blame him. I had hit him where he was vulnerable, striking at his confidence dealing with girls, and I was sorry for it. He was perfect as he was and didn’t need to be shy. But he couldn’t be mine. Can’t you just give me one little chance?
Sorry, no can do. Not in my world. His only chance was to keep away from me so my life did not infect his.
I took a final look at myself in the mirror. I could do this. Leaving the Ladies to head straight for the exit on the lower ground floor, I sent a final wish.
Be happy, Yves.
Big mistake. I stopped in my tracks. Yves was standing with his arms folded, his brothers either
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