The New Woman by Charity Norman

street photographer.
    I went to stand in front of the picture, a red and yellow cup in my hand. Luke hadn’t shaved that day. I remembered feeling happy holiday lust at the exquisite roughness of his stubbled jaw against mine. I could feel it still. The sunshine was making us both squint, and I was grinning. Luke wasn’t. He looked as he always did: slightly uneasy, slightly absent, more or less happy. That was Luke. What was he really thinking, as he rested his cheek against mine and gazed into the lens? Was he hating every second of it? Was he dreaming of his secret world?
    I’d hurled the first cup before I knew I was going to do it. It hit the tiled floor with a sharp crack and exploded, shards of china spitting in all directions. I picked up another and did the same. Then another, and another, and another. I mourned for them even as I systematically destroyed them. Soon the only one leftwas my favourite: more red than yellow, with a random pattern that always made me think of musical notes. It lay upside down on the draining board, cowering, awaiting its turn to be broken. I snatched it up.
    That last survivor was saved by the phone, which rang as I hesitated.
    Hope made me answer it. Maybe it was Luke, already asking to come home? This was all a mistake: a dream, or a misunderstanding, or temporary insanity.
    ‘It’s me, dear.’
    Not Luke. I sagged against the kitchen counter. ‘Meg. Hi.’
    ‘Thank you for a lovely day.’
    The social niceties. ‘Not at all. Our pleasure. Thank you for coming.’
    ‘Was it a migraine?’
    For a moment my mind was blank. Then I remembered. ‘Yes. Sorry, yes. A migraine. Hit me like a train.’
    ‘I didn’t know you suffered from migraines.’
    ‘Hardly ever.’
    ‘Nasty things.’ A pause. ‘Is everything all right, dear?’
    Well, no. Everything was not all right. Everything was smashed, in red and yellow fragments around my feet.
    Meg’s voice had sharpened. ‘Eilish? You there, dear? Where is Luke—can I speak to him?’
    ‘He’s gone,’ I whispered.

Eleven
    Luke
    This time, there was no white-haired stranger to keep me company.
    The train was taking me further and further from my home. I felt as though I were wearing a big sign on my chest and everybody at the station, everybody in the carriage, knew of my shame. Giggles escaped from a group of schoolchildren sitting behind me. My shoulderblades twitched. Children were laughing. I was four years old.

    She woke up in the racing-car bed her daddy had made for her. A million butterflies were dancing in her stomach. After breakfast, Mum got out the clippers and cut her hair ( You want to look smart, don’t you? ), and then she had to put on the green uniform—sandals, shorts and a brand-new Aertex shirt. She hated these clothes, they made her feel horrid, but she didn’t say so because that would make people sad. Her daddy took a picture with his big camera. My brand-new schoolboy, he said.
    Now here she was, in assembly. Real school! This was nothing like nursery. She’d never seen so many children before. The new entrants sat in a ragged line at the front. Somewhere in the greatgreen crowd behind her were Wendy and Gail. She felt happy to know that Wendy was there, but she was scared of Gail.
    A boy she knew from nursery had plonked himself down next to her. He was fidgeting. His name was Alex, and he wore glasses. Her best friend, Janey, sat on her other side. She and Janey were holding hands. Their mothers had met in the baby hospital where they were born. Janey smelled of the honey soap that lived in the bathroom at her house. She was wearing a pinafore dress and had a matching green bow in her hair. Luke was sure her own hair would grow long and curly like Janey’s, if only they would stop cutting it.
    ‘Your little girlfriend,’ Mum was always saying, when Janey came to play.
    ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if those two got married,’ Janey’s mum once said, holding her coffee in one hand.