Read Online That Girl From Nowhere by Dorothy Koomson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dorothy Koomson
Tags: USA
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because you can’t be bothered to fix up yours.’
‘Erm, excuse me, but how much coffee do I buy? I’m pretty sure I’m keeping your business afloat.’
‘Ahhhh, so much delusion in one so young.’ Tyler grins as he says this.
We could be friends
, I realise.
This man could be my friend and I would be able to put down a root, ground myself to this place where I have washed up. Start to fill up my wall again.
‘Can I take a photo of you?’ I ask him before I think about it.
‘Are you going to make me some jewellery?’ he asks.
‘Would you wear it?’
‘Probably not,’ he replies. ‘No offence, but I’m not the jewellery sort.’
‘None taken.’ My fingers reach for my instant camera, raise it to my face. ‘Can I take a photo anyway?’
He grins again. ‘If you must.’
A reminder ricochets so painfully through me, I have to pause, my finger resting on the white plastic button unable to move. Lots of people say that, not just Seth.
I push the button, take a picture of my new friend.
With Tyler at Beached Heads, May 2015, Brighton/Hove
I’ll write on the bottom later. I’ll put it on my wall with four blobs of Blu-Tack and it’ll be another patch on the wall; another moment to ground me in the now and here.
With Seth, May 2015, Leeds
‘Smitty? Clem?’ he called as he entered our flat, almost at a run. Obviously he’d seen Lottie parked outside and thought I had changed my mind about everything. ‘Are you home?’ Excitement at the thought of me being back and the hope of what that might mean danced all over his face, and flowed through his voice. In his hands he held the shiny black dome of his motorbike helmet. He carefully slid it on to the hall table then unzipped his jacket. ‘Are you …’
My face obviously told him that I wasn’t back. I wasn’t home. I hadn’t changed my mind.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, a little more sober, a tad less giddy.
I pointed at the boxes, unable to tell him what else I’d actually been doing. ‘Finishing off my packing.’
‘Please come home. Talk to me. We can sort this out.’
‘No, Seth, it’s over. I’ve told you that. How many more times? It’s over.’ I grabbed my jacket from where I’d dumped it on the cubic mountain of my boxes in the corridor and slipped it on, hoping it would cover what I’d hastily shoved in my back pocket before running out of the bathroom to hide the other pieces of evidence.
‘Don’t I deserve better than this?’ he asked loudly.
I said nothing, but instead moved to leave.
He stepped into my path. ‘How does this even work anywhere except in your mind? We make love for the first time after weeks and weeks apart, then you tell me it’s over and you’re moving to Brighton as soon as possible. Then you spend the night on the sofa, go to stay with your mother the next day and refuse to talk to me. How is that any way to treat someone? Anyone? Let alone someone you love?’
If you’d told the truth, if you’d just admitted it, this wouldn’t be happening
, I thought. ‘Look, I’ll call or text next time,’ I said. ‘Arrange a proper time to come and finish this off so we don’t have to see each other. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here without warning you. I thought you were at work all day today. Do you want me to leave my key?’
He glared at me. Angry, confused, hurt. All mirror images of what I had felt since I found out about him and
her
.
‘Stop it, Smitty! Talk to me.’
Talking was our thing. We rarely argued, would simply get short and snippy with each other, and when that lost its appeal, we’d make up without actually making up. I wasn’t sure we knew how to argue properly, how to shout and scream and slam doors. Mum and Dad had never done it and I’d never seen the appeal of all that noise to get your point across. But then, neither of us had ever really done anything that needed shouting about, until recently. I could yell at him for what he’d done,
‘Erm, excuse me, but how much coffee do I buy? I’m pretty sure I’m keeping your business afloat.’
‘Ahhhh, so much delusion in one so young.’ Tyler grins as he says this.
We could be friends
, I realise.
This man could be my friend and I would be able to put down a root, ground myself to this place where I have washed up. Start to fill up my wall again.
‘Can I take a photo of you?’ I ask him before I think about it.
‘Are you going to make me some jewellery?’ he asks.
‘Would you wear it?’
‘Probably not,’ he replies. ‘No offence, but I’m not the jewellery sort.’
‘None taken.’ My fingers reach for my instant camera, raise it to my face. ‘Can I take a photo anyway?’
He grins again. ‘If you must.’
A reminder ricochets so painfully through me, I have to pause, my finger resting on the white plastic button unable to move. Lots of people say that, not just Seth.
I push the button, take a picture of my new friend.
With Tyler at Beached Heads, May 2015, Brighton/Hove
I’ll write on the bottom later. I’ll put it on my wall with four blobs of Blu-Tack and it’ll be another patch on the wall; another moment to ground me in the now and here.
With Seth, May 2015, Leeds
‘Smitty? Clem?’ he called as he entered our flat, almost at a run. Obviously he’d seen Lottie parked outside and thought I had changed my mind about everything. ‘Are you home?’ Excitement at the thought of me being back and the hope of what that might mean danced all over his face, and flowed through his voice. In his hands he held the shiny black dome of his motorbike helmet. He carefully slid it on to the hall table then unzipped his jacket. ‘Are you …’
My face obviously told him that I wasn’t back. I wasn’t home. I hadn’t changed my mind.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, a little more sober, a tad less giddy.
I pointed at the boxes, unable to tell him what else I’d actually been doing. ‘Finishing off my packing.’
‘Please come home. Talk to me. We can sort this out.’
‘No, Seth, it’s over. I’ve told you that. How many more times? It’s over.’ I grabbed my jacket from where I’d dumped it on the cubic mountain of my boxes in the corridor and slipped it on, hoping it would cover what I’d hastily shoved in my back pocket before running out of the bathroom to hide the other pieces of evidence.
‘Don’t I deserve better than this?’ he asked loudly.
I said nothing, but instead moved to leave.
He stepped into my path. ‘How does this even work anywhere except in your mind? We make love for the first time after weeks and weeks apart, then you tell me it’s over and you’re moving to Brighton as soon as possible. Then you spend the night on the sofa, go to stay with your mother the next day and refuse to talk to me. How is that any way to treat someone? Anyone? Let alone someone you love?’
If you’d told the truth, if you’d just admitted it, this wouldn’t be happening
, I thought. ‘Look, I’ll call or text next time,’ I said. ‘Arrange a proper time to come and finish this off so we don’t have to see each other. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here without warning you. I thought you were at work all day today. Do you want me to leave my key?’
He glared at me. Angry, confused, hurt. All mirror images of what I had felt since I found out about him and
her
.
‘Stop it, Smitty! Talk to me.’
Talking was our thing. We rarely argued, would simply get short and snippy with each other, and when that lost its appeal, we’d make up without actually making up. I wasn’t sure we knew how to argue properly, how to shout and scream and slam doors. Mum and Dad had never done it and I’d never seen the appeal of all that noise to get your point across. But then, neither of us had ever really done anything that needed shouting about, until recently. I could yell at him for what he’d done,
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