Looking for love

By Irena Pearse

He laid the empty cup carefully on the table. Flicked his eyes down at his phone.

“I have to go.” He cleared his throat. Pushed his chair back and stood up.

“I miss you.”

“Yeah. I have to go.” He took her hand as if to shake it and she stood up and hugged him tight.

She picked up her cup as the door clicked shut, and sipped at the now warm, bitter tea. She grimaced and put the half empty cup down. She reached out and collected up the two plates with their crumbs and half eaten bits of toast, his empty cup and then, carefully, her own half cup of cold tea. In the kitchen, she scraped clean the plates into the rubbish and poured the rest of the tea down the sink. She watched as the brown liquid seeped away amongst the debris of kitchen waste caught in the sink drain. She made a mental note to give it a good clean sometime soon.

The phone rang.

“Christine, it’s Dad. How are you?”

She sighed. “Fine. How’s things your end?”

“Your mum’s not feeling so good. Might be nice if you came by.”

“Sure.”

She punched the red button to hang up.

The train out of London took 20 minutes. As she walked to the house she felt the mixed rush of nostalgia and distaste which came with the familiarity of this commuter suburb, this shopping centre town. The bland concrete office blocks, the functional roads, the terraced cottage-houses built solidly for the tied-workers of Victorian times, so many generations ago. Now, this area was known as “the village”. The posh part near the railway station. Young couples moved in and out renovating the houses and selling them at higher prices, and the value of the neighbourhood had risen dramatically. Christine’s parents had bought their house before this trend and were one of the few who bought the house out of love, not to make money. Christine had been born there, was raised there, she’d seen the street change over time. Her parents had extended and decorated the house to make it suit their family. “It’s got a good feel,” her mother had said. “We thought about moving at one time but no house had the happy atmosphere as this one. It’s just something you can feel. As though all the owners before were happy. I can’t explain it.”

Christine turned the key in the front door, called and stepped inside. Her dad shuffled along the hallway.

“It’s good to see you.”

He had a full cup of tea in his hands, steaming, smelling fresh. “You want some? Maybe you could take a cup to your mum.”

Christine carried the two brimming cups up to the bedroom, and found her mother lying flat on her back in bed, radio on, towel over her head. Her skin was pale and damp, and her short dark hair stuck to the sides of her temples. She slowly lifted the towel from her eyes and squinted at Christine. Half a smile crossed her lips.
“You’ve brought me tea. Thanks.”

She eased herself up. Christine placed the cups gently on the side table and sat on the bed.

It was a reversal of what used to happen as a child. Christine remembered the time she had measles, her mother coming in, bringing in the cold and fresh smell from outside, cooling her eight year-old flushed cheeks with her hug. Her mother taking out fizzy drinks and some crackers for her – special treats for the sick child. Her words were those of the Great Healer. The mother knew exactly what to do, exactly how to make her feel better. She knew when she was sick and when she was faking it. She knew when Christine needed to go to bed and sleep, better than Christine herself. But although Christine was now the one bringing in the outside world, the caring words, she didn’t feel she knew what was the right thing to do or say.

Her mother handed her back the emptied cup.

“There’s more downstairs. Shall I bring some?”

“No thanks, that’s enough for now.”

Christine took the cups and flicked her eyes across at the clock radio.

“I have to go.”

“We miss you Christine.”

“Yeah. I have to go.”

She stopped by the chemist on the way home to her shared flat. Decided this time she’d pay the high price for this one-time only kit, a bit of plastic packaged in a pink box, as if the large box made the price seem right. A couple were slouched over the counter, looking through their holiday photos and giggling at the memories. The pharmacist waited patiently for them to confirm the pictures were theirs and pay the amount stated on the receipt he held out in his hand. Christine pretended to look at the hair products. Her eye moving from images of clean sun-kissed floating hair to dark sexy auburn burnish. Maybe she needed a change too. She glanced at the young woman, hair clean and golden, her boyfriend’s hand playing at her neck with it. Christine took a box of blond.

The flat was empty when she got back. Rachel had probably gone out – it was the weekend after all. She filled the kettle, flicked it on. Sighed. And felt her heart beat pick up. She took out the pink box. Took it to the bathroom.
“Mirror mirror on the wall, tell me what the future holds.”
Back downstairs, Christine switched the kettle on again as she heard the key turn in the lock.

“Only me.”

Absent mindedly, she started cleaning out the debris in the sink. She turned on the tap and soaped the sink. The kitchen door opened and a blast of fresh outdoor air whooshed in.

“How’s it going? What you doing? Look, I got some great deals down the market, look at this.“

Rachel took out a large floppy jumper and a spangley, top. Christine dried off her hands and they went through the bag of clothes together.

“Nice. Love it.”

They both sat exhausted, as if they’d just been shopping all over again, steaming cups of tea in front of them.

“I bought something too today.”

“What’s that?”

Christine brought out the box of blond.

“Hey, cool. Let’s do it.”

“What now?”

“You’re life is going to change, believe me.”

“I hope so.”

The End.