My haven.
“I might go get a sandwich. Do you want a sandwich, Diane?”
“Yes, sandwich. Definitely.”
“Great.” I put down my coffee. “Crisps?”
“Are you having crisps?”
“Probably.”
“Ooh, can we have Monster Munch?”
I don’t even think she realises she’s speaking to me like I’m four. Some people can’t gauge tone at all. I nod excitedly. “Yeah! Let’s!”
A stab of guilt from my own sarcasm. Then Diane claps, like actually claps, and for some reason so do I.
We’re both clapping, like sugar-charged babies, about crisps.
It’s funny how much of life can feel like a Year Ten drama exercise.
Drake and Rihanna singing about work.
I lay my basket on the self-checkout shelf.
Things are changing.
Scan an item to start.
Tuna and sweetcorn on wholemeal bread. Beep.
English Language and Literature, Psychology and Biology A levels. Beep.
Pickled onion Monster Munch. Beep.
Three grade As needed for entry to Psychology undergraduate degree. Beep.
The old woman at the next till along can’t find the barcode on her slab of cheddar.
Chicken, bacon and avocado roll. Beep.
Leaving home. Beep. Following Cara.
A skinny man with arm tattoos and a supermarket polo shirt comes to help her.
Flamin’ Hot Monster Munch. Beep.
New city. Beep.
A mountain of student loans. Beep.
Bottle of still water. Beep.
Three more years of study. Beep.
The foundation for a life. Beep. For what?
Can of Coke.
For who?
Can of Coke.
Hold it. Look at the rest of the stuff in my 5p carrier bag. Shop noise and an auto-tuned pop chorus. Work, work, work, work, work, work.
Can of Coke.
Rest of my life.
Can of Coke.
What have I—
“Do it.”
You’re standing behind me, half your face reflected in the screen.
“Please scan an item, or press finish to pay.” The robotic teacher voice of the till.
My heart.
The businessman waiting behind me is head down in his phone.
Stare at the can in my hand. Look at our reflection. Smiling. The crackle in my stomach.
I press finish, resting the can on the edge of the barcode glass as I feed a ten-pound note into the machine. The whir. The guy with the tattoos is helping the old woman with the rest of her stuff. His back is turned. My change falls into the plastic tray like fruit-machine winnings.
I lift the bag off the scales and put the stolen can inside, scoop out my change and walk away, leaving my receipt.
Scattered pensioners, filing in and out of the charity shops.
I can feel you over my right shoulder as I walk. This side of the street has the shade.
Push my phone on to vibrate and hold it to my ear like I’m making a call.
“That was so stupid,” I say as I pass Subway and catch a waft of vacuum-packed vomit.
“Felt good though, right?”
I don’t look at you. “What do you want, Thor?”
You move closer. “What do you want, shoplifter?”
I swerve to pass a shuffling old man wearing three different shades of pastel blue.
“I’m not a kid any more,” I say.
“Neither am I.”
You step up so you’re level with me. “Tell me that didn’t feel good though.”
I stop walking.
“It didn’t feel good.”
You shake your head.
“So why are you smiling?”
Then my phone vibrates for real and slips out of my hand. I scramble to catch it, smacking my shopping bag on the pavement and nearly falling over as the phone lands in my palm.
“Nice catch.” You stand there, clapping your paws.
Cara’s face, beaming out from my phone screen.
I stand up straight and compose myself. “This is a bad idea, Thor.”
You nod.
“Probably.”
And then you’re gone.
The old man tips his sky-blue flat cap as he slowly steps through the space where you were.
I nod back, then answer the call.
“Marcie! It’s a full house tonight!”
Cara’s dad Ken always greets me like I’m an old schoolfriend he hasn’t seen for years.
He’s a graphic designer and he looks like one. Bald like he did it on purpose, he’s got that flawless, poreless, older man skin that says water filters and gym membership. He’s holding an expensive-looking tea towel.
“Full house?”
Ken nods. “Morgan’s here. Hungry?”
It smells amazing. Don’t think I’ve ever been to Cara’s house and Ken hasn’t been cooking. I’ve had so many foods for the first time here. Wild boar. Quinoa. Pickled herring.
“Her highness is upstairs working on a new video. Dinner in a hour, OK?”
“OK, Ken. Thank you.”
And he’s off, back towards their massive kitchen, expensive tea towel over his shoulder, leaving me to close the front door, like I’m family.
Cara already has the tripod and camera set up when I knock and walk in. She’s checking her camera angles, deliberating over which pillows to have in shot.
“I’m not dressing up, Car.”
Cara stops fluffing pillows. “Who said anything about dressing up?”
I throw my jacket over the back of her 1970s super-villain swivel chair.
Cara’s room is like a cross between an FBI investigation wall and a retro furniture shop. The walls are collages of magazine articles, photographs and old B-movie posters. I always think of people’s bedrooms being like the inside of their head. Cara’s is busy and full, but